lon ⭐️

[pt11s]

Flower Girl

Summary: Securing a massive contract to supply the flowers for FC Barcelona’s women’s football team was supposed to be strictly business. But as the football season unfolds, the quiet routine of your flower shop is entirely upended by the unexpected, frequent visits from some of the team’s top players, especially a certain regular named Alexia.

Word count: 15,4 k

(it's a slow burn)

The heavy summer heat of Barcelona hung thick and sticky over the avenues, but inside Floristeria Arrels, the air was a cool, damp sanctuary smelling faintly of crushed green stems and wet earth.

You stood behind the wide zinc counter, your hair pulled back with a simple green silk ribbon, your eyes scanning the terrifying financial spreadsheet on your screen. Your family’s shop was a neighborhood staple, a shaded haven of high ceilings and weathered stone walls, where zinc and wooden buckets overflowed with seasonal blooms. But over the last year, keeping the doors open had become a grueling uphill battle. The neighborhood was changing, rent was skyrocketing, and the independent budget your father had run for decades was stretched to its absolute limit.

“Y/N! The heavy lifting is for the youth, and you are wasting the prime of your twenties staring at a glowing rectangle!”

You turned around, an amused smile breaking across your face. Your father was leaning against a stack of ceramic pots, holding a pair of rusted pruning shears like a scepter. He was seventy-two, stubborn to a fault, and supposedly retired.

“Papa, I am twenty-seven, and I am technically the owner,” you reminded him gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from your cheek with your dark green apron. “And you aren’t supposed to be lifting anything either. Where are the boys?”

“Your brothers are married men with responsibilities, apparently,” your father scoffed, though there was a deep warmth in his eyes. “Which means they dropped off the kids and fled the manual labor.”

Right on cue, an eight-year-old boy burst through the back-room door, brandishing a plastic dinosaur. “Tia Y/N! Leo says that if I eat a marigold, I’ll turn into a dragon. Is that true?”

“No, Lucas, and please don’t eat the stock,” you laughed, catching him by the shoulders before he could collide with a massive vase of hydrangeas.

This shop was your entire life. When your mother passed away, your father had been ready to close the doors forever. Your older brothers, both established in their own careers, hadn't cared enough to step in. But you couldn’t let it go. You had spent your childhood doing homework on the overturned wooden crates in the back. You had a business degree now, sure, but your heart belonged to the flowers. You had a terrible habit of wanting to save everything: drooping ferns, stray cats, and your family’s heritage.

Which was exactly why the official letter sitting next to your keyboard felt like a literal lifeline. Floristeria Arrels had just been awarded an exclusive, year-long corporate contract with FC Barcelona to provide all floral styling for the VIP boxes, the presidential suites, and the official club events. Today was your very first task: delivering the massive centerpieces for the welcoming lunch for new signings at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper training complex.

“Wish me luck,” you muttered, lifting a massive, intricately designed ceramic vase filled with vibrant tropical greenery and striking orange bursts.

“Don’t trip over your own feet,” your father called out. “You have your mother’s eyes, but you inherited my coordination. God help the football club.”

The media lounge at the sports complex was a chaotic blur of activity. Journalists were setting up heavy tripods, PR representatives were speaking rapidly into headsets, and caterers were bustling past with silver trays.

You felt entirely out of your depth. You were dressed in a simple linen dress, your hands slightly damp, carrying a floral arrangement that weighed nearly fifteen kilos.

“Right on the center glass table, please,” a stressed-looking woman in a club blazer directed, pointing toward the middle of the room.

You nodded, taking careful, deliberate steps. Do not trip. Do not drop the five-hundred-euro vase.

Naturally, just as you reached the table, your sandal caught on a thick, stray television camera cable.

You gasped, your balance tilting dangerously forward. The heavy ceramic vase slipped from your grip, tilting at an angle that promised a catastrophic, public shatter against the glass table. You braced yourself for the impact and the humiliation.

It didn’t come.

Instead, a pair of strong, athletic hands shot out from the side, catching the base of the heavy ceramic vase with incredible, lightning-fast reflexes. A firm shoulder brushed against yours, steadying your stance before you could go down with it.

“I’ve got it,” a calm voice said. “Steady.”

You blinked, exhaling a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. You looked up, and your breath caught all over again.

Standing right there, holding the weight of the vase effortlessly, was Alexia Putellas. The captain of FC Barcelona was wearing a crisp white club polo shirt, her hazel-brown eyes looking down at you with a mixture of amusement and concern. Away from the flashing stadium cameras, she possessed an effortless, commanding presence that made your stomach do a strange, fluttery flip.

“Are you okay?” Alexia asked, easily shifting the heavy vase onto the center of the table.

“I… yes. Yes, thank you,” you stammered, your cheeks burning a sudden, bright crimson as you smoothed down your apron. “I’m so sorry. I’m incredibly clumsy. It’s a family trait.”

Alexia let out a soft, warm laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Good reflexes are part of the job description around here.” She stepped back, her eyes drifting over the striking arrangement. “Wow. Did you make this? It’s beautiful.”

“I did,” you said, your voice growing steadier as you returned to a subject you actually understood. A quiet confidence took over your posture. “I’m Y/N. My shop  is doing the arrangements for the club this season. I wanted to make sure the workspace felt right.”

“Well, Y/N,” Alexia said, extending a hand. You took it, noting how warm and firm her grip was, her skin slightly rough from training. Her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a sharp look of surprise, as if she hadn’t expected the florist behind the contract to possess such a calm, grounded energy. “The club’s flowers used to look like they were bought from a petrol station at the last minute. What are these orange ones?”

“They’re Alstroemeria,” you murmured, your voice dropping into a soft, knowledgeable register as you looked from the blooms back to her eyes. “Peruvian Lilies.”

“Do they have a meaning?” Alexia asked, leaning back against the edge of the table, crossing her arms. She looked genuinely interested, the guarded, professional mask she usually wore for the media completely dissolving.

“They do,” you said, a soft, passionate light entering your hazel eyes. “In the old language of flowers, they don't represent flashy, temporary success. They symbolise mutual support, devotion, and endurance. Because the petals grow in a tight, resilient cluster before opening up spectacularly, it represents a strong bond that can withstand trials. I thought... well, for a long, grueling season where you have to hold everything together under pressure, the team lounge needed something that represents standing firm. Not a standard rose that withers in a week.”

Alexia stared at the orange petals for a long moment, the playful look fading into a profound, quiet stillness. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely capturing you in the busy room.

“Mutual support and endurance,” Alexia repeated quietly, her voice carrying an unspoken weight that sent a sudden rush of heat straight down your spine. A genuine, incredibly soft smile broke across her face. “I think you’re exactly right. We could use a bit of that magic this year.”

A PR coordinator suddenly shouted from across the room. “Alexia! We need you for the photos with the new signings!”

“Coming!” Alexia called back. She turned back to you, her hazel-brown eyes lingering a little longer than necessary on your face. “It was nice to meet you, flower girl. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot more of your work around here.”

“Nice to meet you too Alexia,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The August humidity in Barcelona was a different beast entirely. It turned the city into a slow-moving oven, forcing everyone to seek the mercy of blasting air conditioning or the dense shade of old stone alleys. Inside Floristeria Arrels, the fans hummed a steady rhythm, circulating the comforting scent of damp soil, fresh eucalyptus, and sweet jasmine.

You were standing behind the long zinc counter, carefully binding a bundle of vibrant, spear-like stalks together with twine. Your hair was pinned up haphazardly with a claw clip to keep it off your neck, a few stray strands framing your face as you focused.

“Tia! Tia, look! I made a fortress!”

You looked up to see your nephew, Lucas, sitting on an upturned wooden crate in the corner. He had successfully built a barricade around himself using empty terracotta pots and plastic plant markers.

“That’s a very impressive fortress, Lucas,” you said, offering a warm smile. “But if any of those pots break, your grandpa is going to make you sweep the entire sidewalk.”

“Grandpa is asleep in the back,” Lucas whispered conspiratorially, pointing a plastic dinosaur toward the break room door. “He won't know.”

“I hear everything, you little monster!” your father’s booming voice echoed from the back room, making Lucas giggle and dive behind his ceramic wall.

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you. This was your daily reality, always chaotic, loud, but grounding. You had been running the shop full-time since your mother passed, balancing the books, managing deliveries, and dealing with a family that treated the retail space like an extended living room.

The brass bell above the front door chimed, cutting through the hum of the fans.

“Welcome to…” You started to look up, wiping your hands on your apron, but the words caught in your throat.

Two tall, athletic women walked into the shop. They were wearing casual athletic gear: shorts, slides, and training shirts that bore the unmistakable crest of FC Barcelona. You recognized them instantly from the sports pages your nephews always left lying around. It was Patri Guijarro and Kika Nazareth.

“Hola,” Patri said, offering a friendly, easygoing wave as she looked around the lush, green interior. “Wow, it really does smell amazing in here. Alexia mentioned your shop has a reputation for the good stuff.”

Your heart did a tiny, unexpected skip at the mention of the captain’s name. You hadn’t seen Alexia since that breathless encounter in July, though you had thought about her crisp white polo shirt and those warm, hazel eyes far more than a vendor should.

“Hola,” you replied, leaning against the counter and offering your best welcoming smile. “Welcome! What can I help you find today?”

Kika wandered over to a display of ferns, poking a frond curiously. “We need something for the locker room. The Joan Gamper Trophy match is coming up, the season is officially starting, and the old fake ivy we had in there looks like it died in 1998.”

“And it’s depressing,” Patri added, walking up to the counter. She looked at you, her eyes narrowing slightly in realization. “So... you’re the famous florist who almost crushed our captain with a ceramic vase last month.” 

Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable pink. You instinctively tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Word travels fast, apparently. Yes, that was me. My clumsiness precedes me.”

Patri burst into a hearty laugh. “She told us the new florist looked like a classic Hollywood movie star but had the coordination of a newborn giraffe. I see she was right about both.”

Before you could process the movie star comment or the fact that Alexia Putellas had been describing your appearance to her teammates, Lucas popped his head out from behind his terracotta fortress.

“My tia is not a giraffe!” Lucas announced loudly, pointing his plastic T-Rex at Patri. “She just trips over things because she looks at flowers instead of her feet!”

Kika let out a delighted wheeze, immediately abandoning the ferns to walk over to Lucas's fort. “Who is this? The bodyguard?”

“I’m Lucas,” he said proudly. “And this is my fortress.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucas. I’m Kika,” she said, crouching down to be at eye level with him, completely charmed. “Do you think your fortress could survive a dinosaur attack?”

While Kika distracted your nephew, Patri turned back to you, an amused smirk on her face. “Anyway. We need something hardy. Something that can survive twenty-five footballers celebrating a win, or a lot of steam from the showers.”

You cleared your throat, grateful to focus on your craft rather than your burning face. You reached behind you, tapping one of the tall, striking stalks you had been binding earlier. They were lined with brilliant, trumpet-shaped blossoms that shot upward like spikes.

“For a locker room at the start of the season? You want Gladiolus,” you said, your voice growing confident and passionate as you spoke about the blooms.

Patri tilted her head, inspecting the tall stalks. “Gladiolus? Why those?”

“The name comes from the Latin word gladius, which means sword,” you explained, looking into Patri’s eyes. “Because of their shape, they historically symbolize strength, moral integrity, and preparedness. They’re a warrior’s flower. They don’t look delicate; they look like they’re ready for a challenge.”

Patri stared at the flowers, then looked back at you, thoroughly impressed. “A warrior’s flower. Damn. That’s actually perfect for us.” She turned her head. “Hey, Kika! We’re getting the sword flowers!”

“Get the sword flowers!” Kika called back, currently engrossed in a fierce dinosaur battle with Lucas on the floor.

“We’ll take a big arrangement of those for the lockers,” Patri said, pulling out her phone. “Oh, and before I forget…” She tapped her screen. “Our ex-teammate, Ingrid, texted me. She’s currently playing over in France for Lyon, so being long-distance with Mapi is tough. She wants to set up a regular ‘just because’ delivery to surprise Mapi here in Barcelona since she can’t exactly hand her a bouquet herself. Can I leave the details with you?”

“Of course,” you said, pulling out your order book and grabbing a pen. “I can take Mapi’s address down now, and Ingrid can just text the shop’s business line directly for any future updates. We handle a lot of our long-distance accounts that way.”

“Perfect. I’ll pass the shop’s number along to her,” Patri said, forwarding the contact information. “She wants to set up a steady routine so Mapi gets fresh flowers sent to her place every week.”

“I understand. It’s a hectic calendar for both of them,” you noted practically, jotting down Mapi's Barcelona delivery address in the logbook. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it on a strict schedule so the quality stays consistent every Monday morning.”

Patri smiled, watching your efficient handwriting. “Appreciate it. You run a tight ship here.” She capped her phone and leaned against the counter, casual again. “By the way, Alexia wanted to come today to see the shop, but she got stuck in a late tactical meeting with the coach.”

You tried to keep your hand steady as you shut the logbook, but a tiny flutter in your chest betrayed you. “Oh? Well, she's a very busy woman.”

“She is,” Patri murmured, a knowing, slightly mischievous glint in her eyes. “But she was pretty disappointed she missed the trip. She mentioned she wanted to see what the place looked like.”

You offered a polite, professional smile, though the warmth in your face gave you away. “Well, tell her she’s welcome anytime. Hopefully, I won’t drop anything on her next time.”

“I’ll tell her,” Patri winked.

Ten minutes later, after Kika officially declared a truce with Lucas and promised to bring him a Barça sticker next time, the two players left the shop, carrying a smaller starter plant Patri had insisted on buying for her own kitchen.

As the brass bell chimed shut, the shop fell quiet again. You looked over at the tall, proud stalks of the gladiolus sitting on your counter. A warrior's flower.

Your phone on the counter suddenly buzzed with a notification: a new message from a French country code, displaying a profile picture of Ingrid Engen and Mapi León laughing together in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Hi! Patri gave me your number. I’m Ingrid. Can we set up that weekly delivery for Mapi? I want her to have fresh flowers every Monday morning so her week starts right, even if I’m not there to make her coffee.

You smiled, typing back a swift, professional confirmation. 

September brought the start of the UEFA Women’s Champions League group stages and the frantic pace of the Liga F kickoff. For the club, it was a high-stakes whirlwind. For your shop, it meant a steady, thrilling influx of business. You had spent the last two weeks coordinating with the club’s PR department for press room backdrops, but your favorite order of the week had quickly become Ingrid’s Monday morning delivery for Mapi.

She relied completely on you to be her hands and eyes in Barcelona. She would send quick, excited messages from France: Mapi had a really tough match, can we do something super bright today? or It’s our anniversary next week, let’s go all out! You took immense pride in nailing every detail, making sure the long-distance deliveries were flawless. It was a massive account for your shop, and you were determined to keep it perfect.

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when the brass bell above the door chimed. You were sitting on a stool behind the counter, sketching a new layout for the autumn window display.

You looked up, expecting to see your father or one of your weekly dinner friends. Instead, your heart did a violent, sudden stutter against your ribs.

Alexia Putellas walked in.

She wasn’t in her training kit this time. She wore a casual, oversized black blazer over a simple white tee, dark jeans, and her hair was down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She looked effortlessly chic, but as she walked closer to the counter, you noticed the slight tension in her jaw and the faint dark circles under her hazel eyes. The weight of being the captain during a demanding triple-match week was clearly taking its toll.

“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low. A small, genuine smile broke through her tired expression as her eyes met yours.

“Hola, Alexia,” you replied, giving her a warm smile, though you secretly hoped she couldn’t hear the frantic pacing of your heart. You leaned on the counter, looking at her with all the soft, classic warmth of someone completely at home in her own space, even if you currently had a stray piece of green floral tape stuck to your wrist. “What brings you into my jungle today? I thought Patri and Kika were the designated team shoppers.”

Alexia let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning against the counter just a few inches away from you. “They wish. But this isn’t a club order. This one is personal.” She shifted her weight, a subtle shadow passing over her features. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I wanted to get her something... special. Something elegant, but bold.”

A sudden, sharp pang twisted in your chest. It was an annoying, unwelcome feeling, and it caught you entirely off guard. Of course she has a girlfriend, you scolded yourself internally. She’s Alexia Putellas.

Brushing the feeling aside, you instantly locked into your professional element. You wanted to make sure the club captain walked out with something spectacular that represented your shop well.

“I can absolutely help with that,” you said, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing for her to follow you over to the refrigerated display of premium imports. “Tell me a bit more about her style. Is she minimalist, or does she like drama?”

“Drama,” Alexia said instantly, standing close behind you as you slid open the glass doors. The cool, flower-scented air rushed out. “She likes things that look striking. Memorable.”

Your eyes scanned the shelves, bypassing the soft pastel roses and the delicate lilies. Then, you spotted them. Tucked in a protected, chilled bucket were a few pristine, heavy stems with deep crimson and burgundy blooms, their paper-thin petals arranged in tight, heavy, perfectly symmetrical layers. They looked like velvet.

“Burgundy Ranunculus,” you murmured, reaching in to gently pull a stem out.

Alexia leaned in, looking over your shoulder. You could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume, something woody and expensive, and it made your breath catch. “They’re stunning,” Alexia whispered, her eyes tracking the rich, dark petals. “What do they mean? Patri told me you’re really a walking encyclopedia for flower language.”

You turned your head slightly, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia's face. Her hazel eyes were locked onto yours, waiting.

“They’re incredibly unique because of how they grow, they start as these tight, guarded little buds, and then they slowly unfold into these massive, complex masterpieces,” you explained quietly, your voice dropping a register in the quiet space. “In the traditional language of flowers, they don’t represent a loud, flashy confession. They symbolize radiant charm and complete captivation. Sending them to someone means: I am completely dazzled by your light. It’s a sophisticated kind of devotion. It says that even in the biggest crowd, they’re the most brilliant thing you see.”

For a long moment, Alexia didn’t say anything. She just stared at the burgundy ranunculus in your hand, her expression unreadable. There was a strange, distant look in her eyes that didn’t quite match the romantic nature of the bouquet she was buying.

“Radiant charm,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up, her gaze lingering on your face, taking in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnestness in your hazel eyes. She cleared her throat, a polite smile stretching across her lips. “Yes. Let’s do those. A large bouquet of those, please.”

“You got it,” you said, giving her a reassuring nod.

You walked back to the workstation and began to craft the arrangement. You spent twenty minutes meticulously layering the ranunculus with textured sprigs of frosted eucalyptus and delicate, dark foliage to let the deep jewel tones pop. You used thick, luxurious black paper and tied it with a heavy silk ribbon, ensuring it looked flawless.

Alexia watched you the entire time, her chin resting in her hand as she leaned on the counter. She didn’t look at her phone once. She just watched your hands move with practiced grace.

“You’re very good at this, flower girl,” she said softly as you snipped the ends of the ribbon.

“I grew up doing it,” you smiled, looking up. “My mom taught me how to find the rhythm in the flowers. When she passed, it felt right to step in and keep the business going. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.”

Alexia’s expression softened completely, a look of profound respect crossing her face. “It shows. Your family must be very proud of what you’re doing here.”

“They mostly just like the free flower arrangements for Sunday dinners,” you joked, breaking the heavy emotional air with your usual self-deprecating humor.

You handed the massive, stunning bouquet over the counter. Alexia took it, her fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second. A jolt of warmth shot up your arm, and by the look in Alexia’s eyes, she felt it too.

“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia said, holding the bouquet carefully. She tapped her card to pay, giving you one last, lingering look before she headed to the door. “Wish me luck for the match on Thursday.”

“Good luck, Ale,” you called out. “Bring back a win.”

As the brass bell chimed her departure, you let out a long, shaky breath, sinking onto your stool. You looked at the empty space where the red camellias had been. You had just made the perfect, romantic bouquet for another woman to receive from Alexia Putellas.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. It was a message from Ingrid in Lyon.

Hey! Mapi loved the Monday bouquet, she literally cried. You’re an angel! Sending you a massive hug from France!

You smiled, typing back a professional, sweet reply. Your shop was successfully handling everything from long-distance love to the club captain’s relationships. But as you looked out the front window, watching Alexia’s tall figure disappear down the sunlit Barcelona street, you couldn’t help but wish, just a little bit, that someone would buy a bouquet of burgundy ranunculus for you.

October brought a welcomed break from the grueling summer heat, replacing the sticky air with crisp, golden autumn mornings. For the club, the schedule was tightening, packed with mid-week fixtures and high-profile sponsor events. For you, it meant adapting the shop’s palette to rich ochres, burnt oranges, and deep plums.

Your biggest project of the month was a massive corporate order for a major FC Barcelona sponsor gala hosted inside the luxury lounges at Spotify Camp Nou. The club’s PR department had requested twenty elegant, low-profile centerpieces that wouldn’t block the guests’ views across the tables. It was a high-earning contract, and you had spent the last two days meticulously prepping the vessels.

Naturally, because your family treated your workplace like a communal living room, the pristine prep area was currently shared with a hyperactive toddler.

“Tia! Look! I’m a bird!”

Your three-year-old niece, Sofia, was currently flapping her arms wildly, running circles around a stack of plastic crates. She was wearing a tiny Barça jersey, a gift from your older brothers, who were die-hard culés, and her pigtails were flying.

“You’re a very beautiful bird, Sofi,” you laughed, keeping one eye on her and the other on the delicate stems you were trimming. “But birds need to stay away from the glass vases, okay? Otherwise, the bird goes into the cage.”

“No cage!” she shrieked happily, veering sharply toward the front of the store just as the brass bell above the door chimed.

“Hola! Is anyo… oh, hello!”

Clara Serrajordi walked into the shop, only to be immediately ambushed at the knees by a small, flying toddler. Sofia had firmly wrapped her arms around Clara’s shin, looking up at the young midfielder with wide, innocent eyes.

Clara froze, her cheeks flushing pink as she looked down at the child, then up at you. She looked a bit shy and completely out of her depth, awkwardly holding a small gym bag. “Oh, um... hola.”

“Sofi, no! Let go!” you gasped, quickly coming out from behind the counter. “I am so sorry. She thinks everyone wearing athletic gear is a playground structure.”

“No, it’s okay,” Clara said quietly, a small, polite smile breaking through her shyness. She carefully squatted down, adjusting her bag so she didn’t drop it. “Hola, little one.”

“I’m a bird,” Sofia corrected solemnly.

“A bird? That’s cool,” Clara murmured, her voice soft and gentle.

You reached down to gently pry your niece away, offering Clara an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind her,” you smiled, straightening up. “I thought the PR team told me I was driving the delivery over to the stadium today?”

“Oh, you are!” Clara nodded, standing up and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I had a break between training and media, and since I live right around the corner, they asked if I could just stop by to escort you through the stadium security gates. They’re doing a high-security sweep for the gala sponsors today, so it’s easier if a player is in the van with you to bypass the main checkpoints.”

She looked around the shop, her eyes wide as she took in the lush, autumnal atmosphere. “Wow. It really is beautiful in here. The captains told us about it, but... yeah.”

“Thank you,” you said warmly, gesturing to the rows of beautifully arranged wooden boxes on the side counter. “They’re all secured in the transport crates. Let’s get them loaded into the van.”

Before you could start lifting, Sofia decided she hadn’t had enough attention. She crept back over to the counter, reached her tiny hand up, and triumphantly swiped the heavy shop keyring with its bright green Floristeria Arrels lanyard right out from under Clara’s nose.

“Keys!” Sofia cheered, running off toward her fort of plastic crates.

“Sofia! No, bring those back!” you called out, about to chase after her, but Clara just let out a quiet, nervous giggle.

“It’s okay, really,” Clara said, rubbing the back of her neck. “We have a few minutes before we need to head out.” She walked over to the counter, watching you lift the first heavy crate. She pointed to the spectacular, multi-petaled blooms sitting in the display tray, showing off shades of dusty rose, deep plum, and metallic, earthy greens. “What are the moody-looking ones? They look like vintage roses, but sharper.”

You smiled, always happy to talk about the stock. “Those are Hellebores. They’re incredible for low-profile gala centerpieces because they sit so elegantly and look high-fashion under dim lighting.”

“Do they have a meaning?” Clara asked, tilting her head curiously.

“They do,” you nodded, securing a low glass trough with tissue paper. “Hellebores represent resilience, survival, and enduring power. In old traditions, they symbolize a strength that protects your peace. What makes them unique is that they actually thrive and bloom in the freezing mud of winter, when most other flowers are dying off. I chose them for the gala because they perfectly mirror the club’s long-standing resilience, no matter how harsh the environment gets, you still produce something beautiful.”

Clara stared at the flowers, nodding slowly. “Resilience and enduring power. Yeah... that definitely fits. Especially with the pressure right now.” She quieted for a second, looking down at the counter before speaking softly. “Alexia actually wanted to ride along with you to deliver these today. She was complaining in the locker room that her tactical meeting ran long and she couldn't make it.”

Your hands froze for a fraction of a second over the cardboard box. You kept your face down, trying to control the sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks, your eyes darting to the floor. “Oh? I’m sure the captain has much more important things to do than haul boxes of flowers in a delivery van.”

“No, she really wanted to,” Clara insisted, her voice quiet but honest. “She keeps telling everyone how knowledgeable you are. Patri and Kika tease her about it, but... I think she just really likes hearing about your work.”

Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. Before you could respond, Clara’s phone vibrated loudly on the wooden counter. She picked it up, her eyes widening slightly when she saw the caller ID.

“It’s Alexia,” Clara whispered, looking a little nervous as she swiped to answer. “Hola, Ale?”

“Clara! Where are you?” Alexia’s smooth, commanding voice echoed clearly through the quiet shop, sounding a bit stressed. “The PR team is asking if the van has arrived at the stadium gates yet. Did you get lost?”

Clara looked at you, her cheeks turning pink again as she spoke into the phone. “I’m at the flower shop, Alexia. We’re just... loading the van now. But Y/N’s niece took the van keys hostage.”

There was a sudden, dead silence on the other end of the line. You held your breath, your face burning.

“Clara,” Alexia’s voice came back, noticeably lower and completely stripped of its previous irritation. “Stop bothering the florista and get on the road.”

“I’m not bothering her!” Clara said quickly, looking at you for help.

You finally stepped in, leaning closer to the phone. “The arrangements are fully loaded, Captain. Clara is doing a great job, we’re just handling a minor toddler situation.”

Another brief pause on the line. When Alexia spoke again, her tone was entirely soft, a quiet warmth bleeding through the speaker. “Hola, flower girl. Don’t let her break anything. I’ll see you at the stadium gates in twenty minutes, then. I’ll make sure security lets your van right through.”

“Looking forward to it,” you murmured quietly.

“Drive safely,” Alexia ordered, though there was a clear smile in her voice before she hung up.

Clara let out a breath, retrieving the van keys from a very cooperative Sofia in exchange for a piece of wrapped candy from your counter bowl. Together, you walked out to the alley where the shop’s delivery van was parked.

“Thanks for the explanation about the hellebores,” Clara said as she climbed into the passenger seat next to you. You adjusted the mirrors and started the engine, shifting the van into gear. As you pulled out into the Barcelona traffic, Clara turned to you with a shy, friendly smile. “I’ll tell Alexia about the resilience part.”

November brought a heavy, damp chill to Barcelona. The vibrant autumn colors of the previous month began to give way to grey skies and a persistent, biting wind that swept through the streets. For FC Barcelona, the honeymoon phase of the early season was officially over. The match schedule was grueling: midweek Champions League fixtures followed by intense away games in Liga F. You could see the toll it was taking on the team just by looking at the sports pages your father left on the counter.

For your shop, November was defined by a monumental contract: the grand opening of a brand-new, permanent exhibition pavilion at the FC Barcelona Museum, dedicated entirely to the history, trophies, and cultural impact of the women’s team. Because the museum was one of the most visited cultural spaces in Spain, the club’s design directors wanted sleek, high-end floral installations to anchor the entrance and the VIP preview lounge. It was a massive architectural project for Floristeria Arrels, requiring structural arrangements that would look flawless under museum spotlighting and hold up against the thousands of fans expected for the opening week.

Behind the large wooden workstation, you were deep in prep mode, snipping the sharpest thorns off a pile of dark, sturdy branches. With your hair piled into a quick, messy bun to keep it out of the way, your hands moved with practiced precision, weaving a spool of thin green wire into the base of a new display. 

The brass bell above the door chimed, a sudden gust of cold November air rushing into the warm, earthy sanctuary of the shop.

You looked up, a welcoming smile already forming on your lips. It faltered slightly, your pulse kicking into a familiar, rapid rhythm.

Alexia walked in.

She was pulled tightly into a heavy, dark winter coat, the collar turned up against the wind. But as she stepped up to the counter and unbuttoned her coat, you saw how exhausted she looked. Her shoulders were tense, the usual bright spark in her hazel eyes muted by sheer physical and mental fatigue. The weight of captaining a team through a high-pressure mid-season slump was practically visible.

“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said. Her voice was lower than usual, a bit rough around the edges, but she still managed to give you a genuine, tired smile.

“Hola, Alexia,” you replied softly, your natural empathy instantly tuning into her heavy mood. You leaned against the counter, looking at her. “You look like you’ve been run over by a tractor. Rough week?”

Alexia let out a dry, breathy laugh, running a hand through her hair. “A tractor might have been gentler. We had a late flight back from Sweden, training at dawn, and now I have to spend the afternoon at the museum preparing for the grand opening of the pavilion.” She sighed, looking around the quiet, warm shop as if it were a life raft. “Your brother already has the main transport crates at the stadium, but I told the PR team I’d come swing by to check on the final VIP accent pieces. Mostly, I just wanted to escape the stadium noise for a minute.”

“You have fifteen minutes before you need to be there?” you asked, noticing the way her fingers were tightly laced together. 

Alexia blinked, checking her watch. “Yeah. About that. Why?”

“Sit,” you said, gesturing to the heavy wooden stool on the customer side of the counter. “I just brewed a fresh pot of chamomile and honey tea in the back. You’re not leaving this shop looking that stressed. It’s bad for my brand.”

Alexia stared at you for a second, surprised by your quiet assertiveness. Then, the tension seemed to melt out of her shoulders all at once. “Okay,” she murmured, pulling herself up onto the stool. “Thank you.”

You disappeared into the back room for a moment, returning with a steaming ceramic mug. You slid it across the counter to her. Alexia wrapped her hands around the warm mug, inhaling the sweet, herbal steam. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the shop’s heaters and the rustle of the wind outside. You turned back to your workstation, giving her space to just breathe, your hands methodically wrapping floral wire around a thick stem.

“What are you working on?” Alexia asked quietly, breaking the silence. She was watching your hands move, her chin resting on her palm.

You looked down at the bundle of small, paper-like blossoms in your hands. They were a deep, striking purple, clustered tightly together on stiff, branching stems. They didn’t look like traditional, delicate flowers; they felt rugged, papery, and completely indestructible.

“These are Statice,” you explained, your voice soft in the quiet room. “Most people call it Sea Lavender.”

“Statice,” Alexia repeated, testing the word. “Like statistics?”

You laughed softly, your hazel eyes crinkling. “No, though I’m sure your analysts love those. It comes from the Greek word for ‘causing to stand’, because the flower holds its color and shape for years, even after it’s been cut and dried. It practically never fades.”

Alexia took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze locked onto yours. “Does it also have a meaning?”

“It does,” you nodded, setting the bundle down. “Statice symbolizes remembrance and sympathy, but in modern botany, it represents success and turning adversity into triumph. Because it can grow in harsh, salty coastal soils where nothing else survives, it’s the flower of endurance. It tells someone that no matter how grueling the winter gets, they have the permanent strength to see it through.”

Alexia stared at the purple blossoms for a long moment. The heavy, quiet tension from September felt like it was shifting into something deeper, a silent understanding passing between you. She looked up from the flowers, her hazel eyes searching your face, lingering on the soft curve of your lips.

“Endurance,” Alexia murmured, her voice carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “I think I needed to hear that today.”

“I know,” you said softly, offering her a reassuring, warm smile. “That’s why I’m the florist and you’re the captain.”

Alexia smiled, a real, bright smile that reached her eyes this time. She finished the rest of her tea and stood up, looking visibly lighter, the exhaustion pushed to the background. She picked up the small, beautifully styled box of VIP table accents you had set aside. “I should get back to the museum complex before they send a search party for me.”

“Let me walk you to the door,” you said.

You walked around the counter, opening the heavy wooden door for her. The cold November wind instantly caught your hair, blowing a few blonde strands across your face. Alexia stepped closer to you for a brief second, using her tall frame to shield you from the biting gust. 

As she tucked her hands into the deep pockets of her coat, you quickly reached into your apron.

“Here,” you said, slipping a small, dried sprig of the deep purple Statice into the front pocket of her heavy coat, right beside her fingers.

Alexia froze, looking down at your hand, then up at your face. Her breath hitched slightly in the cold air, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to your eyes.

“For luck,” you whispered, your cheeks flushing from more than just the cold. “A reminder that you endure.”

Alexia’s expression softened into something intensely private, a look that made your heart do a violent flip. She reached up, her thumb brushing against your cheek for a fleeting second, sending a jolt of pure warmth straight down your spine.

“Thank you, flower girl,” she said quietly, her voice full of an unspoken weight. “For the tea. And for the flowers.”

You watched her drive away into the grey November afternoon, your hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on your cheek where her thumb had rested. 

December transformed Barcelona into a city of lights. The streets were filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts, and festive decorations lined the shopfronts. Inside your shop, the air was a rich, intoxicating mix of fresh pine needles, cinnamon sticks, and dried orange slices. The annual Barça Christmas charity gala was coming up, and the club had commissioned you for massive festive wreaths, garlands, and dozens of premium poinsettias. Your shop looked like a winter wonderland, albeit a very busy one.

The holiday rush was in full swing, and you were currently losing a wrestling match with a massive, incredibly stubborn pine garland. A festive red velvet ribbon kept your hair pinned back and out of the line of fire, leaving you free to squint through a shower of flying needles as you used both hands to heave the heavy, fragrant greenery onto the display rack. 

“Tia! Tia, look at me! I’m a Christmas elf!”

You turned around to see Lucas, wearing a floppy green felt hat he had found somewhere, trying to balance a pinecone on his nose.

“You’re a very helpful elf, Lucas,” you laughed, adjusting a stray piece of twine. “But if you want to be a real elf, you need to help me move these heavy crates of soil to the back before the delivery van arrives.”

“Elves don’t do heavy lifting, Tia. That’s for trolls,” Lucas said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.

“I heard that!” your father’s voice barked from the back room. “And I am not a troll, I am your grandfather! Go sweep the entrance!”

Before Lucas could argue, the brass bell above the front door chimed, letting in a swirl of crisp December air and a burst of loud, familiar laughter.

You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. Your heart instantly did a familiar, erratic skip. It wasn’t just one player this time, it was a whole delegation. Patri, Kika, and Clara all walked in, led by Alexia. They were bundled up in thick winter jackets and beanies, their cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Hola!” Patri announced loudly, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. “We heard the florist was drowning in pine needles, so we came to inspect the goods.”

“And to escape fitness training,” Kika whispered, giving Lucas a high-five as she walked past him. “Hey, Lucas. Nice hat.”

“Hola, everyone,” you smiled warmly, your eyes instinctively finding Alexia. She was wearing a cream-colored knit beanie and a dark coat, and the moment her eyes met yours, the tired lines on her face seemed to soften. She gave you a quiet, lingering nod, her gaze dropping briefly to the red ribbon in your hair before looking back at your eyes.

“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, stepping up to the counter. “We were driving past and saw the delivery van outside. We figured you had a lot to load for the gala tomorrow, so we came to help.”

“You... came to help load crates?” you blinked, looking at the four professional athletes standing in your small shop. “I don't think the club’s insurance covers the captain straining her back lifting my poinsettias.”

“Please,” Patri scoffed, already grabbing the handles of a heavy wooden crate full of festive centerpieces. “We lift weights for a living, Y/N. This is a warmup.”

“I’ll help!” Clara said quietly, stepping forward with a shy smile. She carefully lifted a delicate tray of white cyclamen, making sure not to crush the leaves, looking very focused on doing a good job.

For the next fifteen minutes, your quiet shop was filled with absolute chaos. The players formed a mini-assembly line, carrying the heavy arrangements out to your delivery van. At one point, your friends happened to walk past the shop window on their way to a café. They froze, their jaws dropping as they saw the captain of FC Barcelona carrying a box of pinecones while Kika chased Lucas around a display of ferns. They caught your eye through the glass, pointing and mouthing, ‘What is happening?!’ You just flushed bright red and shrugged, waving them off.

Alexia carried the final, massive holiday wreath inside from the prep table. As she set it down on the counter, she breathed out a puff of air, her cheeks rosy from the chill.

“That should be everything,” Alexia said, leaning against the counter, just inches away from you. She looked down at a stunning arrangement you had set aside on the corner display. It featured a towering, majestic white flower with thick, velvety petals blooming spectacularly from a bulb. “Wow. What is this one? It looks like a crown.”

You smiled, stepping closer to her, your shoulder brushing lightly against hers. A sudden, electric warmth bloomed in your chest despite the December chill.

“That’s an Amaryllis,” you explained quietly, your voice soft and confident. “Specifically, a winter Amaryllis.”

“Does this one have a story?” Alexia asked, turning her head to look at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours.

“It does,” you nodded. “The name comes from the Greek word amarysso, which means ‘to sparkle.’ In botanical lore, it symbolizes splendid beauty, worth beyond beauty, and determination. Because it’s a bulb that sleeps all through the autumn and then blooms in the absolute dead of winter, it represents a deep, indestructible pride. It says that even in the darkest, coldest times of the year, something breathtaking can grow if you give it time.”

Alexia stared at the white petals, her expression turning quiet, a sudden, heavy shadow crossing her eyes. She looked down at her coat pocket, the very pocket where you had slipped the purple statice flower a month ago.

“Something breathtaking in the dead of winter,” Alexia murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense and searching, lingering on your lips for a second too long.

Before the silence could stretch, Patri called out from the doorway. “Hey, Ale! Are you buying that bouquet for the gala, or are we heading out?”

Alexia blinked, pulling herself out of the moment. She cleared her throat, a slightly forced, distant smile appearing on her face. “Right. Um, actually... can you wrap up a separate bouquet of red roses and holly? I need to take it with me tonight.”

Your chest tightened, a familiar, cold pang of reality hitting you. The girlfriend. You had almost forgotten, caught up in the warmth of the shop and the way Alexia looked at you.

“Of course,” you said, your professional mask slipping back on perfectly. “Give me five minutes.”

You wrapped the holiday bouquet with practiced efficiency, tying the ribbon tightly. You handed it over the counter, ensuring your fingers didn’t brush against hers this time. You didn't want to complicate things.

“Thanks, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, holding the romantic bouquet in her arms. She looked like she wanted to say something else, her eyes scanning your face, but she held back.

“Thank you all for the help,” you told the group, forcing a bright, cheerful smile. “See you at the gala tomorrow.”

After the players piled out of the shop, laughing and shoving each other into the cold evening air, the store felt suddenly huge and incredibly quiet. Lucas came over, taking off his elf hat and looking up at you with his smart-aleck eight-year-old eyes.

“Tia,” he said thoughtfully. “She looked sad when you gave her those roses.”

“Go sweep the entrance, Lucas,” you murmured, turning back to your counter.

You looked at the white amaryllis, sparkling under the shop lights. Splendid beauty, waiting in the dark. 

x bonus chapter x

The Spotify Camp Nou hospitality suite was transformed into a glittering winter wonderland for the annual Christmas charity gala. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the massive room, reflecting off the silver trimmings and the dark green velvet tablecloths.

You stood near the grand entrance, smoothing down the skirt of your dark emerald dress. You had opted to leave your hair down, the soft waves brushing past your shoulders, and your eyes swept over the room with a sense of quiet pride. Every single table was adorned with your low-profile centerpieces, the rich pine, cinnamon accents, and striking white amaryllis catching the light perfectly. The club’s PR director had already stopped by to praise your work, noting that the atmosphere had never felt so elegant.

But despite the success, you felt entirely out of your element. You were a florist, used to dirt under your fingernails and the quiet hum of your family’s shop, not the clinking of champagne glasses and the flashing cameras of the Catalan media.

“You look like you’re plotting a getaway,” a smooth, familiar voice murmured from beside you.

You turned your head, your heart instantly doing a violent, familiar flip.

Alexia was standing there. She had traded her usual training gear and casual blazers for a breathtaking, floor-length gown in a deep midnight blue that hugged her athletic silhouette perfectly. Her hair was styled in sleek, polished waves cascading down one shoulder, and her eyes were looking down at you with an intense, quiet focus. Up close, her presence was almost dizzying.

“Alexia,” you said, a soft, breathless smile breaking across your face as you looked her up and down. “I could say the same about you. The dress suits you much better than a football kit.”

Alexia let out a low laugh, a genuine warmth spreading across her features. “Don’t let the managers hear you say that. But thank you. You look... incredible, flower girl. Truly. The emerald suits you.”

“Thank you,” you replied, your cheeks heating up slightly. You gestured to the room around you to redirect the focus. “What do you think of the arrangements? They look okay under the bright lights?”

“They’re perfect,” Alexia said softly, her gaze drifting over the room before settling right back on your face. “Everyone is talking about them. You completely transformed the space.” She paused, shifting her weight as she took a sip from her glass. “I saw your friends’ faces through the window yesterday, by the way. I think Patri scarred them for life.”

You laughed, the tension leaving your shoulders. “They texted me immediately demanding to know why the Barça captain was acting as my personal delivery courier. I told them I just have excellent customer service.”

“Clearly,” Alexia smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

Before the conversation could deepen, a sudden shift in the room caught your attention. A stylish, striking woman walked up to the bar a few meters away, gesturing for Alexia to join her. It was the girlfriend. You recognized her instantly from some late-night stalking.

Your chest tightened with that familiar, unwelcome pang of reality. You instinctively stepped back, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind your ear as your professional mask slid firmly into place. “Your guest is waiting. You should go, Ale.”

Alexia looked over her shoulder, her smile faltering. The lines of exhaustion and tension you had seen in November seemed to flash across her face for a brief second. When she looked back at you, her hazel eyes were guarded, lacking the easy warmth she had just shared with you.

“Right,” Alexia said quietly, her voice dropping a register. She looked at you for a long, lingering moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but the noise of the gala swallowed the space between you. “Enjoy the night, flower girl.”

“You too,” you murmured.

You watched her walk away, watching the way her posture shifted back into the rigid, perfect composure expected of the club's leader as she greeted her partner.

You didn’t stay much longer after that. You slipped out of the gala before the main courses were served, taking a taxi back through the brightly lit streets of Barcelona.

January in Barcelona arrived with a biting, crisp clarity. The holiday lights were packed away, leaving the city streets feeling stark and quiet under the pale winter sun. At the Ciutat Esportiva, the atmosphere was thick with intense focus; mid-season awards were being announced, and the press room was constantly booked for high-profile mid-season press conferences.

For your shop, January meant providing clean, minimalist arrangements for the media rooms: lots of structured greenery and sharp white accents that looked professional on television.

A persistent draft from the front door had you shivering slightly, prompting you to pull your thick wool cardigan tighter around your shoulders. A neat, high ponytail kept things out of your way as you leaned over the counter, the bright glow of your phone screen lighting up your face during your favorite Monday morning ritual: trading quick texts with Ingrid. 

Hi Y/N! Let’s do something warm and bright for Mapi this week, Ingrid’s text from Lyon read. She’s feeling a bit down with the winter training schedule. Maybe some yellow or orange?

I have some stunning winter marigolds and orange ranunculus that just arrived, you typed back quickly, a soft smile on your face. I’ll make it look like a little burst of sunshine. How is France treating you?

Freezing! 🥶 But the football is good. Hey, by the way... is the vibe at the club offices as weird as Patri says it is? She texted me saying the locker room has been completely silent all week.

You paused, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. I haven’t been to the club this week, just the press room. Why is it silent?

There was a pause, the little typing bubbles appearing and disappearing before Ingrid’s reply popped up. Alexia is single again. Apparently, it happened right after the New Year. Nobody is brave enough to ask her about it, but Patri says she’s just throwing herself entirely into training.

Your heart gave a sudden, violent thud against your ribs. You stared at the words on the screen, a flood of conflicting emotions rushing through you. Single. The relationship you had meticulously crafted bouquets for was over. You thought back to the Christmas gala, the heavy, guarded look in Alexia’s eyes and the forced smile she had worn.

Before you could type a response, the brass bell above the door chimed. You looked up instantly, your breath catching in your throat.

But it wasn’t Alexia. It was Patri.

The midfielder walked in, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her heavy Barça parka. She looked tired, the usual mischievous spark in her eyes replaced by a quiet, subdued sigh as she approached the counter.

“Hola, chica,” Patri said, offering a small, weak wave.

“Hola, Patri,” you replied softly, setting your phone aside. “You look like you’ve been freezing on the pitch all morning.”

“Pretty much,” Patri muttered, leaning against the counter. “I’m here to pick up the press room displays for tomorrow’s briefing. Are they ready?”

“They’re right here,” you said, gesturing to the sleek, white ceramic vases filled with elegant eucalyptus and structured white stems. As you began to carefully wrap the base of the vases in protective paper, you kept your tone casual, though your pulse was racing. “Ingrid actually just texted me. She mentioned things have been a bit heavy at the training ground.”

Patri let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing her face with her hands. “Yeah. It’s tough. Alexia... she’s going through a lot right now. The breakup was rough, and instead of taking a breath, she’s just practically living on the pitch. First one there, last one to leave. She won’t talk to any of us about it.” Patri looked around the shop, her eyes landing on a display of small, delicate plants in the corner. “She usually comes here when she’s stressed, but she told me to pick these up today. I think she’s just hiding.”

Your chest pulled tight with a quiet, aching empathy. You didn’t want to fix Alexia’s problems, that wasn’t your place, but as a florist, you knew that sometimes when people couldn’t find the words, the flowers could speak for them.

You stopped wrapping the vase and walked over to a specific wooden shelf near the window. Tucked away in a small terracotta pot was a cluster of hardy, delicate white blossoms that looked like tiny, frozen bells.

“Take this to her,” you said quietly, bringing the pot back to the counter.

Patri tilted her head, looking at the small white flowers. “What is it?”

“It’s White Heather,” you explained, your voice soft and steady in the quiet shop. “It’s one of the few things that can bloom beautifully in the dead of January. In old botanical language, white heather symbolizes protection, good fortune, and the fulfillment of wishes.”

You looked up, meeting Patri’s eyes. “It’s not a romantic flower, and it’s not flashy. It’s a flower given to tell someone that you wish them peace and safety while they navigate a storm. Tell her... tell her it’s just a sponsor’s gift for the captain. A wish for a good second half of the season.”

Patri stared at the white heather, a soft, knowing expression gradually overtaking her tired face. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “A sponsor’s gift. Right.” She took the little pot gently, nesting it into her arm. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I think she really needs a little bit of protection right now.”

After helping Patri load the sleek arrangements into her car, you stood inside the doorway, watching the vehicle pull away into the cold January afternoon.

You walked back to the counter, picking up your phone to see a final text from Ingrid: Make sure to look after Ale if she stops by! x

You looked out the window at the grey Barcelona sky. Alexia hadn’t come to the shop this month, choosing to hide away in the noise of her training.

February brought the frenetic, dizzying rush of the Valentine’s Day season. For your shop, it was easily the most chaotic week of the winter. The counter was practically buried under mountains of crimson roses, delicate pink tulips, and heavy satin ribbons. Your father had been brought out of retirement (again) to handle the delivery logs, and your friends had even offered to help clip thorns after their corporate day jobs.

To make matters more intense, FC Barcelona had a massive home game at the stadium on Valentine’s Day weekend, meaning the club had ordered dozens of presentation bouquets for the VIP suites and the pre-match ceremonies. You had been working fourteen-hour days, your hair thrown into a messy bun with a pink silk ribbon, your eyes bright but exhausted.

It was late on a Friday afternoon when the heavy Valentine’s rush finally hit a brief, blessed lull. Your father had taken Lucas to get hot chocolate, leaving the shop quiet save for the hum of the coolers.

The brass bell above the door chimed, letting in a crisp breeze.

You looked up, automatically reaching for a fresh sheet of wrapping paper. “Welcome to Floristeria Arrels, give me just one second…”

The words died in your throat.

Alexia stood in the doorway. She was wearing a casual green-colored hoodie under a dark jacket, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her hands shoved into her pockets.

Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. You hadn’t seen her in almost two months, and up close, you could see the change. She still looked tired from the grueling winter season, but the heavy, suffocating shadow she had carried in December was gone. Her eyes looked clear, grounded, and entirely focused on you.

“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low in the quiet shop as she walked up to the counter.

“Hola, Alexia,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter. You offered a warm, slightly tentative smile. “You survived the January schedule, I see.”

“Barely,” Alexia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that sent a sudden rush of warmth straight to your core. She leaned against the wooden counter. “Patri gave me the white heather, by the way. She said it was a ‘sponsor's gift,’ but somehow I didn’t think some sponsor’s administrative office was choosing specific botanical wishes for my peace and safety.”

Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable crimson. You instinctively tucked a stray blonde curl behind your ear, looking down at your hands. “Well... I just thought the captain could use a little luck for the second half of the season.”

“Thank you,” Alexia said quietly, her voice full of sincere warmth. “It’s sitting on my kitchen counter right now. It helped, flower girl. Truly. It was nice to have a bit of quiet luck around.”

A heavy, incredibly soft silence fell between you. The sharp, romantic tension from the autumn hadn’t disappeared; instead, it felt like it had thawed into something much more intimate, stripped of the boundaries that had kept you apart before.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a soft smile as you gestured to the sea of red roses surrounding you. “Are you here to brave the Valentine's Day madness? I can whip up a custom bouquet if you need one.”

“No,” Alexia said instantly. She looked at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly direct focus. “No more red roses. I’m actually just here for my own apartment. I wanted some fresh greenery. Eucalyptus, maybe? Something clean.”

Your chest loosened, a wave of relief washing over you that you couldn’t quite hide. “I can definitely do eucalyptus. Let me grab the fresh bunches from the back.”

You walked over to the cold storage, pulling out a lush, fragrant bundle of silver-dollar eucalyptus. As you brought it back to the workstation, you noticed a small, rustic clay pot sitting on a lower display shelf, holding a cluster of delicate, low-growing purple flowers. They were simple, wild, and blooming right out of the dark, rich soil.

“Here,” you said, setting the eucalyptus down and carefully leaning over to tend to the little plant.

Alexia leaned in, her chin resting on her hand as she watched your fingers gently brush a stray speck of dirt off one of the heart-shaped leaves. “What are those?”

“These are Violets,” you murmured, looking up to meet her gaze. “They’re traditional February blooms. In old floral language, they symbolize modesty, faithfulness, and subtle, unspoken affection.”

You gently traced the edge of a velvet petal, your voice soft and steady. “Because they’re small and grow close to the earth, they don't shout for attention like roses do. But they’re incredibly hardy. They bloom right out of the soil even when the ground is still cold, signaling that the winter is ending. It’s a plant that represents a quiet, fresh start.”

Alexia stared at the tiny purple flowers, then slowly raised her eyes to your face. She took in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnest warmth in your hazel eyes. She didn’t look away, the silence stretching between you until it felt completely breathless.

“A quiet, fresh start,” Alexia repeated, her voice dropping to a low, intimate register. She stared at the tiny purple flowers for a long moment, then looked up, her eyes locking onto yours. “I think a fresh start is exactly what I’m looking for.”

Your pulse hammered against your ribs, the silence between you suddenly feeling completely breathless. You managed a small smile, lifting the little clay pot. “Then the violets are yours. On the house.”

“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia whispered, her eyes softening with a genuine warmth.

You turned to the workstation to package everything up, laying out a large sheet of thick brown kraft paper to bundle her heavy branches of silver-dollar eucalyptus. Because the stems were springy and full, the paper kept unrolling and snapping back as you tried to fold it.

Seeing you struggle slightly, Alexia instinctively leaned over the counter and reached out to press her palm down on the edge of the paper to hold it steady for you.

As you brought your hand down to tape the seam, your fingers slid right across the back of her hand. It was a complete accident, a sudden brush of skin against skin. You caught your breath, your hand freezing for a split second against hers. Alexia didn’t move her hand away either; she just kept holding the paper flat, her hazel eyes flicking up to catch yours with a quiet, lingering intensity that made your skin tingle.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice a little breathier than intended as you quickly finished taping the paper.

“Anytime,” she replied softly, a slow, amused smile playing on her lips as she finally pulled her hand back. You leaned against the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you picked up your shears.

March brought the long-awaited arrival of spring. The biting winter winds softened into gentle, warm breezes, and the sun lingered just a bit longer over the city’s plazas each evening. For the club, March meant the intense preparation for the final stretch of the season, split up by a brief international break. For your shop, it meant a vibrant explosion of color as the first true spring blooms began to arrive in heavy wooden crates.

A heavy delivery crate sat open on the counter, trailing loose packing straw onto the floor as you worked. With your hair swept up and held securely out of your face by a smooth silver clip, you lifted out the final tray of potted bulbs. They weren’t quite blooming yet, but the tightly closed green buds were fat and bursting at the seams, showing just enough hints of bright yellow to promise a sea of golden warmth in a few days’ time. 

The brass bell above the door chimed cheerfully.

“Hola!” Patri’s boisterous voice echoed through the shop before she even fully stepped inside.

You looked up, a bright smile instantly taking over your face as Patri walked in, closely followed by Kika. Both were dressed in casual tracksuits, looking relaxed and sun-warmed from an early training session.

“Hola, regulars,” you teased, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you today? Don’t tell me Patri already managed to kill that pothos she bought in January.”

“No, that thing is indestructible, just like you said,” Patri laughed, walking up to the counter and resting her elbows on the wood. “We actually need a nice birthday plant for Kika’s aunt. Something that says ‘I love you’ but also ‘I forgot your birthday was this week and ordered this at the last minute’.”

“Hey! I didn’t forget,” Kika protested, though she was grinning as she wandered over to inspect a shelf of flowering cacti. “I just... misplaced the date.”

“Right, right,” you chuckled, stepping out from behind the counter to help them browse. “I have some beautiful potted orchids, or some fresh jasmine that smells amazing.” 

As you walked them through the options, Patri kept casting sideways glances at you, a mischievous, knowing smirk playing on her lips. Finally, as you reached for a lush potted jasmine, Patri casually leaned against a display rack.

“So, chica,” Patri started, her tone entirely too innocent. “Alexia’s apartment has been smelling a lot like eucalyptus lately. I visited her apartment last night, and the girl who can barely keep a cactus alive has a perfectly manicured, tiny clay pot of purple violets sitting in prime real estate on her kitchen windowsill. Care to comment?” 

Your cheeks flared a brilliant, instant pink. You instinctively tucked a loose blonde curl behind your ear, your hazel eyes darting down to the plant in your hands as you tried to maintain your professional composure. “I just sold Alexia some fresh greenery, Patri. It's my job.”

“Uh-huh,” Kika chimed in, abandoning the cacti to join the interrogation, a massive grin on her face. “And is it your job to make our captain smile at her phone in the middle of video analysis? Because she’s been doing that a lot. Especially on Monday mornings after she sees the arrangements you send for Mapi.”

“I... I just provide good customer service,” you stammered, looking every bit the flustered, classic beauty as you tried to dodge their playful glare.

“Right, ‘customer service’,” Patri purred, swapping a highly amused look with Kika. “Well, just so you know, the captain’s schedule is absolute madness right now, but she’s suddenly magically free every single Tuesday afternoon. Completely single, too. And she really likes flowers. In fact, she’s been complaining that she doesn’t have a good excuse to come by the shop this month because the administrative team handled the international break orders online.”

Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. The realization that Alexia was talking about you, that she was looking for reasons to see you, sent a wave of pure, thrilling heat through your chest.

To hide your burning face, you quickly turned back to the workstation, picking up a small trowel and reaching for a tray of vibrant potted bulbs you had been sorting earlier.

“If you two are quite finished playing matchmaker,” you said, your voice breathless but carrying a playful edge, “I need to finish processing these.”

Patri walked over, tilting her head at the rows of green, goose-necked stalks pointing out of the dark soil. She nudged one of the fat, swollen tips where a sliver of bright yellow was tearing through the papery casing. “Well, these look ready to burst. What are they?"”

“They’re Daffodils,” you murmured, grateful to anchor yourself back into your craft. You carefully brushed a bit of loose earth from the rim of a small pot. “They’re the ultimate flower of March. In traditional botanical lore, daffodils have a bit of a dual meaning. Historically, they could represent unrequited love, but globally, they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, and unequaled affection. They’re the very first flowers to break through the soil after the frost, showing that the sun is finally back.”

Patri stared at the yellow flowers, then looked up at your flushed face, her expression softening into a genuinely warm, supportive smile. She reached out, lightly tapping the counter.

“Let’s go with the new beginnings part,” Patri said softly, giving you a reassuring wink. “I think the frost has officially melted, chica. You just have to wait for the sun to walk through the door.”

“Yeah,” Kika agreed, nodding enthusiastically as she picked out the jasmine plant. “And definitely don’t charge her for the next batch of eucalyptus.”

You laughed, the nervous tension giving way to a soft, bubbling happiness. After wrapping up Kika’s aunt’s plant and waving the two mischievous midfielders away, the shop fell into a quiet afternoon lull.

You looked down at the bright yellow blossoms growing from the little pot, their golden petals catching the warm March sunlight streaming through the storefront window. A fresh start. A new beginning.

April arrived with a sky-high spike in adrenaline. The city was practically vibrating with anticipation as FC Barcelona rolled into the Champions League Semifinals. The pressure on the squad was immense; every training session was hyper-focused, and the media presence at the Ciutat Esportiva was constant.

For your shop, April meant a flurry of quick, efficient corporate orders for the stadium’s luxury boxes. But inside Floristeria Arrels, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the high-stakes football world. It was a haven of soft rain, damp pavement outside, and the intoxicating, sweet scent of blooming spring bulbs inside.

Rain lashed violently against the storefront glass as the clock ticked past closing time on a stormy Thursday evening. A few loose strands of hair had escaped your bun, framing your face as you hoisted a heavy, freezing zinc bucket into place, determined to get the last of the fresh imports organized before finally calling it a night. 

The brass bell above the door gave a sudden, sharp chime as the door pushed open against the howling wind.

You looked up, surprised. “Oh, sorry, we’re just about to…”

The words evaporated.

Alexia stood in the doorway. She was pulled into a dark, rain-slicked club jacket, her hood pushed back to reveal her hair, which was slightly damp from the storm. She looked completely worn out, not just physically, but mentally. The sheer weight of captaining the team through the highest-stakes week of the season was evident in the tight line of her jaw.

“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said quietly, her voice low and carrying a hint of hesitation. “I saw the lights were still on. I know it’s late.”

“Hola, Ale,” you breathed, setting the heavy bucket down. Your heart kicked into that familiar, erratic rhythm, but your immediate instinct was to offer her a reprieve from the storm outside. “Don’t worry about the time. Come in. You look like you just played ninety minutes in a downpour.”

Alexia let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, stepping further into the warm, fragrant sanctuary of the shop. She didn’t stay by the door; she walked right up to your workstation, leaning her hands against the aged wood. “Just ran from the car. The pressure this week... it’s loud. Everywhere I go, people are talking about the semifinal. I just needed twenty minutes where nobody asks me about tactical formations.”

“Well, you came to the right place,” you smiled warmly, your eyes locking onto hers. “The flowers don’t care about football.”

Determined to keep things light and give her the distraction she desperately needed, you went to move a large bucket of water and fresh cuttings out of her path. But your natural coordination chose that exact moment to fail you.

Your sandal slid on a slick spot of wet tile.

“Whoa!” you gasped, your arms flailing.

In your panic, your elbow clipped the rim of a heavy plastic bucket, sending a tidal wave of cold water splashing across the floor. You went down, landing awkwardly on your knees amidst a sea of scattered green stems and puddles.

“Y/N!” Alexia reacted with lightning-fast athlete reflexes, instantly dropping to her knees beside you on the wet floor. Her strong hands caught your forearms, stabilizing you. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your wrist?”

Your cheeks burned a violent, brilliant crimson. You looked up, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia’s face. The proximity was dizzying. You could see the golden flecks in her hazel eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. You looked incredibly striking in your flustered state, your breath hitching.

“I’m fine,” you squeaked, your voice breathless as you looked down at the absolute disaster on the floor. “I told you... giraffe coordination. I just ruined my clean floor.”

Alexia stared at you for a heartbeat, taking in your wide eyes and your bright blush. Then, a sudden, beautiful sound broke through the quiet shop. Alexia laughed. It wasn’t the polite, guarded chuckle she gave to the media; it was a deep, genuine, chest-deep laugh that completely wiped the exhaustion from her face.

“You really are a hazard, flower girl,” she teased, her eyes crinkling with pure amusement as she let go of your arms to pick up a wet leaf.

“I’m a professional, I swear,” you laughed along, the embarrassment melting into a soft, bubbling happiness.

Together, sitting on the floor of the closed shop, you began grabbing the scattered stems. Alexia reached for a bundle of elegant, unbroken flowers that had escaped the water. They were sleek, cup-shaped blossoms of a stunning, soft pastel pink.

“Tulips, right?” Alexia asked softly, holding one up between you. The playful mood suddenly shifted, dropping into a quiet, heavy intimacy.

“Yes, those are Pink Tulips," you murmured, your voice steadying as you looked from the flower to her eyes. “They’re the heart of spring.”

“Do they have a meaning too?” Alexia asked, her voice dropping a register, her hazel gaze locking onto yours.

“They do,” you nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Unlike red tulips, which are very bold and aggressive about love, pink tulips are different. They symbolize affection, deep caring, and the attachment of a budding romance. They represent a feeling that is growing quietly, carefully... but securely. It’s the flower you give when you realize you're forming a bond you don’t want to lose.”

The silence that followed was completely breathless, heavy with a thick, undeniable tension. The storm outside seemed a million miles away.

Alexia didn’t look down at the tulip. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, intense and completely focused. Slowly, deliberately, she reached her hand up. Her warm fingers gently tucked a stray, damp lock of your blonde hair behind your ear, her thumb lingering against your jawline for a fraction of a second. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight down your spine.

“A budding romance,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze dropping briefly to your lips before rising back to your hazel eyes. “I think that’s a very beautiful meaning, flower girl.”

You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe. The promise of what was growing between you felt completely overwhelming.

Alexia gently broke the spell, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you up from the floor. You took it, your skin tingling at the contact. She helped you grab a towel to quickly dry the rest of the floor, the heavy atmosphere shifting into a comfortable, warm hum.

When she finally prepared to leave, holding a simple bunch of the pink tulips you had wrapped for her, she stood by the door for a long moment.

“Thank you for the distraction,” Alexia said softly, her hand on the brass handle. “I think I’m ready for the match now.”

“Go win it, Captain,” you smiled, looking at her with all the earnest support you possessed.

As the door closed and she stepped out into the April rain, you leaned back against the wooden counter, your fingers tracing the spot on your jaw where her thumb had rested. 

May in Barcelona was a golden, chaotic blur. The city was completely painted in blaugrana as the FC Barcelona women’s team pulled off a historic, breathtaking run, securing both the league title and the Champions League trophy. The entire city was in a state of absolute euphoria.

For you, May was a beautiful war zone. The club had put in massive, sweeping orders for the victory parade, the stadium gala, and the official team reception. Your shop had been working around the clock, but for the final presentation, you had to bring your craft directly into the heart of their celebration.

The media lounge at the Ciutat Esportiva was humming with organized energy. Security guards were tightly managing the perimeter, team photographers were uploading files, and the back of the room had been cleared out specifically for your workstation. You stood behind a long, white-draped table, focusing entirely on the grueling task of assembling the final massive presentation bouquet for the evening’s formal gala.

Your hair was pulled back securely in a claw clip to keep it out of your eyes, and you wore your dark green Floristeria Arrels apron over a clean linen blouse, your hands moving with practiced efficiency.

“The last of the stadium crates are fully secured in the van, Y/N,” your older brother said, walking up to the table with a clipboard. He had volunteered to manage the heavy loading today, and his calm, reliable presence was the only reason you were keeping up with the club's strict schedule. “Lucas is just finishing up the final inventory check.”

You looked over to see your nephew standing dutifully by the transport boxes. He took his job incredibly seriously, wearing a playful cardboard “gold medal” around his neck that he’d made to match the team’s achievements.

“Perfect. Thank you both,” you smiled, exhaling a soft breath of relief as you bound the thick floral stems with green twine. “Lucas, you’re officially the best assistant manager I’ve ever had.”

Lucas beamed proudly, checking off the last item on his list. “All thirty gold-ribbon packages are accounted for, Tia.”

Before you could praise him further, a sudden wave of lighthearted banter and clear, echoing laughter spilled into the lounge from the main corridor, signaling that the morning media restrictions had finally lifted.

The busy room instantly fell into a respectful hum as the players began to flood into the space. It was Patri, Kika, and Clara Serrajordi, all grinning from ear to ear, laughing loudly. And walking right in the center of them, looking completely radiant, was Alexia.

They weren’t in their formal gala gowns yet; they were wearing their official victory shirts, their faces glowing with the sheer, unmatched high of being champions of Europe.

“The champions are here!” Patri announced, throwing her arms wide as she spotted your workstation.

Your brother’s eyes widened, and he immediately grabbed Lucas by the shoulder, pulling him back to give the players room. “Hola, everyone,” you smiled, a rush of genuine, thrilled happiness washing over you as you looked at them. “Congratulations! The whole city is so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” Clara Serrajordi said quietly, giving you a shy, proud wave from behind Patri.

Your eyes instinctively traveled across the crowded space, instantly locking onto Alexia. The moment her eyes met yours, the celebratory, public mask she had been wearing all morning seemed to drop. A quiet, incredibly deep warmth flooded her expression. She didn’t say anything at first; she just stood there, taking you in: your messy hair, your flushed cheeks, and the absolute focus with which you were navigating their high-profile chaos.

“We came to check on the final presentation bouquets before the media team takes them,” Patri said, leaning over the table to peek at your work. “Are we good to go?”

“Everything from the van is already styled in the main reception hall,” you said, nodding toward the majestic, sprawling arrangement on your table. “I’m just finishing up this last one.”

The bouquet was spectacular, filled with massive, lush flowers with incredibly thick, tightly packed layers of soft, voluminous petals that looked like ruffled silk.

Alexia stepped closer, bypassing her teammates to stand on the other side of your white-clothed table. She looked down at the breathtaking arrangement, her voice dropping into a low, private register. “Wow. These are incredible, flower girl. They look so heavy, like clouds.”

“They're Peonies,” you murmured, your voice dropping into that soft, confident register as you looked up into her hazel eyes.

“Peonies,” Alexia repeated softly, her gaze locked onto yours over the sea of pink and white petals. “What do they mean for a victory?”

“They’re the flower of honor and prosperity,” you explained, your heart doing a familiar, rapid thud against your ribs. “In old traditions, peonies represent good fortune and a legacy of success. But because they take years to establish their roots deep in the soil before they can bloom this spectacularly, they symbolize a triumph that was earned through deep, patient dedication. They say that the glory is real because the work behind it was real.”

Alexia stared at the peonies, a profound, quiet emotion passing over her face. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely full of an unspoken weight. The bustling lounge, your family, her teammates, everything seemed to fade into the background for a long, breathless moment.

“Patient dedication,” Alexia whispered, her voice carrying a promise that made your chest tighten with a thrill of anticipation. “I think that’s the most perfect meaning yet.”

“Hey, Capi! The media director needs us for the trophy photos!” Patri called out from the other side of the lounge, breaking the spell. Kika and Clara were already moving toward the backdrops, waving to the staff.

Alexia blinked, pulling herself back, but she didn’t move away immediately. She reached across the workspace, her fingers lightly brushing against yours for a brief, electric second that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.

“I have to go do the media rounds,” Alexia said softly, her eyes searching your face one last time. “But as soon as the madness of this week ends... I’m coming to the shop. We need to talk.”

“I’ll be there,” you whispered, a soft smile breaking across your face.

You handed her a single, perfect pink peony from the leftover batch on your table. Alexia took it carefully, holding the stem lightly against her victory shirt like a badge of honor, before turning to join her team under the bright flashing cameras.

You stood behind the table, watching her walk away into the golden afternoon light of the complex, your heart beating wildly. 

June arrived with a quiet, golden stillness that settled over Barcelona. The roaring crowds at Spotify Camp Nou had cleared, the parade confetti had finally been swept from the avenues, and the relentless, high-octane pressure of the football season had officially evaporated into the off-season. For the club, the year was a wrap. For your shop, the heavy corporate contracts were successfully completed, leaving Floristeria Arrels in a peaceful, lazy summer lull.

You were standing by the front window, the afternoon sun warming your skin. Your hair was loosely braided and tied back with a simple green silk ribbon. The shop was a fragrant paradise of summer blooms, but without the chaotic rush of the past few months, it felt incredibly spacious.

Your contract with FC Barcelona was officially up for renewal. The paperwork was sitting on your counter, waiting for your signature, a testament to a year of hard work, flawless execution, and a family business preserved.

The brass bell above the door gave a soft, familiar chime.

You turned around, a welcoming phrase already on your tongue, but the words instantly caught in your throat.

Alexia walked in.

She wasn’t wearing a club jersey, a sponsor’s tuxedo, or a rainy-day training jacket. She was dressed in a casual, crisp white linen button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, light jeans, and white sneakers. Her hair was down, catching the golden June light, and her eyes looked completely relaxed, free of the crushing weight of the captaincy.

But as she approached the counter, you noticed something you had never seen on Alexia Putellas before. She looked nervous. Her hands were tucked behind her back, her posture slightly tentative.

“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth, low, and carrying a soft, hesitant warmth.

“Hola Ale,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter to meet her in the center of the shop. You offered a warm, genuine smile, your heart beginning to hammer a familiar, frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Or should I say Champion? What brings you by? I thought the club orders were officially done for the summer.”

“They are,” Alexia said, stepping closer. The faint, clean scent of her woody perfume immediately enveloped you. “The club is done. I’m not here for Barça, I’m here for myself.”

Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hands out from behind her back.

Your breath hitched, your hazel eyes widening in complete surprise. Held carefully in her hands was a bouquet. It wasn’t one of the grand, perfectly symmetrical corporate arrangements you usually made. It was small, slightly rustic, and clearly wrapped by hand. It was a beautiful, striking mix of deep crimson roses and delicate, star-like blue forget-me-nots.

“I, uh... I went to a little shop on the other side of the city,” Alexia admitted, a faint, endearing flush creeping up her neck as she looked down at the flowers, then back up into your eyes. “Because I knew if I tried to buy flowers from you, you’d just give me a lecture on botanical history or try to give them to me on the house. And I wanted to buy these for you.”

You stared at the bouquet, a profound, overwhelming wave of emotion rushing through your chest. You looked up at her, your eyes bright and soft. “Alexia…”

“I looked up the meanings,” Alexia continued, her voice dropping into a low, intensely private register as she stepped even closer, completely closing the distance between you. “The pink roses are for admiration and new beginnings. No pressure, no complications. Just... the joy I feel whenever I’m around you.”

She offered the bouquet to you, the tall, striking stalks of vibrant blue delphinium framing the soft pink petals beautifully. Your fingers brushed against hers as you took the stems, sending a warm, electric jolt straight to your core.

“And the delphinium is for an open heart,” she added softly, her hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Because this entire season, through the hardest months and the highest pressures, coming into this shop and seeing you was the one thing I couldn’t forget.”

Your heart did a violent, joyful flip. You held the rustic bouquet against your linen shirt, looking up at her with all the striking, classic warmth you possessed. “You did your homework.”

“I had a very good teacher,” Alexia murmured, a beautiful, relieved smile breaking across her face. She reached out, her warm hand gently cupping your jaw, her thumb tracing your skin just like she had in the April rain. This time, there was no storm, no phone calls, and no relationship boundaries keeping you apart. “The season is over, flower girl. No cameras, no press, no football. Just me. I want to take you out on a proper date. If you’ll have me.”

“I would love to,” you whispered, leaning into the warmth of her hand, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.

Alexia’s eyes darkened with a sudden, deep affection, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your hazel eyes. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting months to do this.”

Slowly, she leaned down, her lips meeting yours in a soft, incredibly sweet, and lingering kiss. It tasted like summer, like a fresh start, and like the perfect culmination of a year spent growing roots in the dark.

[pt11s]

let it be us (let it be home) - chapter 2

Summary: “I’m really good at beginnings. I love the spark of them. And I’m great at endings, because you can polish them until they look beautiful. But the middle… the middle is just hard. I get scared that the boredom means it’s dying, so I try to ruin it just to make it interesting again.”

You’re a writer who treats your own life like a draft you can edit, constantly trying to turn your relationship into a tragedy just so you can be the one to walk away first. But Alexia doesn’t do metaphors. She lives in a world of physical reality. When she’s tired or hurt, she doesn’t run away or wait for a grand speech, she just quietly shows up and does the work anyway. But she gets tired of waiting for you to stop running.

Word count: 4707 A/n: it's not going to be happy for a couple of chapters

The silence of Alexia’s house does not feel like peace, it feels like an absence of friction.

You wake up first at 5:30, before the alarm has a chance to cut through the stillness. The bedroom is vast and cold. The light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls casts long shapr shadows across the minimalist space. There are no loose papers here, there ar no half-finished coffee cups left on the bed side tables, no clothes thrown carelessly over the back of the designer chairs. Everything in this big house has a designated place, a logical purpose, a quiet utility.

Beside you, Alexia shifts.

She turns her head on the pillow, looking at you in the dim light. Her face is pale, the skin beneath her eyes slightly dark from the relentless schedule of the past three weeks. 

“You’re awake,” she murmurs. Her voice is a low, rough rasp, still thick with sleep.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say. You reach out, your fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. The skin is warm, but she doesn’t lean into the touch. She simply tolerates it, her mind already drifting toward the clock on the wall, the morning schedule, the physical reality of the day ahead. “The rain woke me up.”

“It’s heavy,” she says, her gaze shifting to the dark wet garden outside the glass. “The grass will be slick today. We'll have to adjust the studs.”

She is already calculating. She is already on the pitch, measuring the friction of the grass, the speed of the ball, the physical demands that will be placed on her knees. There is no room in her morning for the quiet intimacy you are trying to stretch out between the soft sheets.

“Stay for five minutes,” you whisper, your hand sliding up to her neck, your thumb resting against her pulse. “Just five.”

Alexia looks back at you, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. It is the smile she uses when she is managing someone, a sponsor, a young player, a journalist. It is kind, but it is a boundary.

“I can’t,” she says gently. She reaches up, wrapping her hand ove ryours, and slowly pulling it away from her neck. “If I don’t get to the gym by six-fifteen, I lose my window with the physio before the team meeting. You know how it is.”

“I know,” you say.

But you don’t. Not really. To you, an hour is something to be shaped, a blank page to be filled with mood and subtext. To her, an hour is a unit of preparation, a brick in the wall of her longevity.

She slides out of bed, the cold air rushing into the space she leaves behind. You watch her walk toward the bathroom, her posture straight, her shoulders broad and unyielding. She doesn’t look back. She moves with a focused precision, she know how much energy she has for the day, and she is not going to waste any of it on a dramatic morning scene.

You lie still in the cold bed, listening to the hiss of the shower behind the frosted glass door.

Twenty minutes later, you hear the click of her gear bag in the hallway, the heavy front door opening, and a faint electric whine that disappears into the street, leaving the house to only the steady hum of the underfloor heating.

It is 6:30 now, and the rain has turned into a relentless downpour, beating loudly against the massive glass walls of the house.

You slide out of bed, the chill of the morning instantly finding the gaps in your borrowed oversized shirt. You walk down the quiet hallway toward the kitchen, you bare feet leaving fading prints on the cool floor. Through the glass, the rain slicked garden and the dark water of the swimming pool look like a modernist painting.

On the kitchen island, sitting exactly in the centre of the massive marble slab, is a single white mug. Beside it, the professional espresso machine is clean, its little green light glowing steadily to show it has already been run and wiped down. Resting against the base of the mug is a small piece of white paper.

You pick it up. The writing is clean, efficient: Coffee is hot in the thermal pot. Have a good day. Back at 14:00.

You stare at the paper. It is not a poetic note. It does not contain any whimsical wishes or declarations of love. It is a log, a status update. A piece of administrative data left behind to ensure the smooth operation of your day while she is away executing hers.

You pour the coffee into the mug. It is strong and bitter, exactly how she likes it. You take a sip, but it feels heavy in your throat.

You look around the kitchen. On the kitchen table, your leather-bound notebook sits closed, looking incredibly small and pretentious next to a stack of sports medicine journals and tactical printouts. You walk over and pick it up, flipping through the pages. Your own handwriting stars back at you, loops and slashes of black ink, sentences that trail off into nothing, paragraphs of self-involved prose analysing the way she looked at you over pasta three nights ago.

It looks like the work of a child.

A wave of doubt hits you, so physical and cold it makes your stomach drop. You look at the clean lines of her kitchen, the spotless stainless-steel appliances, the complete lack of clutter. You think of your own apartment, the piles of books on the floor, the dirty plates in the sink, the half-finished drafts of stories you are too terrified to show anyone because you suspect they are empty at their core.

You don’t belong here. You are a messy scribble drawn across the margin of her perfectly printed manual.

‘I am suffocating her,’ you think. The thought arrives as a sudden, brilliant, tragic revelation. ‘She is a machine, she needs order, she needs peace. I am the storm that keeps throwing her off balance. I am the friction.’

It is a beautiful, devastating narrative. It fits together so perfectly in your mind that you can almost hear the melancholy pull of violins playing in the background. You are the tragic, artistic burden. You are the obstacle she has to overcome.

And the only noble thing to do, of course, is to remove yourself.

You set the mug down in the sink. You don’t wash it, you leave it there, a single dirty mark on her perfect kitchen.

You walk back into the bedroom, your heart hammering an erratic beat against your ribs. The panic is a familiar rush now, a sudden surge of adrenaline that makes you feel completely alive after weeks of quiet stagnation. You grab your canvas weekend bag from the closet and begin to pack.

You don’t do it neatly. You throw your sweaters in, still wrinkled, your charger, your toothbrush, the extra pair of boots you left by her door. You want to do this quickly, before the logic of th quiet house can catch up to you, before you have to look at the reality of what you are actually doing.

You are running away.

You walk down the wide hallway, your bag heavy and awkward against your hip. You stop by the front entryway, looking at the security keypad by the heavy wooden door. You set your spare keycard down on the kitchen table, right next to a small silver tray meant for mail.

You look at it for a long second. It looks like a prop. It looks like the final fram eof a scene before the screen fades to black.

You pull your coat on, hoist the strap of your bag over your shoulder, and step out into the cold.

The heavy front door clicks shut behind you, the electronic lock sliding into place with a quiet beep.

You walk down the long driveway, past the neatly trimmed hedges that line the property. The air is freezing, smelling of wet earth and pine. When you reach the tall security gates, they slide open slowly, humming with a low mechanical effort, before letting you out onto the quiet street.

You step onto the asphalt just as the freezing April rain begins to fall harder, the heavy water instantly soaking through the shoulders of your coat. You pull your collar up, tuck your chin into your chest, and start the long, wet walk toward your apartment.

The engine of your car dies with a shudder, leaving only the furious rhythmic rattling of the windshield wipers trying to clear the heavy mist clinging to the pine trees. Outside, the world is wrapped in a damp shroud, the wind sweeping from the jagged peaks of the hills and shaking the car on its worn suspension. It is a bleak inhospitable afternoon, the kind that forces the rest of the city to retreat indoors.

Inside the car, the air is thick with the scent of damp wool and the sharp chemical heat of sports rub.

“Let me see it,” you say softly.

The dashboard clock glows a faint green 20:15. This is the exact time you were supposed to be sitting across from her at a white tablecloth restaurant near the port. It was a reservation she had made three weeks ago, a rare, hard to get table meant to celebrate a quiet anniversary between the two of you. But when you had parked outside the training ground earlier, watching Alexia hobble out of the facility doors, your chest had tightened.

She was carrying her formal garment bag over her shoulder, containing the elegant silk dress she had packed to change into for the restaurant, but sh ewas still wearing her faded club hoodie and a pair of worn-out sneakers. Her face was so pale, her eyes so hollowed out by the grinding pressure of the upcoming matches, that she looked like she could barely stand.

You had met her at the passenger door, taken the heavy garment bag from her hand, and thrown it into the backset. “Dont change,” you had told her, pointing inside the warm car. “Just get in.”

You hadn’t planned the detour three weeks ago when the reservation was made, but you planned it ten minutes before she walked out. You had seen the weather forecast, known the state of her knee, and stopped at a store down the street from the pitch. You bought a cheap unlabeled bottle of red wine, grabbed a sleeve of flimsy cups and threw them next to a faded blanket that had lived in your trunk since last summer. It was a calculated rescue mission, a script you had hastily written in your head while waiting for her to finish physical therapy.

Alexia doesn’t argue now. She is too tired to maintain the captain’s armor. With a heavy sigh, she reaches down and tugs the hem of her sweatpant up over her knee.

The joint is angry. It is swollen, the skin stretched tight and flushed a feverish red over the lateral ligament, a souvenir of four consecutive ninety minute matches on hard dry pitches. To the rest of the world, this knee is a highly valuable piece of club property, analysed by medical staff, and protected by a small army of trainers and physical therapists. But sitting here on the passenger seat of your car, it just looks fragile. It looks human.

You reach into the glove compartment and pull out a squeeze tube of anti-inflammatory gel. You don’t do this because it is dramatic. You do it because the thought of her in pain makes a cold spike of panic drive straight through your chest.

You squeeze a dollop of the cool gel onto your palm, warming it between your hands before you touch her.

The moment your hands make contact with her skin, Alexia’s breath hitches. Her leg flinches, a sharp, involuntary reflex, before she forces her muscles to relax. Her skin is burning hot, a stark contrast to the freezing draft leaking through the car doors. You begin to work the gel into the side of her knee, your fingers moving in slow, gentle circles, tracing the scar from her old surgery.

This is the part of her you love most, though you would never have the courage to write it down. You love her scars, you love the rough texture of her palms, the faint purple bruises on her shins, the way her body bears the literal, physical costs of her ambition. There is no subtext here, there are no metaphors. There is only her flesh, her heat and the quiet pressure of your fingers trying to rub the pain away.

“We’re going to lose the deposit on that table,” she murmurs, her head falling back against the headrest. She keeps her eyes closed, her dark eyelashes casting shadows over her pale cheeks.

“Let them keep it,” you say, your voice dropping into a fierce protective register that surprises even you. “I don’t want to sit in a room full of people staring at you while you pretend your leg doesn’t hurt. You can’t run on a knee that looks like a tomato, Ale.”

“I’ve run on worse,” she whispers, a faint smile playing on her lips, though she doesn’t open her eyes.

“Well, you’re not running today,” you say, pressing your thumb firmly into the tight muscle of her calf, feeling the knot of tension slowly give way under your pressure. “Today, you are off the grid. You are a civilian.”

Alexia lets out a shuddering breath, her entire body sinking deeper into th epassenger seat. For a minute, the only sound is the rain pelting the roof of the car and the soft slick friction of your hands against her skin. She reaches out, her hand finding yours on her knee. Her fingers wrap around your wrist, not to pull you away, but simply to hold you there. Her grip is tight, almost desperate, a silent acknowledgment of how badly she needed to be pulled out of her life, even if only for an hour.

You look at her face, completely unguarded in the dim light of the car, and your heart swells with a love so heavy and real it feels like a stone in your throat. This isn’t a scene you are writing. This is just her, and this is just you, and you would gladly spend the rest of your life in this damp, freezing car if it meant keeping her safe from the world outside.

“Okay,” she says softly, opening her eyes. The exhaustion is still there, but the tight line of her mouth has softened. She looks back at the faded blanket and the cheap ulabeled bottle of red wine you threw into the backseat.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Up,” you say, offering her your hand.

The climb to the ridge is short but brutal, the unpaved path slick with wet clay and loose pine needles. You hold her hand the entire way, her fingers locked in yours, her weight anchoring you as the wind begins to howl through the trees. By the time you reach the summit, the world has opened up.

On the high ridges overlooking the city, the wind is a wild, living thing, howling through the pines and whipping the yellow grass into a frantic dance. Below, the city is a sprawling grid of concrete and glass, hemmed in by the sparkling expanse of the sea, looking small and harmless from this height.

Now, you are sitting on the very edge of a dirt cliffside, the red earth dry and dusty beneath the blanket. 

“This is completely ridiculous,” she says, her voice carrying over the roar of the wind. She is looking down at the plastic cups you brought, and the slightly shaken bottle of wine sitting between you.

“It’s an experience,” you declare, leaning back on one elbow, gesturing expansively with your plastic cup toward the horizon. “Any billionaire can buy a table at the port. But they can’t buy the wind. They can’t buy the absolute, terrifying precarity of drinking five-euro wine on a collapsing cliff side. It’s dramatic. It’s living.”

Alexia watches you, her eyes crinkling at the corners. There is a soft, ungarded warmth in her gaze. She is utterly charmed. You can see it in the way her body leans toward yours, completely ignoring the vast empty space of the drop just feet away. The constant stress of her training, the tactical reviews, the physical therapy, the endless grinding expectation of perfection, seems to have been swept away off the cliff by the wind.

“You are a menace,” she murmurs, but she reaches out, her fingers wrapping around her plastic cup. She takes a sip, wincing slightly at the cheap bite of the wine, before bursting into a loud laugh, that echoes off the rocky hillside.

“it has character,” you defend, nudging her shoulder with yours. “It tastes like adventure, it tastes like we decided to exist today, instead of just following a map.”

“It tastes like vinegar,” she corrects, but she doesn’t set the cup down. Instead, she leans her head against your shoulder, her warm frame pressing against you, shielding you from the worst of the cold gust. She breathes in deeply, the clean air filling her chest. “But it’s quiet up here. No one is asking me anything.”

“That’s because no one else is crazy enough to climb up here in a wind warning,” you say, wrapping your arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Her body is solid, anchoring you to the earth even as the wind tries to lift you off it.

“I like your crazy,” she whispers, her eyes closing as she rests against you. “It’s loud. It has so many colors.”

You look down at her, her face soft and relaxed against your coat, and you feel a sudden urge of pure creative triumph. You did this. You broke through the protective shell of the captain and found the woman beneath it. You wrote this moment of peace for her, paint-brushing the sky with wild wind and cheap wine, and for these few hours, she is yours, completely forgotten by the world below.

The light in your apartment is different from the light in her house. Here, the sun does not flood through floor-to-ceiling glass, it fights it way through narrow, rotting wooden shutters, casting dust bars across your cluttered floor. It smells of old paper, cold coffee, stale tobacco, and the damp, salty air that rises from the narrow stone streets below.

You have been back since nine in the morning, but you have spent the last several hours doing nothing but watching the clock.

Your bag lies half unpacked on the unmade bed, your sweaters and charging cord spilling out onto the rumpled sheets like a physical manifestation of a sudden breakdown. You had walked into your space with your heart hammering, expecting to feel an instant triumphant rush of artistic freedom. You expected the old familiar chaos of your apartment to welcome you back like an old friend. Instead, the smallness of the rooms has spent the last few hours slowly pressing in on you. The pipes groan in the walls, the neighbour three doors down is playing a tinny radio that vibrates through the floorboards.

You find yourself cleaning, you’re not particularly in need of order, but  because the silence is too loud. You scrub a coffee mug that has sat in your sink for three days, you stack three weeks of books into a crooked, unstable tower beside the radiator, you sweep the dust from the entryway, but you only succeed in shifting it from one corner of the warped wood to another.

Every movement is a delay tactic. You are waiting for the clock to hit 14:00.

You know her schedule down to the minute, even when you pretend to ignore it. You know at this very moment, she is sitting in a sterile locker room or a video analysis suite, her leg propped up on an ice machine, her mind completely consumed by tactical diagrams and the heavy expectation of an entire city. And you know that at exactly 14:00, she will drive her car back through the rain, open her heavy wooden front door, and walk into her silent kitchen.

By 13:45, the anticipation has turned into a buzzing anxiety. You sit down at your small wooden desk, your laptop finally open. The cursor blinks steadily against the blank white screen, a tiny pulse of digital light that seems to mock your lack of actual productivity.

You aren’t working on the novel your agent keeps emailing you about. You aren’t writing the essay you promised to finish by the end of the week.

Instead, you are drafting a script.

It is a screenplay, or perhaps a series of fragmented prose poems disguised as drama, you haven’t decided yet. The working title is empty, but the roles are crystal clear, carved out of the raw material of your own deep insecurities. There is The Artist: a sensitive, highly observant soul who lives in the raw, messy truth of the human heart, suffering quietly under the weight of a love that is too vast, too colourful, for the sterile world to hold. And then there is The Athlete: a cold, monumental figure of modern efficiency, a person who schedules her affection in fifteen-minute blocks and leaves notes on marble countertops instead of holding her love in the dark.

Your fingers begin to move across the keyboard, tapping out a frantic, staccato noise that fills the quiet apartment.

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT The Artist stands by the narrow window, watching the rain slick the cobblestones below. The room is silent, save for the ticking of a clock that seems to count down the seconds of a dying season. Artist (softly, without turning): You look at me, but you only see a shadow. You want me to fit inside the margins of your calendar. You want me to be a quiet room you can return to when you are tired of the noise. The Athlete does not look up from her phone. Her face is a professional focus, the light of her screen casting a cold blue glow across her sharp cheekbones. Athlete: I have training at dawn. I don’t have time for the subtext.

You stop typing and lean back, staring at the screen. The dialogue is beautifully tragic. It is sharp, dripping with a quiet, noble suffering. You can feel the satisfying click of the narrative locking into place. It makes sense of the ache in your chest. It turns your frantic messy escape from her house into a necessary, artistic rebellion. You didnt run away because you were terrified of being ordinary, you ran away because you were neglected. You were the tragic colourful muse who simply became too heavy for her perfectly balanced life.

You are editing your life in real time, rewriting the humiliating reality of your panic into a masterpiece of emotional martyrdom.

Then, your eyes fall to the corner of your laptop screen: 14:15.

The silence in your apartment suddenly shifts, growing tight and expectant. The rain outside has slowed to a thin drizzle, the drops pattering softly against the warped glass of your window.

Your phone, sitting exactly next to your laptop, buzzes against the dark wood of the desk.

Your heart does a slow heavy roll in your chest. You don’t pick it up immediately. You let it vibrate, the harsh hum rattling the wood, a physical intrusion into the quiet world you have built.

You look down. The screen lights up with her name.

Alexia (14:18): The key card is on the counter. Where are you?

You don’t answer. You stare at the text, your thumb hovering over the screen, but you lock the phone and set it face down on the desk.

A wave of bitter, satisfying energy surges through you, hot and thick. The silence is a shield, by not replying, you are maintaining the tension of the scene. You are forcing her to wonder, forcing her to feel the empty space you left behind on her perfect marble island. You want her to call. You want her to drive down to your apartment, climb your creaking stairs, and knock on your door with the rain still wet in her hair, demanding to know why you left, begging you to explain the silent storm you carry inside you. You want the confrontation. You want the high stakes, breathless dialogue of a third-act reconciliation.

You turn back to the laptop, your fingers flying across the keys again, adding more lines to the script. You write about the coldness of her kitchen. You write about the silver tray, empty of mail, empty of touch. You translate her worried texts into evidence of her emotional distance, interpreting her brevity not as the frantic worry of a partner who just found an empty house, but as the demanding, controlling impulses of a captain who has lost track of her team.

Your phone buzzes again. Four minutes later.

Alexia (14:22): Are you at your place? Talk to me.

Again, you leave it. You pick up your coffee mug, taking a sip of the cold dregs. You like the bitter taste now, it fits the mood of the room. You write another page. You describe The Artist’s apartment as a sanctuary of raw emotion, a place where things are allowed to break, where things are allowed to be dirty and real, unlike the sterile mansion on the hill.  You are building a monument to your own sensitivity.

But the silence from her end is longer this time. Five minutes pass. Ten. Twelve.

The satisfying rush of drama begins to cool, replaced by a creeping edge of anxiety. You keep looking at your phone, but the screen remains dark. The neighbour’s radio has stopped playing. The only sound is the dripping of the rain from the gutters.

At 14:44, the phone buzzes one last time.

You snatch it up, expecting a missed call, expecting the frantic crescendo of the narrative you have so carefully arranged.

But the text on the screen is not part of your script.

Alexia (14:42): I’m here when you want to talk like adults, but I’m not going to guess why you ran away. Let me know you’re safe.

The words are like a bucket of ice water thrown directly into your face.

The tragic illusion of your screenplay shatters instantly against the flat unyielding pavement of her reality. She isn’t playing the role you wrote for her. She refuses to be the stoic, neglectful villain, just as she refuses to be the desperate lover climbing your stairs in the rain. She is simply Alexia. She is tired, she has just walked into an empty house after hours of grueling training and physical therapy, and she is offering you a direct, adult conversation while you are hiding in your room playing with dolls.

The word adult stings worse than anything. It reduces your grand artistic exit to what it actually was: a temper tantrum. A childish attempt to manufacture drama because you couldn’t handle the quiet domestic safety of her morning routine.

You look from the screen of your phone to the open document on your laptop.

The dialogue you just wrote, the beautiful melancholy exchange between The Artist and The Athlete, suddenly looks incredibly embarrassing. It looks small, petulant and desperately self-indulgent. You have spent the afternoon writing a tragedy about being ignored, while she is sitting at her kitchen table with her knee throbbing, trying to eat a quick solitary lunch before focusing on tactical analysis, her mind split between tactical diagrams and making sure you haven’t died in a ditch.

She didn’t leave you behind. You left her. And you did it because it was easier to write a story about being abandoned than to do the hard, quiet work of staying.

[pt11s]

let it be us (let it be home) - chapter 1

Summary: “I’m really good at beginnings. I love the spark of them. And I’m great at endings, because you can polish them until they look beautiful. But the middle… the middle is just hard. I get scared that the boredom means it’s dying, so I try to ruin it just to make it interesting again.”

You’re a writer who treats your own life like a draft you can edit, constantly trying to turn your relationship into a tragedy just so you can be the one to walk away first. But Alexia doesn’t do metaphors. She lives in a world of physical reality. When she’s tired or hurt, she doesn’t run away or wait for a grand speech, she just quietly shows up and does the work anyway. But she gets tired of waiting for you to stop running.

A/n: heavily inspired by Florence and the Machine's Music by Men. I don't know if I actually like the story or not.

Word count: 4250

You are a published author. You are a writer of drafts. You understand the mechanics of a beginning, the sudden, violent spark of it, the way you can set a page on fire with just a single glance under a streelamp. And you understand endings, because they are neat. You can sweep up the ashes of a tragedy, polish the final sentences until they gleam with a bitter, beautiful symmetry, and walk away clean.

But the middle is where the ink puddles. The middle is just hard.

When the morning light filters through the tall, shuttered windows of your apartment, it doesn’t arrive with a dramatic swell of music. It doesn’t slide across the floorboards like a cinematic spotlight. It just comes in grey and quiet, smelling faintly of the bakery down the street and the damp stone of the alleyway below.

Beside you, Alexia is sleeping.

To look a her in the quiet of a Tuesday morning is to look at something fixed and solid. There are no metaphors in the way she occupies a bed. She lies on her stomach, one arm draped over the edge of the mattress, her shoulder blades rising and falling with a slow heavy rhythm, a tide that comes and goes without needing my permission. Her skin is warm, smelling of your soap she used to wash away the sweat of yesterday’s double training session. There is a faint fading bruise on the side of her calf and the sight of it makes something tight and anxious squeeze behindyour ribs.

You slide out from under the sheets, careful not to let the frame creak.

In the kitchen, the kitchen tiles are cool under your bare feet. You don’t turn on the overhead lights, you prefer the dim, half-shadows of the early morning. You boil water in the copper kettle, watching the steam rise and vanish against the dark tiles. This is the part of the day you like best, the blank page of it.

You pull a small, square slip of heavy paper beneath a stack of unread mail on the counter. It is a habit you started months ago, back when the beginning was still fresh and easy. You uncap your fountain pen and write in your small untidy script: I love you. Come back soon.

You walk into the hallway, where Alexia’s training bag sits zipped and waiting by the door. It is massive thing, smelling of leather, grass and athletic tape. You unzip th eside pocket, slip the note inside beside her shin pads, and zip it shut.

It is a beautiful gesture. You know exactly how it plays out in your head. She will find it in the locker room, her fingers unfolding the paper while the coach shouts instructions in the background. It is a scene from a book.

But as you stand there in the quiet hallway, staring at the black nylon bag, the familiar cold draft of panic creeps in.

You look back toward the bedroom. Alexia is still sleeping. She is thirty-two years old, the captain of her club, a woman whose entire existence is built on a foundation of physical reality, sweat, and relentless daily repetition. She does not live in the subtext. She does not read between the lines. If she is tired, she sleeps, if she is hurt, she ices it.

And you? You are a ghost who lives in her own head, constantly rewriting conversations the two of you haven’t even had yet.

You stare at your hands. You feel a sharp wave of imposter syndrome so heavy it makes your chest ache. What am I doing here? you think. How long until she realizes that I am just a collection of clever phrases and dramatic exits? How long until she gets bored of the quiet?

To a writer, a quiet middle feels like a dead draft. And as you stand there in the grey morning light, the terrifying urge to set something on fire, just to see how beautifully it would burn, flickers to life in your chest.

The floorboards in the hallway are cold beneath your arches as you retreat from her training bag, feeling less like an equal partner and more like athief who has slipped into her life while the guards are down. You return to the kitchen, where the kettle has begun to hiss, a low mechanical whistle that cuts through the sleepy silence of the apartment.

You pour the boiling water over the coffee grounds. You watch them bloom, dark and foaming, breathing in the rich, earthy scent. It is grounding ritual, but your mind refuses to ground itself. Instead, it drifts, pulling you backward into the archive of your own memories, comparing the quiet stillness of this kitchen tot the roaring chaotic nights where you first felt her pull.

You find yourself staring at the empty space at the end of the kitchen table. It is made of thick pale oak, scarred with the faint rings of water glasses and ink stains from your pens.

“You’re awake early.”

The voice is low, raspy with sleep, scraping pleasantly against the quiet of the room.

You turn. Alexia is leaning against the doorframe, her hair a sleep mussed halo of honey-brown, her shoulder draped in an oversized blue sweatshirt that bears the faded Barça crest. She is rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her palm, her movements are slow and free of the performative grace you constantly find yourself projecting onto her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say, your voice automatically adjusting to the soft, hushed register of the morning. “I tried to be quiet.”

“You were,” she says, her voice still rough. She offers a small smile that doesn’t quite open her eyes all the way. “But the bed gets cold when you leave it.”

She walks toward you, her bare feet making no sound on the tile. There is an ease to the way she moves, a physical confidence that comes from knowing exactly where her body begins and ends in space. When she reaches you, she doesn’t make a grand gesture. She simply leans her weight against your side, her shoulder pressing into yours, her warmth immediately cutting through the chill of your bare skin.

She reaches past you to grab a clean cup from the shelf.

“Coffee?” you ask, reaching for the press.

“Please,” she murumers, leaning her chin against your shoulder for a brief second. She breathes in, her chest expanding against your back. “You smell like the rain.”

“It’s damp outside,” you say, looking out the window at the grey cobblestones of the street below. “I think the storm is coming back.”

“Good,” she says, pouring a splash of oat milk into her cup. “We have video analysis this morning. It’s better to be inside when it pours.”

You watch her take her first sip, her eyes closing as the warmth hits her. This is her, this is the woman who stands under the glaring stadium lights, her name chanted by thousands of voices, her face plastered on billboards across the city. Yet, here she is, blinking at the morning light, her thumb tracing hte rim of a chipped mug, completely content with the silence.

She doesn’t need you to entertain her. She doesn’t need you to write a poem about the way the light hits her coffee. She just wants to drink it with you.

“What are you writing today?” she asks, nodding toward the closed leather notebook sitting on the edge of the counter.

Your throat tightens. The question is innocent, a genuine interest in your world, but it feels like a spotlight you don’t want right now.

“Just some ideas,” you lie, your fingers curling inward. “Nothing finished. Just… drafts.”

Alexia looks at you with a steady gaze. There is a quiet intelligence in her eyes that always catches you off guard. People think she is all physical instinct, but they don’t see the way she reads a room, the way she watches the subtle shifts in your posture. She knows you are hiding behind your words.

“Don’t work too hard,” she says softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. Her fingers are warm, the tips slightly rough. “You look like you’re already fighting with the page.”

“I am always fighting with the page,” you whisper.

“Well, she says, offering a soft, parting squeeze to your shoulder as she turns back toward the hallway. “Try to let it win for once. It’s probably easier that way.”

She walks away, leaving you alone in the kitchen once more, the taste of lukewarm coffee on your tongue, staring at the empty space beside you. The draft is still open, the middle has begun, and you have no idea how to write your way out of it.

Under the soaring medieval arches, the light is gold and suffocating, bouncing off the polished marble floors and the heavy, gilded frames of paintings that have watched centuries of Barcelona’s elite pretend to be interested in one another.

It is a gala night, a celebration of victories and silverware, and you are standing at the edge of the room with a glass of champagne you have no intention of drinking. The bubbles rise and pop against the rim of the glass, a tiny, frantic rhythm that matches the thrum of the crowd. Everywhere you look is noise. The clink of crystal, the sharp, rapid fire Catalan of executives, the low hum of laughter, and, above it all, the blinding pop o f the photographers’ flashbulbs near the entrance.

And there she is, the gravity of the room pulling everyone toward her, whether she wants them there or not.

She is wearing a dark, custom tailored suit that hugs the broad, athletic line of her shoulders, her hair is pinned up in a way that exposes the sharp clean line of her jaw. She is playing th e captain. She is smiling the precise, practiced smile she keeps reserved for sponsors and dignitaries, her head tilting politely as a man in a brown three-piece suit gestures expansively with a wine glass. But you know her, you have spent enough time watching her to see the tiny telltale signs of her exhaustion, you see the way her fingers twitch against the seam of her trousers, you see the faint, almost imperceptible tension in her temples every time a camera flashes close to her face. She is a creature of open grass and chilly mornings, in this gilded cage, she is slowly running out of air.

She catches your eye across the crowded floor. It is a fraction of a second, a quiet, desperate SOS sent over a sea of black ties and silk dresses.

You don’t think. You set your champagne glass down on a passing tray. You tap your phone screen, letting a meaningless notification light up, your prop, your evidence, and step into the light.

The man in the brown suit looks at you, his eyes scanning your silk dress with the brief, polite curiosity reserved for unintroduced guests. He doesn’t know your face, but Alexia does. The moment your voice cuts throught heir conversation, her professional posture slips. Just a fraction. It is a quiet melting of her shoulders that only someone who watches her as closely as you do would notice.

“Excuse me,” you say, offering the man a polite, apologetic smile as you briefly gesture with the glowing screen of your phone. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Patricia just messaged me. There’s an urgent call from the press office, and she asked if I could find you.”

It is a flawless performance. You use the press officer’s name because you’ve heard Alexia complain about her scheduling over late-night salmon and rice. The man in the brown suit blinks, assuming you are a mutual friend doing a favor, but Alexia doesn’t hesitate for a second. She knows Patricia hasn’t texted. She knows exactly what you are doing.

“Of course,” she says, her voice steady and professional as she nods to him. “Please excuse me.”

You turn, and she follows. But you don’t lead her toward the press room. Instead you navigate the corridor toward the back of the building where the air grows cooler and the noise of the gala begins to muffle behind heavy oak doors. You find the service exit and push it open.

The shock of the cool night air hits you like a physical hand, instantly washing away the suffocating heat of the hall. It is October, and the Barcelona sky has been threatening to break all evening. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, the first heavy fat drops of the rain begin to fall, dark spots blooming on the dry cobblestones of the alleyway.

“The press officer?” Alexia asks, her voice dropping its public resonance, returning to the low, quiet register you know so well. She is leaning against the wall of the alley, her shoulders dropping three inches as she lets out a long, shuddering breath.

“I lied,” you say, turning to face her. The rain is picking up, a steady whispering hiss that fills the narrow space between the old buildings. “You looked like you were about to drown in there.”

She looks at you, her eyes dark and wide in the dim light of a single iron-bracketed streetlamp. A small genuine laugh huffs from her chest, the sound rich and warm. “Iwas,” she admits. She reaches up, pulling the pins from her hair with a sigh of relief, letting the brunette waves fall around her shoulders. “I really was. Thank you.”

“We should find somewhere to hide,” you say, gesturing to the sky. The rain has turned into a sudden, violent downpour, the kind of autumn storm that cleanses the city in minutes, turning the narrow streets into rushing, slick rivers of water. “Before we’re completely ruined.”

You don’t move though. You want to stay in the downpour, wanting the scene to be saturated and beautiful, the contrast of her dark suit against the wet, ancient stone, the golden reflection of the streetlamps in the puddles. You are already writing the version of this night where you linger until you are both shivering. It is a beautiful scene, and you are afraid that as soon as you step out, the magic will evaporate.

“Wait,” you say, your voice catching. You don’t just want to walk, you want to arrive there. You want the drama of it. “Don’t walk, run.”

Alexia looks at you, surprised, but then she catches the intensity in your eyes. She doesn’t ask why. She just laughs and reaches for your hand.

“Okay,” she says, her grip firm and warm. “Run.”

You bolt, pulling her into the rain.

The water is freezing, soaking through your thin silk dress and her heavy wool jacket in seconds. You laugh, a breathless wild sound that echoes off the stone walls of the narrow streets as your heels scrape slickly against the wet cobblestones. Alexia is running beside you, her long, powerful strides effortless even in her formal shoes, her laughter joining yours, free and unburdened by the weight of expectations or captains’ armbands. For these few blocks, she is not the icon. She is just a girl running through a storm with you.

You turn a corner, sliding slightly on the wet stone, and pull her under the deep arched awning of a small bakery. The air under the alcove smells of cold brick, rain and the faint, sweet ghost of yeast and vanilla from the ovens inside.

You collapse against the dark wooden door of th eshop, gasping for air, your wet hair plastered to your cheeks. Alexia stands right in front of you, just inches away, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her suit is soaked, the dark fabric clinging to her shoulders, and water is dripping from the tips of her hair, running down her neck and disappearing into the collar of her white shirt. She looks so undone, so real. And entirely breathtakingly beautiful.

“You are completely crazy,” she pants, but her lopsided smile is the wides you have ever seen it. She reaches up, wiping a stream of rainwater from her eyes, her gaze locked on yours.

“You’re welcome,” you say, your voice trembling slightly, not from the cold, but from the sheer suffocating weight of the moment. This is it. The perfect light, the perfect shelter, the quiet hum of the rain-washed city surrounding you like a curtain.You are directing this. You are writing the lines before they leave your mouth.

“I love you,” you say.

The words are quiet, but they cut through the sound of the rain with absolute terrifying clarity. You deliver them with the precise, practiced sincerity of a protagonist in a final act, waiting for the perfect beat of silence that follows.

Alexia freezes. The laughter dies in her throat, her eyes searching yours with an intense seriousness that makes your breath catch. For a second, you panic, wondering if you have misread the script, if you have pushed too far, too fast.

But then she steps closer, closing the small distance between you until the heat radiating from her body warms your wet skin. She doesn’t offer a clever reply. She doesn’t say a beautiful, poetic line back to you. She doesn’t have to.

She reaches out, her hand wrapping around the back of your neck, her thumb resting against your jawline. Her touch is heavy. She pulls you to her, her lips meeting yours with a quiet intensity that tastes of rain and salt.

It is not a cinematic kiss. It is clumsy, your teeth clinking slightly in the dark, your wet clothes pressing cold against each other. But her grip on your neck is fierce, anchoring you to the wet stone beneath your feet, pulling you out of your head and into the physical world. She is holding you so tightly you can feel the steady, powerful thud of her heart against your own chest.

When she finally pulls back, barely breaking the contact, her forehead rests against yours. Her breath is warm against your lips.

“I know, she whispers, her voice rough, her eyes closed as she breathes you in. “I love you too.”

And as you stand there in the dark, wet alcove, wrapped in her warmth and her silence, you feel a terrifying thrill. You have written a masterpiece. You have set the page on fire, and you are certain, in this beautiful, wet beginning, that the flame will never go out.

Your closed laptop sits on the pale oak dining table like a heavy black accusation. It has been sitting there in the exact same position for three days, unopened, a monument to the blank pages you are currently failing to fill.

You know that if you do not find a spark of something, some friction, some heat, some sudden jolt of electricity to kickstart your brain, you will not write a single sentence today.

The door to the bedroom creaks open.

Alexia steps into the hallway, but she is no longer the sleep-mussed, soft-eyed girl who leaned her weight against your shoulders ten minutes ago. She is already halfway into her other skin. She wears her dark training tights, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that shaprens the angles of her face, and her training bag is already slung over her shoulder. The transformation is always startling, the way she can tuck her vulnerability away, zipped up and stored somewhere private, the moment the sun begins to rise.

“You’re leaving?” you ask. Your voice sounds smaller than you want it to, flat and dry in the kitchen.

“I have to,” she says, checking her wrist. It is a digital athletic watch, a tool meant for counting seconds, tracking paces and measuring heart rates. “If I don’t leave in five minutes, the traffic will make me late, and Pere doesn’t tolerate late.”

She sets her bag down by the door, the nylon making a dull thud against the wood floorboard. She walks over to the counter, taking a quick sip of her lukewarm coffee. She does it standing up. She is already in motion, her body primed for a day of explosive output, her muscles coiled and ready.

“The rain is starting,” you say, gesturing toward the window. The sky has finally broken, and a steady grey drizzle is beginning to paint the streets in shades of wat slate. “It’s beautiful. We should do something with it.”

Alexia blinks, her mind clearly trying to pull itself out of whatever tactical analysis she is running for the morning. She looks at you, her eyes steady but distant. “With the rain?”

“Let’s drive out to the coast tonight,” you say, stepping closer, wanting to pull her into a script of your own making. You can feel the dialogue building in your throat, smooth and tempting. “We can leave our phones in the glove box. We’ll walk along the beach in the dark and let the storm soak us. No schedules, no captain’s duties. Just us, completely off the grid. Doesn’t that sound like something we used to do?”

It is a beautiful pitch. You deliver it with a slight, playful smile, your voice carrying the soft, romantic cadence of a promise. You are waiting for her to laugh, to lean in, to let the spark catch. You want her to choose the poetry over the prose.

Instead, Alexia sighs. It is not an angry sound, just a heavy release of air that tastes of physical fatigue.

She pulls her phone from her pocket, she unlocks it, taps the screen and turns it toward you.

The screen is dominated by a grid of tightly packed, brightly colored blocks. Her calendar. It is a terrifyingly structured map of her life, divided into neat, unyielding fifteen minute blocks. Blue for training, green for physical therapy, red for sponsor, commitments, yellow for tactical reviews. There are no blank spaces. There is no room for a spontaneous drive to the coast. There is no margin for error.

“I can’t,” she says gently. “I have video analysis and training today. Then I have a media session at three, and after that, I have to meet with the medical staff to check my calf. By the time I get home tonight, it will be nine and I have to be asleep by ten-thirty to do it all over again tomorrow.”

The words are reasonable. They are the logical, professional reality of her life. But to your ears, they sound like a sentence. They sound like the ticking of a clock that is slowly running out of battery.

“It’s just a walk, Ale,” you say, your voice dropping its warmth, turning cool and dry. “Just an hour. You can’t budget an hour for us?”

“I am budgeting an hour,” she says, her eyes locking onto yours with that direct intensity that always makes you feel exposed. She does not look away, nor does she blink. “I am here now, I am having coffee with you. But I cannot change my calendar because you want to go to the beach in a storm.”

The simple logic of her response stings. It cuts right through your artistic sensibilities, reducing your romantic gesture to the status of a childish whim, a distraction to be managed.

“I don’t want to just have coffee like we’re business partners scheduling a meeting,” you say, stepping back, putting a deliberate distance between your body and hers. “I want to feel like we’re alive. I want to feel the heat of things. Before we become… this.”

Alexia looks at you for a long, quiet moment. The rain beats against the glass of the window, the only sound in the sudden tense quiet of the kitchen. She doesn’t get angry, she doesn’t raise her voie. She has spent her entire life under the pressure of packed stadiums and relentless media scrutiny. Your quiet dramatic withdrawal does not shake her.

“This is alive,” she says softly, setting her empty mug down on the counter. “The quiet mornings are alive. The routine is alive. I love you, but I have a job to do. And I need you to let me do it without making me feel guilty for having one.”

She walks toward the door, the movement efficient and practiced as she lifts the heavy training bag and swings it over her shoulder. She stops in the hallway, her hand on the brass doorknob, looking back at you standing alone by the counter.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she says.

She doesn’t wait for your reply. The door clicks shut behind her, the lock sliding into place with a final sound that echoes through the empty apartment.

You are left alone in your kitchen, the grey light of the storm illuminating the empty space she left behind.

You look down at your closed laptop. After a minute, you reach out and open the lid. The screen wakes up, casting a pale, clinical blue light across your face, highlighting the pristine, blinking line of the cursor on the blank white document.

You place your fingers on the keys. You do not type a word. Instead, you press the spacebar, holding it down, watching the cursor slide silently across the empty page, creating a vast hollow expanse of nothing.

[pt11s]

i spent tonight mapping out the outline for a new multi-chapter fic and i've already started writing and i literally cannot stop. it is so past a reasonable bed time. i have a job interview tomorrow. anywayyy it is so angsty. it is not happy. there are no jokes here, only vibes and suffering. but it will have a happy ending probably (i think hehe)

[pt11s]

The Spooning Shift

Summary: “Are you seriously being spooned right now?” For months, Alexia thought the giant teddy bear in their apartment was a parting gift from your ex-girlfriend. She didn’t expect to come home late one night to find it taking her place in bed.

Word count: 1672

A/n: this is really silly

The front door clicked shut. Alexia dropped her heavy team duffel bag by the entryway and stepped out of her sneakers, her muscles aching after a grueling late-night match. After ninety minutes on the pitch and the post-game media circus, she was thoroughly looking forward to crawling into bed and burying her face in her girlfriend’s neck.

Instead, she walked into the bedroom and froze.

Her side of the bed was completely occupied. And not just occupied, but aggressively claimed. The moonlight from the open balcony doors illuminated a ridiculous sight: Nico, the absurdly oversized, suspiciously soft brown teddy bear with the giant, glassy, judging eyes, was lying on his side. One plush, heavy arm was thrown firmly over you, anchoring you against his fuzzy chest. You were dead to the world, completely content, effectively being spooned by a plushie.

Alexia crossed her arms, a bizarre cocktail of exhaustion, amusement, and a completely irrational spike of jealousy washing over her.

She knew the lore. Or, well, she thought she did. You’d admitted you got the bear on Valentine’s Day years ago. You’d blushed, looked away, and mumbled that it was kind of a sad story. Alexia had immediately assumed it was a parting gift from a toxic ex-girlfriend, and you were just too sweet to throw it away. The thought of that phantom ex’s token taking her place in bed made her narrow her eyes.

“Hey,” Alexia whispered, gently poking your shoulder. “Hey, cariño, wake up.”

You blinked open a sleepy eye, shifting slightly. Nicoo’s plush arm shifted with you, maintaining his velvety grip. “Ale? You’re home... what time is it?”

“It’s time for you to explain why I’ve been replaced by a giant plushie,” she said, though a tiny smirk tugged at her lips despite her faux-outrage. “Are you seriously being spooned right now?”

You blinked, fully waking up, and realized the physics of your current situation. Your face flushed a deep crimson. “I... what? No, wait.” You tried to untangle yourself, but Nico was surprisingly unwieldy. “I didn’t set it up like this! I swear I fell asleep with him in my arms. I was hugging him! I don’t know how we rotated!”

“Uh-huh. Sure. He looks very comfortable back there,” Alexia teased, leaning against the doorframe. “Look, I know you have history with... him. But this is getting a little crowded. Did your ex teach him how to spoon, or is this a new habit?”

“My ex?!” You sputtered, finally pushing Nico to the side of the bed, where he sat propped up against the headboard, looking entirely innocent with his big, sweet eyes. “What ex?”

“The girl who bought you the bear? On Valentine’s Day?” Alexia raised an eyebrow. “The one you were too embarrassed to talk about?”

The silence stretched for a moment. You looked at Alexia, then at Nico, and then buried your face in your hands, a muffled groan escaping you.

“Alexia... no ex bought me this bear.”

“They didn’t?”

“No,” you sighed, peeking through your fingers. “I bought him for myself. Six years ago. I was single, incredibly lonely, it was Valentine's night, and the Mercadona had him in the half-price sale right before closing. It was honestly the most pathetic display of self-pity in human history. I bought a tub of ice cream and a big, soft bear just to feel something.”

Alexia blinked. Then, the corners of her mouth twitched. “You... you bought him for yourself?”

“Yes! I was too embarrassed to tell you I bought my own pity-bear!”

A laugh burst out of Alexia, loud and bright, cutting through the quiet night. She climbed into bed, instantly crawling into the warm space you’d just vacated, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you close against her chest.

“Oh my god,” she giggled, kissing your neck. “So I’ve been secretly harboring a grudge against a clearance-rack supermarket bear all this time?”

“He’s very supportive,” you mumbled defensively, though you were already melting into her embrace, pressed against her.

“Clearly,” Alexia smiled, glancing over your shoulder at Nico. She reached out and patted the bear’s fuzzy head. “Alright, Nico. You’re demoted to the armchair. The real girlfriend is taking over spooning duties.”

Alexia didn’t actually just nudge Nico to the armchair, she picked up the massive bear by his stubby arms and dramatically marched him across the bedroom. “Out,” she whispered pseudo-sternly, propping him up on the wicker chair by the balcony door. Nico sat there, slumped slightly to the side, looking like a disappointed club bouncer.

She climbed back into the bed, the mattress shifting under her weight, and immediately sighed with relief as she slid under the cool sheets. Without a word, she opened her arms, and you instinctively slid backward until your back was flush against her chest.

Alexia’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, her fingers intertwining with yours. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo mixed with the lavender fabric softener.

“See?” Alexia murmured, her voice muffled against your skin. “Much better than a stuffed animal. I am warmer, I am softer, and I don’t smell like a supermarket.”

“Nico does not smell like a supermarket,” you mumbled, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips as you squeezed her hand. “He smells like fabric softener and my dignity. Or lack thereof.”

Alexia let out a soft, vibrating chuckle against your shoulder. “I still can’t believe you let me think it was an ex. For six months, I’ve been giving that bear the side-eye. Every time I walked into the room and saw his big, glassy eyes staring at me, I thought: who was she? What did she do to my girl? Why did she leave her a giant bear?”

“You were jealous of a plushie?” you teased, shifting your head to look back at her over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t jealous,” Alexia countered quickly, though the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her. “I was just... highly suspicious of his presence. He takes up half the bed! And then I walk in tonight, and he’s practically holding you hostage.”

“I told you, it was an accident. I must have turned around in my sleep.”

“Sure, cariño. Whatever lets you sleep at night.” Alexia kissed the tip of your ear, her grip tightening affectionately around you. “But honestly, the image of you six years ago, dragging a big, half-price bear through the streets of Barcelona on Valentine's Day... it’s kind of adorable. Pathetic, yes. But adorable.”

“It was very tragic,” you insisted, though you were grinning now. “The cashier looked at me with so much pity. She gave me an extra long receipt just so I’d have something else to hold.”

Alexia burst out laughing again. “Stop, don't make me laugh, I’m trying to be romantic. I am officially reclaiming my territory.”

She shifted closer, draping one of her legs over yours, effectively mimicking the exact spooning position Nico had perfected earlier. Her breath was warm against your neck, and the lingering exhaustion finally seemed to melt away as she settled into the rhythm of your breathing.

“Goodnight, my tragic romantic,” Alexia whispered, her eyes drifting shut.

“Goodnight, Ale,” you murmured, completely warm, safe, and definitely not missing the bear at all.

The next morning, the bedroom was flooded with bright sunlight, and the aroma of coffee was already drifting in from the kitchen.

You blinked awake, feeling the empty, cool space beside you. Alexia was already up. You stretched, throwing on a loose shirt, and padded out down the hallway.

When you walked into the kitchen, you stopped dead in your tracks.

Alexia was leaning against the counter, sipping from a mug. But she wasn’t alone. Propped up in the chair across from her at the table was Nico. Alexia had placed a small saucer in front of him with a single piece of toast, and a tiny espresso cup was balanced precariously between his plush paws.

“Good morning,” Alexia said seamlessly, nodding toward the bear. “We were just discussing the house rules. Nico agrees that from now on, he stays on the floor after midnight.”

You rubbed your eyes, a laugh bubbling up. “Did you seriously carry him all the way into the kitchen?”

“Of course. He’s part of the family now,” Alexia joked, walking over to pour you a cup of coffee. She handed it to you, leaning in to press a warm kiss to your cheek. “Besides, I felt bad for slandering his character for the last six months. He’s actually a very good listener, very polite. Doesn’t interrupt.”

“I’m glad you two are bonding,” you said, taking a grateful sip of the coffee. You walked over to the table and poked Nicos soft belly. “But I think you’re overfeeding him. He doesn’t even have a digestive tract.”

“Nonsense. Look at him, he’s wasting away,” Alexia teased, sitting down next to the bear and leaning her head on his fuzzy shoulder. “And honestly, now that I know his backstory, I feel a kindred spirit. We both appreciate a good half-price bargain.”

“He was highly discounted,” you admitted, sitting across from them. “The best forty euros I ever spent.”

“Forty euros?!” Alexia gasped, feigning absolute horror. “For a bear? Cariño, you really were desperate that night.”

“Hey! It was a very emotional purchase,” you defended yourself, laughing as you took a bite of the leftover toast. “I told you, it was a dark time.”

“Well, the dark times are over,” Alexia smiled, her eyes softening as she reached across the table to squeeze your hand. “You have a real, non-plush girlfriend now. One who actually cooks breakfast. Speaking of which, leave Nico’s toast alone and go look in the kitchen.”

You looked over and saw a fresh plate of pa amb tomàquet and sliced fruit waiting for you.

“See?” Alexia smirked, glancing back at the giant bear. “He could never.”

Across the table, Nico sat perfectly still, his big, glassy eyes seemingly approving of the upgrade.

[pt11s]

FLOWER FIC WAS INCREDIBLE

my thoughts going through:

Love the way you’ve incorporated the teams relationship with the flower shop in the build up!

need reader to meet ingrid asap - they’re besties basically, gossiping by the end

the flirting through the flowers is so cute

accurate of kika and patri to be nosy and involved 😂

A KISS. THEY KISSED

omggg thank you so much for this!! 😭 honestly this comment made my day, you have no idea.

Kika and Patri love being a nosy chaotic duo and YES the vision of reader and Ingrid becoming instant gossiping besties is so real. to be honest, I originally didn't intend for this to be anything more than a one-shot, but now i'm thinking…

Thank you so much for reading and your comment, it means the world! 🫶

[doinggreat]

[pt11s]

patri in amsterdam🥰🥰

[pt11s]

i wish spanish was one of the languages i understood at least a little. now i just catch one word every sentence if im lucky

[pt11s]

it looked like she holding back tears, i just wished i understood what they were saying

[pt11s]

why are they so serious, i don't understand a word