Fault Lines
Sequel to Pressure Points
4 + 1 | Alexia Putellas x doctor!reader
You try to keep it casual. Alexia is not conviced and very jealous. 4 times Alexia fell first. 1 time you fell harder.
wc: 9k cw: 18+ mdni, a tiny bit of smut, jealousy, possessive behavior, angst, communication issues a/n: Yes, I wrote another 4+1, same pairing because why not? So this is a sequel to Pressure Points. I recommend reading that one first to get their dynamic. _______
Interlude
You notice her before she notices you. Your body reacts first. It’s annoying.
A small drop in your stomach like you missed a step. Your breath stutters once. Then you force it even again, like you can smooth it out with willpower. You straighten up, your posture tries to go ready.
Your mind catches up a second later, sharp and irritated.
Stop.
She’s talking to one of the assistants in the hallway, head tilted slightly, listening like she’s giving them her full attention.
One hand hooks into the strap of her bag. When she adjusts it, muscle shifts under the fabric. Broad shoulders under the training top. Everything about her is grounded. Not stiff. Just… planted. Ready without advertising it. Like she knows exactly how much space she takes up. Like she’s never had to apologise for it.
You keep walking. Your steps stay even and measured, as if it’s just another corridor and not a place where people clock every tiny change in your pace. Your face stays neutral. Your posture stays steady. You don’t look away, but you don’t give her anything, either.
Then she turns, and for a second she doesn’t recognise you.
It’s small, almost nothing. A pause in her eyes. A fraction of a beat where she’s placing you in her head, filing you into the right category.
Then she does.
And her gaze locks in, sharp and immediate, narrowing, assessing, taking inventory. Focused in a way that feels like pressure.
She dismisses the assistant with a polite nod that leaves no room for argument. The movement is smooth and practiced. Then she’s walking again, closing the distance until she’s beside you.
When she speaks, her voice is low. “We should talk.”
“About your knee?” you ask, not slowing and very aware of the public space around you.
Alexia glances down the corridor. People passing. Doors opening, closing again. “About the other day,” she says.
You look at her then. Brief. Measured.
“About what,” you ask calmly, “exactly?”
She turns her head toward you, sharp at first. Then she huffs out a quiet laugh, the corner of her mouth tipping into something mischievous. She leans in just enough, her voice dropping to your ear. “About how my hand disappeared in your pants,” she murmurs. “About how much you enjoyed it.”
You don’t flinch. “I’m working,” you say, evenly. You keep walking. She falls into step with you.
“You’re very calm about this,” she says.
“I’m drawing a line,” you correct. “That’s different.”
That earns you a rise of her eyebrow. “You weren’t calm in your office the other day,” she says quietly, the smirk back in place.
“You’re very public,” you reply.
“You always hide behind logistics?”
“Only when they’re useful.”
A small group of staff passes you. One of them greets you. You answer automatically, professional, unhurried.
Alexia waits until they’re out of earshot. “So,” she says, lower now, “are we pretending it didn’t happen?”
You don’t rush the answer. “No,” you say. “But we’re also not repeating it in a hallway.”
Her mouth curves, amused. “Pity.”
You stop walking then. You turn toward her, hold her gaze just long enough for the pause to register. “No,“ you say, “just bad timing, Alexia.”
She looks at you. The corner of her mouth twitches.
A voice calls her name from behind. You register it far away.
“I’ll see you,” she says and walks towards the gym.
———————
It settles into a pattern.
Sometimes she finds you.
Late evenings, when the building is almost empty and you’re working late in your office. She knocks once and doesn’t wait, already stepping inside, already moving as if the room belongs to both of you now.
Other times you find her. Bold and without apology.
After training, when everyone’s already left and her hair is still damp from the shower. You learn which doors stay unlocked, which corridors are quieter, which schedules overlap just enough to make it possible without planning.
You see each other again, then again after that. Then again. Not regular, but reliable. Sometimes the distance between those moments is short, sometimes it stretches.
The places change.
The physio room, lights dimmed but still on, the door locked without comment. The paper on the table crumples under your hands. She stands close behind you, close enough that you feel her before she touches you. Her breath is warm at your neck. She presses in slowly, deliberately, making you stay where you are.
The locker room, after the noise has faded and the doors have closed. A faint smell of shampoo and sweat. The room public enough that being caught feels possible. Her body against the wall, breath uneven. Your hand on her mouth, firm, silencing every sound, leaving her whimpering.
The gym, once, on a random Tuesday night. She has training the next morning, just a few hours from now. You come up behind her, unhurried. You meet her eyes in the mirror and don’t look away. Your hands slip between her thighs, your mouth is on her neck.
Sometimes one of you initiates with a look, a pause held just long enough to shift the air. Sometimes with a hand at the wrist, a quiet come here, a door already closing.
Other times it happens without prelude. One moment neutral, the next not. The change immediate and understood.
It fits around training schedules. Travel days. Recovery windows. Work that still gets done. Conversations that still happen in daylight and public spaces without leaving a trace of what follows later.
You don’t talk about it afterward.
Never.
It doesn’t need a name. It has limits.
Doors closed before hands meet. Pauses before glances linger too long. A shared instinct for when to step back.
The next time you see each other, it’s the same as always: professional, focused, aligned.
And so far, that’s been enough.
———————
#1
The new signing arrives on a Tuesday. Carlota Serrano. Forward. Twenty-four. Transfer from Atlético.
You’ve seen her stats, her injury history is mostly clean, nothing that raises flags.
She’s scheduled for her medical at two and arrives five minutes early. You’re already in the exam room when she knocks once and steps inside without waiting for an answer. Confident. Light on her feet. The kind of confidence that doesn’t ask for permission.
“Hola,” she says, already smiling. “You must be Y/N.”
“I am.”
“Carlota.” She crosses the room and extends her hand. Her grip is warm, steady, and she doesn’t let go immediately. “I’ve heard good things.”
“Sit,” you say, gesturing to the exam table.
She does, swinging herself up easily, watching you as she goes. Her training top rides up a little; she doesn’t correct it.
“So,” she says, leaning back on her hands. “Do you always look this serious at work?”
“Only when it matters.”
She laughs. Soft. Easy. “Good answer.”
You step closer. Professional distance. “Arms up.”
She lifts them slowly, deliberately, like she knows exactly where your eyes will go. You place your hands below her shoulders, fingers firm, practiced. “Any tightness here?”
“A little,” she says. Then, after a beat, “But I think you’re fixing it.”
You don’t react. Your hands move lower, checking mobility. Carlota follows your touch instead of holding position on her own.
“You don’t rush,” she says, watching you. “I like that.”
You shift position. “Hamstring history on the right?” “Yes,” she says. “But you should check both.” A smile. Playful. Testing.
She lies back before you ask, one leg extended. You place your hands on her thigh, just above the knee, pressing upward. She exhales. Not sharp, but audible. “That okay?” you ask. “Mhm,” she says. “Feels… thorough.”
Your pressure increases, methodical. “You can go higher,” she adds lightly. “I trust you.” Before you answer, there’s movement outside the room.
A knock, Alexia steps in without waiting for an answer.
She doesn’t look at Carlota. Her eyes go to you first. Then to where your hands rest on Carlota’s thigh. Then back to your face. She needs a moment to collect herself. “I… need tape,” Alexia then says. Her voice is flat. Controlled. “Cabinet’s unlocked,” you reply, not moving your hands.
Alexia crosses to the cabinet. Her movements are deliberate, unhurried. She opens the door, retrieves a roll of tape and turns.
Now she looks at Carlota. “How’s the medical going?” Alexia asks. Carlota grins, unbothered. “Great. She’s very thorough. Great hands,” she smirks. “She is,” Alexia answers flatly.
There’s a pause.
“I should finish this,” you say, finally removing your hands. “We’re almost done.”
Alexia hesitates, then leans against the counter, arms crossed. The tape still in one hand. Watching. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she says like she’s totally unbothered, shaking her head a tiny bit.
You meet her eyes. Brief. Measured. Her jaw is tight. Shoulders rigid. She’s holding herself perfectly still, but you can see the tension coiled beneath the surface.
You turn back to Carlota. “Other leg.” Carlota shifts, extending her left leg now. She’s still smiling, glancing between you and Alexia like she’s trying to solve an equation.
Your hands return to her thigh. Same routine. Same pressure. “Everything feels good,” you say after a moment. “No issues.” “Told you,” Carlota says. “I’m in great shape.”
“Clearly,” Alexia mutters under her breath.
Carlota sits up, swinging her legs off the table. “So I’m cleared?” “You’re cleared,” you confirm. “Perfect.” She grabs her bag. “Thanks. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” She smiles and door closes behind her.
Silence.
You turn toward the sink, washing your hands. The water runs cold, then warm. You don’t look at Alexia. “You need something else?” you ask.
“No.”
You dry your hands. Slowly. Deliberately.
When you finally turn, she’s still there. Still leaning against the counter. The tape forgotten beside her.
“You were flirting with her,” Alexia says. “She was flirting with me,” you correct.
A beat.
“That’s what I said.”
You hold her gaze.
Alexia pushes off the counter. Steps closer. "I watched your hands on her thigh," she says. Her voice is low. Her jaw tightens. "And she was looking at you like—" She stops. Her hand comes up, gestures sharply, then drops. "Like she thought she could have you." The words come out rougher than she meant. She exhales. Hard. Tries to reset. Her hands clench briefly at her sides.
"I need you," her eyes lock on yours. "Now," she says finally.
You look at her properly. At the way she's holding herself too still. At the tension in her shoulders. At the frustration she's barely keeping contained.
Her eyes flicker. You step closer. "Alexia," you say softly.
She meets your eyes again. You can see it: the edge of control fraying.
"Do you want me to lock the door?"
The question settles between you. Her breath catches. Just a little. She swallows. Then her gaze darkens, steadies. “Yes,” she says.
You cross to the door. Turn the lock with a soft click. When you turn back, she’s watching you. Waiting. You walk back to her. Slower this time. Deliberate.
“Tell me what you want,” you say.
She lets out a breath you were not aware she was holding. “I want to touch you.”
“Then touch me.”
She closes the gap instantly. Her hand catches your waist, tight and certain, and she’s kissing you like she’s trying to erase the last ten minutes. Like she’s trying to prove her body is realer than her thoughts.
You kiss her back. Your fingers grip her shirt, keeping her anchored. Or keeping yourself.
Her breath breaks against your mouth.
“Y/N—” she breathes.
“What?”
She presses her forehead to yours for half a second, eyes shut. Then she moves again. Pulling you with her.
She’s turning you toward the exam table. “Here,” she says. “Where she was.” The paper crinkles when your legs hit the edge. The sound is too loud.
Her mouth is back on yours immediately, cutting off whatever you might have said. Her hand slides under your shirt. Warm against your ribs.
You inhale sharply. She pauses. Checks your face like she still remembers you have a choice. You don’t look away. “Don’t stop,” you say.
Something in her expression shifts. Softens. Focuses. Her hand moves lower. Your breath catches again, deeper this time.
Alexia leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Quiet,” she murmurs. “Anyone could walk by.” You nod once.
And then you let yourself go still beneath her hands. Let her set the pace. Let her take the noise out of your body, out of hers, too. One controlled breath at a time. Just certainty. Just her. She holds you like she can’t afford to lose grip.
When it’s over, you’re both pressed close, breathing unevenly. Alexia’s forehead rests against yours.
You don’t touch her first. You let her decide if she stays. She does. For a second longer than necessary.
Then she pulls back, careful again, like she’s rebuilding herself in real time.
“Are you okay?” you ask quietly.
She looks at you, blinking once.
“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
A pause.
“I should—” she starts. Then: “I should go to training.”
———————
#2
The restaurant is warm and softly lit. Someone chose a Spanish place in Gràcia for team night, the kind with exposed brick walls and low ceilings, where the noise stays at a pleasant hum. You’re seated near the middle of a long table, shoulder to shoulder with half the medical staff and a few players who couldn’t find space elsewhere. Plates of patatas bravas and pan con tomate sit half-empty between you.
Across from you, Lucía is laughing. “No, I’m serious,” she says, leaning forward, her eyes bright. “She told me she doesn’t eat carbs after six. I had to explain glycogen windows three times before she even—”
“Let you finish a sentence?” you say.
“Exactly.” Lucia grins. “You get it.”
Lucia is the team nutritionist. Sharp, methodical, someone who approaches food the way you approach injury: data first, intuition second. You’ve worked together for two years now, and the rhythm between you is easy and efficient. She starts a thought, you finish it. You mention a concern, she’s already considered it. It’s the kind of professional synchronicity that makes the work feel less like work.
“Anyway,” Lucia continues, reaching for her glass, “I finally got her to try the adjusted protocol. Guess what happened?” “She felt better.” “She felt amazing.” Lucia shakes her head, laughing again. “And then she asked why I didn’t suggest it sooner.” You smile despite yourself. “Of course she did.” “Right?” Lucia gestures with her drink, almost spilling it. “That’s exactly what you said last week about... what was it, the hamstring thing?” Lucia laughs, loud and unguarded, and you find yourself laughing with her. It’s easy and natural.
Someone else at the table says something you don’t catch. Lucia leans in closer to hear you over the noise. “Wait, what did you say about the potassium levels?” she asks. “I said we should cross-reference with hydration data. You mentioned it last month, remember? The correlation you found—” “—with the cramping patterns, yes.” Her eyes light up. “God, I forgot about that. We should pull those numbers.” “I’ll send you the files tomorrow,” you reply. “You’re the best,” she beams. She lifts her glass toward you. You tap yours against it lightly, the clink soft and clear.
You’re smiling. Relaxed.
Alexia is sitting three seats down, across the table. Quiet. Present but not participating. She has barely touched the water in front of her. Her posture is deceptively casual: one arm is resting on the back of Irene’s chair, the other in her lap. But her jaw is tight. Her eyes are on you. You meet her gaze and hold it for a second. Two. Your stomach twists.
Then Lucia says your name, pulling your attention back. “Sorry, what?” you ask. “I was saying,” Lucia continues, “we should grab lunch next week. Go over the new recovery protocols before we roll them out.” “Sure,” you say. “That works.” “Perfect.” She grins. “I’ll bring my notes. You bring your skepticism.” “Always,” you reply. It comes easily. Lucia laughs again, and this time her hand brushes your arm. Brief. Casual. The kind of touch that means nothing.
You glance back toward Alexia a few moments later. She’s looking at Lucia’s hand. At where it touched your arm. Her hand tightens around her fork. You reach for your water. Take a sip. When you look up again, Alexia is standing. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make excuses. She just pushes away from the table and walks toward the back of the restaurant. You watch her go. The line of her shoulders is rigid. Controlled. But you know that tension. You’ve felt it under your hands, seen it in the set of her spine when she’s holding something back.
Lucia nudges your shoulder. “You okay?” she asks. “Fine,” you say. “You sure? You got quiet.” “Just tired.” She studies you for a moment, then nods. “Fair. It’s been a long week.” “It has,” you sigh.
The conversation around you continues. Lucia rejoins it easily, laughing at something Mapi says from the other side of the table. You stay quiet, eyes drifting toward the back of the restaurant.
Alexia is standing near the restrooms, phone in hand. She’s not looking at it. Just standing there. She doesn’t look at you. Then she walks back to the table. Leans down to say something to Irene. Grabs her jacket from the back of her chair. “I’m heading out,” she says to the table. “Early media thing tomorrow.” A few people nod and wave goodnight.
Her gaze flicks to you once. Brief.
Then she’s gone.
The minutes stretch.
Eventually, people start talking about moving to another place. The group begins to shift, but the energy is winding down. Some are staying, some leaving.
“I think I’m done,” you tell Lucia. “You sure?” “Yeah. Early day tomorrow.” “Alright.” She smiles. “Thanks for the company. This was good.” “It was.”
She squeezes your shoulder, brief and friendly, and you say your goodbyes to the others still at the table.
You grab your jacket and head for the door. Outside, the air is cold. Sharp after the warmth of the restaurant.
The street is quiet. Just a few people passing. You pull your jacket tighter and start walking toward where you parked, down the side street, away from the main road.
The alley between the restaurant and the next building is narrow. Dimly lit.
You’re halfway through when you see her.
Alexia.
Leaning against the brick wall. Arms crossed. Waiting.
You stop. “You left early.“
Alexia’s mouth tightens. “You didn’t.”
She pushes off the wall and steps closer. “I didn’t like watching that,” she says. “The laughing. The way you were so easy with her.” She stops. Shakes her head once. “It’s stupid.”
“It is. Lucia’s my friend.”
“I know that.” Her voice drops. She’s close now. Close enough that you can feel the heat from her body, the tension in how she’s holding herself. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, like she needs to get it out. “I just—” She reaches for you then. Her hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing in just enough to ground herself. She waits half a second, long enough for you to pull away if you want to. You don’t.
She kisses you. There’s urgency in it, a slight clumsiness, like she’s moving faster than she can think. You kiss her back, your hands coming up, gripping her jacket, steadying her. She exhales into your mouth, a rough sound, then breaks the kiss to rest her forehead against yours.
“I don’t want to feel like this,” she says. Quiet. Honest. “Then don’t,” you say. Her laugh is short. Almost bitter. You kiss her hard, to swallow the sound of it.
Your hands fist in her jacket, pulling her closer. You walk her backward until her back hits the wall. Your hands are moving under her jacket, under her shirt. You feel how tense she is. How much she’s holding.
You lift one knee slowly, deliberately, pressing it between her legs. Offering.
Alexia stills. She looks at you, eyes dark and startled, like the choice you just made landed deeper than she expected.
You hold her gaze.
She presses closer then, using the space you’ve given her, the contact grounding her.
She shifts her weight against your thigh, carefully, testing the pressure. Then again. Small movements. Deliberate. Like she’s choosing every inch of it. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t pretend.
Your own breathing changes before you can stop it. Your body reacts to hers, to the way she’s using the contact like an anchor.
Alexia makes a sound against your neck, swallowed immediately, like she refuses to let it become anything bigger than it already is.
You keep your hands on her back. Flat. Steady. She moves again, a little firmer this time, still controlled, still quiet. Then again, firmer. Her breathing grows rougher, until the alley is all breath and fabric and the hard edge of the wall behind you. She presses her forehead to your collarbone, eyes shut now, jaw clenched like she’s riding something sharp and familiar.
You feel her reach the edge of it fast. Too fast for how hard she’s been fighting all night.
A sharp inhale. Her body stills. Then a slow exhale like she’s letting something go that was hurting her to keep inside.
She stays pressed against you. Breathing hard. For a second she doesn’t move at all. Then she pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are dark. Unsteady. Honest in a way she never is in daylight. “You okay?” you ask. “Yes.” A beat. Then her mouth drops to your neck. At first it’s just lips. Searching. Like she’s trying to calm herself there. You tilt your head without thinking. That’s when she loses the edge of it. Her mouth closes over your skin with more pressure than she meant to use. She sucks, hard, instinctive, like she needs the certainty of leaving something behind.
You inhale sharply. Not because it hurts. Because it surprises you. Her body stills immediately. She pulls back just enough to see your face. You’re breathing hard. Still holding onto her. Her gaze drops to your neck.
The mark is already blooming.
Her hand comes up, slower now. Fingers brushing the skin she just marked. Almost surprised at what she did. Careful.
She leans in again and kisses the mark. Soft. Then again. A third time.
Each one lighter. Intentional. Like she’s trying to undo something without words.
Her forehead rests against your temple. She just stays there, holding you, until the tension drains out of her body.
Then she pulls back, just enough to look at you. “You should wear your hair down tomorrow,” she says quietly. She watches you for a long moment, like she’s committing something to memory. Her thumb grazes your lip. Careful, testing.
Then her hand drops away. Steps back. “Be careful,” she says, looking you in the eye. “Of what?” She hesitates. “Of this,” she says. “Of me.”
You hold her gaze for a moment, then she turns and walks away.
———————
#3
The gym smells like rubber and sweat. Mapi is on the mat, one leg extended, the other bent beneath her. You’re kneeling beside her, hands on her hip, guiding her through a controlled rotation. Her flexibility is good but there’s tightness in her lower back that needs attention.
“How’s that?” you ask. “Fine,” she says. “A little tight on the left.” You adjust your grip, applying gentle pressure. “Tell me if it’s too much.” “It’s not.” You’re focused. Present. The work is clean, methodical. Mapi breathes through the stretch, her expression calm.
A voice cuts through the low hum of activity around you.
“Hey.”
You glance up. A man you don’t recognize is standing a few feet away. Tall. Dark hair, pulled back. Training gear that looks too new. He’s smiling, broad, easy, like he’s already decided you’ll smile back.
“I’m Mateo,” he says. “New physio. Started this week.” You nod once. “Y/N.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “Everyone knows.” He chuckles, like it’s a compliment you’re supposed to accept. “They talk about you like you’re a myth.”
You turn back to Mapi, adjusting the angle of her leg. “The miracle worker,” he adds. “That’s the term I heard” You don’t look up. “Keep your leg relaxed,” you say to Mapi.
Mateo laughs again. “See, that’s what I mean. Calm. In control.” He leans slightly to one side, trying to catch your eye. “Very attractive combo.”
Mapi’s eyebrow twitches. You ignore him.
“So,” he continues, undeterred, “how long have you been saving careers around here?”
“Three years,” you answer, clipped.
“Wow.” He whistles softly. “Three years and everyone’s still obsessed. That says a lot.” He lowers his voice. “About you.”
You shift your grip, focused. “That uncomfortable?” you ask Mapi. “No,” she says. “You’re good.”
Mateo grins at that like he’s been included. “See? Trusted. Adored.” He steps closer, enough that he’s fully in your peripheral vision now. “I’m trying to learn how you do it. People skills. Touch.”
You finally look at him. He brightens instantly. “I mean professionally,” he adds quickly, though the grin doesn’t soften. “But still. You’ve got a way.”
“I’m working,” you say.
“Of course,” he replies easily. “But work’s better with the right company, no?” He tilts his head. “We should grab a coffee. Talk shop.”
You open your mouth to answer—
“Mateo.”
The voice cuts in cleanly. You don’t have to look to know who.
Alexia’s walking toward you from the weight area, stride unhurried but direct. Her attention already fixed.
Mateo turns instinctively when she stops just behind him. “Hola, Capitana,” he says, straightening.
Alexia doesn’t return the greeting. Her eyes flick to you first. Quick. Assessing. Then back to him.
“Vicky needs you,” she says. Mateo blinks. “What?” “Vicky,” Alexia repeats, tone unchanged. Calm. Absolute. “By the weights. She asked for you.”
There’s a pause.
Mateo looks past her, like he expects Vicky to wave or call out.
Nothing.
“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Right. Okay.” He hesitates, glancing back at you. “I’ll—uh—catch you later,” he says, still smiling. “About that coffee.”
He winks at you. You don’t respond.
Alexia watches Mateo leave. Her shoulders drop. Just a fraction. Like she’d been bracing without noticing.
She drops into a squat on the other side of Mapi, forearms resting loosely on her knees. Casual, if you don’t look too hard. Like she belongs in this moment as much as she belongs in any training drill.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
Mapi’s eyes flick between the two of you. Once. Then again, slower. “Fine,” she says slowly. “Just tight.”
“You always are,” Alexia replies lightly. Mapi snorts. “Thanks, Capitana.”
You adjust Mapi’s position, hands steady, professional. Your focus stays on the work because it has to. Because it’s the only neutral thing in the room. “You need something, Alexia?” you ask, still looking at Mapi’s hip alignment.
“No,” Alexia says immediately. A beat. “Just checking in.” “On Mapi?” you ask. Her gaze stays on you. “On you.”
You pause. Just a second. You lift your eyes. Alexia’s expression is controlled, but there’s something under it. A watchfulness that isn’t about football.
“I’m fine,” you say, testing. Alexia studies your face like she’s looking for confirmation you didn’t offer. “Okay,” she says quietly.
Mapi shifts under your hands. “Are we done?” she asks, impatient now, like she’s trying to save you all.
“Almost,” you say. “One more set.” You guide her through the final rotation. Mapi complies, breathing steadily, but you can feel the shift.
Alexia doesn’t speak while you work. She watches your hands like she’s trying to understand something that isn’t medical.
“The physio,” she says. “He’s new.“ Like it’s an apology. After a beat: “he talks too much.”
Mapi’s mouth twitches. She covers it by stretching her neck.
You keep your hands steady. “Some people do.”
Alexia hums. “Mm.” Her eyes don’t move away from your hands.
Mapi sits up when you finish, rolling her shoulders with a small groan. “Thanks,” she says. “Ice afterward,” you tell her. “Twenty minutes.” “Sí, doctora.”
She stands, grabs her bottle and takes a deliberately long sip. Her gaze moves to Alexia. Then back to you. There’s a flicker of something there. Curiosity. A question she doesn’t ask. “Thank you, Y/N,“ she says and smiles at you warmly. She turns to Alexia, slow and deliberate. “I’ll see you at training, Capi,“ she says.
Then she leaves.
The gym noise rushes back in around you.
You stand, brush your hands on your thighs. Alexia rises too. You look at her, measuring your next words. “Vicky didn’t need him, did she?” you ask. Alexia’s mouth curves. Barely. “Probably not.” You tilt your head. “So why send him away?”
She doesn’t dodge it. “Because you were working,” Alexia says. Simple.
You blink. Once. “That’s it?”
Alexia’s gaze holds yours. Steady. Direct. “That’s it.”
For a second, it almost disarms you. Almost.
You let the silence hang long enough to make it uncomfortable. Then: “You’re giving him more weight than he has.”
Alexia’s expression doesn’t change. But something in her eyes does. A small release. Like she didn’t realize she was holding tension there.
“Weight,” she repeats.
“Yes,” you say. “He talks. That’s all.”
Her gaze flicks to your hands, still slightly flexed from work. Then back to your face. “And you?” she asks. You step closer. Not into her space. Just enough to make the answer unavoidable. “What about me?” “You didn’t stop him,” she says. Not accusing. Not sharp. Careful. Like she’s asking something she already half regrets asking.
You lift your eyebrows slightly. “Are you serious right now?”
Alexia doesn’t flinch. “I’m observing,” she says. “Not blaming you.”
You hold her gaze. Let her see you decide how much to give. “I didn’t stop him,” you say finally, “because he didn’t register.”
Alexia’s jaw tightens. Just a fraction. “He didn’t register,” she repeats. “No,” you say. “I was working. He was background noise.”
Something quiet shifts in her face. Not relief. Not satisfaction. Something closer to disappointment easing but not disappearing. Her eyes drop for half a second. Then lift again.
“If you want to know something,” you say, “ask me.”
Alexia’s breath stutters. Barely there, but you see it. She hesitates, her eyes flicker
“Are you okay,” she finally asks. It sounds small and unsure. And like she means something different.
You stare at her. Then you nod once. Slow. “I’m fine,” you say. “But don’t manage me.” Alexia’s gaze sharpens. “I wasn’t.” “You were,” you say calmly. “You just did it gently.” She exhales. A small sound through her nose. “You didn’t hate it.”
It’s not a question. It’s her testing the edge.
You step half a pace closer. “Don’t,” you say. “Don’t do that.” Alexia holds still. Watches you. “Do what?” “Try to make me say it’s okay,” you reply. “I don’t need you to protect me from a man who flirts badly.”
Her eyes stay on yours. “And from what, then,” she asks. The question is quiet. Careful. Real. You don’t answer immediately. You could lie. You could keep it clean. But the way she asked makes it hard. So you give her the truth that’s safe to give in a gym full of people.
“I need you to stop checking out every time something gets close,” you say.
“Either step in, or step back.”
Alexia’s throat moves when she swallows. She nods once. “Okay,” she says. “I have training,” she adds, like she has to.
You don’t move out of her way.
“I know.”
For a second, she seems like she expects something else from you.
An answer. An opening. It doesn’t come.
Then she turns and walks toward the weights.
Across the gym, Mapi is still watching.
———————
#4
The room quiets. You’re already on stage. The lectern in front of you, the audience arranged in neat rows beyond the lights. High ceilings. Warm glow. The kind of venue designed to make everything feel important.
You don’t rush the silence. You let it settle. Then you begin. You talk about injury prevention. Load management as lived reality rather than abstract concept. Recovery inside bodies that are pushed, celebrated, scrutinized in ways most people never consider.
Your voice is steady. Clear. You don’t soften the information. Don’t perform. You explain. The room full of experts listens. People lean forward. Movement stills. You catch a quiet laugh at something you said—not planned as humor, but landing that way. The sound ripples through the space, then fades.
Your gaze moves across the audience once. Briefly. Three rows back, off to the side, Alexia sits perfectly still. Arms resting on the chair beside her. Legs crossed. Her attention doesn’t waver.
You look away. Continue.
When you finish, the applause is immediate. Clean. Earned. You nod once, thank them, step away.
The room shifts back into motion, chairs scraping, voices rising, the social current resuming. You’re pulled into a small cluster almost immediately. Polite questions. Professional exchanges. You answer briefly, still half in work mode.
Emma appears at your side without announcement.
“Hey,” she smiles at you brightly.
“Emma!” Familiar. Warm. She closes the distance, pulls you into a quick hug. You return it easily.
When she steps back, she’s still smiling. “You were brilliant up there.”
“You made it,” you say, “I thought you were still in surgery.”
“Of course I did.” She laughs. “You told me you were speaking. And you survived,” she winks at you. “I wasn’t sure if you’d enjoy being on a stage again.” “I don’t,” you say. “I tolerate it.” She smiles at that. “It showed. In a good way.” Her hand touches your arm out of habit.
A server passes. She takes two glasses, hands you one without asking.
She looks good. Rested. Her hair’s shorter than the last time you saw her. There’s a sharpness to her now, the same confidence she always had, but more settled.
“How was London?” you ask.
“Cold. Exhausting. Amazing.” She shakes her head. “But I missed this. Missed Barcelona. So... I’m officially back.”
“Back back?”
“Back back,” she confirms. “London’s done.”
You take a sip. “How long were you there?”
“Two years. Long enough to stop romanticizing it.” She exhales. “Great work. Brutal hours. Zero sunlight.”
“Sounds like London.”
“Exactly.” She glances around the room. Her gaze lingers on something just behind you for a second. “Barcelona feels… familiar. In a good way,” she continues.
“You staying?” “For now.” She smiles. “Clínic offered me a position. Trauma. I said yes before I could overthink it.” “Emma, that’s incredible.” “It’s also terrifying,” she admits. “But yeah. Incredible.”
You’re about to answer when her gaze drifts past you again, a little more to the left this time, stays there for a moment.
“So yeah,” she continues lightly, “new job, old city. Feels strange being back though.” “I get that.”
She hums. Takes another sip. She studies you for a moment. “You look settled.” “Do I?” “Yeah, more than you used to,” she says. “That’s all.” You smile at her and take a sip.
Again her eyes move past you, searching, then settling on something, staying longer this time. “You’re being watched,” Emma says, amused. “Left shoulder. By the tall table, near the back.“
You frown. “What?”
She leans in slightly, still smiling. “Tall. Brunette. Strong arms.” A pause. “Very promising.”
You turn.
Alexia stands near one of the tall tables, mid-conversation with two sponsors. Smiling. Engaged. Effortlessly at ease. Her body is unmistakably angled toward you.
When your eyes meet, she holds it, just long enough, then turns back as if nothing happened. Something in your chest tightens. Sharp and immediate.
You look away, shift your weight, take a sip of wine.
Emma watches it all happen. She’s quiet for a moment. You can see her processing.
“Oh,” she then says quietly. “Oh.” You turn back to her. Shake your head once, dismiss it. “It’s nothing.” She looks at you, eyebrows raised. “Sure,” she says, unconvinced. “That’s why you just stopped breathing.” “I didn’t.” “You did.” She grins, a little too delighted now. “And now you’re pretending you didn’t.” You exhale. “Emma.” She glances back over your shoulder again, eyes bright. Alexias gaze turns back to you. Your jaw tightens. Emma sees it.
Emma turns fully toward you now. “Okay,” she says quietly. “That’s not nothing.” “It’s—” “Don’t,” she cuts in gently. “You don’t flinch like that for ‘nothing.’” You shake your head. “You’re reading into it.” “Am I?” she asks lightly. “Because from where I’m standing, she’s very focused. And you’re very much trying not to be.” She bumps your shoulder, conspiratorial. “Relax. I’m not judging. I’m… intrigued.”
You open your mouth to reply.
Alexia says something that makes the sponsors laugh. She nods and then excuses herself. Emma tracks the movement. Her expression shifts, curiosity giving way to recognition. “Incoming,” she murmurs.
Your stomach tightens.
“Who is she?” Emma asks. You hesitate. “That’s Alexia.” Emma blinks. Then: “…Alexia Putellas?” “Yes.” She lets out a breath that’s half a laugh. Half disbelief. “Right,” she says.
Alexia is stepping closer now. “Does she know I‘m your ex?“ Emma whispers. Before you can answer, Alexia is there.
“Hola,” she says. Her voice is calm, professional. She steps in beside you, close enough that the conversation has to rearrange itself around her.
You turn toward her. “Emma,” you say, “this is Alexia. Barça captain.” Alexia offers her hand, strong, confident. “Alexia Putellas.” Emma takes it. “Emma Reyes. Nice to meet you.” “Likewise.”
A brief pause. Controlled. Polite.
Alexia’s gaze shifts briefly to you, then back to Emma. “You’re a doctor?” she asks. “Surgeon,” Emma corrects. “Trauma. At Hospital Clínic.” “And you know Y/N from…?” “We studied together. Years ago.” Emma’s tone is light. Unbothered. “Kept in touch.”
Alexia nods slowly. Her attention stays on Emma a moment longer. Then turns to you.
“Can I steal you for a moment?” she asks. It’s phrased gently. It isn’t optional.
Emma reads it instantly. “Actually,” she says smoothly, “I should go say hi to a few people before I head out.” She looks at Alexia. “It was nice meeting you.” “You too,” Alexia says. Emma steps back. Catches your eye, a small, knowing smile: “I’ll see you.” “Yeah.” She smiles and steps away.
You turn to Alexia. Her expression is unreadable. “Who was that?” she asks. Her voice is quiet. But there’s an edge to it. “A friend,” you say. “A friend?” “Yes.” Her jaw shifts. Barely. “We’ve known each other a long time.” “How long?” You hesitate. She sees it. “We dated,” you say. “Years ago. It ended. We’re friends now.”
Alexia goes very still.
“Your ex,” she says, almost careful, testing the word. But her body gives her away before her voice does. Her fingers twitch, her shoulders draw back, like she is preparing for impact. She looks at you. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just waiting.
The word sits between you, heavy in a room that suddenly feels too loud, too public, too full of people who don’t belong to it. You feel the wrongness of it settle in your chest, the sense that whatever comes next shouldn’t happen here.
You don’t answer her but step closer and close your hand around her wrist. It’s firm enough to be unmistakable, gentle enough to keep her with you. “Come with me,” you say.
It isn’t an order. But it isn’t a question either.
“What—” “Now.” You don’t wait for her to respond.
You pull her away from the crowd. Out of the main hall. Down the corridor. She follows, whether because you’re pulling her or because she chooses to, you’re not sure.
You pass the restrooms. Keep going. Find the door marked Staff Only. Push it open. Pull her inside. Close the door. Lock it. Turn to face her. The room is dimly lit, it’s too dark to really see her face.
“You didn’t have to pull me out,” she says. Her voice is low. Careful. Like she’s testing the weight of every word before letting it go. “You were losing control,” you answer. Alexia huffs a breath. Not defensive. Almost tired. “No,” she says. “I was trying not to.” You step closer. “Then what was that out there?”
She looks past you for a second. At the door. At nothing. “I don’t know how to stand there,” she says. “And pretend it doesn’t matter.” “What doesn’t?” you ask.
Her jaw tightens. She takes a breath, like she’s choosing carefully. “You,” she says. Then, after a pause, quieter: “The way you were. With Emma.”
You nod once, slow. Processing. “You mean relaxed.” She doesn’t answer right away. “You laughed,” she says instead. “You didn’t watch yourself. You weren’t careful.”
You study her face. The tension she’s holding like muscle memory. The effort it takes for her to say even this much.
“That’s what this is about?” you ask. “Me laughing?”
Her eyes flick back to yours. “No,” she says. “It’s about the part of you that doesn’t brace.”
A beat.
“That part never shows up with me.”
You exhale, irritation tightening in your chest. “That’s not fair,” you say. “You know we don’t do that here. Not at work. Not in public.”
She nods once. Immediate. Like she expected that answer. “I know.”
“And with you,” you continue, calmer now, defaulting to familiar ground, “it’s different anyway. We keep it contained. That’s always been the agreement.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Yes,” she says quietly. “It has.”
You take a step closer, trying to smooth it. Reframe it. Put it back where it’s always lived. “So don’t compare it,” you say. “It’s not the same thing.”
That’s when she goes still. She inhales sharply, closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she nods once, final.
“Okay,” she says. You frown. “Okay?” “Yes.” She exhales slowly. “I didn’t mean—” “I know.” She cuts you off gently. Not defensive. Careful. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
That stops you.
She looks away for a moment, jaw set like she’s choosing each word. “I think I kept mistaking proximity for something else,” she says, “that’s on me.”
You open your mouth. Close it again. She gives a small shrug, almost dismissive of herself.
“Alexia,” you say quietly.
Your hands come up. Hover near her waist.
“I should go,” she says. “What? No—” “I can’t do this.” She moves toward the door. “Not here. Not—” “Alexia, wait—”
But she’s already unlocking it. She pauses with her hand on the handle. Doesn’t look back when she leaves.
———————
+1
The match ends with a clean win. Three-nil. Dominant from start to finish. The kind of performance that makes it look easy even though you know it isn’t.
You’re on the sidelines through all of it. Watching. Monitoring. Ready if needed.
The final whistle blows. The team celebrates. Standard post-match routine begins with hydration checks, initial assessments. You move through it automatically, professional and focused.
Alexia catches your eye once across the pitch. She looks away as if your eyes are burning hers.
Things have felt different since the gala three weeks ago. Since she walked away from that storage room. Since she left you standing there trying to understand what just happened.
You’ve seen her since. Brief exchanges. Professional. Careful.
The team filters toward the tunnel. You’re gathering equipment when you hear voices near the mixed zone.
Media. Post-match interviews.
Alexia is there, standing in front of the cameras. Still in her kit, hair pulled back. Answering questions with that measured precision she has.
The interview ends. The camera light goes off.
The journalist, young, confident, dark hair, says something you can’t hear from this distance.
Alexia laughs. Actually laughs. Your hands still on the medical kit. The journalist touches her own hair, tucks it behind her ear. Nervous. Or calculated. Alexia leans in slightly. Says something back. The journalist smiles. She blinks, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Alexia’s posture is open. Engaged. Not the careful control she holds around you.
You watch her hand come up. Touch the journalist’s forearm. Light. Brief.
Your chest tightens.
This is nothing. Professional friendliness. Post-match pleasantries.
Except.
You know that lean. That smile. The way she tilts her head when she’s interested.
The journalist says something else. Alexia nods. Pulls out her phone. They’re exchanging numbers.
You turn away before you see more. Pack the equipment with hands that aren’t quite steady. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
You don’t have a claim on her. You’ve made that clear. You keep the boundaries, maintain the distance. This is what you wanted.
Except it’s not.
And you hate that you’re only realizing it now, watching her smile at someone else.
You finish packing. Head to your car. Drive home on autopilot.
Once there, you drop your bag by the door. Stand in your kitchen. Stare at nothing.
You should eat. Shower. Sleep.
You can’t stop seeing it: Her hand on that woman’s arm. The ease between them. The way Alexia looked… lighter. Less burdened. Like maybe she’s already moving on from whatever this was between you.
Your hands clench.
This is ridiculous.
You don’t do this. Don’t get jealous. Don’t chase.
You’ve never had to.
But you can’t stop thinking about it. About her. About the way she held you in that alley. The way she kissed the mark on your neck like she was apologizing for something she couldn’t name.
The way she almost said something in the storage room. Then didn’t.
Then left.
You grab your keys. You’re in your car before you’ve decided to be. Driving before you’ve thought it through.
The drive is short. Too short to change your mind. You park outside her building. Sit there for a moment.
This is stupid.
You get out anyway. Take the elevator. Find her door. Knock before you can stop yourself.
Footsteps inside. The door opens.
Alexia stands in the door, completely unguarded. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, slightly wavy. She’s wearing joggers low on her hips, not the ones from her training gear, these ones are softer, worn a hundred times. An oversized shirt, under which you can still see her shape: shoulders, chest, the line of her arms when she shifts her weight.
You notice stupid details. The way her toes curl slightly against the floor. The faint mark on her ankle from tape earlier, the small nick on her hand, already healing, the line of her jaw when she swallows
She catches you looking and tilts her head, watching you with that calm that always gets under your skin.
“Y/N.”
Not a question. Just your name. Surprised.
“Can I come in?” you ask.
She steps back without a word. You walk inside. She closes the door behind you. Her apartment is warm, photos on the wall, a kitchen barely used. The living room holds a sofa that’s low, wide, and unmistakably expensive.
You turn to face her.
She’s already watching you. Careful. Open in a way that irritates you more than distance would.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. The question sounds neutral. It isn’t.
You shrug once. Too sharp to be casual. “I don’t know.”
She watches you for a moment. Like she’s deciding whether to accept that. „You don’t usually come without knowing what you want.“ “Maybe I didn’t plan this one.”
Alexia watches you for a moment. “You’re bad at improvising,” she says with a flat voice.
You huff and turn away, then stop. There’s nowhere to go without leaving. “So—” you challenge. “You going to tell me why you’ve been so distant?”
Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t answer immediately. “I haven’t,” she says finally. You turn back to her. “You have.” She crosses her arms. Defensive now. “I’ve been careful.” “Same thing,” you reply.
A beat.
She shifts her weight. The movement is subtle, but it breaks her stillness. “I thought you liked things uncomplicated,” she says. “That’s rich,” you answer. “Coming from you.” Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “You didn’t seem bothered.” “That’s because I didn’t know I was supposed to be.” You say it sharper than you mean to. That gets her attention. She studies you now. Closer than before, without moving. “And now?” she asks.
You hesitate. Then say it anyway: “Now it feels like you decided something,” you say. “Without me.”
Her eyes flick away. Back. “I didn’t decide anything.” “You changed something.”
Another pause.
She exhales, slow. Measured. “I noticed it was getting… louder,” she says. “Louder?” Your eyebrow ticks up before you stop it. “Yes.”
You wait. She doesn’t elaborate.
“So you stepped back,” you say. She nods. “And you thought I wouldn’t notice.”
A pause.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind.” The words sit wrong in your chest. You let out a short breath. It almost sounds like a laugh. “You don’t get to decide that,” you say.
Her shoulders drop. Just a little.
Silence stretches.
You take a step closer. Testing. “Do you do this often?” you ask. “Pull away when something starts to feel… like more work?” Her gaze sharpens. “Is that what you think this is?” “I don’t know what it is,” you say. “That’s the problem.” She steps closer too. Now the distance between you has narrowed without either of you choosing it. “I didn’t want it to turn into something we’d have to name,” she says. You swallow. “And you thought stepping back would stop that.” “I thought it would slow it down.” “For you,” you say. She doesn’t deny it.
The air between you feels tight now. Unsettled.
“You look annoyed,” she says. “I am.” “Why?” You open your mouth. Close it again. “You don’t look convinced,” you say. “Of what?” “That this didn’t matter.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drops - not away from you, just down, like she’s replaying the moment you mean. When she looks up again, her voice is quieter. “I tried to make it not matter.”
You nod once. Slow. “And?”
Her jaw tightens. She exhales. “I couldn’t.”
The words sit between you. Solid. Unavoidable.
“Then say it,” you challenge. “Say what you wanted to say all these times.“
She shakes her head. Just once. “I can’t.” She swallows hard but doesn’t look away.
“Alexia, I need you to talk to me.“
Her eyes shine. She doesn’t blink.
You swallow, see everything in her eyes and her still holding it back.
You hold out your hand slowly. “Then show me.”
She looks at you for a very long moment. Then she steps forward and takes it.
Her grip is warm. Certain. Her thumb brushes once across your knuckles. She steps close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to hold her gaze.
Her free hand comes up. Slowly. Touches your jaw. Feather-light. Traces down. Along your neck. Your collarbone.
She leans in an kisses you the same way she has touched you. Her breath leaving goosebumps where it lands on your skin. She takes her time, kissing every inch of your face, like it’s the first time.
Her fingers find the collar of your shirt. She looks at you. A question in her eyes. You nod.
Her fingers work the first button. Slow. Deliberate. She holds your gaze. The button opens. She moves to the next one. Your breathing has changed already. Second button. Third. She’s taking her time. Like she has all night. Like there’s nowhere else she needs to be. Fourth button. Your shirt falls open. She doesn’t push it off yet. She lets her fingers trace the skin she’s revealed. Down your sternum. Across your ribs. You shiver. Her eyes track the movement. Then return to your face. Still silent. She slides the shirt off your shoulders. Lets it fall. Her gaze drops. Takes you in. Then back up to your eyes.
Her hand moves to your waist. Finds the button of your pants. Pauses there. You reach down. Cover her hand with yours. Guide her. Together, you undo the button. Lower the zipper. She slides your pants down slowly.
Her eyes travel over you. Slow. Thorough. Like you’re something precious.
Her hand finds yours again. She leads you across the living room to the sofa. For a moment, you’re both just standing there, looking at each other.
“Hi,” she says softly. It’s so simple it makes you laugh. Just a little. “Hi.”
Her hand comes up. Fingers trace your jaw and cheekbones. She leans in. Presses her forehead to yours.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispers. “In my apartment.” “I am. Standing in front of your very expensive sofa,” you smile. Her mouth curves. “It is expensive.” “Mhh, I noticed,” you hum.
You both just breathe for a moment. Then her hand slides to the back of your neck. Gentle. Grounding. She kisses you. Soft at first. Tender. Like she has all the time in the world. You melt into it. Your hands find her waist. She deepens the kiss slowly. Her tongue traces your lower lip. You open for her. The kiss turns heated. But not rushed. Her hands move to your shoulders. Slide down your arms. Back up. Like she’s learning you all over again.
You pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are dark. Soft. “What?” she asks. “Nothing. Just… looking.” She smiles. Really smiles. Then she leans in again. Kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your neck. Soft, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch. “Alexia—” “Shh. Let me.”
She unlocks your bra, lets the straps gently fall off your shoulders. Her eyes travel over you. Taking in what she’s uncovered. Then her mouth is on your collarbone. Your shoulder. The top of your chest. Kissing. Tasting.
Her hands slide up your sides. Warm. Sure. “You’re beautiful,” she breathes.
Then her mouth is on your breast. You gasp. Your hands tangle in her hair.
She takes her time.
“Alexia, please—” “I know. I’ve got you.”
Her hand slides down your stomach. Fingers trace the waistband of your slip.
“Can I?” “Yes.”
She pulls it down. Slowly. Like she’s unwrapping something precious. You’re bare before her. Completely. You feel exposed. Vulnerable. You resist the urge to cover yourself.
“You’re staring,” you say smiling. “I am.” “Alexia—” “I want to remember this,” she says softly. “You. Here. Like this.” Something in your chest tightens. You lean back in. Kiss her deeply.
Then she’s shifting. Guiding you to lie back on the sofa. It’s soft beneath you. Your head falls back. She settles beside you. Half over you.
Her hand traces patterns on your stomach. Your hip. Your thigh. “You’re going slow on purpose,” you say. She looks at you. Her eyes are serious now. “Because I want to do this right,” she says. “I want you to know—” She stops. Swallows. “Know what?” “That this matters. That you matter.” Your breath catches.
She leans down. Kisses you again, softly.
Then her hand finally moves lower.
She’s watching your face. Learning you. Your breath stutters with every move she makes.
When her fingers finally slide inside, you both moan. You reach for her. Pull her down for a kiss. She swallows your sounds as her rhythm builds. “You’re so beautiful like this,” she whispers.
It washes over you. Slow and deep and endless.
She just holds you, watches you come down, waits until your breathing slowly evens out. Her eyes soft. Full of something you’re afraid to name. Then she settles against you. Her weight warm and grounding. You just hold each other for a long moment.
Her hand draws lazy patterns on your skin like she has nowhere else to put it. Like she needs the proof of you under her fingers. She kisses your hair gently, once, twice, the way you’d kiss something you don’t want to startle.
“Stay,” she whispers into your hair.
The word is quiet. But her arm tightens immediately after she says it, like she regrets letting it out.
You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t want to. Because you do. So much that it feels like admitting something you’ve been holding back for far too long. Because you feel how much she means it.
You shift just enough to look at her. Her eyes are open. Watching you. Not demanding, just waiting, like she already expects you to leave and wants to be wrong this time.
You lean in and press your mouth to her temple, slow and deliberate, grounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. Your hand slides up her back as you say it, fingers spreading wider, holding her closer in a way that gives you away. Like you’re anchoring her because you can feel her slipping. Alexia’s breath stutters. Just once. You lift your head just enough to look at her. Close. Too close to lie. “Look at me,” you murmur. She does. Her eyes are dark, searching like she still doesn’t believe she gets to have this without paying for it. You run your thumb along her cheekbone, gentle but certain, and then you lean in and kiss her.
“I want to stay,” you add, quieter. Honest. Bare. Alexia’s arms tighten around you immediately, like her body reacts before her mind can get scared. She holds you like she’s trying to make sure you don’t disappear again.
And you let her. You settle in closer, your knee sliding between hers, your hand splayed firm at her back, anchoring her. She exhales against your neck, slow, like she’s forcing her lungs to work normally again.
For a few seconds, she’s still. Then her fingers curl in your shirt, a small, stubborn grip. Like if she loosens it, you’ll disappear. You brush your thumb once along her spine.
“Hey,” you murmur. She hums, barely there. You tilt your head, lips against her hair again. “You can breathe,” you say softly.
Another long second.
Her shoulders drop a fraction. Not fully. But enough. She stays wrapped around you anyway. As if she’s decided she won’t be embarrassed about needing this. You stay close, breathing each other in like you’re trying to reset.
At some point, she takes a small breath, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to know what this is.”
You lift your head just enough to look at her. You hold her gaze for a moment. You’ve never been more sure about anything in your life.
“This is us, Alexia,” you say, a small smile forming on your lips. “It’s always been us.”
She looks at you, confused—like she’s waiting for you to explain what you mean.
“Just us,” you add, quieter. “And we’ll figure out the rest.” You close your eyes briefly. “No explaining. No pressure. No… performance.”
She looks at you, her shoulders drop a fraction. Something in her face softens.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Just us.”
You lean in and press your mouth to her hairline, lingering.
“And we don’t run,” you murmur. Alexia’s breath catches. She nods once, small and sure. “I won’t,” she says. “Not if you don’t.”
You don’t answer with words.
You pull her closer instead, and she lets herself sink into it.
You don’t move.
Not even a little.
–––––––
a/n: I’m softer with them than I planned to be. Haven’t decided if this is an ending or a pause.
