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Aug 4, 2025

pink cheeks. - chapter 9.

masterlist requests word count: 3.6k

a/n: this one is juicy guysss genre: comfort/fluff warnings: none. previous chapters.

Your room was warm in that soft, sleepy morning kind of way - sunlight stretched in narrow slants across the carpet, the air still holding onto the faint smell of the aftershave Ferran always used. Outside your door, the house stirred in quiet patches: the hum of the fridge, a distant door closing, the muted pad of someone’s footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

But none of it touched you here.

Ferran was lying on his back beside you, head half-sunken into your pillow, arm tucked loosely behind his head. His other hand rested on your knee over the duvet, bare fingers brushing over the hem of your pyjama shorts like he wasn’t thinking about it, like he just needed to be touching you. You were curled on your side facing him, cheek balanced on the crook of your elbow, too lazy to shift, too full of something that felt dangerously close to peace.

“I can feel your brain working,” Ferran murmured, eyes closed.

You nudged his ribs with your toes. “Can’t. I’m not even awake.”

“Mm. I think you are.” He cracked one eye open. “You get all quiet when you’re overthinking.”

“I get quiet when you’re hogging the pillow.”

He huffed, smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “It’s your pillow.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re literally on top of the blanket. What do you want from me?”

“More blanket,” you deadpanned.

Ferran let out a soft, dramatic sigh and reached down to shift the duvet, trying to cover you without taking it off himself. It barely moved.

“You’re useless,” you muttered.

“I’m so good to you,” he replied.

You grinned sleepily, hand finding the edge of his shirt and curling your fingers into the cotton. He glanced down at your hand, then back at your face. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to. He was watching you now, really watching, and the quiet between you folded up like a shared secret.

His thumb brushed your knee again, gentle. “I mean it.”

“I know.”

You slid your hand up under the hem of his shirt and rested your palm against his stomach, fingers splayed. His skin was warm.

“I still can’t believe they don’t know,” you said eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

Ferran exhaled through his nose, head tipping sideways to look at you. “We’ve been lucky. But… they’re not stupid.”

“No,” you said, your heart thudding harder. “They’re not.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t say so what now? or when are we telling them? He just let his hand settle more firmly on your knee, grounding you.

You leaned forward a little, brushing your nose against his collarbone, letting yourself breathe in that familiar scent of him - something clean, warm, slightly citrusy. His free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingertips slipping into your hair, just holding you there.

“This is my favourite version of you,” you murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“Like this. No shoes. No cameras. No stadium noise. Just you. In my bed.”

He smiled against your forehead. “You say that like I’m ever different.”

“You’re different when you’re around the others.”

Ferran paused. “Am I?”

“Not in a bad way,” you said quickly. “Just… more careful. Like you’re always keeping something tucked away.”

There was a long moment before he replied. “Maybe I was waiting for somewhere safe to put it.”

You looked up.

His eyes were soft, heavy-lidded with sleep, but full of something much more awake - something raw and sure and stupidly tender. He leaned in, and you met him halfway, mouths brushing softly, just once, like you’d done it a thousand times before and still weren’t sick of it.

When you pulled back, you found yourself smiling again, more to yourself this time.

“What?” Ferran asked, amused.

“I was just thinking,” you said slowly, “how weird it is that I used to imagine kissing you, and now I don’t have to.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “You used to imagine it?”

“Obviously.”

“Since when?”

You pressed your face into his chest. “I’m not answering that.”

He laughed. “Come on. Give me something.”

You peeked up at him. “You first.”

“Alright,” he said easily. “I wanted to kiss you the night you stayed over in Pedri’s room because yours was too cold. You stole all the blankets and snored the entire time.”

“I do not snore.”

“You do,” he insisted. “Soft and pathetic, like a baby animal.”

You shoved him lightly. “You’re disgusting.”

He caught your wrist before you could roll away and pulled you gently back toward him. “You make it so easy.”

You let yourself fold back into his arms, the silence lapping at your ankles like warm water. Outside, the house was still moving, someone coughed, a chair scraped, the jug began to boil, but you felt like you were floating in some kind of bubble. Pressed between Ferran’s chest and your pillow, wrapped in the low, safe rhythm of being loved by him.

His hand trailed lightly down your spine, slow and aimless. “Do you ever think about the baby?”

“Every second.”

He nodded, like that didn’t surprise him. “What do you imagine?”

You hesitated. “Just… us. Sitting right here, and there’s a little person between us. And they’re tiny and asleep and everything still feels this calm.”

“That sounds nice,” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

You turned your face into his t-shirt, muffling your next words. “I think they’re going to love you so much.”

Ferran stilled. You felt the rise and fall of his chest slow under your cheek.

He didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was low. “I’m scared sometimes.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

“But I want it. I want them. I want… this.” His hand curled gently around the curve of your waist. “I want all of it.”

You swallowed against the sudden lump in your throat. “You have it.”

His lips pressed against your hair, a quiet promise.

Ferran hadn’t moved much. Just kept one arm slung low around your waist and the other curled under your head, your legs tangled lazily beneath the sheets. His breathing was soft, steady. Every now and then, you felt his lips brush your forehead, like a thought he couldn’t quite put into words.

You tilted your head back slightly, squinting up at him. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, but he didn’t look away. “I’m just... observing.”

“You’re such a liar,” you said with a smile, nudging your knee against his. “You’ve been staring for like ten minutes.”

He grinned. “Okay, maybe I’m admiring. Is that better?”

“Worse, actually.”

He laughed, quiet and low in his chest, and ducked to kiss your temple. “You’re stuck with me, so.”

You didn’t argue. Just exhaled into the quiet and let your hand slide down, settling on the lower part of your belly. It wasn’t obvious yet - not to anyone else. But to you, it felt like everything was shifting. Like you were holding something, someone, even when you were alone.

Ferran’s hand followed yours without question, slipping over your fingers gently, like he was asking permission without saying a word. He rested his palm there, warm and steady.

“They’re being peaceful today,” he murmured.

You nodded. “I think they like hearing you talk.”

He smiled, and his thumb moved in slow circles across your skin. “Good. Because I’m gonna be the one talking the most.”

“I know,” you said, amused. “You talk more to the bump than you do to me these days.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “I love you both equally.”

“Already?”

He looked down at you, completely sincere. “Yeah. Already.”

You blinked hard a few times and bit your lip. It was stupid how easily he got you emotional lately. He’d barely done anything, just existed near you with that soft voice and big eyes and open heart.

“Do you think…” You paused. “Do you think they can feel it? Like, everything we’re feeling?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I hope not. I’ve been so nervous they’d come out as a little stress ball.”

You smiled faintly. “But they’ll know they’re loved, right?”

“They’ll always know that,” he said, shifting a little until he was hovering above your belly, speaking softly like he always did when he talked to them. “You’re safe. You’ve got the best mum in the whole world. And I promise I’m gonna figure the rest out.”

You turned your face into the pillow and breathed out slowly. That was the part no one else got to see - not Pedri, not Fer, not even your tía. Just this version of Ferran. The one who talked like a whisper and held you like a vow.

He looked up at you again, resting his chin on your stomach. “What do you think they’ll be like?”

You reached down and ran your fingers through his messy hair. “I don’t care. I just hope they’re soft. And kind. And stubborn like you.”

His eyebrows rose. “Like me?”

You laughed. “Yeah. You never give up on anything. That’s a good kind of stubborn.”

Ferran pretended to look smug, but you could see how much the words meant. He leaned up again and kissed you, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world.

“Whatever they turn out like,” he said, brushing his knuckles along your jaw, “they’re gonna be ours. That’s the best part.”

And it really was.

Ferran’s fingers had long since stopped tracing the curves of your shoulder. You weren’t sure when his breathing had evened out again, only that at some point, the light outside shifted and the birds started up, quiet and distant through the slightly cracked window.

You were still tucked into his chest, your legs tangled, your arm pinned between his ribs and the mattress. One of his hands was resting where it always gravitated now, spread protectively over your lower belly. His thumb twitched gently in his sleep, brushing against your shirt.

It was the soft buzz of his phone that made him stir. You felt the tension ripple through his chest before he moved, careful and slow.

He turned his head to kiss your hair. “I need to go,” he whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Mm, okay.”

“I’ll come back after training,” he promised, already shifting. His hand gave your bump a gentle final rub before he slid out from the covers and off the bed. The cold air rushed in to replace him, and you buried yourself deeper into the pillow.

There was the faint sound of him pulling on the hoodie and sweatpants he’d left crumpled on the chair. A zipper. Keys. Then footsteps padded quietly to your bedside again.

He kissed your forehead. “Rest. Eat something, yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” You blinked one eye open, just long enough to see the fond smile on his face.

And then he was gone - door clicking softly behind him, like he’d never been there at all.

You didn’t know how long you stayed curled up under the duvet after that. Time moved funny lately, some parts slow and syrupy, others rushing past so fast they left your head spinning. But eventually, your stomach gave a small, determined growl.

Grumbling, you dragged yourself out of bed and tugged one of Pedri’s old sweatshirts over your head. Your legs were cold against the hardwood floor as you tiptoed to the door and padded down the hall.

The house was quiet - not silent, but familiar. Kitchen drawers opening. The clink of cutlery. The low murmur of the TV in the lounge.

You found Pedri standing at the kitchen island, spoon halfway to his mouth, watching some cartoon rerun on mute.

He looked up. “Morning.”

“Barely.” You yawned, blinking blearily as you made your way toward the fridge.

There was already a plate of toast and cut-up fruit waiting at the end of the counter. You frowned. “Did Fer make this?”

“Nah,” Pedri said, swallowing. “I did. Thought you might be hungry.”

You paused, one hand still on the fridge door.

He didn’t know - couldn’t know. But your heart still tugged in your chest at the gesture.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, and sat.

He handed you a glass of orange juice. “So,” he said, hopping up onto a stool beside you, “you and Ferran seemed pretty close last night.”

You nearly choked on your first bite of toast.

Pedri didn’t seem to notice. He just grinned and went back to his cereal.

You chewed slowly, cautiously. Your heart thudded a little louder as you took another sip of juice. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. Not yet.

But soon.

The couch was sun-warmed and soft under your legs, your laptop balanced comfortably across your thighs. You could hear the distant hum of the washing machine from the laundry, but mostly it was just the familiar clicking of the PlayStation controller and Pedri’s occasional grumbles filling the living room.

“I swear this game’s rigged,” he muttered, leaning forward with full concentration as his player missed yet another sitter.

You didn’t look up from your screen. “You’ve been saying that for, like, three FIFA editions.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You smiled and typed out another sentence of your essay, then paused to reread the paragraph. Your brain was foggy this morning, a combination of poor sleep and the whirlwind of the last few weeks (Ferran likes to call it ‘baby brain’), but the silence between you and Pedri was comfortable. Natural. Like it always was.

“You’re quiet today,” he said after a while, eyes still fixed on the match. “Too quiet. You usually complain when I make you sit through FIFA.”

“Maybe I’m learning to tune you out.”

He snorted. “Unlikely.”

You stretched your legs out and nudged his calf with your foot. “I’m just tired.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

“I did,” you said quickly. “Just... I don’t know. Still feels like I’m catching up.”

Pedri finally glanced at you. “You’ve been a bit off lately.”

You kept your gaze fixed on your laptop. “Yeah, I guess.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded, clicking through to the next match and adjusting the pillow behind him.

You saved your document and closed the lid, resting your laptop on the coffee table. The screen went dark, and suddenly the weight of the room settled differently.

Pedri was focused again, this time playing as Barcelona. You watched him flick the ball across the midfield and mutter something under his breath about Pau being too slow to track back.

“Have you ever thought about quitting?” you asked suddenly.

He paused the game. “What?”

You blinked. “I mean, not seriously. Just like... wondered what life would be if you hadn’t done football.”

Pedri stared at the paused screen. “No. Not really.”

“Not even when things got hard?”

He gave a short laugh. “That’s when you don’t quit.”

You nodded slowly, chewing your bottom lip.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, twisting slightly so he could face you better.

“What’s going on in that big weird head of yours?”

You shrugged. “Just... thinking about what life looks like in a year. Or five.”

Pedri watched you for a moment, then picked up the controller again. “You’ll figure it out,” he said simply, unpausing the match. “You always do.”

His faith in you was annoying sometimes, annoying because it wasn’t blind. He genuinely believed it. Even when you didn’t.

You tucked your feet under you and leaned back into the corner of the couch, resting your chin on your knees as you watched the game play out in silence.

After a minute, Pedri passed to Ferran in-game and scored.

He raised both arms smugly. “¡Golazo!”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, but it doesn’t count if it’s a video game.”

“It counts in my heart.”

You smiled despite yourself.

And when he glanced at you again - still grinning, eyes bright - you felt a quiet weight settle in your chest.

The restaurant was tucked away on a quiet street near the marina, all warm wood and soft lighting, with big windows that framed the evening sky like a painting. It wasn’t fancy enough to feel intimidating, but it was far enough from the usual spots that the chance of being recognised was low.

You and Ferran had arrived early. You were seated at a round table near the back, nestled against a brick wall lined with candles. Your leg bounced under the table, one hand wrapped around your water glass, the other resting on the table while Ferran absently ran his thumb across your knuckles.

“They’re not going to scream, right?” you muttered, not for the first time.

He gave you a gentle look. “No one’s going to scream.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” A pause. “Well, almost positive. Like... eighty percent.”

You groaned.

Ferran leaned in and kissed your temple. “You’ll be fine, cariño. We’ll be fine.”

You didn’t have time to respond - the front door opened, and you both turned your heads just as Pedri stepped inside. Alone.

He spotted the two of you instantly, and his brows lifted as he made his way over.

“I thought it was just going to be us,” he said, sliding into the chair across from Ferran.

You faked a casual shrug. “Ferran invited me last-minute.”

“Right.”

A moment later, Fer walked in - looking distinctly less relaxed. His eyes landed on you before anyone else, then on Ferran, and finally Pedri. His face twisted in confusion.

“Didn’t realise this was a group dinner,” he said slowly, sitting beside his brother.

“Yeah, funny that,” Pedri muttered, glancing sideways at Ferran. “You invite me out, and she invites Fer. Coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Fer said flatly, arms folded across his chest.

You and Ferran exchanged a look.

Then he cleared his throat, gently squeezed your hand under the table, and sat up straighter.

“Okay,” Ferran said. “So... you’re right. It’s not a coincidence.”

Pedri raised a brow. Fer didn’t move.

“We wanted to talk to you both,” you said, nerves swelling in your chest.

Silence.

Pedri leaned forward. “Talk about what?”

You looked at Ferran. He gave you a soft nod, letting you take the lead.

You took a breath, then turned to your cousin first.

“I’m with Ferran.”

Fer blinked. “You’re with him?”

“We’ve been together for a while now,” Ferran added.

“How long is ‘a while’?” Pedri asked, voice guarded.

You hesitated. “A few months.”

Fer’s brow furrowed. “Wait. So the night of your birthday-”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “That was the beginning of it. But it wasn’t planned. We didn’t lie to you. It just... happened.”

Pedri sat back in his chair, processing. Fer’s jaw worked, clearly holding something back. But neither of them said anything, not yet.

You exhaled, heart racing, then met their eyes again.

“There’s more.”

Both sets of eyes snapped to you.

You glanced at Ferran, who reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of glossy paper. He passed it across the table with careful fingers.

Pedri picked it up. Fer leaned in beside him to look.

It was the sonogram.

For a few seconds, neither of them reacted. Just stared at it, silent, as if trying to make sense of the grainy black-and-white image in front of them.

Then Pedri finally spoke. “What is this?”

“It’s ours,” Ferran said softly. “The baby. We just had our first ultrasound.”

Fer’s eyes widened. “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded slowly. “Nine weeks.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and irreversible.

Pedri blinked down at the sonogram again, then lifted his eyes to yours. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Ferran reached for your hand again under the table.

Fer leaned back in his seat, dragging both palms over his face. Pedri looked between you and Ferran like he was still trying to figure out if this was a joke.

“Are you mad?” you asked, voice tight.

Fer dropped his hands. “I don’t even know yet.”

Pedri didn’t answer. His eyes were still on the sonogram.

“I know it’s a lot,” Ferran said carefully. “We weren’t expecting it either. But we’re together. And we’re serious. We just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You could’ve started with not hiding it,” Fer snapped.

You flinched. Ferran’s hand tightened around yours.

“We weren’t trying to lie to you,” you said, a little more firmly now. “We were trying to figure it out. And we wanted to tell you both together. Properly.”

Silence again.

You watched as Pedri finally set the sonogram down, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. His face had softened a little - not angry, not really. Just overwhelmed.

“You really care about her?” he asked Ferran, voice low.

“With everything I’ve got.”

Pedri nodded slowly. “And you’re ready for this?”

Ferran looked at you. “I’ve never been more ready for anything.”

Pedri looked back at the sonogram, then down at the table. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaled through his nose.

“I’m not going to pretend this isn’t insane,” he said after a long moment. “But... it’s not my life. It’s yours. And if you’re both all in, then I’m not going to fight you on it.”

Your chest ached with relief. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

You turned to Fer next, the harder one to read.

His expression was tense, but not unreadable. He was thinking. Processing.

Finally, he sighed.

“I’m going to need some time,” he said. “But I’m not going to blow up your life over this.”

It wasn’t glowing approval, but it wasn’t anger either. And coming from Fer, that was almost a blessing.

You blinked fast, swallowing back emotion, and Ferran’s hand never left yours as the server arrived with menus and water and awkward tension slowly started to thaw.

And maybe the table wasn’t back to normal, not yet. But the truth was out. You weren’t hiding anymore.

And that, at least, was something.

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