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if he wanted to, he would.

masterlist requests word count: 7.2k (🫩)

a/n: guys we have a new winner of the longest fic on this blog. i love this one, it's so cutesy! i'm saying this is in celebration of 300 (319 because i may have missed 300 when it actually happened) followers and 5.1k notes in a month! genre: fluffy. warnings: none.

summary: you run into pedri again years after high school, where he used to bring you hot chocolates and offer to carry your bag, and slowly realize he’d been in love with you the whole time. now he’s back in town, showing up to the bookshop every day just to see you, and this time you finally see it too.

You’re half-asleep when he slides into the seat beside you.

First period hasn’t even started yet, the classroom’s still buzzing with sleepy murmurs and backpack zippers, and you’ve got your cheek pressed to the desk with a pen hanging loose between your fingers.

“Morning,” Pedri says, soft but already grinning.

You blink up at him, confused, then sit up quickly and try to hide the pencil smudge on your face. “Did we have homework?”

“No,” he says, laughing a little. “Not for today.”

You sigh and slump back into your chair. “Thank God.”

It’s always like this. Pedri gets there two minutes before the bell, finds your table, and plops down next to you like he’s been doing it forever. Most of the time, he doesn’t say much, just hums along to whatever’s playing through his earbuds or lets his head fall to the desk like he’s more tired than anyone else in the world.

But not today. Today, he’s fidgeting.

You don’t know what it is at first, the way his leg bounces, the way he’s playing with the strings of his hoodie, how he keeps glancing sideways at you like he’s working up to something. You chalk it up to a game day. Las Palmas has a match tonight, you’re pretty sure. You’ve never been, but it’s all anyone talks about when he’s in the starting eleven.

“Are you coming later?” he asks suddenly, like he’s read your mind.

“Huh?”

“The match,” he says, like duh. “We play Unión Viera tonight. It’s at home.”

“Oh,” you say. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying to stay cool about it. “You should come. It might be good.”

“Are you saying that because you think you’re gonna score?”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes and open your notebook. “If I come, I’m bringing a book.”

He leans in closer. “If you come and bring a book, I’ll be offended.”

You don’t reply, just shake your head while trying not to smile, and then class starts and he finally goes quiet beside you.

But that afternoon, he’s waiting for you by the lockers - again.

You’ve barely zipped up your bag before he reaches for it. Just takes the strap right off your shoulder and throws it over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

“Pedri, I can carry my own stuff.”

“I know.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why are you..?”

He grins. “Training.”

“Training for what? The backpack-carrying Olympics?”

“Strength,” he says seriously. “Endurance. Discipline.”

You snort. “You are so annoying.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t mind. “Wanna walk with me?”

You don’t say no. You never do.

It’s not just that Pedri plays for Las Palmas. Everyone knows that. It’s a big deal. People come up to him between classes, asking for updates or tickets or how his training is going. His face is starting to pop up in local papers and matchday posters at the little cafés near school. Teachers talk about him like he’s already gone. But with you, he’s just… Pedri. Still goofy. Still the guy who offered you his last pen in 2nd ESO and called you “the only person in the Canary Islands who reads during lunch.”

“You nervous for tonight?” you ask, just to make conversation.

He shrugs, adjusting your bag on his shoulder. “A little. But it’s not that deep.”

“It kind of is, though,” you point out. “Scouts come to those matches.”

He glances at you, face unreadable. “Yeah. I guess.”

You don’t know what to make of that. There’s something quiet in the way he says it, like he’s already thinking about leaving. About what happens when this year ends and he’s not just Pedri from class anymore.

You slow your pace without realizing. He matches it.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, kicking a rock along the sidewalk. “Do you want notes for bio? I copied all of it during free period.”

“Wait, you took notes?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

You laugh. “Yeah, sure. That’d help.”

He hands you his notebook when you reach your bus stop. You flip it open, eyebrows raised at the messy scribbles.

“Your handwriting is a crime.”

“You’re welcome.”

The bus rolls up before you can say anything else. Pedri hands you your bag like it weighs nothing, and you hesitate for half a second before stepping on.

“Good luck tonight,” you say over your shoulder.

He nods. “See you tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

He grins like you just said yes.

That was the last normal week of school before summer hit - before finals, before graduation, before the real goodbye. You remember Pedri's last day more clearly than you want to admit: everyone signing each other’s shirts and hugging too tightly and promising to stay in touch. You didn’t cry, but you felt it coming the whole day, like a wave threatening to knock you sideways.

And Pedri?

He found you at the end of the day, shirt already covered in signatures, and held out a marker.

“Don’t leave me out.”

You signed his sleeve and watched him try to pretend he wasn’t nervous.

When you handed the pen back, he lingered. Looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.

Instead, he smiled. “I’ll see you, yeah?”

And you just said, “Yeah.”

You didn't.

It's a quiet Monday. The kind where time stretches thin and quiet, sun streaming in through the shop’s front windows, dust drifting in the light. You’re behind the counter, half-focused on the stack of returns you’ve been meaning to sort since Monday. The bell above the door rings, and you glance up without thinking.

Then freeze.

Pedri González walks into the shop like he’s just another customer.

For a moment, your brain doesn’t catch up. He looks the same and not the same - older now, taller, more composed. His hair’s still got that soft curl, and his shoulders are broader beneath a plain white tee. But it’s his face that really stops you: familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop and twist all at once.

He doesn’t see you at first. His eyes scan the displays near the front, casual, unbothered. Just a guy looking for something to read. Until he turns, and his gaze lands on you.

And then?

That smile.

It pulls across his face like it’s automatic - soft and sure and immediate. Like he was hoping it’d be you.

You swallow hard. “...Hi.”

His grin grows. “Wow. Didn’t expect this.”

You blink. “Pedri?”

He gives a little wave, sheepish. “Hey.”

Your chest feels tight. It’s been years, actual years, and somehow your first thought is he hasn’t changed that much. He still carries himself like he’s trying not to be noticed - like he’s always halfway between invisible and unforgettable.

You clear your throat. “What are you doing here?”

He gestures vaguely to the shelves. “Looking for a book. It’s my mamá’s birthday next week.”

Of course. Rosy González. You remember her from the one time she picked him up early from school in her old car and waved through the window with the same exact smile Pedri’s wearing now.

You come out from behind the counter slowly, wiping your palms down the front of your jeans. “Okay. Anything in particular?”

“She likes emotional stuff,” he says. “Romance. The kind that makes you cry.”

You lead him toward the fiction section, still catching up with the fact that this is actually happening. He walks beside you quietly, hands in his pockets, gaze trailing the shelves like he’s reading every title and none of them at once.

“I didn’t know you were back in Tenerife,” you say, carefully casual.

“Just for the summer. A couple weeks off before pre-season starts again.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

There’s a beat of silence. You grab a novel from the “Staff Picks” cart near the romance shelf, something dramatic, lyrical, heavy in that slow-burning way you think his mom would probably love.

“She’s not picky, right?” you ask, handing it to him.

He glances at the cover, then flips it over. “If it has feelings in it, she’s in.”

A small smile creeps onto your face. “Sounds familiar.”

That gets you a glance - quick but sharp. He tucks the book under one arm and leans a little closer, just enough for you to catch the faint smell of his cologne. Something soft. Clean.

“I used to read whatever you had with you,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles, eyes still on the books. “Back in school. You always had something in your bag. I’d look at the title and try to find it later.”

Your mouth goes a little dry.

“I didn’t know that,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You always seemed like you were halfway into another world.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re suddenly seventeen again, sitting on the front steps of the school building while Pedri offers you his hoodie because you forgot yours, watching the sky go pink while he reads the back of your book instead of saying goodbye.

You clear your throat and gesture toward the counter. “Let me ring that up for you.”

He follows you back. His footsteps are easy, steady. Comfortable in that quiet way that hasn’t changed since high school - like he’s always been more grounded than most people ever notice.

At the register, you take the book and scan it. He pulls out his wallet, taps his card, and before the receipt even prints, he says:

“Have you read it?”

You glance up. “Not yet. It’s on my list.”

He takes the receipt and slides the book into the paper bag you offer, then lingers just a little too long.

“Then when I finish it,” he says, “you’ll have to tell me what I missed.”

You try to hide the way your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “Deal.”

He nods once, like it’s settled.

You expect him to turn and leave, but instead, he just stands there for a second. Looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Then he says, “You know… I’m not in a rush. If you’ve got other recommendations.”

You raise a brow. “You want to buy more than one?”

He shrugs. “I trust your taste.”

And just like that, something shifts. Slight but definite.

You hand him another book, one from the stack you’ve been meaning to read for weeks. He doesn’t even check the price. Just adds it to the bag, says thank you, and walks out with a parting glance over his shoulder.

The door swings shut behind him, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

He remembered you.

And he came back.

He comes back the next day.

Same hoodie, different shirt. Hair still a little messy like he just rolled out of bed. He nods at you as he walks in, casual as anything, like this is routine. Like this is where he always starts his mornings.

You look up from the returns cart, caught off guard again, even though you really shouldn’t be.

“Back so soon?” you ask.

Pedri grins. “Told you I’d come give a review.”

You raise a brow. “Already finished it?”

He hesitates for a split second, just enough to give himself away. “Yeah. Last night.”

You don’t call him out on it. Not yet.

Instead, you lean your elbow on the counter. “Alright then, what did you think?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, then scratches the back of his neck. “I liked the writing.”

“The writing.”

“Yeah.”

You stare.

He stares back.

And then you laugh, turning away so he won’t see how smug your smile is. “So you didn’t read it.”

“I skimmed it,” he says, not even pretending to be offended. “I got the vibe.”

“You bought a whole book for ‘the vibe?’”

He shrugs. “Is that not valid?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

Pedri leans on the counter, watching you like you’re the most interesting thing in the building. “You got another one for me, then?”

“You’re gonna waste your whole offseason budget on novels you’re not reading.”

He grins wider. “That’s fine. Worth it.”

You give him something else. Something you haven’t even opened yet. He doesn’t look at the synopsis. Doesn’t even pretend to read the back. He just hands over his card like this is a normal exchange and not a weird kind of tradition you’re both pretending isn’t happening.

He leaves with the book in hand and nothing else.

You watch him walk past the window, down the street, flipping the cover open like he might actually try this time. He probably won’t.

He’s back the next morning.

And the next.

By day five, you’ve stopped asking if he’s read anything. He just walks in, does a little head nod in greeting, and leans on the register like this is his full-time job.

You make fun of him.

He takes it in stride.

Sometimes you talk about other things. The heat. The new windows they’re installing on the second floor. His mamá’s obsession with crime dramas. Your current reading slump. His brother Fer stopping by just to be annoying.

“Fer’s the same,” he says, digging through the candy jar on the counter. “Still makes fun of me for everything. Saw the book on my desk last night and started reading the blurbs in a dramatic voice.”

You laugh. “He would.”

“He asked if I was writing love poems again.”

“Wait- again?”

Pedri goes still for a moment, then gives you a guilty side glance.

You blink. “Hold on. You used to write poems?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s so dramatic of you.”

“I didn’t,” he insists, but he’s smiling, and you can tell he’s lying.

You don’t press it.

You do tease him about it for the next two days.

Each book you hand over is less of a recommendation and more of a challenge. You start stacking the most emotional, dramatic ones you can find. Stuff you know he’s definitely not reading - 600-page generational sagas, postmodern romance with mixed timelines, depressing rural coming-of-age stories with metaphors for the sun.

He buys every single one.

Doesn’t even blink.

You’ve got a growing stack of receipt slips under the register with his name on them. Pedro González López. You don’t point it out, but you start organizing them in a little pile like they mean something. You tell yourself it’s for accounting. That’s a lie.

You catch him loitering more and more, hanging back even after the purchase is done. Watching you reshelve paperbacks like it’s fascinating, offering to help when the delivery boxes come in. One afternoon, he ends up alphabetizing a whole table of historical fiction because he’s “bored.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him.

“I like doing nothing here,” he replies.

It makes your chest weirdly tight.

You’re still not sure what this is. It’s not flirting, not obviously. He hasn’t asked for your number or made any kind of real move. But it’s not casual either. You know the difference between someone being polite and someone showing up every day just to hear you talk.

You know what it looks like when Pedri likes someone.

You just don’t want to assume.

On day ten, he buys a novella that’s barely 100 pages and has a cover so pretentious it makes you laugh out loud when he brings it to the counter.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” you say.

“I’m branching out,” he insists.

“To books you can finish in one train ride.”

He winks. “Exactly.”

You hold the book in your hands, spine resting against your palm, and glance up at him slowly.

“You know you don’t have to keep buying them.”

Pedri’s smile falters. Just slightly.

You wait.

“I know,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

He hesitates - not embarrassed, but thoughtful. Like he’s been holding that answer for a while but wasn’t planning to say it out loud.

Then he shrugs and says, “I like talking to you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest.

And Pedri, as usual, doesn’t press.

He just takes his book and leaves, that same calm grin on his face, like he didn’t just say the most honest thing he’s ever said to you.

The cup is warm when he places it on the counter.

You don’t think much of it at first. Just another morning, another one of Pedri’s quiet little habits. But this time he doesn’t follow it with a book or a dumb comment about how he’s “branching into classics.” He just slides the cup toward you and nods.

“For you.”

You glance at it, then at him. “What is it?”

“Try it.”

You narrow your eyes a little. Suspicious. But you pick it up, peel the lid back slightly, and take a sip.

It stops you in your tracks.

You lower the cup slowly. “No way.”

Pedri says nothing. Just watches you.

You sip again. Slower. Trying to make sure your memory isn’t messing with you.

But it’s exactly the same. You know it instantly. The same hot chocolate you used to drink in homeroom. Smooth, rich, just sweet enough. And then that other part, that quiet little twist of flavor at the end. You never figured out what it was. You’d tried. Went to every café nearby back then. Ordered hot chocolate over and over again and never once found the same taste.

You even gave up eventually. Told yourself you were imagining it.

But now it’s back, sitting in your hands like it never left.

You look up at him. “Where did you get this?”

He shrugs. “Same place.”

You blink. “What place?”

Pedri doesn’t answer.

You frown. “You never told me where it was.”

“You never asked.”

“Yes, I did.”

He gives you a little smile. “You didn’t ask hard enough.”

You stare at him. “Is it close?”

“It’s on the way to the school. Still open.”

You try to think back. That one little street near the bus stop? Or the bakery side street?

“You used to bring this to me all the time,” you say slowly. “Every time it was cold.”

He nods. “Figured you wouldn’t get one yourself.”

“I didn’t even know what it was.”

“You liked it though.”

You pause.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I really did.”

Pedri takes a sip from his own cup. “You used to drink it before saying anything. Every time. Then you’d look at me like you’d just solved the meaning of life.”

You laugh under your breath. “It was good.”

“It still is.”

You study him.

“You never told me what made it taste like that.”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to now?”

“Nope.”

“It’s something weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that weird.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip. The taste hits your tongue again, but you still can’t name it. You just know it tastes like first period on a cold morning. Like plastic chairs and grey uniforms and the soft scrape of notebooks opening beside you. Like him.

You shake your head. “I thought maybe it was the milk. Or cinnamon or something. I even bought hot chocolate mix and tried to make it at home.”

“I know,” he says. “You told me.” But he would never tell you that that ‘twist’ was simply a shot of caramel.

Your smile slips a little. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

He shrugs again, more carefully this time. “I remember a lot of things.”

You look down at the drink. The taste hits again - not just the flavor but everything tied to it. Early mornings. Cold fingers. Him sitting next to you, half-asleep with his hood up, sliding the cup across your desk like it was nothing.

Back then, you didn’t think much of it. You figured he was just nice. Just a friend.

Now?

You’re starting to think you missed something.

You glance back up. “So is this your new thing now? Showing up every day with nostalgia in a cup?”

Pedri raises his eyebrows. “Depends. Is it working?”

You say nothing.

But you take another sip.

He smiles.

He doesn’t bring a book this time.

That’s the first thing you notice.

It’s late morning, sun already warming the floor through the front windows, and you’re flipping through invoices when the bell above the door rings. You glance up out of habit.

Pedri steps inside, same as always - plain white shirt, curls slightly flattened by the wind, sneakers just a little too clean for someone who walks everywhere. But there’s no book in his hand, no paper bag, not even a coffee today.

Just him.

He walks over to the counter slowly. Hands in his pockets. A little quieter than usual.

You smile at him anyway. “No reading material today?”

He shakes his head. “No book.”

You pause, noticing the shift. His tone’s different. Not in a bad way, just… more focused. Like he’s not here to joke around this time.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “So what brings you in?”

He looks at you for a second. Really looks. And then:

“I want to ask you something.”

Your stomach pulls tight.

You lean an elbow on the counter, trying to play it cool. “Alright. Hit me.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding it in.

“Do you want to get coffee? With me.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward - just quiet.

You blink. “Like. As in-”

“As in a date,” he says. Simple. Direct.

Your brain takes a second to catch up. Because even though you knew, even though the books and the hot chocolate and the soft glances all pointed in this direction, hearing it is different. It makes it real. Tangible. Inescapable.

Pedri watches you carefully. He’s not nervous, exactly. But he’s serious. Waiting for an answer like it matters.

Because it does.

You straighten up slightly. “You want to get coffee.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “You don’t even like coffee.”

“I like cafés.”

You squint at him. “You like me.”

A beat.

He smiles. “Yeah.”

You let out a breath, short and soft. Then you shake your head, smiling without meaning to.

“God, I was so oblivious in high school.”

“I noticed.”

“You really brought me drinks before class for months.”

“I remember.”

“And you never said anything.”

“You weren’t ready to hear it.”

You pause again. That one hits.

Pedri just waits. No pressure. No charming line. No performance. Just a quiet ask, out in the open, finally.

And maybe it’s the way the light hits the floor between you. Or the fact that he didn’t bring a book because today wasn’t about pretending. Or maybe it’s the hot chocolate still sitting in your memory like a bookmark.

But you nod.

“Okay.”

His eyebrows lift, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing lightly. “Let’s get coffee.”

Pedri lets out the smallest breath of relief. Then he nods, smiling like something’s finally clicked into place.

“Cool. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow works.”

He taps the counter once with his fingers, like a quiet thank-you, and starts backing toward the door.

“I’ll pick you up,” he adds.

You blink. “You don’t even know where I live.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You still in the same place as school?”

“…Yeah.”

He grins. “I remember.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that.

The bell jingles behind him, and you’re left standing behind the counter, hands warm against the wood, heart a little too loud in your chest.

You think about all the times you missed it. The glances. The drinks. The way he always remembered what you liked without needing reminders.

And now, finally, he’s asked.

And you said yes.

You almost text him to cancel.

Not because you don’t want to go - you do. God, you do. But part of you still can’t quite believe this is happening. Like maybe you imagined the whole thing. The books. The hot chocolate. The quiet way he looked at you yesterday like you already knew how he felt.

You don’t cancel though.

You wait outside your building at 10:58, chewing the inside of your lip, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves. He said “morning” like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wasn’t completely aware that mornings are his thing, his whole memory pressed into that time of day. The way he always used to show up with something warm in his hands, before your first class, before you even knew to look for him.

So when his car pulls up and he leans across the seat to wave, you don’t hesitate.

You climb in, buckle your seatbelt, and say, “Hi.”

He grins at you. “Hi.”

He takes you to a little café by the water. Not the one where he gets the hot chocolate, not a chain, just something in between quiet, local, wood tables and scratched-up floors and a chalkboard menu that’s more vibe than function. It smells like cinnamon and espresso and something buttery coming out of the kitchen.

You find a table in the corner by the window. He lets you sit first.

Neither of you says much at first.

You order something simple - tea, a pastry you can pick at if things get awkward. He orders a drink and then doesn’t touch it for the first ten minutes. You don’t either.

It’s not uncomfortable.

It’s just careful.

There’s something about sitting across from someone who knew you at seventeen. Not just in passing, not as a classmate, but someone who knew your schedule, your moods, the way you used to scribble notes in the margins of your planner with colored pens. You used to sit next to him every weekday morning, completely unaware he was in love with you.

And now you’re here.

You reach for your tea. “So. You want me to pretend this is a normal first date?”

Pedri laughs softly. “Is it not?”

“No. Not even close.”

He raises a brow. “What makes it different?”

“Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

“Surprise me.”

You take a bite of your pastry. “Okay. A) You’ve been stalking my TBR list for two weeks. B) You brought me a drink from some café I couldn’t find for four years. And C) You remembered my old address without asking.”

Pedri sips his drink, clearly unbothered. “None of that’s weird.”

You lean back in your chair. “Okay. So what is weird?”

He looks at you for a moment. Thoughtfully. “We’ve known each other forever. But I feel like this is the first time I’m really getting to talk to you.”

You pause.

He’s not wrong.

It was different back then. You were busy trying to get through school. He was already playing for Las Palmas, already half-out-the-door. You knew he had early training, late matches, extra hours on the pitch that kept him from weekend parties. You never really thought about how tired he must’ve been showing up with that drink in his hand before first period.

You just drank it.

You stir your tea. “Why didn’t you ever say anything back then?”

Pedri rests his arms on the table, his voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

You glance up at him.

“I liked you,” he says. “A lot. But you had no idea. And I think part of me liked it that way. I could just… show up. Be there.”

You exhale, staring at your cup.

“I think I knew,” you admit. “But not really. You know?”

He nods. “Yeah. You didn’t owe me anything.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I kind of hate that I didn’t notice more.”

He smiles gently. “I don’t.”

You meet his eyes.

“If I had said something then,” he adds, “we might’ve dated, yeah. But maybe we would’ve broken up after school, when I moved. Or drifted. Or lost touch.”

You blink. “That’s… optimistic.”

“It’s realistic,” he says. “And I didn’t want to lose you completely.”

You sit with that for a second.

Then you look down at your hands. “So why now?”

Pedri doesn’t look away.

“Because you’re here,” he says. “And I am too. And for once, there’s no reason not to try.”

Your chest tightens.

There’s no pressure in his voice. No panic. Just a quiet steadiness, like this isn’t a line, just a fact. He wants to know you now. On purpose. No more half-hinting. No more warm drinks dropped off like favors.

He wants this.

And suddenly you do too.

You reach for your tea again. “Okay. So now what?”

Pedri tilts his head. “Now we drink. We eat. I try not to do anything embarrassing. You pretend I’m cool.”

You smile. “That sounds fair.”

“And maybe after,” he adds, “we go for a walk. Or talk more. Or make plans again.”

“Like a second date?”

He grins. “Like a second date.”

You look out the window. The sky is clear, and the breeze is moving through the palms across the street. And for the first time in a while, you feel still.

No guessing. No overthinking.

Just here.

With him.

2 years later - in Barcelona.

The light comes in slow.

It creeps through the gaps in the curtains, soft and golden, brushing over the white sheets tangled around your legs. The room is still. Quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t notice until you really stop moving. The kind that makes you stay exactly where you are.

Pedri’s arm is draped across your waist. Warm. Heavy. Familiar.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, slow and even, mouth slightly parted where his face is pressed into your shoulder. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls behind you, bare skin against bare skin, like his whole body is relaxed in that way it only gets when he knows he doesn’t have to be anywhere else.

You shift slightly, just to get a better look at him.

He’s still completely asleep. Eyelashes soft against his cheeks, lips a little chapped from the sun, curls a mess against the pillow. You smile to yourself. Two years in, and he still sleeps like a boy with nothing to prove. Peaceful. Trusting.

You press your nose into the side of his arm, breathing him in. He smells like sleep and sunscreen and that lemony soap you both pretend not to steal from each other in the shower. It’s too early to think about breakfast. Too early to move. You’re not even sure what day it is.

You don’t care.

You just lie there, warm and tucked in beside him, his leg slotted between yours like he’s still making sure you’re close enough, even in his sleep.

This morning isn’t special. There’s no holiday. No plan.

Just him.

Just you.

And the way it all feels so easy now.

You look up at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the city outside the window - faint noise, a car horn, someone laughing on the street - but it feels far away. Like nothing could really touch this.

You glance back at him.

He twitches once, like he’s on the edge of waking up. You press your hand to his chest gently, and he settles again. His skin is warm under your palm, heartbeat slow and steady beneath it.

You let your fingers trace soft circles there, careful not to wake him. Not yet.

You want to stay like this a little longer.

You’re not thinking about how you got here, not replaying old moments or comparing who you used to be. You just feel it. Right now. This morning. This boy. This love.

You turn your head and press the smallest kiss to his shoulder, just a whisper against his skin.

Pedri stirs, but doesn’t wake.

You smile.

And close your eyes again.

Just for a little while.

Just to hold onto this feeling a bit longer.

You must drift for a while, somewhere between asleep and not, because when you open your eyes again, the light has changed. Brighter now, warmer, stretching across the hardwood floors in thick golden lines. The corner of the sheet has slipped off your shoulder, and you shiver just slightly before tucking it back up.

Pedri’s breath stirs at the base of your neck.

You can feel it - the moment he starts waking. It’s subtle. His fingers twitch lightly against your stomach, then settle again. His head shifts, nuzzling closer into the curve of your shoulder blade. He hums softly under his breath, too low for words, more instinct than anything else.

You don’t say anything. You just reach down and brush your fingertips across the back of his hand where it rests on you, slow and soft, until you feel him squeeze gently in response.

“Mmm,” he mumbles.

You smile without turning around. “Good morning.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. Barely there. A habit more than anything. He always does that first, before opening his eyes, before even saying your name. Like his way of checking you’re still real.

“Too early,” he says eventually, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s not,” you say, still smiling. “You’ve already slept in.”

“How much?”

You glance at the clock on the dresser. “Past nine.”

He groans into your back. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Sabes que no me gusta eso,” he mutters. His Spanish comes out more when he’s sleepy, words lazy and unfiltered.

“You love it,” you murmur, shifting slightly so you can roll onto your back. His arm stays wrapped around your waist, and now you’re facing him, his head half-buried in the pillow.

His eyes are still barely open. Warm brown, soft at the corners. Sleepy and familiar.

“You love this,” you add. “Lying in. No alarms. No travel. Just… this.”

He huffs a breath out through his nose, but there’s no argument. He shifts closer instead, tucking his face into the crook of your neck now, hand slipping under the fabric of your shirt to rest against your bare skin.

You let him.

You always do.

He sighs again, this time more content.

It’s been two years, and he still holds you like this every chance he gets. Like he wants to memorize the weight of you against him. Like this is the part of his day that matters most - not the goals, not the interviews, not even the training. Just this. You. Him. Morning light and messy sheets, and no need to speak unless you want to.

You slip your fingers into his hair and gently rake through the curls. They’re soft today, still damp from last night’s shower, flattened weirdly on one side where he slept too hard.

He doesn’t complain.

He just melts.

“Do we have to get up?” he asks eventually, voice muffled against your throat.

“Not yet.”

“How long can we stay like this before it’s irresponsible?”

You smile. “Let’s find out.”

He laughs quietly, breath warm on your skin.

You shift again so you can look at him properly. His face is relaxed, pillow-creased, the last traces of sleep still softening his features. You brush your thumb along his jaw. He catches your hand in his and kisses your knuckles.

“I like waking up next to you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

You don’t answer right away.

You just look at him, really look, and try to wrap your head around how something can feel so normal and so unbelievable at the same time.

Then you say, just as quietly, “I like waking up next to you too.”

Pedri grins. Eyes crinkled, warm and slow. “Yeah?”

You lean in. Press your forehead against his. “Yeah.”

He kisses you then, properly this time. No hesitation. Just the kind of kiss that says good morning and I love you and I don’t care what time it is, as long as you’re right here.

When you pull apart, neither of you says anything for a while.

You just breathe in the same rhythm. Hands tucked against each other. Legs tangled under the covers. The sun pouring in like it was made for this room and this morning and this version of you two.

You close your eyes again.

Not to sleep.

Just to be here.

With him.

You both fall continue resting.

It starts with the smallest shift, his leg sliding against yours under the blanket, a soft groan into the pillow, and then the weight of his arm dragging you closer, like you could somehow still drift away if he doesn’t keep you there.

Then comes the breath.

Long. Deep. The kind that says okay, I’m awake now, but I don’t want to be.

You smile before you even open your eyes.

“You’re awake,” you murmur, voice still raspy with sleep.

Pedri hums, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Barely.”

“You slept in.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You shift slightly so you can see his face. His eyes are still half-closed, lashes tangled, lips puffy with sleep. He looks good like this, warm and soft and completely real.

“Not a bad thing,” you say, brushing a hand through his curls. “Just rare.”

He cracks one eye open. “Means I’m relaxed.”

You kiss his temple. “You’re getting soft.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles into your skin, “I live with someone who tucks me in like a kid and lets me sleep on top of them half the night. What do you expect?”

“Dignity?”

He laughs, low and warm, and then finally pulls back enough to stretch. His arm reaches behind him, and he lets out another long groan, face scrunching up like he’s trying to wrestle the sleep from his bones.

“Hungry?” you ask.

His head flops dramatically back into the pillow. “Starving.”

You smile. “Let’s go then.”

“I don’t wanna get up.”

“Well, if you want breakfast, you have to.”

He groans like a child.

You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder until he finally, finally, gets up. He’s still shirtless, hair a disaster, underwear sitting low on his hips as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and yawns.

You get up too, dragging the sheet with you until you find your sweatshirt from the night before, slipping it over your head. Pedri watches you from the bed, still half-asleep and clearly trying to pretend he’s not checking you out.

“Stop staring,” you say.

“I’m not,” he lies, stretching again. “You just look good in my clothes.”

You ignore him and leave the bedroom barefoot, and he follows a few seconds later, trailing after you like a puppy, yawning every ten steps.

The kitchen’s bright. Morning light bounces off the tiled counters and hits the pale cabinets in a way that makes everything feel cleaner than it is. There’s a mug on the counter from last night, and you shove it aside to make space.

Pedri leans against the fridge, watching you as you rummage through the cupboards.

“Eggs?”

“Sure.”

“Toast?”

“Obviously.”

“Are you gonna help?”

“I’m moral support.”

You throw a kitchen towel at him. “Chop something or I swear.”

He laughs and finally moves, grabbing a cutting board and pulling out the tomatoes. You grab the eggs, crack them into a bowl, and start whisking lazily while he slices - a little too slow, a little too uneven - but you don’t care. It’s not about speed. It’s not even really about food. It’s just this.

Being here.

Doing this.

The eggs go into the pan, and the tomatoes hit the skillet next to them. Pedri stands behind you at one point, arms slipping around your waist while you stir. He rests his chin on your shoulder and just stays there for a minute.

“Smells good,” he says softly.

You glance back at him. “You did nothing.”

“I did emotional labor.”

You laugh and bump him with your hip. He presses a kiss to your jaw and grabs two plates, setting them out on the counter.

When the food’s done, you both sit at the bar stools in front of the window. The city outside is alive now - cars moving, people walking, the occasional bark from a dog passing. But it still feels quiet in here. Like the noise can’t really reach you.

Pedri eats slowly, like he’s in no rush. He reaches out with his foot every so often, nudging yours under the counter just to feel you close.

“You’re domestic now,” you tease.

He chews dramatically. “You love it.”

You smile down at your toast. “Maybe I do.”

He grins. That sleepy, happy, I-know-I-have-you kind of grin. You let the moment stretch between bites, between lazy glances and shared silences that don’t need to be filled.

Two years in.

Still the best part of your day.

Still him.

Still this.

The shower’s already running by the time you step in, steam curling at the edges of the glass. Pedri’s standing under the spray, head tilted back, water streaming through his curls as he blindly reaches for the bottle of shampoo.

You step up behind him and take it from his hand.

“I got it,” you say.

He glances over his shoulder, grinning lazily. “Service with a smile.”

“Shut up and turn around.”

He does. You squeeze shampoo into your palm and reach up, lathering it slowly into his hair, fingers massaging through the soft curls. He hums under his breath, eyes fluttering shut, leaning into your touch without hesitation.

“You’re spoiled,” you mutter.

“Keep doing that and I won’t deny it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you rinse him off, fingers gentle as the water runs clear. He blinks down at you, water dripping from his lashes, lips parted slightly like he’s going to say something - but instead, he just leans forward and kisses the tip of your nose.

“Your turn,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s nudging you to face away.

You hear him pop open your bottle of shampoo - the one he always pretends not to use even though he loves the smell - and then his fingers are in your hair. Careful, thorough, slower than necessary. He takes his time, thumbs pressing little circles into your scalp while you close your eyes and let your shoulders relax.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

“Should’ve gone to cosmetology school.”

You laugh, and he leans in to kiss the back of your shoulder.

Rinsing off turns into another excuse to stay close. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you both stand under the spray, and you lean back into him, warm water running down your skin. Neither of you talks for a bit. There’s no need.

It’s just comfort.

Closeness.

Hands in hair. Skin on skin. Routines turned into rituals without even meaning to.

You turn around, water splashing between you, and kiss him once - slow, wet, and sleepy.

“Best part of the morning,” he mumbles.

You grin. “Told you you’re soft now.”

He shrugs. “Only for you.”

And you believe it. Completely.

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