summary: Alexia Putellas had always been forbidden fruit. She was your father’s closest friend, and the woman who once made it clear she could never see you the way you saw her. You left Barcelona hoping distance would dull your feelings, your craving. But now you’re back and quickly realizing that the desire is still there. Only this time, it feels less like something you’re meant to resist and more like something that’s been waiting to be bitten into.
contains / tags: 18+ mdni, smut, explicit content, older!Alexia, dadsBFF!Alexia, younger!reader, footballplayer!reader, cunnilingus A!receiving, fingering A!receiving, making out, foul and inappropriate language, age gap, shared history, implied consent given, longterm pining and yearning, usage of yn and petnames (princess, princesa) | wc: 7k
DISCLAIMER: This fic contains an age gap of 8 years (present time reader is 24, Alexia is 32) and explores a dynamic of a shared history that not all readers may be comfortable with. There is also some foul language in the fic that references their relationship dynamic. I didn’t want to just leave a “DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT” type of warning. Hence, why I am including this disclaimer just to be safe. I believe I handled the topic with as much caution and tact as there can be when it comes to smut but if you feel that the age gap and history is something you would dislike or feel iffy reading about, do not read.
⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia has not left your mind ever since you met her.
She managed to consistently occupy a disproportionate amount of your brain for years. Even when you tried to get away from her.
You spent six years in Manchester, tried to get as far as you could at that age from Barcelona; you dated all kinds of women in the hopes that one of them would stick and yet, she was still the one who constantly occupied your mind.
Trying to forget about Alexia Putellas was impossible but seeing her again seemed even harder than you anticipated.
You bit your lip as you lingered in your childhood living room, just having arrived back from a small welcome drink with old friends, now returning to your welcome home party at your dad's house.
You watched her standing out there — beer in hand, talking to Patri about something, throwing her head back to laugh. She looked so familiar and yet so different. The once lankier build you were so familiar with was now firm and strong, her hair back to its natural brown, framing her face. She looked so good and every part of you couldn't stand it.
"You good, princesa?" Your dad appeared at your shoulder, reading your face in the infuriating way that fathers do. "Go on outside. Everyone's waiting to see you."
“Yeah, soon, Papà.” You hummed and gave him a small smile. "I was just, uh, reminiscing."
He laughed, a confused look on his face. "Well, you can reminisce outside." He nudged you. "C'mon. Alexia's been asking about you nonstop."
You said nothing, just nodded. "I'll follow you out. Just gotta change first."
"Okay, but don't make them wait too long," he said, already heading outside, already walking toward Alexia and her group. You stayed where you were for another moment, taking a deep sigh before heading to your bedroom to change.
⋆˙⟡♡ Your dad had you when he was young; he was only seventeen, barely settled into his own life, scrambling to figure out single fatherhood. Even if it was hard, he made it work but that meant giving up a lot.
Before he had you, he had been training with the Barcelona B team, trying to make something of himself, but after you were born and one tragically timed ACL injury later, he accepted that his dreams as a footballer were done. The world of football, though, that he couldn't let go of. So he took coaching courses, put in the hours, and slowly found his footing as an assistant tactical coach for the women's team.
Alexia was just a new signee to Barcelona then; she was eighteen, bright-eyed, restless with ambition. She and your dad got close after she badgered him into helping her with her defensive work, knowing he'd been a decent defender in his day.
Eventually, they got closer after all those training sessions, so much so that he started treating Alexia like his work-little-sister.
⋆˙⟡♡ You met Alexia for the first time at your housewarming party. Your dad had just inherited the house from your late grandfather, and after months of renovation, it was finally ready. It felt like a real change from the small apartment you'd grown up in. He invited people from the club, and Alexia was one of them.
You already knew who she was. You were also training in La Masia at that time. The women’s team had just become fully professional and all the femeni players were somewhat heroes to all of you girls in La Masia.
Your dad introduced you the way he always did, calling you his princesa. Alexia found it cute and adopted it on the spot, and began referring to you as princesa as well. While it made you cringe whenever your dad introduced you that way to his friends, insisting that you were too old to be called that, you didn’t seem to mind when it came from Alexia. You decided that you liked the way it sounded when it came from her.
Since then, Alexia became a constant presence in your life.
Along with other people from the club, she always came over to your house for weekends and right before the holidays, before she headed back to her family. In the times that she was there, she taught you to do football tricks. She’d help you with homework.
She occasionally also came to your youth games when she could, standing at the crowd with her arms folded, paying proper attention, and afterwards would tell you what you'd done well and what you needed to work on. Somehow that always mattered more than anything your dad or coaches said.
You didn't think anything of it for a long time. She was just Alexia, just always there.
But as you grew older, you slowly figured that there was something different in the way you felt about Alexia. And, by the time you were sixteen, you had fully figured it out: the reason you couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't stop smiling when she talked to you, the way your heart did that stupid thing whenever she was near...
You knew, at that point, it wasn’t just platonic admiration.
⋆˙⟡♡ It was your eighteenth birthday. Your dad suggested that you celebrate it at a bar. He said something about celebrating Barcelona B winning the league and also something about wanting you to learn how to drink while surrounded by people you trusted.
Whatever it was, you just went along with it.
Because not only were you celebrating your birthday, the fact that you were finally being able to drink legally and that your team won, you were also celebrating the fact that Alexia was coming to see you again.
"She's actually coming?" your teammate said, for the third time.
"She always comes," you said, bragging a bit but trying to sound like it was nothing.
Throughout the years, Alexia slowly became a household name in Spain. She was catching the attention of everyone, signing brand deals, and receiving awards. She wasn’t just Alexia, your dad’s friend. She was now Alexia Putellas, la reina.
Though, while you loved watching her succeed, it also meant you got to see her less. The visits became less frequent: weekly became monthly, then monthly became occasionally. Then, occasionally became nothing much at all,
But thankfully, she was finally making time to see you for your birthday. Just as you were turning eighteen.
She arrived about an hour in,and you felt the energy in the room shift the way it always did when Alexia walked into somewhere. Your group of friends from La Masia started giggling and smiling, already eager to approach Alexia for a picture.
"Moltes felicitats!" She found you first, arms open. She hugged you properly, wrapping her arms around you and lifting you up for a second. All you could think about was how happy you were to see her again and how amazing she smelled, the same familiar perfume she had always used.
She pulled back from the hug and looked at your outfit, frowning to herself. "You turn eighteen and couldn’t wait to dress like it, huh? What happened to the Hello Kitty shirts?"
You felt the blush climb your face immediately. "Hey Alexia," you chuckled. “I missed you.”
“I know, I know, it’s been so long,” she said, chuckling, patting your head as she did. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to watch your games recently. I’ve been busy.”
“Trust me, I know,” you chuckled, waving off her apology.
"Well, at least I have something to make it up to you." She handed you a small box, wrapped neatly. "I hope you like it."
You opened it and felt the same fluttering feeling in your stomach. It was a delicate gold necklace with a dainty crown charm. You looked up at her.
"Thought it was suitable," she said simply. "For the princesa."
At this point, your face was fully red, heart beating overtime. You thanked her, hugging her once more.
"I'm putting this on right now," you said, as you pulled away from the hug, already fumbling with the clasp.
She laughed. “Let me.”
Alexia helped you with it, letting you turn from her, hands brushing your hair to the front. You bit your lip, a bit giddy she was doing it in front of your teammates. In your teenaged, delusional mind at the time, you felt it was the most romantic scene that could ever happen.
Before you could even turn around to present the necklace to Alexia, your dad materialized from the corner of the bar and clapped Alexia on the shoulder. "Ale, you made it."
"Of course." She said, greeting your dad before gesturing at you. "Xavi, your girl is a grown-up now."
Your dad looked at you with an expression that was mostly pride but also partly teasing. You knew he was going to say something that’ll embarrass you. "I know. I have to start watching out for the boys." He said, squeezing you close to him.
"Papà—" You groaned loudly, pushing him slightly, making him and Alexia laugh.
"My bad, my bad." He held his hands up immediately, grinning. "I meant to say that I have to watch out for the girls," he turned to Alexia to explain. "She came out and told me she likes women yesterday. It completely slipped my mind. again"
"Papà!" You said in an annoyed tone, widening your eyes at your dad. He always managed to stay the stupidest and most embarrassing things about you in front of Alexia. “That's not what I — I wasn't asking you to — madre mia."
Alexia was looking at you with an amused expression, chuckling. "Congrats?"
"I'm going to actually die of embarrassment," you groaned, shaking your head.
Your dad and Alexia laughed. He turned to Alexia "Come on, let’s go before I embarrass my kid anymore." your dad said, still grinning. "All the guys from the club are all over there. Sandra and Patri said they’re on their way too. Let me grab you a drink."
"One second," Alexia said, glancing toward the entrance. "I need to wait for—"
She was looking at the door. You followed her gaze.
"New girl?" your dad asked, apparently reading something in her expression. Just at the mention of it, your heart dropped.
Alexia shrugged, lazy smirk playing around your lips. "For now. I don't know. It’s nothing serious.”
“When did you become such a player, hermana,” your dad joked, squeezing Alexia’s shoulder.
The woman who walked in was obviously Alexia's age. She was confident, pretty, looking around the room until she found Alexia and crossed toward her. She greeted you warmly enough. You were seething too much to even remember her name because all you could focus on was how Alexia’s hand found the small of her back.
You just gave her a tight-lipped smile and said a curt thanks before deciding you’d rather not be around Alexia while she was with this new girl. You made your way back to your friends, who were already excitedly whispering about Alexia. You brushed them off, just wanting to celebrate and drink, pretending not to give a fuck about the Alexia even if you constantly watched her from your peripheral the entire night.
⋆˙⟡♡ By midnight, you were absolutely plastered. It started off fun – dancing with friends as you sang along to whatever song was blasting. Then very quickly, it became… not fun.
You found yourself in one of the booths, slumped over your teammate who was patting your back as you vomited into one of the empty gift bags.
Your dad appeared as soon as he heard. "Dios mío." He said, tone concerned more than mad. “I thought I told you to stop after your last shot an hour ago.”
From where you were slumped over, you gave him a weak shrug.
Much to your dismay, Alexia came rushing to where you were. She sighed at the sight of you absolutely plastered, sweaty and vomiting into a glittery pink paper bag.
She patted your dad’s arm. “You go settle the bill. I can drive her home and take care of her while you settle things here.
Your dad looked between you and her. "You sure?" He asked.
Alexia nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll text you once I get her back to your place.”
Your dad said his thanks as your friends helped you up, giving you a glass of water and wiping your mouth and face. As you stood up, Alexia put your arm around her, arm holding your waist to keep you steady.
She chuckled. “Looks like the princess enjoyed her eighteenth birthday.”
You groaned in response. “Alexia, I’m sorry…”
She looked at you and gave you an easy smile. “What do you have to be sorry for? You’re supposed to be the drunkest person on your 18th.” She joked as she walked you to her car. “Mission accomplished.”
⋆˙⟡♡ The car ride was quiet for a while. You sat in the passenger seat with your head tipped back and the window slightly open. In your hands was a new plastic bag that Alexia had gotten from somewhere in her car, just in case you needed it.
"Okay," Alexia said eventually, focusing on the road. "Lesson one. You have to eat carbs before you drink. Basic stuff, princesa."
You said nothing, closing your eyes for a moment, still feeling the alcohol swirl inside you.
"We'll work on it. Like when I used to teach you those ball control drills when you were little, remember? Except this time we can practice with shots." She glanced at you. "Much more useful life skill, honestly—"
"I hate you," you blurted suddenly.
Alexia wasn’t sure of what she heard. She frowned a bit but chuckled awkwardly. “What?”
"I said I hate you." Your voice came out thicker than you intended. Perhaps it was just because you were drunk, young, absolutely stupid and too honest. "I hate you so much."
Alexia didn’t respond yet. She grew concerned, pulling over to the side of the road, just a block away from your house. “Hey, princesa, what’s going on?” She asked, tone gentle. “Is everything good?”
"How could you bring her?" It came out before you could stop it. Your tone was pained and Alexia could hear it clearly. "To my birthday. How could you bring some girl to my birthday."
Alexia was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry. You're right, it was friends and family, I should have asked your dad first if–-"
"That's not what I mean." You shook your head, settling your back against the reclined seat, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. "You don't understand."
Alexia sighed, unsure of what to do with this outburst. She knew you were drunk out of your mind but she knew that you wouldn’t have said all of it if you didn’t actually mean it. "Then tell me." Her voice was gentle. "You know you can tell me anything. You're like my little sister. I—"
"Stop." The word came out sharp, unslurred for once. "Stop saying that. Stop calling me that."
"YN—"
"I'm eighteen." Your voice broke on it, which was humiliating and yet, you kept going. "I'm not a little girl anymore. I haven't been for a long time and you keep — you just keep—"
You couldn't finish it. You didn't need to.
Alexia watched you as you turned slightly away from her, wiping your tears as you did. She mouthed a curse word to herself, finally realizing what you were trying to say. She took a deep breath before continuing.
"YN," she said, tone careful. “You know, I don’t…” She trailed off, still unsure how to face this situation.
"I know," you said. "I know, okay, I know. You don't have to say shit."
"I'm sorry." She sounded like she meant it, which made it worse. "Princesa, I'm so sorry, I didn't know at all that…”
She hesitated before continuing. “You'll find someone, you know? Someone your age who deserves you, who will treat you like an actual princess.” She said, trying to sound comforting but every single word she said felt like a dagger. “You’re a young and beautiful girl but YN, you know that I’m not— That I cannot…”
Alexia sighed, still struggling to find the words to comfort you. “I'll always be there for you, that doesn't change,” she continued. “There’ll be someone for you, princesa. I promise—"
“I don’t want anyone else,” you said, shaking your head, mascara streaking your face. “I want you.”
Alexia sighed, looking out the car, watching the road ahead. “YN, I don’t… I don’t see you like that,” she started. “You’re too young.”
“I’m eighteen, Ale.” You countered.
Alexia chuckled but it didn’t seem cruel or mocking; it just came out in disbelief. “Princess, I’m twenty-six,” she responded, trying to rationalize with you now. “We’re at such different parts of our lives. I don’t think you would want to date someone this much older. Quite frankly, if it was anyone else, I would disapprove too.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. “Absolute bullshit and you know it. I'm old enough. I know what I want.”
Alexia sighed, trying to keep patient. “You don’t understand. It’s just… it won’t work.”
You scoffed and before you could think about it. You unclasped your necklace and held it out to her. “Then I don’t want this,” you said, tone harsh. “You cannot give a girl this and act like you weren’t leading her on.”
Alexia frowned. “Leading you on? YN, it was a gift. For your birthday,” Her tone came out offended and hurt. "How is that leading you on?"
You shook your head, dropping the necklace into one of the car’s empty cup holders. “I don't want it."
Alexia sighed, growing impatient. "YN, you're being dramatic. C’mon, I thought you liked it." She said, trying to talk some sense into you. “I really picked that one out for you cause you know how much I care about you. Don’t you like it?”
You shook your head. "I want something else." You looked at her directly as if daring her. "You know what I want."
She looked back at you and she sighed, lips turning into a tight line as she leaned back onto her seat, turning away from you. "No," she said.
"Alexia—" You tried to reach out but Alexia swatted your hand away.
"No." Her voice was harder this time, something in her composure finally frayed at the edges. "YN. I would never — you're practically my little sister or my cousin or whatever. For fuck's sake, I’m your dad’s friend.”
Alexia paused once she noticed that she was starting to raise her voice, breathing out for a moment. “I would never look at you like that." The words landed the way she probably intended them to. She didn’t want to hurt you but if that was what it took to draw the line, then that was what she was doing. "Never."
That was it. That was the moment Alexia broke your heart.
⋆˙⟡♡ After that, you left. You didn’t tell your dad what happened and you were certain Alexia hadn’t either. Which was probably why it must have come as a shock to hum when you decided that you were refusing the renewal offer from Barça B and accepted the offer from Manchester City.
You told your dad it was for the minutes, the development, the chance to play at the first team instead of fighting to work your way up to the first team at Barcelona. All of that was true in a sense but none of it was the real reason why you left.
You spent six years in Manchester City. There, you developed, slowly became very good at football and yet, still so shit at forgetting
You only saw Alexia twice in the time you were away: when City played Barça in the Champions League. The first time you kept your head down and got through it. The second time she tried to talk to you after the final whistle and you found a way to ignore her, walking straight past her and greeting Patri instead, who also knew you from back in the day, switching kits with her instead as if trying to make a point to Alexia.
⋆˙⟡♡ Your contract with City expired this season and you had decided not to renew. Alexia was in a similar situation: contract expired and leaving her club. It seemed like you were both at a crossroads.
You were back in Barcelona negotiating, and your dad had been beaming with excitement for two weeks at the idea of you possibly returning to Barcelona. Hence, why he was so set on inviting a bunch of friends from the club tonight at your welcome home party, as if to convince you to bite the bullet and sign with Barcelona.
That was why she was here.
And that was also why you have been anxiously looking through your outfits, settling on one that felt just right before heading to the party.
⋆˙⟡♡ You walked out into the backyard and felt her notice you before you even looked.
It happened in your peripheral vision. She was in the middle of a conversation, pausing to glance over to you eyes scanning you for a bit before excusing herself moving toward you with one hand holding a beer bottle and the other at the pocket.
She gave you a small smile. “Long time no see,” she smiled as her eyes quickly scanned you, lingering a microsecond longer where your abdomen was exposed. "You look…”
She trailed off and you nodded. “Yeah, I haven’t seen you since we played against each other.” You said.
She chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, when you totally snobbed me,” she said. She looked at you again, almost as if she couldn’t help it. "You look good.”
"You said that already." You said laughing
"I didn't actually say it the first time." She smirked.
You hummed, eyeing her too, dressed in a button-up top with her forearms exposed and straight-cut jeans. She looked good, even better than she did years ago.
Before you could continue talking, your dad caught sight of you, ushering you to talk to some other people from the club, clearly set on his agenda of convincing you to sign.
Alexia drifted away too but one thing was for sure: her eyes were on you the entire time.
⋆˙⟡♡ The crowd thinned out as the night got later.
You found yourself feeling a bit socially drained from all the talk about negotiation and signing, settling on the old, wooden swing at the edge of the yard, beer in hand. Alexia noticed you settle there, slowly walking over to you and sitting beside you.
“So…” She said, “I heard you weren’t dead-set on Barcelona yet. Are you actually considering Atlético?"
You shrugged. "Among others,” you responded before taking another sip of your beer.
"Don't tell me you’re considering Real Madrid," she asked.
You chuckled and shook your head. "Please, my dad would actually kill me."
"Yeah, your dad and everyone else who's ever met you." She bumped her shoulder against yours lightly. "La Masia girl ending up at Real Madrid. You’d be a villain."
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile.
She hummed. “So, when’s your next meeting with Barcelona?"
"Don't act like you don't already know everything,” you quipped back, looking at her and giving her another eye roll. With your dad’s big mouth, you were sure everyone at the party tonight was updated with all of your affairs.
Alexia chuckled. "I know some things," she said. "But I don't know what you're thinking about. You don't really talk to me anymore."
She paused, taking an exhale, before turning back to you and smiling. “Except from the last Champions League match where you called me a filla de puta on the pitch for stealing the ball from under you.” She smirked.
You chuckled briefly as you shook your head, not saying anything more, trying to pretend that you weren’t absolutely drawn in by the familiar smell of her perfume, trying to pretend that her presence didn’t overwhelm your senses and that you wanted to absolutely just jump her.
Alexia wanted to ask.
She had been wanting to ask for years: why you didn't reply to her texts, why you walked past her after that match like she was a stranger, why every birthday greeting she sent was left on seen.
Deep inside, she had a clue that it was about what happened six years ago, on your eighteenth birthday. But it had been years since then, you were twenty-four now. And from what she’s heard, you’ve been in several relationships. It had been years and yet, it seemed like you haven’t moved on.
"Well," she said instead, breaking the silence. "You know I'm leaving."
She glanced at you. "You'd be the perfect replacement. The next number eleven. It’d be like passing the crown — from la reina to la princesa." She paused, grimaced slightly at calling herself la reina.
You caught it and laughed, short and involuntary.
"Hey." Her voice shifted, something in it warm and pleased. "First smile I've gotten out of you all night."
You looked away but still felt the smile linger on your face.
"Which reminds me. I have something for you, actually." She reached into her jean pocket before presenting it to you.
You looked over. It was her gift from six years ago.
"I found it in my things," she said. "Just a few weeks ago, when I was packing up. I've had it for all those years apparently. Just thought you should have it back, like a welcome back gift."
You took it from her before turning it in your fingers. It looked exactly like you remembered it – dainty and classic. You handed it back to her without saying a word.
You turned slightly, lifting your hair. Her fingers found the clasp and you felt them brush your neck as she clasped the necklace on you. The charm settled in between your collarbones.
You turned around to present it to her. Alexia smiled and her eyes stayed on your neck, smiling, before looking away to take a swig of her beer. If you hadn’t been paying close attention, you wouldn’t have noticed the clear blush on her cheeks.
Gotcha, you thought to yourself, smiling as you did.
"Wait," you said with a smile. "I can't see if it looks right."
You stood up and gestured for her to do the same. "Come inside for a second. I want to see it in the mirror."
⋆˙⟡♡ She followed you to your room because Alexia Putellas had, apparently, never learned to distrust you.
You pushed your bedroom door open and stepped inside. The room was exactly as you'd left it: pink walls, old trophies on the shelf, the same furniture in the same places. She followed you in and stopped, looking around the room as she closed the door behind her.
You walked over to your vanity, bending over to the height of it. You looked at Alexia through the mirror as you adjusted the necklace at your collarbone. Behind you, she moved slowly along the wall, taking in the old posters and framed photos.
She stopped.
She was standing in front of the poster on the wall by your bed where you had a bunch of posters and the biggest of them all was a poster of her. You never bothered taking it down and apparently, neither had your dad. She stared at it with an expression caught between flattered and horrified.
"God," she said, sitting down on the side of your bed facing, taking a swig of her beer. She grimaced as she looked at it again. "I didn't know you had this. I look so young here."
You smirked walking towards her, in the space between the wall and the bed. “Yeah, you know I was always a fan.” You said as you stood in front of her. You bent down slightly, just enough that the necklace was dangling in her eye level from where she sat. “I feel like the necklace suits me more now.”
With the way you were bending, the top you were wearing hung low, just enough to show the lace bra you were wearing underneath. Alexia averted her gaze, pressing the beer bottle back to her lips and taking a swig. “Yeah,” she said, staring at the poster to avoid the sight of you.
You knew that this was your chance. Before Alexia could fully lift the beer back to her lips, you took it from her slowly, urging her to look you in the eyes as you brought it to your lips, drinking from it slowly before placing it on the bedside table.
Alexia gulped and stiffened, watching you standing over her, a look playing on her face.
“Wha–”
Before she could say anything, you moved closer to her, placing a leg on both sides of her lap and straddling her, adjusting until you were comfortably resting on top of her. “You know, I always admired you.” you said.
"YN—" she started.
"What? I always used to sit on your lap." You said it lightly, feignng innocence. “How is it any different now?”
"You know what you're doing." Her voice was careful, controlled in a way that felt strained.
"What? Cause I don’t know," You tilted your head, placing both arms around her shoulders. "What am I doing?"
She looked at you but didn't answer. Her hands were hovering around your hips, just suspended, uncertain but cautious. You smirked, seeing her neck move as she gulped.
You shifted forward slightly, closing the distance between you as your lips moved closer to her ear. "A lot has changed since that night," you said, quietly "Don't you think?"
Her jaw was tight.
"Six years." You leaned in, your breath brushing her ear. You felt her go very still underneath you. "I grew up. I left and I tried to get over you… but I couldn’t”
Alexia shifted a bit but you didn’t budge. "But I still want you," you said. "I still..."
You didn’t continue what you were saying. Instead, you turned your head, moved closer to her and caught the edge of her ear between your lips, nipping at it just enough to garner a small inhale from the older woman. Her hands moved closer to you but she kept them hovering as if she was still apprehensive.
You smirked to yourself before you planted a gentle kiss on the space between her ear and jaw. When she didn’t move, you moved your way further down the jaw, planting slow open-mouthed kissed, following the line of it. She stayed absolutely still, hands still hovering, not stopping you but not pulling you closer.
You moved down further, gripping onto her to keep balance. You kissed the side of her neck, sucking a bit as you did, surely leaving some marks on her. After, you pulled back just enough to look at her face.
Her expression had finally broken open into something unguarded. The pupils in her hazel eyes had doubled in size and she looked flushed, lips partly, open. You held her gaze for another moment before you took off your shirt, leaving you exposed in just a lace bra.
"YN." Her voice was different now, slightly rough at the edges. "You shouldn't—"
Before she could say anything more, you captured her lips with yours. Her lips were soft and she tasted like a mix of a light lipgloss taste and the beer she was just drinking. Alexia didn’t move at first, feeling all sorts of conflicted.
Your hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. Finally, her hands held onto your waist, keeping you steady and her lips started to follow your lead, lip-locking as you did. She held you lightly, a sharp contrast by the firmness and intensity of your kisses and the way you clung onto her.
This was what you’ve dreamt about all those years and you couldn’t believe you were finally able to do it.
It felt better than you could have ever imagined.
You broke the kiss, keeping your face close to her, looking into her eyes. Her eyes darted from your eyes to your lips, as if trying to make sense of what just happened. It was filled with a look of pleading. A plea or you to stop or for you to continue? You weren’t sure what it was.
You pecked her lips another time before leaving a trail of kisses from her cheek to her jaw then down her neck. After a final kiss on her exposed collarbone, you slid off her lap and sank to your knees on the hardwood floor in front of her, your hands finding the button of her jeans. She put a tentative hand on yours.
"You can tell me to stop," you said, waiting for her response. “Just tell me and I’ll stop.”
Alexia looked down at you, eyes lidded, breathing heavier than before. She blinked but did not say anything, removing her hand from on top of yours.
You smirked at her, pleased with her reaction, as you continued pulling down the zipper. As soon as they were open, you tugged at both her pants and underwear simultaneously. Alexia said nothing but the way she lifted herself slightly off the bed – just enough for you to pull the pants off of her –- told you everything you needed to know.
You took her bottoms off, parting her legs as you did, leaving her completely exposed. You subconsciously licked your lips upon seeing the wetness gathering between her thighs. A moan nearly escaped your lips as you looked at it for a moment more, letting her light musky smell waft to you, feeling yourself clench in arousal.
You moved closer, looking up to lock eyes with her as you did. Alexia’s mouth parted with her chest rising and falling with anticipation. With your hand, you parted her folds, watching the slick glisten beneath your fingers as you did.
Alexia inhaled sharply, her hands gripping the sheets as she leaned back, tilting her head away as though she couldn't bear to watch.
“Ale,” you said, voice soft. “Please look at me.”
Alexia bit her lip before reluctantly looking down at you.
You offered her an innocent smile. “Watch your princess,” you said just audible enough for her to hear.
You watched her neck move as she swallowed, unsure of what to do at this point. Her breath hitched once more as your mouth enveloped around her clit, forming a light suction around it.
You kept your eyes on her, almost urging her to keep eye contract as you continued slowly to suck on it in a slow, steady pace. After you settled into it, you began using your tongue to trace her folds before slowly settling on her clit, pressing it flat against her before swiping upwards, catching her nectar, coating your tongue.
A moan escaped your lips as you tasted more of her wetness – light, salty, and slightly tangy. The moan vibrated against Alexia, eliciting an open-mouthed gasp from her.
You continued to alternate between sucking and licking on her clit. You moved your hands from her legs to just behind her hips, pulling yourself closer. As your pace increased, you pressed yourself deeper against her, determined to make her fully unravel.
Alexia bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. One hand found your hair, gripping lightly the back of your head. She wasn’t pushing you away nor pulling you closer, just holding you as if just to hold onto something to ground her. You smiled when you felt her shift closer.
Not satisfied with her reactions, you quickened your pace, now flicking your tongue against the small, sensitive part of her clit. A full moan finally escaped Alexia as she took her hand from your hand and moved it behind her on the bed, to keep herself balanced.
You took that as a good sign, keeping your pace fast and steady. A string of small moans continued to spill from Alexia’s lips, arching her back slightly as she fully laid on your bed, brown hair sprawling beneath her.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to savor it all: the taste of her on your tongue, her warmth, the smell of her against you, the knowledge that you were finally tasting Alexia Putellas.
This was the same Alexia you always wanted, the same Alexia who never noticed you, at least not in the way you wanted her to. The same Alexia who swore that you she could never see you in that way. And here she was now, trembling beneath your mouth, choking down her sounds. It filled you with satisfaction. It felt like redemption.
You felt yourself growing more desperate with every passing second, and it only drove you forward. Alexia's moans grew louder. "Sí, sí," she murmured, her voice low and strained. “Sigue así.”
The pride in you filled your chest, urging you to go further. You pressed two fingers against her opening, letting her slick coat the tips of it before pushing in, garnering another sharp breath from Alexia.
You glanced up at her. Her button-up top had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of toned skin. Her stomach tightened as you began moving your fingers further into her. The sight of it was intoxicating.
Eventually, you lifted your mouth away but kept your fingers where they were. Moving up, you positioned yourself over her. Alexia looked back at you through heavily lidded eyes, mouth still parted.
Before she could react, you captured her bottom lip, kissing her with fervour as you continued to thrust into her, pounding faster into her. You could feel Alexia struggle to keep up with the kiss, her lip-locking growing sloppy, unable to focus on anything else but the pleasure, as you curled your fingers, pressing into her.
You moved your mouth to her jaw, kissing and sucking and biting. Alexia gripped the sheets, knuckles turning white as she did. She arched into you as you continued to pound against her. The sounds of your thrust against her wetness filled the room. Soon, it was becoming impossible for Alexia to keep her moans quiet. She got louder, incoherent words strung together with gasps and moans, as she felt your fingers fuck into her.
You moved closer to her, whispering onto her ear. "Ale, you're getting so loud,” you said, voice teasing and amused. “Do you want my dad to find you getting absolutely wrecked by his only daughter? The idea must turn you on, huh?" With that, you thrusted into Alexia harder, curling your fingers into her as you did.
Alexia winced as she heard your words but could not hold back her moans as you relentlessly fucked her. She felt embarrassed and ashamed of how good it felt to be fucked by you and of just letting you do this to her. Deep inside her, she knew this was wrong, that she shouldn’t be enjoying this.
And yet, here she was, overwhelmed with pleasure and writhing underneath you.
Alexa cursed under her breath as she felt your fingers repeatedly curl into her, hitting her sensitive spot each time you entered her. She could feel the orgasm build up into her as she did. You felt her clench around your fingers, internal walls tightening.
“Yeah, Ale, come for me,” you whispered in her ear, almost taunting. “Come for your princess.”
With one more curl of your fingers, Alexia felt the waves of pleasure take over her body. She arched her back further, closed her eyes, face contorted in pleasure as she allowed the orgasm spread throughout her body.
After a few more thrusts, you pulled your fingers out of her, waited for her to open her eyes fully before you wrapped your mouth around your fingers, sucking your fingers clean as she watched.
Alexia averted her gaze, bringing her hand to her face, pretending to wipe sweat off of it but really just so she wouldn’t have to look at you, feeling the pleasure dissipate slowly only to be replaced by frustration and shame.
You couldn’t make sense of it then but something in you just felt powerful at that moment, like the tables have finally turned. Six years ago, she turned you down and broke your heart, claiming that she will never see you in that way. And here you were now, making her eat her words, showing her that she was wrong.
"Can't believe you'd let me do that." You said teasingly as you rested beside her in bed, smiling. "Did the thought of my dad finding us make you hornier?"
Alexia frowned a bit as she heard the question but she didn’t answer. She stood up so suddenly. She ignored the mild dizziness from the sex and the sudden standing, immediately putting her bottoms on and cursing under her breath.
"Leaving me already?" You said, smirking, filled with pride.
She hated how you were teasing her. She didn't know why you were doing so when you knew she was already feeling shameful about what just happened, when you knew that Alexia was the kind of person who would generally never allow something like that to happen normally.
“Hey,” you said, sitting up slightly, watching her look around for the shoe she took off. “Alexia, c’mon.”
She ignored you.
You frowned, reaching out for her hand. “Don’t leave your princess just after she fucked you.”
Somehow, that was what sent Alexia over the edge. She stopped putting on her shoes and spun around to grab your face, clutching so hard that your lips were almost puckering. "Don't ever disrespect me like that again." She hissed at you.
Your eyes widened at the energy shift. It was your turn to be speechless. Alexia was gripping on to your face firmly. Even if you had something to say, you wouldn't be able to at how tight her grip was.
"Actually, don't talk to me ever again." Alexia let your face go, slightly pushing you to the side as she let your face go. You kept yourself steady with your hands on the bed, looking up to her.
She fully buttoned her pants. She didn’t look back at you. She stormed out of the room, slightly slamming the door behind her.
You sat there, silent. You felt a bit guilty and ashamed. You didn't anticipate her to get this angry at you. Actually, you didn't anticipate anything.
You admittedly just acted on all the pent-up frustration from the past few years. Maybe it was just wanting to get back at her for her rejection years ago. Whatever it was, the feeling of pride dissipated quickly. You knew this was a mess you couldn't easily fix.
"Fuck."
a/n: wooop, anyway messy and didnt bother doing much proofreading but i hope u guys liked it! i so rarely write bottom!Alexia but i hope u guys liked it still. if you did, i'd appreciate a like and reblog! i also have other fics ongoing if any of u are interestedddd. anyway, lmk ur thoughts and please be nice.
if any of u are interested in a part 2, which will be... just more smut with dbf!Alexia, lmk in the comments and if i post it, ill tag everyone.
(another disclaimer: the plot is vaguely reused from an old fic I have published for another fandom. I did not plagiarize because… I wrote it ahahah. Changed some things up but there are a few similarities with my old fic and this one.)
"Trust me?" she asked quietly.
It should've been a difficult question, but it wasn't.
An hour ago she was a stranger watching you from across a crowded bar. Now you're climbing into the back of a black Rolls Royce because somehow saying no feels impossible.
She flirts like it's a language. Smiles like she's already won. Kisses like she doesn't ask for permission from the world.
A woman in a tailored suit calls her boss and suddenly the gorgeous stranger you've been shamelessly flirting with might not be just another woman at the bar and you have absolutely no idea what you've just walked into.
Word Count: 15.2k
Warnings: Smut
Masterlist
The bar wasn't somewhere you usually came alone, yet here you were. A long week had finally ended, and the thought of going straight home to your empty apartment had somehow sounded worse than sitting in a crowded bar with strangers.
At least here there was noise, a bit of life, something to distract you.
You sat at the bar, nursing a drink you were in no rush to finish, occasionally glancing towards the television mounted above the bottles behind the counter.
The place was busy, people squeezed around tables, couples laughed in corners, groups of friends shouted over the music.
Nobody paid much attention to anyone else which was why it took you a second to realise someone was looking at you.
You felt it before you saw it, a pair of eyes lingering. You glanced up and froze.
Across the room sat a woman you'd never seen before, brunette hair, sharp features. The sort of confidence that seemed to radiate from her without any effort. The second your eyes met, she smiled, not politely or accidentally a smile meant entirely for you.
Your stomach immediately betrayed you, the sensible thing would've been to look away. Instead, you held her gaze, the smile transformed into a smirk, and you watched her lift her glass almost like a silent greeting.
Before you could stop yourself, you mirrored the gesture, something flashed in her eyes, amusement, maybe victory. You weren't sure, but suddenly your drink wasn't nearly as interesting anymore.
A few minutes passed or maybe only seconds, you couldn't tell, but every time you looked away, your eyes found their way back to he and every single time she was already looking.
The ridiculous thing was that neither of you seemed embarrassed about it, most people would've looked away eventually. She never did. Then, without warning, she stood.
Your pulse jumped, no, surely not you thought to yourself, but she was already moving through the crowd walking directly towards you, each step seemed impossibly confident as if she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.
She stopped beside your stool close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, close enough that she somehow became even more attractive.
"Hi." Her voice was smooth, warm and dangerously charming.
You cleared your throat, "Hi."
A grin immediately tugged at her lips, "Nervous?"
You laughed, "Confident, aren't you?"
"Usually." She tilted her head, "Although I have spent the last ten minutes wondering if you're going to tell me to go away."
"You walked across the entire bar without knowing"
Alexia shrugged, "Worth the risk."
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful, "That's a lot of confidence for someone approaching a stranger."
"It's a lot of staring for someone who wasn't interested."
You couldn't even argue, because she was right, Alexia's eyes dropped briefly to your drink, then back to you.
"I'm Alexia."
The way she said it made it sound important, not because she expected you to know who she was. Just because she knew exactly who she was. You smiled, "I'm—"
"Beautiful."
You blinked, "What?"
"I was going to let you tell me your name." Alexia looked completely unapologetic, "But then I got distracted."
Heat immediately rushed into your face, the smile she gave you in response was downright smug.
"See." She pointed at you, "That."
"That what?"
"The blush."
"There is no blush."
"There absolutely is."
You laughed, the sound seemed to make her soften slightly. For the first time since she'd walked over, something gentler appeared beneath all the confidence, something genuine.
She looked at you for a second longer than necessary, then said quietly, "I've been trying not to come over here all night."
Your eyebrows lifted, "Oh?"
Alexia nodded, "Thought I'd make a fool of myself."
That surprised you, because nothing about this woman suggested uncertainty, "And yet here you are."
Her gaze met yours steady and unwavering, "Yeah."
The smile that followed was smaller now, more honest, "Turns out the thought of not talking to you felt worse."
For a moment the noise of the bar seemed to disappear, the music, conversations, the glasses clinking together. None of it mattered, because suddenly all you could focus on was the woman standing in front of you.
The woman who had looked at you from across a crowded room and somehow made everyone else disappear.
Alexia glanced at the empty stool beside you, then back at you, "So." She rested an arm against the bar, "Are you going to let me buy you another drink?"
You smiled, "Depends."
Her eyes sparkled, "On what?"
You leaned slightly closer, close enough to see her own confidence falter for the first time all evening, "Whether you're planning on flirting with me all night."
Alexia's grin was immediate hopelessly pleased, "Oh." She pulled the stool out and sat down beside you, "I was planning on doing a lot worse than that."
The words settled between you dangerously. The kind of comment that could be interpreted a hundred different ways.
The kind that made your pulse immediately pick up whilst Alexia looked entirely too pleased with herself.
You shook your head, trying and failing not to smile, "Does that line usually work?"
"Line?"
"The one where you pretend to be charming."
"Pretend?" she repeated, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.
You laughed, Alexia's eyes lingered on you for a moment a second too long. Something shifted, the teasing was still there, but now there was something else underneath it.
The bartender appeared and Alexia ordered another round without taking her eyes off you, "You're very confident."
"So I've been told."
"You don't seem worried I might reject you."
Alexia considered that, then shrugged, "I don't think you will."
The certainty should have annoyed you, instead, it made your stomach flutter, "And if you're wrong?"
Her expression softened not by much, just enough to notice, "Then I'd thank you for the conversation and spend the next week being embarrassed." The honesty caught you off guard, Alexia noticed immediately, "You didn't expect that answer."
"No."
She smiled into her drink, "People assume confidence means fear doesn't exist."
"And does it?"
Her gaze lifted to yours, "All the time."
The admission hung there suddenly the conversation felt different, more personal, less like a game.
You found yourself studying her, the way she held herself, the way she watched you while pretending not to, the way she seemed completely present in every moment.
It was unsettling, most conversations drifted, this one didn't, Alexia's attention never wandered, not once.
A group squeezed past behind her, and she shifted her stool closer without thinking. The movement left her shoulder brushing yours, neither of you moved away and neither of you acknowledged it.
You became painfully aware of every point of contact, the warmth of her arm, the scent of her perfume, the tiny smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.
She knew exactly what she was doing, "You're staring again."
You rolled your eyes, "You started it."
"I know."
"You admit that awfully easily."
Alexia laughed, "Why would I deny it?" The answer came so naturally that it stole your next response, "You have really expressive eyes, you know."
"Do I?"
"Very." You looked away,which only made her grin wider, "There. You did it again."
"Did what?"
"Got shy."
You immediately scoffed, "I am not shy."
"You're blushing again."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
The look she gave you made it impossible to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds.
Every time you met her gaze, the air seemed to tighten as though the rest of the room had disappeared and the only thing that mattered was the space between the two of you.
Alexia leaned forward slightly, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you noticed, enough that your attention dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
A mistake, because the second you looked back up, you knew she'd seen it her smile became almost unbearably smug. “What?”
Alexia took a sip of her drink, slowly, deliberately, then she set the glass down, "Nothing."
The liar.
You both knew exactly what had happened and judging by the look in her eyes, she was enjoying it far too much.
The conversation continued. One drink became two then three.
Neither of you seemed interested in leaving, every topic somehow turned into flirting. Every joke became an excuse to lean a little closer. Every glance lasted a little longer than it should have. Eventually there was a pause, not an awkward one, the opposite, the kind where neither person feels the need to fill the silence.
Alexia was the first to break it, her fingers drumming against the condensation on her glass, then, with a kind of lazy certainty, she let her hand fall to your knee. Not an accident, not a conversational pat. Her palm pressed warm and steady just above your kneecap, the pressure light but deliberate. You felt a slow, electric ripple climb your thigh, radiating outward from that single point of contact. Your breath caught in your throat.
She didn’t look at her hand or at your lap. Instead, she watched your face carefully, waited for the microexpression that would tell her how to proceed. You tried to keep your face neutral, but it was impossible. Alexia’s thumb drifted, slow, tracing a circle on bare skin just below the hem of your dress.
“Is this okay?” she asked quietly. The question was so uncharacteristically gentle, it almost broke your focus.
You blinked, then nodded, hoping you didn’t look as desperate as you felt.
Her smile deepened, eyes glinting. “You can tell me to stop,” she murmured.
The implication, she wanted you to say don’t was devastating. You managed, “I don’t want you to.”
She squeezed your knee, her hand moving fractionally higher, pinky brushing the inside of your thigh. You suppressed a shiver, acutely aware of every molecule of space between you and her and every molecule she was now invading.
The bartender dropped off your new drinks, misreading the intimacy as a casual touch. You reached for your glass a little too quickly, almost knocking it over. Alexia grinned, leaning in, her voice pitched for only you to hear. “You seem nervous.”
You took a sip, swallowing against the heat in your cheeks. “You keep saying that.”
“Maybe I like it.”
You tried for an eye roll, but your voice was softer than you meant it to be, “You’re a menace.”
“I’m very well behaved,” she said, the words landing somewhere between truth and open dare.
You glanced at her, weighing it, and found yourself thinking about what well behaved could possibly mean to someone like Alexia. Her hand had not moved from your thigh. If anything, she’d gotten bolder, her palm sliding by literal centimetres higher each time you answered a question, until now it was only the thickness of your dress between her skin and the rest of your leg.
Alexia leaned closer still, her temple nearly touching yours, the air around her glittering with the sharp notes of her perfume. “Tell me something true,” she said.
You pulled in a breath, felt your pulse hammer inside your wrist, “Something true?”
She nodded, watching your lips. Her pupils were blown wide, dark, a little dangerous.
You thought about lying, about saying something clever, but the truth snuck out. “I haven’t done this before.”
Alexia stilled, her hand pausing mid-motion. “Done what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely at the two of you, the not-quite-touch, the careful choreography. “Let a stranger pick me up at a bar.”
She grinned, slow and predatory. “I’m hardly impersonal,” she said. “I’d like to think we’re both somewhat invested at this point.”
“Somewhat,” she conceded, though she could barely remember the last time she’d felt this alive and fidgety in her own skin.
Alexia’s hand, still at your thigh, moved with slow intent now, her knuckles grazing the delicate skin above your knee, then wandering upward, fingers splayed, as if claiming territory. Your breath came shallow, and you crossed your legs, trapping her hand between them. She didn’t seem bothered by the escalation if anything, she seemed to approve. Her lips curved upward, like she’d just watched a dog perform a new trick. She looked at you in a way that made your whole body feel like the center of a searchlight beam.
“Tell me another thing,” Alexia murmured, voice pitched for your ear alone. “Something only I get to know.”
You considered, momentarily at a loss. “That feels unfair,” you said, “since you already know how to make my heart beat faster.”
Alexia’s thumb drew a lazy semicircle along the inside of your thigh. “Then I’ll trade,” she said. “I’ll tell you something first.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded.
“When I walked over here, I was so nervous I nearly forgot how to speak English,” Alexia said, her eyes darting to yours to see if you’d buy it.
“I don’t believe you,” you said.
“You’re right.” Her grin flashed. “I was only nervous for about five seconds, but they were very intense seconds.”
You snorted, and Alexia’s hand squeezed your thigh, anchoring you to the moment. “Are you always like this?” you asked, without looking away.
Alexia tilted her head as though considering. “Not always.” Her expression gentled, suddenly earnest. “Usually only when I actually like someone.”
You blinked, trying to process the cliché and sincerity in one breath, “I don’t believe you,” you said again, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.
Alexia shrugged, as if to say, take it or leave it. “Truth or dare, then?”
“Are we twelve?”
“Would you prefer spin the bottle?” She laughed at her own joke, and the sound did something strange to your nervous system. You found yourself grinning despite the tension, despite her hand, despite the fact that your skin was now abuzz with anticipation.
“Truth,” you said, because you genuinely wanted to know what she’d ask.
Alexia’s eyes went soft for a moment, like she saw something she liked. “What do you want to happen next?”
The question stole your breath. You’d been bracing for innuendo, for some predictable escalation, but this was much riskier. It required an answer, a real one.
You took a sip of your drink, stalling, the ice clinked against your teeth.
You met Alexia’s gaze and said, “I want you to keep touching me.”
If she was surprised, she didn’t show it, if anything, her satisfaction sharpened. “Permission granted, then.”
You expected her to move her hand immediately, to go for the dramatic show, but instead she left her hand exactly where it was palm firm, fingers spread, thumb still tracing that single path, up and up, until your whole leg felt like a live wire. There was no hurry, she seemed to know exactly how long you could stand to be touched and how long you could stand not to be.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. All the words in your body seemed to have gathered somewhere behind your ribcage, hiding. Alexia’s thumb edged beneath the hem of your dress, just a centimeter, maybe two. The contact was delicate, almost accidental, but the intent behind it was not. It was a dare, pure and simple.
You forgot how to breathe.
Alexia leaned her face against her palm, elbow on the bar. She looked at you, eyebrows high and lazy. “You’re very easy to read, you know that?”
You wished you were better at lying, wished you could pull off even a little of her composure. “Not my fault,” you said, voice embarrassingly hoarse.
Alexia smiled, pleased as a cat, and then said, “I’d invite you to get out of here with me, but I don’t want to be rude.”
You almost laughed, but all that came out was a small, open-mouthed sound. “Is that why you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you asked, gesturing at your thigh, your face, the space between you.
Alexia shrugged, not even pretending. “Maybe I just like making you blush.”
“This is a lot for a first conversation,” you said, though you weren’t pushing her away. Every ounce of you wanted her closer.
“I’m not in the habit of apologising for knowing what I want.” Her fingers played a restless tattoo on your leg. “But if it’s too much—”
“It’s not,” you cut in, surprising yourself with the urgency in your voice. “It’s not too much.”
The look she gave you was so direct, so unwavering, it made you wonder if you’d ever actually been seen before tonight.
“Okay,” Alexia said, soft and steady. “So let’s go.”
You felt for your purse, hands a little clumsy, aware of how sharply the world had contracted to the two of you. The rest of the bar was background noise, lights smeared by alcohol and adrenaline. Alexia watched you reach for your coat, then she stood, not offering a hand because she seemed to know you wouldn’t want that. Instead, she waited, gaze never leaving you.
Outside, the Barcelona night air hit you like a splash of cold water. It should have helped, it didn't. If anything, stepping away from the noise of the bar only made you more aware of Alexia walking beside you.
The city buzzed around you, cars drifted past, distant laughter echoed down the street. Yet somehow all of your attention remained fixed on the woman at your side.
You had barely taken three steps onto the pavement when Alexia glanced towards the darkness beyond the entrance, "Get the car."
The words were calm, matter of fact, as though she'd done this a thousand times before.
Your eyebrows furrowed, a figure emerged from the shadows, a woman. A little taller than Alexia, professional, completely unsurprised, "Yes, boss."
Boss? Before you could process the exchange, she was already moving away.
You stared after her, then slowly turned back towards Alexia.
Alexia, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered, almost amused by your expression, "What?"
You narrowed your eyes, "Nothing." Her smile suggested she knew you were lying.
The questions immediately started piling up in your head. Who was that? Why had she called Alexia boss? Why was there apparently a woman waiting in the shadows for instructions? And perhaps most importantly, what exactly did Alexia do?
The sensible part of your brain told you to ask, the other part was currently too distracted by the way she was looking at you.
So instead you said nothing, Alexia's smile widened, "You're thinking very loudly."
"I'm trying to decide whether you're secretly running a criminal empire."
She laughed, the sound warm and genuine, "I can neither confirm nor deny that."
"That's exactly what someone running a criminal empire would say."
"Good point."
You were still trying to work out whether she was joking when headlights appeared at the curb, a sleek black Rolls Royce glided to a stop in front of you.
You blinked, once, twice.
The same woman stepped out from the driver's seat and without hesitation she walked around the vehicle and opened the rear door for you.
Your brain completely short circuited, Alexia seemed far more interested in your reaction than the car itself, "You look concerned."
"I'm standing outside a bar with a stranger whilst another opens the door of a Rolls Royce for me."
"Fair."
The woman remained waiting patiently as though this was all perfectly normal, which somehow made it stranger.
Alexia stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that the warmth of her presence settled beside you again. Then her hand found the small of your back, the touch wasn't possessive it was reassuring.
You looked up at her, the city lights reflected in her eyes, "Trust me?" she asked quietly.
The question should have been difficult, it wasn't not really, because despite the mystery, the unanswered questions and despite her being a complete stranger you met an hour ago you found yourself nodding.
Alexia's smile softened, "Good girl."
You rolled your eyes immediately, "Don't make it weird."
"Too late."
The woman holding the door looked suspiciously close to smiling, you pointed at her, "See? Even she's judging you."
Alexia glanced towards the driver, the driver instantly looked away, professional once more, "I pay her to pretend I'm charming."
You laughed, the sound escaped before you could stop it, Alexia's expression immediately brightened as though she'd won something, "That joke wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It wasn't."
"It was." Still smiling and despite your hesitation and better judgment, you ducked into the car. The interior was ridiculous, soft leather, ambient lighting, enough space to comfortably fit half the bar.
You slid across the seat trying very hard not to look impressed, trying and failing, a moment later Alexia climbed in beside you.
The door closed and the outside world vanished instantly, silence settled around you, it was private, comfortable and dangerously intimate.
The driver pulled away from the curb and as the city lights began sliding past the windows, you finally turned towards Alexia.
Alexia watched you for a long moment, her eyes so steady and unblinking it was impossible to decide if she was about to say something of consequence or if she was simply cataloguing which way your hair fell, whether you’d keep avoiding her gaze, how you were pressing your knees together under the hem of your dress. The car glided through the city, the silence between you both like a suspended breath.
Then, without warning, Alexia curved her hand around your jaw and kissed you.
There was no hesitation. No lean in, no shy, searching question in her eyes. One heartbeat you were staring forward at your own reflection in the privacy glass, the next you were tasting her: cold gin, salt from a half-remembered rim, something sweet you couldn’t place. She kissed the way she spoke, direct and unapologetic. Her lips were warm, soft but insistent, and her fingers splayed against the side of your neck, anchoring you in the leather-wrapped capsule of the car. It could have been rude if it hadn’t been so fast, so smooth, so exactly the right amount of pressure.
You froze, a breathless half second, not from shock, not exactly, but from the simple fact of being chosen, of being seen, and then immediately being claimed. Her mouth slid from yours to the corner of your jaw, then back again, as if she’d found the first taste promising and wanted to make absolutely sure. The confidence of it, the way Alexia didn’t bother with permission, only checked with pressure and the answering heat of your lips against hers it undid you like a single, practiced knot.
She pulled back, barely. Her forehead tipped against yours, the scent of her perfume mixing with your quickening breath. Close up, you could see the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the near invisible scar above her left eyebrow. Her pulse beat beneath your fingertips where your hands had landed, one against her shoulder, one clutching the lapel of her blazer.
“Too much?” she murmured, not even bothering to disguise her amusement.
You were supposed to say something witty, reassert some sense of control over the situation, but all you could muster was, “No. Not enough, actually.”
Alexia laughed, and the sound vibrated through her chest to yours. She kissed you again, slower this time, a measured escalation, her tongue flicking the seam of your mouth before she deepened it. She tasted like adrenaline, like the distilled sharpness of citrus and want. Your body answered before your mind caught up, and you leaned into her, hungry, desperate to make up for every kiss you hadn’t had before this one.
It became clear within minutes that Alexia’s mouth was not the only part of her that lived on the offensive. Her hand found your thigh again, sliding up, warm and greedy, and this time it made no pretense of stopping at polite borders. She gripped, squeezed gently, fingers kneading the soft muscle under your dress hem, as if confirming that you were real and here and entirely at her disposal.
Alexia’s hand drifted with the certainty of someone who had never once been denied. She pressed higher, fingers trailing over the impossible heat where your thighs met, the only barrier a thin band of cotton. The touch wasn’t tentative nothing about Alexia seemed to be, her palm settled at the apex of your legs, fingers closing with almost lazy possession.
The whole world funneled to a single point of contact, you barely registered that the city was flying by outside, that the woman driving the car was a living, breathing witness to the slow burn undoing happening in the back seat.
Alexia’s lips moved to your neck, the pressure of her mouth making you tilt your head back against the seat. She kissed the soft skin under your jaw, then lower, slow and insistent, until your whole body was a single receptive nerve ending. You tried to bite back the noise that wanted to escape when her fingers pressed in, tracing the shape of you through the fabric, but a traitorous gasp slipped out anyway.
Your eyes flew open and landed in the rearview mirror. The driver’s gaze met yours for a heartbeat, cool, unreadable, with the faintest ghost of a smile before she looked away. A flush of something shamed and thrilling ran through you.
“Alexia,” you whispered, meaning it as a warning, a plea, something. She paused, her lips at your ear, her hand unmoving but present, holding you hostage against your own body.
She followed your gaze to the mirror, her lips quirked up. “Cata,” she called, voice just loud enough to be heard over the car’s hush. Like she shouldn’t have had to ask.
“Yes, boss,” the woman replied, sliding a pair of earbuds into place, a low, thrumming music started, insistent, and a moment later, the privacy partition slid up, transforming the rear cabin into a cocoon.
Now it was only you and Alexia, and the velvet black of the car, and the hum of terrible possibility.
Alexia’s hand moved again, this time with no witnesses. She gathered the hem of your dress in her fist and slid her palm beneath, skin to skin. Her touch was purposeful, a slow, winding trail up your thigh until her fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. She lingered there, just barely touching, reading your whole body through the trembling in your legs.
She kissed you again, deeper now, her tongue a soft demand. One of her hands tangled in your hair, the other pressed into your cunt through the thin layer of fabric, fingers moving in an excruciating, perfect rhythm.
You arched into her, breath coming short and fast. She nipped at your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked, not as a tease but a genuine question, her voice ragged around the edges.
You nodded, probably too eagerly.
Her mouth traced a slow line from your throat to your collarbone, then back up to the soft skin behind your ear. "Lift," she murmured against it, barely louder than the hum of the car.
You obeyed without thinking, hips rising, and she drew your underwear down in one unhurried motion, leaving it somewhere forgotten around your calves.
The air hit you first, then her hand, her thumb found your clit with the same faultless confidence she brought to everything else, pressing once, firmly, before beginning slow, deliberate circles that made your breath stutter and your fingers curl against the leather seat.
Your head tipped back against the headrest as her fingers pressed in, slow and deliberate, two knuckles deep before pausing there, letting you feel the stretch of it, the unbearable fullness of almost. Her thumb kept its own time, unhurried, entirely indifferent to the stillness of her fingers and then, without withdrawing, they began to move, curling upward on each slow stroke, finding the soft spot of you from the inside.
The pace of it. The way her fingers explored with such calm, with such patient violence. It undid every prepared defence, all the quick answers you thought you’d have for this moment. Your hands went to her wrist, not to stop her but to anchor yourself, to make her real, the hard lines of her hand pressed so warm between your thighs.
The car blurred by city lights you barely registered the route, but the only place that mattered was here, in the tight private world of the backseat and the mess Alexia was making of your body. Her mouth returned to yours, rough this time, her tongue a slow demand, her breathing totally unlike the cool, precise woman she’d been at the bar.
You’d meant to perform better at this. You’d meant to be the kind of person who played hard to get, who made her work, made her wait. Instead, you were unraveling all over her hand, hips pressing up, head tipped back so you barely even saw her anymore, only felt the relentless, exacting motion of her fingers.
“Good?” she asked, voice a hoarse promise, lips brushing against your ear.
You couldn’t speak. You had to search for words, any words at all, but all that came out was a whimper. You clung to her shoulder, the soft wool of her jacket, as if something about the fabric could stabilise you. It didn’t.
Alexia withdrew her fingers, and you nearly whimpered at the loss until she brought her hand, glistening, to her own lips and sucked her fore and middle fingers into her mouth. Her eyes never left yours as she tasted you, and she smiled, a lazy, wicked thing, before she pressed her damp thumb to your lips and said, “Try.”
You did. You licked it, and her whole expression softened, she bit her own lip as if surprised.
“Jesus,” she said, and you felt every syllable like a bruise on your chest.
Alexia crowded closer, lips still parted from the last kiss. She tugged at your knee, insisting it fall open for her. You let it. She moved down the seat, somehow graceful in the confined space, until she knelt on the floor between your legs. There was a reverence to the way she looked at you then, a beat of assessment, the hot, clinical attention of someone memorising every square centimetre of bare skin and shiver.
The world was a dark blur outside the windows, the car eating the city block by block. Inside, only Alexia’s hands, her mouth, and the feverish heat pooling at the base of your spine.
She reached up, fingers spanning your thigh, and leaned in, lips grazing the sensitive skin just above your knee, a single deliberate brush that made every hair stand at attention. She trailed upward, slow as torture, kissing your inner thigh, then biting, just enough to leave a mark. You felt the indentation of her teeth long after she moved higher.
You didn’t dare look out the windows, certain the city would be watching, even though you both knew the glass was blacked out. All you could see was Alexia, her head haloed by the car’s ambient light, her eyes locked on yours as she kissed, licked, nipped her way toward the heat between your legs.
She hovered, a breath away from where you ached for her, and you could feel her exhale, warm and humid, her mouth finally, finally pressing in and up. The first pass of her tongue nearly made you convulse, a shock of sensation that stole your breath. She licked you slowly, methodically, hands holding your thighs apart, steady even as they trembled under her grip.
There was nothing gentle in the way she worked you open. She sucked, then licked, then sucked again, and when you gasped or moaned she’d smile, the vibration of it sending you higher. She was thorough, insistent, the kind of lover who wanted proof of her own effect, who liked to leave you shaky and overwhelmed and a little ruined.
You dug your hands into her hair, the silky strands fisting between your fingers, and she responded by moaning into you, the sound so raw and animal it short circuited your brain. Her tongue circled your clit, then pressed, then flicked so fast and so relentless that you lost track of time, of the world, of everything except the wet, obscene sounds and the mounting, unbearable pressure.
She slipped two fingers into you, the same ones that had made you fall apart already, and curled them just right, just as her mouth closed around you and sucked you hard enough to tear a cry from your chest.
Her tongue slid lower, firm and slow as a prayer, flattening along your clit until your vision shimmered at the edges. Then, a slick tease, she pressed the tip just inside you. She drew lazy, savouring circles with her tongue, working you open in increments so small it was almost agony, and when you dug your heel into the seat edge for leverage, she moaned as if you’d given her a gift.
You wanted to say something clever, something cutting, anything to keep this from feeling like pure, animal surrender, but Alexia stole every syllable from you, translating want into sensation, pleasure into pressure, until all you could do was gasp and cling. The world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the rough texture of the leather beneath your hips, the velvet slide of her tongue, and the steady, unrelenting rhythm she set with her fingers.
She alternated between licking you and fucking you with her tongue, one moment teasing the rim, the next thrusting deep enough you felt your whole pelvis lift off the seat. Her hands, palms broad and sure, held you open, anchored you so tight it was impossible to run, though your entire body wanted to arch away and into her at once. Each time you came close to shattering, she’d back off, tongue circling languidly, a slow drag that made you sob with frustration, then she’d return, hungry and insistent, as if she was intent on mapping you molecule by molecule.
You barely recognised the sounds coming out of your mouth, didn’t believe yourself capable of the high, desperate noises echoing off the car’s plush interior. Alexia ate you like she was starving, like the world had ended and all that was left was this, your body, her mouth, the heat and salt and slick of you. You felt the build start low, a gathering storm, your thighs trembling so hard you worried you’d break her grip.
She must have felt it, the way your pulse skyrocketed, because her tongue redoubled, fast and relentless over your clit, and when she pressed inside you again, it was with her whole mouth, her face buried so deep she could have been breathing you. You came so hard you saw a burst of white behind your eyelids, your hips jackknifing off the seat as you lost all sense of yourself, of her, of the car or the city or even your own name.
When it passed, you were boneless, melting back into the seat with a sound that was half laugh, half staggered sob. Alexia surfaced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes dark and almost tender.
"Lift," Alexia said, and you surfaced slowly, hands still trailing absently along your own calves, the word arriving a beat late. She was sliding your knickers back up your legs, matter of fact, almost tender. "What's your address? I'll have Cata drop you home."
You almost laughed. You had let this woman pull you into a blacked out car and come apart in her mouth, and yet something in you toyed at giving her your postcode. "Just drop me back at the bar." Alexia almost smiled, as if she’d expected that answer, maybe she had. Maybe this was the kind of thing she did on Fridays, collect women from dim bars, corral them into luxury vehicles, and see what they’d let her get away with before midnight, you only half cared. Your whole body still pulsed with spent energy, core tight and legs jelly weak, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak.
Alexia’s hands were smooth, methodical as she helped you gather yourself, dress tugged discreetly back into position, wrists steadied together momentarily. Not possessive, but careful, as if she knew exactly how fragile a person could be when they’d just let go of a lifetime’s worth of control in the span of a half hour. For a second you almost expected her to light you a cigarette.
“Cata?” Alexia called out after pressing a button near your head, as the divider slid down and the muted thrum of the city returned through her open window. “Back to Calle del Bruc, please.”
No one asked for clarification, Cata’s tone was even, automatic, “Yes, boss.”
Alexia looked at you sidelong, one corner of her mouth quirking in a private joke. “Don’t worry, there’s a shop at the corner if you need a tactical recovery snack.”
It hit you, belatedly, that you might actually be starving, “Don’t suppose you’d let me walk it off?”
“In those shoes?” Alexia made an exaggerated show of glancing at your feet. “You’d make it one block.”
She had a point. Your heels dug into the thick carpet, ankles wobbling, and there was something indecent about offering the stranger in a tailored suit this much leverage over your literal ability to stand, but you didn’t hate it. Instead, a laugh tumbled out, unguarded and light, and Alexia softened to it, slow, genuine, the sort of smile that only happened when she wasn’t trying for effect.
“Okay,” you said, “I’ll take the ride.”
Alexia stayed angled toward you, every line of her posture open, the pants of her suit stretched tight over muscled thighs, her fingers steepled together like someone interviewing for a position only you had no doubt who was being sized up for potential.
“Is this where I’m supposed to say something clever?” you asked.
She shrugged, not breaking eye contact, “Only if you want to.”
You could feel the blush return, but you didn’t try to hide it this time. “I don’t know if I can outdo you.”
“Maybe that’s not the point.” Alexia’s tone was different, now, less tease, more invitation. “Maybe you just enjoy the ride.”
The car settled into a red light outside a late night panadería. Neon flickered against the window, painting the interior in pinks and blues. Alexia tilted her head, as if waiting for you to look away. You didn’t.
Soon the club the night started in came back into view, your hand reached for the handle before you could the door was open Cata standing tall above you in your seat.
You got out from the car, legs unsteady on the pavement, almost forgetting the state of your own body, the way heat still flickered up your thighs with every movement. Cata gave you a single nod, bored or respectful, you couldn’t tell, then ducked back inside, returning to whatever in cabin playlist she’d engineered for herself.
The street seemed too bright, the laughter spilling from the bar at double volume, the world now in high contrast after the hush and luxury of the car. Alexia moved over into the seat you had been in, she looked as immaculate as she had hours ago, utterly untouchable, except for the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth, nearly the same colour as your lipstick.
You wanted to say something, anything to break the spell of the night, but the words were stuck behind your tongue. You were suddenly aware of what it meant to be seen together this way, to be half dressed and full of teeth marks, to have been made open so thoroughly and so quickly you barely remembered your own rules for how moments like this should play out.
“I didn’t get your name,” Alexia said, into the silence between you.
The breeze hit first. You folded your arms against it, against her, against the whole unbearable composure of her still sitting there. “I don’t think that matters much now, does it.” Not a question, you held her gaze one beat longer than was wise. “Bye... Boss.”
She smiled at your quip, you saw it fall the moment you turned away.
The bar door was loud and bright and full of strangers. Behind you, a car door closed, and the engine pulled away down the street as you stepped back into the place it all started.
The Rolls Royce merged silently back into the late night traffic, for the first few minutes, nobody spoke.
Cata's hands rested confidently on the steering wheel, eyes scanning mirrors as much as the road ahead. Years of driving for Alexia had taught her that silence was rarely uncomfortable.
Tonight, however, it felt... different, she caught Alexia's reflection in the rearview mirror still looking out of the window, watching the bar disappear into the distance.
"You want me to turn around?" Cata asked eventually.
Alexia didn't answer immediately, "No." A beat passed, "...Keep driving."
Cata's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Interesting.
💪🏼
The wrought iron gates rolled open before the car reached them.
The estate beyond was more fortress than home, hidden behind centuries old stone walls and towering cypress trees. Cameras tracked the Rolls Royce as it wound up the long drive before stopping beneath the portico.
Before Cata could step out to open the door, the front door swung open.
"About time." Patri bounded down the front steps wearing an oversized hoodie, a packet of crisps tucked under one arm, "We were taking bets."
Cata sighed, "I told you not to say any-"
"You also bet." Patri grinned, "And I won."
Alexia climbed from the car, smoothing invisible creases from her jacket, "What exactly did you win?"
Patri held up a handful of notes triumphantly, "Mapi said you'd be back in an hour."
"I said two," Ingrid called from the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.
"I guessed you'd bring someone home." Patri looked dramatically offended, "Which, for the record, would've won if you hadn't decided to be mysterious for once."
Alexia shot her an unimpressed look, "You're all exhausting."
"We know," Mapi replied, appearing beside Ingrid with a mug of coffee in hand, "That's why you keep us."
Inside, the house smelled unmistakably of fresh bread, garlic and slow cooked tomatoes, Ingrid smiled warmly as Alexia stepped through the doorway, "I kept your dinner warm."
Alexia loosened the top button of her suit jacket, "You always do, thank you"
That finally earned a small smile, the kitchen was already occupied, Misa sat at the island cleaning one of the training pistols they used in the private range beneath the house.
She glanced up briefly, "No bullet holes?"
"No."
"No stab wounds?"
"No."
"Disappointing."
Alexia rolled her eyes, "It was a quiet evening."
From the corner of the room came a snort, everyone turned, Pina was leaning against the counter, methodically sharpening a knife with the kind of concentration most people reserved for crossword puzzles.
Without looking up she asked, "So. Was she worth being late for the meeting you called?"
Silence, even Patri stopped eating, Mapi slowly lowered her coffee, Ingrid looked between them all, Alexia reached into the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water."I don't know what you're talking about."
Six voices answered simultaneously, "Boss."
Alexia unscrewed the cap, "I met someone."
Patri slammed both palms onto the counter,"I KNEW IT!"
"You owe me fifty euros," Jana said without missing a beat.
Patri groaned dramatically before fishing money from her pocket, "Worst night ever."
"You literally won the first bet."
"I've now lost the important one."
Mapi folded her arms, "So you met someone..." Alexia nodded, "...and?"
"There isn't an 'and.'"
"There is always an 'and,'" Misa replied.
Alexia took a long drink of water, hoping it would somehow delay the interrogation, but it didn't.
Pina finally looked up from the knife she'd been sharpening for Ingrid after complaining none of the knives she used for cooking was sharp enough, "What was her name?"
Alexia froze just for a fraction of a second, "...I don't know."
The room fell silent, Patri blinked, "You..."
Mapi blinked, "...don't know?" Mapi finished for Patri
Even Cata turned around, "You didn't ask?"
Alexia rested the bottle on the counter, "I did."
"And?"
"She didn't tell me."
Patri stared, then burst into hysterical laughter, "Oh, this is priceless."
Mapi joined in, "The great Alexia. The woman who has politicians returning missed calls. The woman whose enemies cross continents to avoid her...got rejected by a woman whose name she doesn't even know."
"I wasn't rejected."
"No?" Mapi grinned, "Then what's her name?"
Alexia's silence answered for her, Patri was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, "I love her already."
Ingrid hid a smile behind her mug.
Cata folded her arms, "So what did she call you? If you didn’t find the time to get names"
Alexia couldn't stop the smallest smile from tugging at her lips, "'Boss.'"
That only made everyone laugh harder, Pina slid the newly sharpened knife onto the counter and, for the first time all evening, smiled, "Interesting."
Alexia looked over, "What?"
Pina shrugged, "You've spent years making people fear you." She tilted her head thoughtfully, "And tonight..." A knowing smile spread across her face, "...someone walked away."
The laughter around the kitchen faded, Alexia found herself looking toward the dark windows overlooking the grounds.
She could still picture you disappearing through the door without looking back, without giving your name, or asking who Alexia really was.
For perhaps the first time in years, Alexia realised she wanted something she couldn't simply command, buy, or intimidate into her life.
She wanted another chance encounter, that prospect was far more unsettling than any rival family waiting in the shadows.
💪🏼
The marina shimmered beneath the last of the evening sun, rows of yachts bobbed gently against their moorings, each one more extravagant than the last, but they all paled in comparison to the one looming at the end of the dock.
You stopped walking., "...That's a yacht?"
Lily looked over her shoulder, grinning, "What?"
"That's not a yacht." You pointed towards the floating palace”, "That's a small country."
She laughed, "I know." The thing was absurd, multiple decks, floor to ceiling windows reflecting the orange sky, crew moving efficiently across polished teak decks.
You'd never seen anything like it outside of films, "Remind me," you said, tearing your eyes away for a second, "how exactly do you know someone with a yacht this size?"
"I don't."
You frowned, "You don't?"
Lily shook her head as if that was the least surprising part of the evening, "You know Jana? The one who comes into the coffee shop every morning?"
You hummed, "The one you think I don't know you're sleeping with... that Jana?"
Lily shot you a look, "I'm not sleeping with Jana."
"Her car is outside at the end of your shift four nights a week."
"Coincidence."
"There’s an extra toothbrush at your flat."
"Allegedly."
"You accidentally called her 'babe' while steaming milk."
"I was tired."
You snorted, "So... definitely that Jana."
Lily sighed dramatically, "Fine." A beat, "Maybe."
You bumped her shoulder, "I knew it."
She rolled her eyes, "Anyway, Jana invited me and told me to bring a friend, so I assume she knows whoever owns this ridiculous thing."
"Comforting."
"It'll be fine." You weren't entirely convinced.
The closer you got, the bigger the yacht seemed, people in expensive clothes laughed on the upper deck, champagne catching the fading light, staff moved with quiet precision. Everything about it screamed money, old money, the sort that never had to tell anyone it existed.
Lily was already digging through her handbag, "Found it."
She held up a sleek black invitation with gold lettering before presenting it to a member of staff stationed at the bottom of the boarding ramp.
The woman scanned it, smiled politely and stepped aside, "Enjoy your evening."
Lily flashed you an excited grin, "See? Easy." She bounded halfway up the ramp before realising you hadn't followed, "Y/N?"
You had turned, distracted by movement beside the entrance, your stomach dropped. No...
Standing a few feet away, dressed in a tailored black suit with an earpiece tucked discreetly behind one ear, was a woman you recognised instantly.
Cata. She recognised you at exactly the same moment, there wasn't the slightest flicker of surprise on her face however. Just that same unreadable expression she'd worn outside the Rolls Royce.
Your heartbeat picked up, she walked towards you with measured steps, professional and controlled.
When she stopped in front of you, neither of you spoke, not at first, "Can I check your bag?" Her tone was courteous, almost gentle.
You swallowed, "Yeah... of course."
You slipped the strap from your shoulder and unzipped the bag, holding it open.
Cata's inspection was quick and methodical, she barely disturbed anything inside before stepping back.
For one impossible second, your eyes met again. Did she actually remember you?
Of course she remembered you. She remembered everything.
She gave a single nod, "Enjoy your night."
You managed a small smile, "Thanks."
She stepped aside and you started walking, one foot in front of the other trying very hard to appear completely normal.
Your thoughts, however, had other ideas, Cata, not someone who merely resembled her, the same woman, the same driver, the same bodyguard, the same quiet, observant presence who had watched you climb out of a blacked out Rolls Royce only a few weeks earlier.
Your pulse refused to settle, there were only two possibilities.
Either Cata worked security for multiple wealthy people...or this yacht belonged to Alexia.
You weren't entirely sure which possibility made you more nervous.
"Y/N!" Lily called from further up the gangway, "You coming or what?"
You blinked yourself back to the present, "Yeah."
You forced your legs to keep moving, each step carried you further onto the yacht. Further toward answers you weren't sure you actually wanted and despite every sensible instinct telling you to turn around a small, traitorous part of you hoped with embarrassing intensity that Alexia was somewhere on board.
💪🏼
The upper deck hummed with effortless luxury, music drifted from hidden speakers, low enough that conversations never had to compete with it. Crystal glasses caught the evening sun, laughter rolled across the decking as guests wandered between the bar, the plunge pool and the shaded seating areas.
At the centre of it all sat Alexia, one ankle rested across the opposite knee, an untouched glass of whiskey balanced loosely in her hand.
She looked exactly as she always did perfectly composed and perfectly in control. It didn't seem to matter that half the yacht revolved around her, women drifted in and out of conversation with her, each one impossibly beautiful.
One leaned against the arm of her chair, laughing at something Alexia had said that wasn’t even funny.
Another perched on the edge of the sunbed beside her, making no secret of the fact she was trying to catch Alexia's eye.
Someone else appeared with two fresh drinks, offering one with a hopeful smile. Alexia thanked her politely, nothing more, it hadn't gone unnoticed.
Patri watched another failed attempt and leaned towards Mapi, "That makes..." She counted under her breath, "...eight."
Mapi didn't even look up from her beer, "Nine."
"The blonde by the pool doesn't count."
Across from them, Ingrid laughed quietly, shaking her head, "They'll keep trying."
"They always do," Misa muttered.
Alexia, blissfully ignoring the commentary surrounding her love life, took another sip of her drink.
She wasn't listening to the women competing for her attention, she was listening to the sea, the engines, the rhythm of the yacht beneath her feet.
Then something changed, not the music or the conversation, the atmosphere, someone approaching quickly.
Alexia lifted her head, Cata, she rarely hurried, which meant something had happened. Without waiting to be acknowledged, Cata crossed the deck, weaving effortlessly between guests until she reached Alexia's chair.
"Boss."
Alexia set her glass down, Cata leaned in, speaking quietly into her ear, the words lasted barely three seconds.
Alexia's expression changed instantly not dramatically, anyone who didn't know her would have missed it, but the people around her knew every tiny shift in expression she'd ever made.
"Bring her to me." Alexia picked her whiskey back up, settling into her chair as though the conversation were already over.
Cata didn't move. "I anticipated that. So I went to find her first." A pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable. "I can’t find her"
Alexia turned her head slowly, the glass pausing at her lips, "Then keep looking."
Cata stepped back with a single nod, "Yes, boss," and was gone, threading back through the crowd with the same quiet efficiency she'd arrived with. Alexia brought the whiskey to her mouth, and whatever had just crossed her face crossed it no longer. Across the seating area, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, and Misa exchanged a glance. Not one of them said a word. They knew better to.
💪🏼
You were grateful for the relative anonymity of the bar that was built into the main deck, a sunken space filled with expensive people who all seemed to know, or want to know, each other. Lily had already vanished into a small knot of women near the bowling alley, because, of course, there was a bowling alley on this ship and you could see her holding court, basking in the attention of anyone who mistook her accent for novelty.
You hovered, uncertain. You tried to make yourself small, blending into the pale curve of the banquette near the glass doors, but every so often you'd catch eyes on you, some tracing the line of your outfit, some evaluating you for a social transaction you didn’t understand.
When you realised you’d been staring at the same drink for ten minutes, you made yourself get up and cross to the rail. The air was spiced with salt and ozone, the city’s skyline had already begun to blue out in the dusk, and the lights on the next yacht over blinked like landlocked constellations.
You felt aimless, suddenly, remembering the rush in the car, the way your own body had become unfamiliar, a stranger’s for a little while. You wondered if Alexia was here, if she ever thought about you, even as a punchline. If she was the kind of person who remembered or the kind who always needed newness.
You tried to picture her among these people, she wouldn’t be laughing in the way you saw the women laughing here. She wouldn’t be smiling for the camera or parading a new girl on her arm. She would probably be quiet, watching, drinking something brown and expensive while running a thousand unspoken calculations.
The thought made you smile, which was, mercifully, the exact moment someone cleared their throat beside you.
“You need to come with me” a low, familiar voice spoke.
You froze, then turned, Cata stood there in her suit, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable. "Took her longer than I expected," you said and something shifted at the corner of Cata's mouth, gone before it fully arrived.
"Follow me." She turned and walked, not waiting.
The upper deck was quieter, the music from below reduced to a low pulse through the floor. Fewer people up here, and the ones who were watched you the way people watch someone walk into the wrong room. You stayed close behind Cata.
"Boss." Cata announced you without ceremony.
"Kiss arse," you muttered thinking she wouldn’t hear you, evidently her hear was better than you gave her credit for.
Cata looked over her shoulder, “Speak when spoken to"
You held her gaze, "Yes, boss," you said, borrowing her own phrase back, and watched something that might have been respect flicker across her face before she turned fully toward you, close enough that you felt the shift in air.
"You have quite the smart mouth."
You let yourself smirk, "Thank you."
"Cata." Alexia's voice came from somewhere behind her, low and unhurried, and you felt it move through you before you even found her face. "Let her be." Cata held your eyes a moment longer, then stepped aside with a single nod, and the space she left open framed Alexia exactly as though it had always been arranged that way.
Alexia's eyes moved down your body and back up. You became aware, suddenly, of your shorts and tank top and the way you'd heard boat party and dressed for the weather instead of whatever this was.
“Come sit”
Your feet didn't move, "Do I have to?" The words were out before you could stop them, and the silence that followed had a texture to it. Across the deck, four heads turned in unison, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, Misa each of them suddenly very interested in you for the first time all evening.
“No” Alexia sipped her drink, you're guess of expensive brown liquid correct, “I’d like it if you did though”
You moved, then. What else could you do? You crossed the deck, conscious of every pair of eyes some curious, some dismissive, some openly assessing. Your body felt a half step behind you, as if your limbs needed reminders to carry out the simplest commands.
You reached Alexia, and even sitting she radiated a tethered energy, a gravity that made the upholstered benches and overfull glasses and even the Mediterranean itself seem like a backdrop for her benefit.
You took the seat she gestured to, two places down from her rather than the empty one directly at her side. It felt less like keeping your distance and more like making a point, though what that point was you couldn’t have explained. For a moment she didn’t look at you, her profile cut a sharp line against the glow of the city behind her, hair slicked back, lashes heavy. You took a breath, then another, and tried to remember how talking worked.
Alexia broke the silence first, “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, as if this were her own birthday party and you were the surprise.
“I wasn’t really given the option,” you replied glancing to Cata, and watched a hint of pleasure arc across Alexia’s mouth.
“I run a tight ship,” she said, though you gathered from the yacht, the suits, the entire performance, that ‘ship’ was a flexible concept for her.
Someone behind you snorted, you glanced back. The four women at the other end of the seating area each with a drink, each angled for maximum eavesdrop were practically vibrating. One said something under her breath Alexia’s gaze flicked her direction and the group fell silent, as if their boss had snapped a leash taut.
You turned back to her, heart pinwheeling, but your hands were steady. “So what’s this?” you asked, gesturing at the yacht, the party, the entire orchestration, “Just another Friday for you?”
“Yes,” she said, as if finding the question quaint, “But not for you?” Her eyes didn’t blink as she asked it.
You shook your head, made yourself relax into the plush seat, “Where I come from, the closest thing to a boat party is watching old men play dominoes on the beach.”
She considered that, head tilted, as if calibrating how much of it was a joke. Then she smiled not the predatory smile from the car, but something private, almost delighted, “I would like to see that,” she said.
You almost said, “You wouldn’t,” but stopped yourself. Alexia already knew what she liked and what she didn’t, she didn’t need anyone to tell her.
A server appeared from nowhere, placing a drink in front of you gin, your favourite, garnished with a literal flower. You raised an eyebrow, “You have people following me?”
Alexia’s face resembled perfect innocence, “We have a good bar staff,” she said.
You sipped, it was, of course, the best thing you’d ever tasted and not what you had been served earlier. You allowed yourself a second sip before returning to the conversation at hand. “Do you always get what you want?”
Alexia didn’t answer right away. She looked at you for a while, fingers tracing a lazy orbit around the lip of her glass “Statistically,” she said, “more often than not.”
You scoffed, “I bet you hate losing.”
She grinned, small and sharp, “I prefer not to waste time on impossible things.” You liked that, or maybe you hated it. Either way, your blood ran a little faster, the gin burning a path down your throat.
“Why did you want me here?” The question surprised even you, the boldness of it, the edge, but Alexia seemed to enjoy it.
She set her glass down, leaned back in her chair, “Curiosity,” she said. “I think better in company.”
You looked around, “You seem to have plenty of company.”
She followed your gaze, the three women at the bar, the servers and silent security detail, the handful of guests now half watching the two of you from the pool, “Most people,” she said, voice dropping a little, “never say anything interesting to me.” She watched you, as if to see what you would do with that. “I like that you do.”
You felt the flush rising again, but met her eyes until she blinked firs, “That’s not a high bar.”
She laughed, and the tension in her posture eased a notch. Behind her, Patri leaned closer to Mapi, whispering “Wait, is she flirting with her?” and both burst into silent laughter.
Alexia ignored them, but you did not miss the flicker of annoyance that crossed her brow before it smoothed flat again.
“So what do you talk about,” you asked, “when you’re not being entertained by strangers?”
She looked out at the water, considered, “Business, usually. Or Tv shows. Or why Catalan food is objectively superior to all other food and nobody wants to admit it.”
“I’ll admit it,” you said, “as long as you never make me eat a snail.”
It was meant as a joke, but Alexia’s face lit up as if you’d just offered a secret handshake. “Deal,” she said. “We’ll start with something easy. Croquetas.”
“Croquetas are not easy,” you said, remembering the last time you’d tried to make them, oil splattering across your forearms, half the batch dissolving into a kind of béchamel soup.
Alexia raised her glass in a small salute, “They are if you know the trick.”
“I bet you know a lot of tricks,” you said, before you could stop yourself. She looked at you with a look that could turn concrete to steam, and you felt a jolt of adrenaline, as if you’d taken a dare you never meant to accept.
“I do,” she said, very quietly, her voice dissolving the space between you. “Would you like to learn one?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The urge to say yes was so loud it drowned out every other sound on the deck, but that was not what you said. You said, “Show me.”
She stood, unhurried, glass in hand. “Take a walk with me.” You followed, aware of every person watching, of Cata’s silent shadow two steps behind, and of the way your heart pounded against your ribs, trying to keep pace.
She led you to the prow of the yacht, past the glass walled gym and the helipad, out onto a private viewing deck where the rest of the party was a distant rumour. There was no one else up here, the wind caught your hair and the edges of Alexia’s shirt, untucking it slightly, exposing a bare inch of stomach that glowed under the lighting.
She leaned against the rail, folded her arms loosely, and looked at you as if waiting for the next move. For the first time, you realised she was maybe as uncertain as you were about how the rest of this would go.
You cleared your throat, “So, what do you want to know?”
She gestured to the empty air between you, as if the night itself was the question, “Start with something true.”
You swallowed, tried not to think of her mouth or the hum of the car, or the fact that you’d spent weeks replaying her name in your head until it made almost no sense. “I’m terrible at parties,” you said, surprising yourself with the confession.
She smiled, not in the predatory way, but with a slow warmth that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, “You’re doing better than most.”
You shrugged, suddenly shy, “That’s only because I don’t care what these people think.”
“Is that so?” she stepped closer, angling her body to block the wind, “Does it matter what I think?”
You considered it for a second, then, “Yes.”
She nodded as if she’d known it already, stepped forward until you were pinned by the intensity of her, the hush between your bodies as taut as cello wire. “I’ve been trying not to think about you,” she said, as if reading the lines of your own private screenplay. “It hasn’t worked.”
A laugh caught in your throat, unsteady, “I figured you would have plenty of distractions.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she extended her hand, palm up, inviting, and after a moment’s hesitation you took it. She squeezed, her grip warm and dry, and drew you closer until your hips touched the railing and the heat of her arm pressed yours.
“I lied, before,” Alexia said, voice pitched low. “I did want you to tell me your name. I still do.” You stared at her, the way the city lights painted bars of gold and blue along her jaw, the sincerity unguarded in her eyes. Her thumb traced the line of your wrist, patient, “You don’t have to.”
For a moment you were six years old, hiding under the kitchen table from your mother’s temper, unheard and unseen until you wanted to be. The urge to withhold was a muscle, one you’d trained since girlhood. But here, in the wind and the hush and the unyielding steadiness of Alexia’s hand, you wanted the opposite.
You told her your name. It came out quieter than you meant, small, like you had to try it out for both of you at once.
She repeated it, tried its weight on her tongue, then, “It suits you,” like it was something valuable, a keepsake she’d been hoping for.
Her thumb lingered, the movement slowing as she watched your reaction, then she leaned in, brushed your cheek with the side of her knuckle. For a second, you thought she might kiss you again, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for it, or the kind of night spent in the blast radius of Alexia’s attention.
Instead, she let the moment stretch, the two of you suspended in the hush of approaching midnight, city lights flickering, the yacht’s gentle sway pulling you both out to sea, metaphorically or otherwise.
You said it again, your own name, like maybe this time it would count more.
She smiled, wider now, the kind of smile that could build bridges or break ribs, and for a moment you saw the edges of the woman you’d met in the car, the one with a whole private world hidden behind calculated calm and jokes that always landed halfway between tease and dare.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and you didn’t know if she was talking about the name or simply standing here beside her without stepping away.
Behind you, the city was already a collection of distant lights. Up here, you didn’t feel watched, or judged, or anything except anchored to the spot. You’d forgotten what that was like, to be in a place and not want to be anywhere else.
You leaned on the railing. Alexia joined you, her shoulder pressed to yours in a way you didn’t hate. She looked at the water, then at you, something thoughtful shading her face. “What do you want, really?” she asked, and for a split second you didn’t know if she meant here, now, on this deck, or in the cosmic sense.
You thought of your answer, surprised at how easy it was, “I want to do something that isn’t about what anyone else wants.”
Alexia’s gaze flickered, as if she’d been waiting for that, “And what would that look like?” Her voice was softer, the competitive edge blunted by something that felt damn close to hope.
You considered the question. There was a time you would’ve answered with the first clever thing to come to mind, but now, wind in your face, her gaze locked on yours, you went for honesty. “I don’t know yet,” you said, “But I think I’d like to find out.”
She nodded, as if this was the best answer she’d ever heard.
You looked at her, really looked, and realised that for all her show and sharpness she was just as curious about the next step as you were. “Show me a trick, then,” you said, and her face split wide, delighted.
“I was making an innuendo”
“What makes you think i didn’t know that?” She was closer now, her face a question. For a long moment all you heard was the wind rushing past the railing and the hollow thump of your heart under your ribs.
She leaned in, her lips finding yours as if the answer to every riddle was hidden in your mouth. This time the kiss was the opposite of the car, no performance, no urgency, a long slow hush that pulled at your bones. She kissed you like she wanted to remember every detail, taste every secret, build the anticipation to a point so bright it burned through all the layers you hid yourself under.
When it broke, she kept her face close to yours, breathing in the same inch of air. "You going to leave just as quick this time," she said, and you had to laugh, because you recognised your own pattern even as she named it.
"Maybe I like the chase," you said, and she traced her fingertip along your jaw, not quite smiling.
"Me too."
The world fell away, the city, the yacht, the crowd, until it was just you and her and the pressure of her hand against your lower back. Alexia drew you in until your hips rested together, her body angled around yours like a shield. You felt something unclench in your chest. The wind lashed at your hair, and she smoothed it behind your ear with unnecessary care.
You could see now that nothing about her was casual, not really. Every gesture, from the careless way she drank to the way she held you, was a tic of discipline learned so early it became invisible. She was always running a calculation, how much to reveal, how much to risk, how close to get before she startled herself into retreat.
You didn't pull away. Instead, you asked, "What now.. Boss?"
She smirked, let her hands drift down your arms, fingers trailing heat, "Sometimes," she said, "the trick is there isn't one."
You felt her smile against your cheek, the slow, coiling satisfaction of a plan coming together. Then her hands were at the backs of your thighs, and in one smooth motion, she scooped you up, your legs reflexively circling her hips. You laughed, startled and delighted, but the sound dissolved when she pressed you into the wall of a stairwell, her mouth capturing yours, hard and slick with intent.
You clung to her, fingers threaded in the fine hair at her nape, only distantly aware of the world beyond her, the city a smear of colour in the porthole window, the thudding bass of the party below now just a private drumline for the two of you. She kissed you with a kind of greedy discipline, her mouth coaxing yours open, teeth gentle but insistent, tongue sliding hot against yours until you forgot to breathe.
She carried you down, footfalls muffled by expensive carpeting, the darkness pressing in close and intimate. At the bottom of the stairs, she manoeuvred you through a heavy door before letting it swing shut behind you. The click of the lock was a perfect, surgical sound. You were alone, the hush of the room thick and absolute.
She set you down your back thudding softly onto a mattress that could have slept four. She loomed over you, all dress shirt and precision lines, the heat of her body radiating over your own. You reached for her, and she let you, gathering your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head on the bed, her mouth returning to yours, then to your neck, then lower, each kiss a claim.
You arched into her, thighs falling open, and she slid between them, grinding in slow, deliberate pulses that made you whimper. She was all pressure and rhythm, the fabric of her trousers rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, each movement a study in controlled violence.
She never let up, never released your wrists, just moved her mouth lower, teeth scraping lightly at your collarbone, then the edge of your breast peaking out the side of your tank top. She shifted, stripping you carefully, exposing you to the cool air and to her.
She took her time then, as if mapping your body for later use, hands and mouth and tongue leaving a trail of heat from your ribs to your hips to the inside of your knee. She was patient, so patient, the kind of patience that only made you want her more, until you were writhing beneath her, pleading wordlessly for her to close the final distance.
She did, eventually. She knelt between your legs and slid her hands up, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of your pelvic bone before pressing your knees wider. Her mouth was a question, and your answer was in the way your back arched, the way your hands found her hair and pulled. She licked slow at first, almost lazy, but when you gasped, she smiled into you, then licked again, harder, faster, tongue and fingers working in unison until your vision went white and the only thing you felt was her mouth, her tongue, the burning pleasure that built and broke, built and broke, until you unravelled so violently you nearly sobbed her name.
Alexia gave you no room to recover. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gone almost black, hair a mess from your grip. She slid off the bed to her feet, unhurried, pulling you to the edge with one hand under your arm.
She then paused to look at you really look, as though you were something rare she’d found washed up on the sand. You lay there, breathless, skin prickling with the rush of exposure, and for a second you wondered if she’d make you wait for it, if she’d force you to beg. But she only smiled, a crooked, open hunger, and slowly began to work open the buttons of her shirt from top to bottom slowly.
She wore nothing underneath, the sight was enough to make your mouth go dry, the lines of her body sharp and golden under the room’s dim light. She was sculpted, almost severe, the kind of body that came from discipline and war with herself. She stood at the edge of the bed, letting you stare, and when you reached for her, she didn’t slap your hand away, but caught it, kissed your wrist, and pressed your palm to her toned stomach.
“Good?” she asked.
You nodded, unable to manage a syllable.
“Want more?”
Your voice was ragged, “Yes.”
She bent to kiss you, slow and exploratory, her whole weight pressing you into the mattress. She tasted of whiskey and salt, and her hands roamed your body as if memorising every detail for later. When she broke the kiss, she nipped your bottom lip, then traced her tongue along the seam of your mouth, teasing until you were shaking with want.
“I have a strap,” she murmured, voice rough with intent. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded, throat tight. Your gaze locked onto her as she turned toward the dresser, the drawer slid open with a whisper, and her fingers brushed against the leather, the buckles, the polished metal. She lifted it out like it was something sacred, something dangerous.
You watched, breath shallow, as she stepped out of her trousers, the fabric pooling at her ankles before she kicked them aside. Her underwear followed, black lace discarded without ceremony. The strap was already in her hands, the harness fitting snug against her hips with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. The way she adjusted the straps, fingers skillful, movements precise made your pulse hammer in your throat. There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Just the quiet authority of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
Your lungs locked when she turned, when the mattress dipped under her weight, when her knees bracketed your skull like the jaws of something beautiful and inevitable. The words came low, scraped raw, “I want your tongue.” You obeyed without thought, extending it flat, exposed, a living offering.
Then her hips began their movement, deliberate, her pressing the tip on your tongue. Each roll of her body drew a slow, wet path from the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, her breath hitching when you flicked instinctively against her, a betrayal of control neither of you acknowledged.
You watched her hips move, the liquid confidence there, the way she didn’t treat you like a prop but like an accomplice, an equal participant in whatever this was between the two of you. She made a small, approving sound as you adjusted angle, depth, pressure, all of it on instinct, as if your own body ran algorithms to anticipate what she’d like most.
She kept her hand in your hair, not to force or dominate, but to feel each trembling, hungry movement you made. The slick, silicone weight of her slid over your tongue, filled your mouth, and each time your lips dove deeper, the muscles of her legs tensed around your head, thighs caging you in the dark. Her breath came ragged, every inhale a shudder that vibrated through her skin to yours, her composure cracked and light poured through the seams.
She looked down at you, hair falling across one cheek, brows knit in focus, an expression you’d never seen on her before. It was completely unguarded, almost raw. The knowledge that you had done this unravelled the perfect Alexia, lit you up from the inside. You doubled down, hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, letting her fuck the softness of your mouth at her own pace.
She started slow, a testing roll of her hips, but soon she found the rhythm she liked, thrust, grind, retreat each stroke making her breath catch at the top, mouth slack and beautiful. You gripped her ass, pulled her closer, and Alexia let her head tip back, a perfect, silent moan written across her throat, the line of her jaw sharp under the pressure.
"Jesus," she muttered, the word both a warning and a surrender. You took her deeper, feeling the fullness in your mouth, the slight burn at the corners of your jaw. She liked that, liked it even more when your breath came short and needy. Every time you tried for air, she’d slow, let you catch it, then start again, showing you that patience you’d already learned from her hands and her tongue.
The world narrowed to the taste and the weight of her, the shuddering in her thighs, the salty sweat on your tongue, the quiet, desperate noises that slipped out of her despite every attempt to restrain them. You lived for those noises, for the messy, unprofessional honesty of them.
Her hands cradled your head gentle, then rough, then gentle again. At one point she cupped your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge, and you nearly broke from how careful she was, even when fucking your mouth. Every inch of her screamed confidence, but the way she held your face, the way she watched you, none of it was cruel. You realised then, in the dark, that you wanted her to break, to lose every scrap of composure with you.
You forced your eyes open, met her gaze, and watched the exact moment her control snapped. She swore, a soft Catalan curse, and pumped into your mouth with a rhythm that was almost punishing, almost needy. You let her, relaxed your jaw, took her as deep as you could and then further. The base of the harness kissed your lips, the heavy drag of it forcing your tongue flat and your eyes watering, but you didn’t stop. You gagged, for real this time, an involuntary spasm that made her flinch like she might pull away, but you gripped her hips tighter, pushed back, let the embarrassment burn through every inch of you and transform into something shameless.
She watched you, transfixed. You knew it wasn’t about dominance or humiliation, Alexia was too careful, too precise for that. It was about proof, about seeing how much of her you’d take, how much you wanted, how much you could stand to bear for the taste and feel of her. You blinked tears from your lashes, swallowed around her, and when the next wave hit, you welcomed it, the fullness and the ache, the sweet stretch of being bruised open for her.
She rocked her hips, short and sharp, a rhythm you felt all the way to your core, and with each pass she said your name, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a growl. You lost yourself in the sound of it, in the heat, in the pure intent of her body moving with yours, for you, because of you.
Eventually her pace faltered, hips slowing, and she dragged herself out, slow and slick. The silicone glistened, your spit threading in lines between you and the tip, and she wiped it on your tongue, a final, deliberate press. You licked your lips, Alexia smirked down at you, “Atta girl”
Your hands found her thighs, the muscle there dense and unyielding under your palms. You traced upward, over the curve of her ass, the harness straps cutting neat lines across it, then up and over her hip bones, then the chiseled marble of her abdomen, each ridge rising to meet your fingertips as they climbed.
Her breasts were softer than the rest of her, a contrast that made you pause, palming her breasts, and you flicked your thumb across a nipple. It hardened instantly, and the noise she made was almost a laugh, almost a threat. You rolled it, pinched, rolled again, and caught the way her jaw clenched, the way her hips rocked forward in reflex.
The cock bobbed just inches from your mouth, shining, and you licked it again, slow, letting the tip bump your lower lip, then your cheek, then your tongue. You looked up to see Alexia watching you really watching, pupils huge, face flushed with the kind of hunger you’d never had directed at you before.
You grinned up at her, hands sliding down her thighs to brace yourself and guide her backwards until, you sat up, chest to chest with her, and held her gaze as you wrapped a hand around the length of her with the other you encouraged her to lay back. You put your leg over her hips and guided it between your legs. You were still shaking, still slick, still wide open from before, but the pressure of the harness against you sent a fresh bolt of heat through your entire body. You lined the cock up, rolled your hips down, and took the whole length in one, trembling motion.
Alexia groaned, and you felt her hands grip your waist, holding you steady as you started to move. The first few strokes were slow, measured, you both watching the way her cock disappeared inside you, the way your bodies slotted together.
She let you set the pace, her hands resting on the small of your back, just above the swell of your ass, anchoring you in place. You started to ride her, slow at first, then faster, watching her face for every twitch, as you bounced on her lap.
Your hands found her shoulders, and you braced yourself, using her body as leverage. Every time you dropped down, you could feel her fill you, the thickness of the cock stretching you out perfectly, and the soft rub of the harness against your clit.
It was better than any other strap you’d ever taken, because Alexia made it feel like an extension of her will, her control, her desire for you. She didn’t just fuck you, she orchestrated your pleasure, built it up with every roll of her hips and every hungry sound from her throat.
You started to perform for her, grinding down harder, circling your hips at the bottom of each stroke, letting your head tip back so your hair fell in a wild curtain, your breasts bouncing with every movement. You moaned, loud and shameless, and her hands clenched tighter at your waist. You could feel her watching, totally focused, as you rode her, faster and harder, the slap of your skin against her thighs echoing through the room.
“Fuck,” she hissed, a wild, broken sound, and you rode her even harder, chasing sensation, chasing that next impossible edge. She sat suddenly and twisted a nipple with her mouth, teeth scraping, and you nearly lost it, your whole body lighting up with pleasure and pain, the sensations blurring until you were nothing but nerve endings and hunger.
You pulled her in for a kiss, biting her lower lip, still rolling your hips against her in a slow grind, when the ceiling above you thumped. You both stilled, a beat of silence, then voices, sharp and overlapping, somewhere high on the yacht. Alexia's eyes cut to the door.
A single gunshot. Two screams, then nothing.
She was off the bed before the echo died, the harness hitting the floor with a heavy buckle clank. She dressed fast, the efficient movements of someone who had done this before. She was pulling open a drawer, rummaging, when she said, without looking at you, "When I leave, lock the door. Don't open it until I tell you." She found what she was looking for. You didn't see what it was. The door clicked shut behind her, and you were still sitting there, flushed and breathless and completely alone.
The lock clicked, then silence, not true silence.
The engines still hummed beneath the yacht, but inside the cabin the quiet felt oppressive.
You stared at the door, your pulse was still racing, only now for an entirely different reason.
Another shout echoed from somewhere above, closer this time.
You slid off the bed, hastily pulling your clothes back into place with hands that suddenly refused to cooperate. Your fingers fumbled with buttons you'd managed perfectly well only minutes earlier.
Another dull thud reverberated through the ceiling, not another gunshot, footsteps lots of them heavy and running.
You crossed the room before stopping yourself, Alexia had been very clear. Lock the door. You checked it anyway, locked.
Your eyes drifted around the cabin for the first time, it wasn't just a guest suite.
The shelves held books in three different languages. A chess board sat half finished on a side table. One wall displayed framed photographs of coastlines and mountains instead of people.
Nothing about the room felt temporary this was hers, another voice barked somewhere outside, firm and controlled.
You couldn't make out the words, then "CLEAR!"
It was Misa, you recognised her voice from earlier.
Another answered almost immediately, "Port side secure!" that was Patri.
You frowned, they sounded calm not frightened and certainly trained. Your stomach tightened, Alexia hadn't been exaggerating about her world. This wasn't some glamorous fantasy she'd built around herself. It was real, every bit of it.
The sound of footsteps approached your door, you instinctively stepped backwards as someone stopped outside. A shadow crossed beneath the gap, your breathing slowed to almost nothing.
A single knock, three short taps, not Alexia, you didn't move, the was handle tested once, then whoever it was walked away.
Only after the footsteps disappeared did you realise you'd been holding your breath. Minutes crawled by or maybe only seconds time had become impossible to judge.
Then voices again, this time much closer.
"...one in custody."
"...sweep the lower deck."
"...check every cabin."
You caught Alexia's voice among them, steady and completely unshaken.
"No unnecessary casualties." A pause. "I want answers before sunrise."
You closed your eyes, she sounded exactly the same as she had ordering a drink earlier that evening, that frightened you more than the gunshot had.
Eventually, the voices faded, a key turned in the lock, your entire body tensed. The door opened and Alexia stepped inside, her white shirt sleeve was rolled to the elbow now, and there was a faint smear of blood across one cuff you couldn't tell if it was hers.
She closed the door quietly behind her, for the first time since you'd met her she looked tired, not physically, just heavy.
Her eyes found yours immediately, "You listened."
"I wasn't exactly tempted to ignore you."
The corner of her mouth twitched, "Good."
You looked at the stain on her sleeve, "What happened?"
Alexia followed your gaze, she glanced down at the blood almost absently, "Someone made a very poor decision."
"Is everyone okay?"
There was a brief pause, "My people are."
The wording wasn't lost on you, you took a careful step closer, "Alexia..."
She looked at you, really looked at you, the composed facade she'd worn all evening had cracked just enough for you to glimpse the woman underneath.
"I told you," she said quietly. “My world is... complicated."
You thought back to the party, it had looked almost normal, and now you understood why they all watched the exits.
Why Cata searched every bag herself.
Why Alexia always seemed to know exactly where everyone was.
"This happens often?"
Alexia was honest, "Often enough that everyone knows what to do." The answer settled heavily between you, she reached for a clean shirt folded over a chair, unbuttoning the stained one with practiced movements. Then she stopped, "You should leave."
You blinked, "What?"
"Cata will take you ashore."
"And you?"
"I'll be busy."
There it was again, the invisible wall she'd built around herself, the one that separated her life from everyone else's.
You studied her for a long moment before asking quietly, "Are you trying to protect me...or push me away?"
Alexia opened the door. Cata was already there, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable.
"Cata will take you home."
You looked at Alexia for a moment longer than you should have. Then you clasped your hands behind your back the way Cata always did and simply nodded once and murmured, "Yes, Boss."
Alexia Putellas (Barcelona Era) x Female Footballer Reader!
Wc: 5k
For four years, the routine had been as steady and unyielding as the tides along the Barceloneta coast.
Whenever Alexia Putellas walked off the training pitch at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper—whether her legs felt like lead after a grueling Champions League semi-final or she was riding the euphoric high of another domestic masterclass, she never had to guess where her comfort lived. It lived in a pair of expressive, warm eyes, a soft, reassuring smile, and a girl who treated her like she hung the stars in the Catalan sky.
You were that girl.
As a fellow midfielder in the FC Barcelona Femení squad, you knew the exact physical toll the sport took on a body. You knew how Alexia’s right knee throbbed when the weather dropped, how she took her coffee with a very specific splash of oat milk and half a packet of raw sugar, and how her posture shifted from commanding captain to vulnerable, tired girl the second the heavy oak door of her home closed behind her.
You had loved her for so long that loving her felt less like a conscious choice and more like a vital biological function.
You spoiled her. There was no other word for it. If Alexia mentioned in passing that she loved a particular bakery in Gràcia, a fresh box of pastries appeared on her locker shelf the next morning before she even arrived. If she was too exhausted to untie her boots after a draining session in the rain, you knelt on the damp grass and unlaced them for her, your fingers brushing against her ankles with a reverence that made some of the younger academy call-ups whisper in the locker room.
You answered her texts within seconds. You cleared your weekends to accommodate her unpredictable media appearances, sponsor events, and family dinners. You gave her the world wrapped in quiet, undemanding devotion, never asking for a formal title, content simply to orbit the sun that was Alexia Putellas.
Or, at least, you had tried to be content.
The fracture line in your chest had begun as a hairline crack months ago. It was the subtle way Alexia’s eyes started drifting toward her phone during dinner. The dismissive little huffs of air when you rearranged your entire schedule to pick up her dry cleaning, as if your time had no intrinsic value of its own. The casual way she accepted every sacrifice you made, swallowing your devotion whole without ever offering a crumb of reciprocity.
And then came the Tuesday afternoon that broke the glass completely.
You were standing in the players' lounge, carefully peeling an orange for her because you knew she hated getting the bitter white pith under her fingernails. You handed her a segment, your thumb gently brushing the back of her hand.
Alexia didn’t take it. She didn't even look up from her iPad, where she was flicking through tactical footage. Her shoulders were bunched up near her ears, tight with post-training irritability.
"Y/N, stop” she snapped, her voice cutting through the hum of the lounge like a jagged knife. "Just... stop doing that."
Your hand froze mid-air. "Doing what?"
"All of this” she muttered, finally looking at you, her dark eyes flashing with an irritated, suffocating impatience. "The hovering. The bringing me fruit, the constantly making sure I'm comfortable, fixing my kit, rearranging your life. It’s too much."
A cold weight settled in the pit of your stomach. "I was just trying to help you, Ale. You said you were tired."
"I am tired” Alexia shot back, closing the iPad with a sharp, echoing thwack. "I’m tired of feeling like I have my mom following me around the club. Why do you even do it? Why do you keep trying so hard?"
You stared at her, the orange segments slipping from your fingers back onto the paper napkin. The question hung in the air, heavy and cruel, demanding an answer you suddenly didn't have the emotional energy to fabricate.
"Because I care about you” you whispered, your throat tightening.
Alexia let out a cynical, dry puff of air, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, don't. Save it. We're friends, Y/N. Just teammates. You act like you're my girlfriend, but you're not ever. So stop treating me like I'm special, because it's exhausting."
Just teammates.
The words echoed in your skull, tearing away the last four years of masonry you had built around your heart. The illusion shattered into fine, microscopic dust. She didn't want your care. She didn't want your devotion. She looked at everything you gave her and saw a burden.
You didn't cry. You didn't yell. A strange, numbing calm washed over you—the self-preservation mechanism of a soul that had endured too much abandonment in its lifetime.
"Okay” you said softly.
Alexia blinked, clearly taken aback by the lack of a fight, the absence of your usual tearful defense. "What?"
"Okay” you repeated, your voice entirely level, stripping every ounce of warmth, every shade of intimacy out of the syllable. "Got it."
The transformation was immediate, stark, and terrifyingly efficient.
If Alexia wanted friends, you would treat her like a friend. Not an enemy, you weren't malicious, and you didn't have a cruel bone in your body but the luxury car of your affection was suddenly downgraded to a local bus, running strictly on schedule and devoid of any extra amenities.
The next morning in the locker room, Alexia walked in carrying her heavy training gear and tossed her wet shinpads onto the bench. Out of pure, ingrained muscle memory, your hand reached toward them to move them out of her way so they wouldn't soak her spare socks.
Halfway there, your fingers stopped. You withdrew your hand as if the plastic had burned you, picked up your own kit, and walked right past her to tape your ankles.
"Morning” you offered, your tone light, breezy, and utterly transactional, the exact tone you used with third-string substitutes you barely knew.
Alexia paused; her boots half-zipped. She looked up at you, waiting for the usual sequence: the smile, the offer to fill her water bottle, the quiet check-in on how her sleep had been.
You just sat there, listening to music through your headphones, staring straight ahead.
During the tactical session on pitch three, the true shockwaves hit. In the past, whenever Alexia dropped deep to receive the ball under pressure, you were always the safety valve, running yourself into the ground to provide a passing lane, anticipating her movements before she even made them.
Today, when she called for a square ball under a heavy double-press from Mapi and Patri, you didn't force the pass. You calmly recycled possession to the opposite flank, choosing the safer, lower-risk option.
Alexia threw her arms up in the air, glaring at you across the grass. When the whistle blew for a water break, she marched straight over, her face flushed with heat and a strange, bubbling agitation.
"What was that?" she demanded, standing right in your personal space. "You had a clean passing lane to my feet. I called for it."
You took a slow sip from your water bottle, wiping your mouth with the back of your wrist. You looked at her with polite, detached curiosity, the way a customer service representative looks at a slightly confused client. "Option B was safer. The statistical success rate on the switch was higher. Pere wants us to minimize midfield turnovers."
"Since when do you care about statistical success rates over instinct?" Alexia snapped, her voice rising. "You always look for me."
"Well, I'm adapting my playstyle" you replied smoothly, offering a completely harmless, hollow smile. "We're just teammates, right? No need to overcomplicate the build-up. I'll see you on the next drill."
You turned on your heel and jogged away, leaving Alexia standing alone on the turf, her mouth slightly open, a deep, burning confusion warring with an unidentifiable anger in her chest.
Over the next week, the absence of you became a physical weight in Alexia’s daily life.
There were no more fancy coffees waiting in her locker. There were no more midnight texts checking if she had taken her magnesium for muscle recovery. When she dropped her water bottle during a shooting drill, you didn't scramble to pick it up; you simply stepped around it with a polite, "Careful there" and kept running.
You were polite. You were professional. You were a teammate.
And Alexia found herself slowly losing her absolute mind.
The privilege of being adored had become so woven into the fabric of her routine that its sudden removal felt like oxygen being slowly sucked out of an airtight room. She caught herself waiting for you to crack, waiting for the heavy sigh, the fond eye-roll, the inevitable softening where you would cave and bring her a towel.
You never caved. You were terrifyingly, consistently fine.
Football clubs are breeding grounds for chaos, gossip, and opportunistic flirtation, especially when a new transfer window brings fresh talent into the orbit of a powerhouse like Barcelona.
Her name was Louise. She was a twenty-six o-year-old French winger signed from Lyon, fast, flashy, entirely unapologetic, and possessed of a radiant, chaotic energy that could light up a room. She also had zero filter and an immediate, laser-focused fixation on you.
It started innocently enough during a recovery session in the gym. Louise, stretching her hamstrings near the resistance machines, struck up a conversation about tactical positioning, her English laced with a thick, charming accent. You laughed at one of her dry observations, leaning against the rack.
Across the gym floor, Alexia was doing core work on a stability ball. Her eyes were supposed to be fixed on her trainer, but her gaze kept darting magnetically toward your corner.
She saw Louise lean in close to your shoulder, whispering something that made you throw your head back and laugh—a genuine, melodic laugh that Alexia hadn't heard directed at her in months. She saw Lou’s hand lightly, lingeringly brush against your forearm.
And she saw you smile back. Not politely. Warmly.
A cold, vicious spike of jealousy ripped through Alexia’s ribs, so sharp and violent that she lost her balance on the stability ball, tumbling backward onto the rubber mat with an undignified thump.
"Everything alright, captain?" Pere asked, rushing over.
"I'm fine” Alexia hissed, shoving herself up off the floor, her dark eyes burning with an incandescent rage as she glared across the gym.
You weren't stupid. You knew Louise was laying it on thick, and you knew exactly what effect it was having on the woman standing forty feet away. You didn't feel any real romantic interest in Louise, your heart was still a bruised, stubborn landscape but after weeks of being treated like an annoyance, watching Alexia unravel from afar offered a dark, intoxicating validation.
So, when Louise leaned over the lunch table two days later and asked if you wanted to grab coffee in El Born after the afternoon tactical meeting, you didn't hesitate.
"I’d love to, Lou” you said clearly, making sure your voice carried just far enough across the canteen. "I'm completely free."
Lou flashed a brilliant, triumphant smile, reaching across the table to tap her fingers against your knuckles.
At the captain's table, the sound of Alexia’s fork snapping cleanly against her ceramic plate echoed in the sudden silence of the dining hall.
From that afternoon onward, Alexia stopped trying to pretend she was unaffected. The veneer of captainly composure melted away, replaced by a bitter, prickly hostility. She became short-tempered with the coaching staff, hyper-critical of the ball movement during drills, and outright mean whenever she had to interact with you.
"Can you actually run this time, or are you too distracted by your little French lady?" Alexia muttered loud enough for you to hear as you jogged back into position during a tactical walkthrough.
You didn't blink. You didn't offer a meek apology. You simply turned your head, looked her dead in the eyes with a chilling, utter blankness, and said, "Mind your spacing, captain. You're out of position and let me play."
Alexia looked like she wanted to physically lunge across the grass and throttle you.
The tipping point arrived on a rainy Thursday morning in late spring. A completely fabricated, absurd gossip item began circulating through the lower-tier Spanish sports blogs and filtered into the squad's group chats: FC Barcelona Femení star forward spotted holding hands with new signing in the Mercadona; rumored relationship blossoming.
It was entirely false. You had gone to that supermarket (the nearest from your house) to buy coffee beans and some oat milk, and Louise had merely bumped into you on the pavement and walked three blocks with you under an umbrella because it was raining.
But by the time it reached the locker room, it had mutated into a full-scale romance.
Alexia walked into the room ten minutes before team meeting, her face pale, her jaw clenched so tight the muscles flickered. She dropped her kit bag onto her bench with a force that rattled the metal lockers.
"Is it true?" she blurted out before she could stop herself, her voice shaking with an ugly mix of grief, humiliation, and furious possessiveness.
You were sitting on your bench, calmly pulling your boots on. You looked up slowly. "Is what true?"
"Don't play games with me" Alexia snarled, taking a step toward your bench, her chest heaving. "The whole club is talking. You and Louise. Are you actually dating her?"
The sheer hypocrisy of it hung in the air like tear gas. Alexia, who had spent months pushing you away, treating your devotion like a disease, and reminding you at every turn that you were just teammates was standing here looking like a betrayed lover.
You let out a quiet, humorless scoff. "What I do outside of training hours is none of your business, Alexia. We’re just teammates, remember? You made that crystal clear."
"That's different!" Alexia shouted, the word tearing out of her throat, drawing the startled eyes of every player in the room. "You can't just... you can't just be with someone else!"
"Excuse me?" you said softly, standing up to your full height, your brown eyes locked onto hers, steady and unyielding. "You don't get to dictate who I care about anymore. You gave up that privilege a long time ago."
Alexia’s face drained of what little color it had left. She looked shattered, her lower lip trembling slightly before her defensive walls slammed back down with brutal force. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Sleep with whoever you want. I don't care."
She spun on her heel and stormed out of the locker room, slamming the door so hard the glass pane rattled in its frame.
The training session that followed was a disaster of epic, catastrophic proportions.
Karma, or the football gods, or simply the dizzying weight of human misery, decided to collect its debts from Alexia Putellas that afternoon. From the very first whistle, nothing went right for her. Her first touch deserted her; her trademark diagonal passes sailed harmlessly out of bounds; her defensive timing was half a second too slow.
Every mistake compounded her frustration, turning her into a live wire of raw, jagged nerves.
And you didn't look at her. Not once. When she blew a simple possession in the central channel, you didn't cover for her; you let Mapi win the ball cleanly, forcing Alexia to chase leather.
During a high-intensity small-sided game thirty minutes into the session, the inevitable occurred. Alexia charged out to close down a loose ball, her studs catching awkwardly in a damp patch of turf just as she pivoted.
A sickening, muffled pop echoed across the grass, followed instantly by a sharp, agonizing scream that made the entire pitch freeze dead in its tracks.
"Stop! Stop training!" the coach bellowed, blowing his whistle frantically.
Players converged on the spot instantly. Alexia was down on her right side, clutching her right ankle, her face buried in the damp grass, her shoulders shaking with stifled, white-hot pain.
You stood ten yards away, your heart doing a terrifying, violent freefall into your stomach. Every instinct, four years of muscle memory, of unconditional devotion, of loving her above all else screamed at you to run to her, to drop to your knees, to cradle her head.
You forced your feet to stay planted in the mud. You swallowed the lump in your throat, folded your arms across your chest, and forced your expression into a neutral, detached mask.
She's just a teammate, you told yourself, a hollow lie tasting like ash on your tongue. Let the medical staff handle it.
-
They get her up eventually, one arm slung over a physio's shoulders, ankle already swelling visibly above her sock, and half-carry her off toward the medical room while training limps on around the gap she's left in it. You go back to the drill. Your finishing, again, is vicious and precise, and this time you know exactly why.
It's forty minutes later, showered and changed, gear bag over your shoulder, that you overhear it two of the physio staff, talking near the equipment room, not bothering to lower their voices because they don't think anyone's listening.
"…can't drive herself home like that, obviously, someone'll have to take her "
"Isn't her sister meant to be picking her up? Or Vicky?"
"Vicky's already gone, she had that appearance thing. And apparently, she doesn't want to call her sister, doesn't want to worry her " a small, exasperated laugh. "She's being very Alexia about the whole thing. Says she'll get a taxi. On a sprained ankle. In this weather."
You stand very still in the corridor, gear bag digging into your shoulder, and you think: everyone's gone. It's just me left in the building. She's going to end up alone in a taxi with a swollen ankle rather than ask.
And underneath that thought, quieter, truer: of course she won't ask me. Not after everything.
You know, with the particular clarity of someone who has spent two years learning a person's every stubborn edge, exactly what's happening in that medical room right now. Alexia, jaw set, insisting she's fine, insisting a taxi will be fine, because the alternative turning to you, the person she pushed away, the person she's spent three weeks being cold and sharp with is apparently a worse prospect to her than travelling home in agony with strangers.
You think about walking away. You think about it seriously, for about four seconds, standing there with your keys already half out of your pocket. Three weeks of hard-won distance, and here's the exact moment it would be easiest to protect, to let her sit in a taxi and be stubborn and prove some point to herself about not needing you.
But love doesn't leave just because you've asked it to behave for three weeks. You know this now in a way you only half-knew it before. It's still there, underneath all the careful coldness, patient and stupid and entirely undiminished, and it doesn't care what she said to you in the corridor five weeks ago. It just wants her to get home safely.
You go and find the team doctor first, not Alexia, you're not ready to face her yet, not without a plan.
"How's Alexia doing?" you ask, keeping your voice carefully casual, the tone of someone asking after any teammate.
He glances up from his clipboard. "Grade two sprain, could've been worse. She'll be in a boot for a couple of weeks. She's a bit sore and a lot stubborn, honestly, insisting on getting herself home, which is a terrible idea, but you know how she is." A small, tired smile. "She's through in the changing room now, getting dressed. Everyone else has already left, unfortunately."
"Right” you say. "Thanks."
You don't ask permission for what you do next. You go to the bench where Alexia's things always sit you know the spot without thinking, three weeks of distance hasn't erased two years of habit and you pick up her gear bag, and then, because you spot them sitting on top with her wallet, you pick up her car keys too.
You find her in the changing room, alone, sitting on the bench in her training kit with one boot off and the other leg propped up, her ankle already strapped and swollen, wincing every time she shifts her weight even slightly. Her hair's come loose from its bun. She looks, for the first time since you've known her, genuinely fragile, and something in your chest twists so hard it's almost painful.
She sees you in the doorway with her bag over your shoulder and her keys in your hand, and her whole face does something complicated surprise, then a flare of something defensive, then, underneath both, the faintest, most reluctant flicker of relief that she immediately tries to smother.
"I don't need you to do this” she says, before you've even said anything. Straight into it, the way she always does when she's trying to protect herself from something. "I've already called a taxi."
"You haven't” you say, calmly. "You've been sitting here for ten minutes arguing with the doctor about whether you need one."
"That's not…" she stops, flustered, because apparently that's exactly what happened. "It doesn't matter. I don't need you driving me home, Y/N. I'm perfectly capable of …"
"Of what? Hopping in a taxi with a sprained ankle in the rain?" You keep your voice even, not unkind, just factual. "I've got your bag. I've got your keys. I'm parked next to you, same as always. It's not a favour, Alexia, it's just getting you home. That's all it is."
"I don't want your help” she says, and her voice wavers slightly on want, betraying something underneath the stubbornness not dislike, you realise, but fear, the fear of needing something from someone she pushed away, the fear of what accepting might mean about everything she said five weeks ago.
"I know you don't want to need it” you say, gently. "But you do. So, let's not make this a whole thing. Come on."
She opens her mouth, you can see the argument forming, can see her gathering herself for one more round of insisting she's fine, that she doesn't need you, that she'd rather sit in pain than accept help from the person she hurt and you know, with sudden, weary certainty, that if you let her finish that sentence you're going to be standing in this changing room for another twenty minutes while she talks herself into a taxi purely out of pride.
So you don't let her finish it.
You cross the room, set her bag down, and before she's got more than half a syllable out, you lean down and kiss her.
It's quick barely two seconds, soft and sure and entirely without permission but it's enough to short-circuit whatever speech she'd been building, enough that when you pull back, she's just sitting there, boot half-on, mouth slightly open, staring up at you with an expression of such total, blank astonishment that you'd laugh if you weren't half-terrified of what you've just done.
You don't say anything. You'd meant to have something ready some explanation, some sorry, I shouldn't have, ignore that but looking at her face, dazed and open in a way you've genuinely never seen it, the words dissolve before you can use them. So instead, you just crouch down, sling her good arm over your shoulders, and say, "Right. Up you get. Careful of the ankle” as though you haven't just detonated something enormous between you.
She lets you help her up. That's the tell, really Alexia Putellas, who has spent weeks bristling at every offer of help you haven't made, who fought you on this exact thing forty seconds ago, goes utterly compliant, letting you take most of her weight, hopping awkwardly toward the door with an expression still fixed somewhere between shell-shock and something dazzled underneath it.
She doesn't say a word the whole way to the car park. Doesn't argue, doesn't insist, doesn't do any of the things Alexia Putellas usually does. She just leans into you, quiet, and every few seconds you catch her glancing sideways at your mouth like she's trying to work out whether the last two minutes actually happened.
You can't help it, the sight of her, the most stubborn woman you have ever met in your life, absolutely stunned into silence by one two-second kiss (well really was a litte peck) was too much, and a laugh escapes you before you can stop it, low and delighted.
"What” Alexia says, immediately defensive, though there's no real heat in it, just a kind of flustered scramble to reclaim some dignity. "What's funny."
"Nothing” you say, still smiling, guiding her toward the passenger side of her own car. "You've just got a very specific face on right now, so pouty."
"I do not have a face and I’m not pouty right now."
"You've absolutely got that face." You open the door for her, help her ease down into the seat, careful of her ankle, and she's still watching you with that same stunned, unmoored expression, cheeks gone pink, and you have to look away before you laugh again, because if you start properly laughing you might not stop, might end up crying instead, from relief or nerves or the enormous, terrifying hope suddenly unspooling in your chest.
You get her home. It's a quiet drive she doesn't say much, keeps stealing glances at you at red lights, and you keep your eyes very determinedly on the road, driving her own car with a peculiar, tender care, like the vehicle itself is something precious now simply by association.
Her flat is warm and a little too tidy, the way places get when someone spends more time on the training ground than at home. You get her settled on the sofa, prop her ankle up on a cushion the way the physio instructed, fetch her an ice pack from the freezer without needing to be told where it is old habits, you think, a little wryly, they don't actually go anywhere, they were just waiting.
By the time you've got her sorted, some of the shock has worn off her, replaced by something more like her usual self, though softer round the edges, less armoured. She watches you move around her kitchen with an expression you can't quite read.
"You kissed me” she says, eventually, like she's still confirming it happened, still testing the words in her own mouth.
"I did” you say, not turning around, focused very hard on filling a glass of water for her.
"Why?"
"Because you were about to spend twenty minutes arguing yourself into a car for pure stubbornness, and I didn't have the patience for it." You bring the water over, hand it to her, and finally let yourself meet her eyes. "Also, because I've wanted to for about two years and I'm tired."
Something in her face crumples, just slightly, at that’s not sadness exactly, something more complicated, guilt and hope tangled together.
"I'm hungry” she says instead, abruptly, which startles a small laugh out of you, because of course, of course this is how Alexia Putellas processes an enormous emotional confrontation by changing the subject to food, the same as she always has, the same stubborn, deflecting, utterly familiar version of her you've loved for two years.
"Alright” you say, easily, letting her have the deflection because you know her well enough to know she needs a minute. "What do you want?"
"I don't know. Something easy." She shifts on the sofa, wincing slightly at her ankle, and then looks up at you from underneath her lashes with an expression so deliberately pathetic, so exaggeratedly wounded, that you nearly laugh again the full puppy-dog routine, bottom lip very faintly out, eyes huge, the look she gives referees when she wants a foul given.
"What” you say, amused, "is that face for?"
"Nothing” she says, entirely unconvincingly. "I just my ankle hurts. And I'm cold. And you're just standing there so huggable."
"You want a hug."
"I didn't say that."
"You absolutely did say that, with your face and “huggable”" But you're already crossing the room, already lowering yourself onto the sofa beside her, careful of the propped ankle, and she doesn't hesitate at all just leans straight into you, tucks herself against your side like she's been doing it for years instead of never once before tonight, her head finding your shoulder with an ease that undoes something in your chest completely.
You wrap an arm around her carefully, mindful of her, and for a moment neither of you says anything. The flat is quiet. Somewhere outside, the rain that's been threatening all evening finally starts, soft against the windows.
"I'm sorry” Alexia says, into your shoulder, so quietly you nearly miss it. "For what I said. In the corridor. I didn't mean it the way it, I panicked. You were so… you were always doing so much for me, and I didn't know what to do with it, and I said the cruellest thing I could think of because it felt safer than admitting I liked it."
"I know” you say, softly, and you find you mean it the anger of the last five weeks has drained out of you somewhere between the medical room and this sofa, leaving only the old, patient love underneath, still there, exactly where you left it.
"And then you stopped” she goes on, voice small. "Doing all of it. The coffee, and everything. And I hated it. I hated it so much, Y/N, I didn't understand why it felt like losing something when I was the one who said I only wanted a friend."
"Because you didn't actually want a friend” you say, gently. "You wanted someone to love you the way I do, without having to call it that. And I couldn't keep doing it once you said what you said. It would've broken something in me."
She's quiet for a moment, and when she lifts her head to look at you, her eyes are shining, overbright, and there's none of the armour left in her face at all.
"I don't want to just be friends” she says, low, almost frightened by her own honesty. "I never wanted that. I don't know why I said it."
"I know why” you say. "You've said it yourself. Panic."
"Can I " She stops, swallows, tries again. "Can I kiss you properly? You only gave me about two seconds earlier and I've been thinking about it for the last forty minutes and I want to actually"
You don't let her finish that sentence either. You lean in and she meets you halfway, and this time there's nothing quick about it, this time it's slow, and soft, and certain, her hand coming up to rest against your jaw like she's making sure you're really there, and you feel something in your chest that's been clenched tight for five weeks finally, finally let go.
When you break apart she's smiling, properly smiling, the kind you haven't seen from her in weeks, unguarded and a little disbelieving, like she still can't quite work out how she got here.
"So” she says, a little breathless, "friends don't do that."
"No” you agree, smiling back at her, brushing a strand of hair off her face with a tenderness you've been rationing for five weeks and are no longer interested in rationing. "They really don't."
"Good” Alexia says, decisively, settling back against your shoulder with the satisfied air of someone who has just won an argument she started against herself. "Because I'm done with just being friends. I want the coffee. And the water bottles. And you carrying my bag through airports even though I do, in fact, have arms."
"You'll have to ask nicely maybe bribe me with a kiss or two."
"I'll ask however I like” she says, but she's laughing now, soft and warm against your shoulder, and outside the rain keeps falling, gentle against the windows, and inside, finally, everything that's been circling for two years settles quietly into place, the way the truest things always do not with fireworks, but with an ordinary evening, an ice pack, a bad joke about arms, and a girl who has finally stopped pretending she didn't want to be loved exactly the way you'd always loved her.
You order food eventually, something easy, like she asked for, pasta from the place two streets over that she likes and you eat it curled together on the sofa with her ankle propped on a pillow between you, and she keeps stealing glances at you between bites like she's checking you're still there, and every time you catch her doing it she goes faintly pink and pretends to be very interested in her food instead.
"I'm going to be insufferable now” she warns you, later, when the food's gone and the rain's settled into something steady and comfortable outside. "I'm going to want the coffee every single morning and your hugs and kisses and everything."
"I know, I want some kisses and hugs too. It´s what I expect when I’m dating someone."
"And I'm going to expect you to still jump in front of footballs for me."
"You always did expect that. You just weren't going to admit you liked it."
She goes quiet at that, thoughtful, tracing an absent pattern against your knuckles where your hand rests over hers. "I liked all of it” she admits, finally, so quietly it's almost lost under the rain. "I liked it so much I didn't know what to do with myself. It felt like too much. Like I didn't deserve someone loving me so carefully, so I pushed it away before I could ruin it myself."
"You didn't ruin it” you say. "You're here. I'm here. The ankle's the only casualty."
That gets a proper laugh out of her, surprised and bright, and she tips her head back against your shoulder, eyes closing, entirely at ease in a way you've genuinely never seen her before, not on the pitch, not in the dressing room, not anywhere. Just soft, and certain, and yours, finally, the way you'd quietly hoped she might be for two long years of coffee and stray footballs and a love you never once needed her to notice, because you knew, somewhere underneath all the patience, that eventually one way or another, whether by injury or stubborn
Summary: Securing a massive contract to supply the flowers for FC Barcelona’s women’s football team was supposed to be strictly business. But as the football season unfolds, the quiet routine of your flower shop is upended by frequent visits from some of the team’s top players, especially a certain regular named Alexia.
Word count: 15,4 k
(it's a slow burn)
The heavy summer heat of Barcelona hung thick and sticky over the avenues, but inside Floristeria Arrels, the air was a cool, damp sanctuary smelling faintly of crushed green stems and wet earth.
You stood behind the wide zinc counter, your hair pulled back with a simple green silk ribbon, your eyes scanning the terrifying financial spreadsheet on your screen. Your family’s shop was a neighborhood staple, a shaded haven of high ceilings and weathered stone walls, where zinc and wooden buckets overflowed with seasonal blooms. But over the last year, keeping the doors open had become a grueling uphill battle. The neighborhood was changing, rent was skyrocketing, and the independent budget your father had run for decades was stretched to its absolute limit.
“Petal! The heavy lifting is for the youth, and you are wasting the prime of your twenties staring at a glowing rectangle!”
You turned around, an amused smile at the nickname breaking across your face. Your father was leaning against a stack of ceramic pots, holding a pair of rusted pruning shears like a scepter. He was seventy-two, stubborn to a fault, and supposedly retired.
“Papa, I am twenty-seven, and I am technically the owner,” you reminded him gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from your cheek with your dark green apron. “And you aren’t supposed to be lifting anything either. Where are the boys?”
“Your brothers are married men with responsibilities, apparently,” your father scoffed, though there was a deep warmth in his eyes. “Which means they dropped off the kids and fled the manual labor.”
Right on cue, an eight-year-old boy burst through the backroom door, brandishing a plastic dinosaur. “Tia! Leo says that if I eat a marigold, I’ll turn into a dragon. Is that true?”
“No, Lucas, and please don’t eat the stock,” you laughed, catching him by the shoulders before he could collide with a massive vase of hydrangeas.
This shop was your entire life. When your mother passed away, your father had been ready to close the doors forever. Your older brothers, both established in their own careers, hadn’t cared enough to step in. But you couldn’t let it go. You had spent your childhood doing homework on the overturned wooden crates in the back. You had a business degree now, sure, but your heart belonged to the flowers. You had a terrible habit of wanting to save everything: drooping ferns, stray cats, and your family’s heritage.
Which was exactly why the official letter sitting next to your keyboard felt like a literal lifeline. Floristeria Arrels had just been awarded an exclusive, year-long corporate contract with FC Barcelona to provide all floral styling for the VIP boxes, the presidential suites, and the official club events. Today was your very first task: delivering the massive centerpieces for the welcoming lunch for new signings at the training complex.
“Wish me luck,” you muttered, lifting a massive, intricately designed ceramic vase filled with vibrant tropical greenery and striking orange bursts.
“Don’t trip over your own feet,” your father called out. “You have your mother’s eyes, but you inherited my coordination. God help the football club.”
The media lounge at the sports complex was a chaotic blur of activity. Journalists were setting up heavy tripods, PR representatives were speaking rapidly into headsets, and caterers were bustling past with silver trays.
You felt out of your depth. You were dressed in a simple linen dress, your hands slightly damp, carrying a floral arrangement that weighed nearly fifteen kilos.
“Right on the center glass table, please,” a stressed looking woman in a club blazer directed, pointing toward the middle of the room.
You nodded, taking careful, deliberate steps. Do not trip. Do not drop the five-hundred-euro vase.
Naturally, just as you reached the table, your sandal caught on a thick, stray television camera cable.
You gasped, your balance tilting dangerously forward. The heavy ceramic vase slipped from your grip, tilting at an angle that promised a catastrophic, public shatter against the glass table. You braced yourself for the impact and the humiliation.
It didn’t come.
Instead, a pair of strong hands shot out from the side, catching the base of the heavy ceramic vase with incredible, lightning-fast reflexes. A firm shoulder brushed against yours, steadying your stance before you could go down with it.
“I’ve got it,” a calm voice said. “Steady.”
You blinked, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You looked up, and your breath caught all over again.
Standing right there, holding the weight of the vase effortlessly, was Alexia Putellas. The captain of FC Barcelona was wearing a crisp white club polo shirt, her hazel eyes looking down at you with a mixture of amusement and concern. Away from the flashing stadium cameras, she possessed an effortless, commanding presence that made your stomach do a fluttery flip.
“Are you okay?” Alexia asked, easily shifting the heavy vase onto the center of the table.
“I… yes. Yes, thank you,” you stammered, your cheeks burning a sudden, bright crimson as you smoothed down your apron. “I’m so sorry. I’m incredibly clumsy. It’s a family trait.”
Alexia let out a soft, warm laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Good reflexes are part of the job description around here.” She stepped back, her eyes drifting over the striking arrangement. “Wow. Did you make this? It’s beautiful.”
“I did,” you said, your voice growing steadier as you returned to a subject you actually understood. A quiet confidence took over your posture. “I’m Y/N. My shop is doing the arrangements for the club this season. I wanted to make sure the workspace felt right.”
“Well, Y/N,” Alexia said, extending a hand. You took it, noting how warm and firm her grip was. Her eyes locked onto yours with a sharp look of surprise, as if she hadn’t expected the florist behind the contract to possess such a calm, grounded energy. “The club’s flowers used to look like they were bought from a petrol station at the last minute. What are these orange ones?”
“They’re Alstroemeria,” you murmured, your voice dropping into a soft, knowledgeable register as you looked from the blooms back to her eyes. “Peruvian Lilies.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Alexia asked, leaning back against the edge of the table, crossing her arms. She looked genuinely interested, the guarded, professional mask she usually wore for the media completely dissolving.
“They do,” you said, a passionate light entering your eyes. “In the old language of flowers, they don’t represent flashy, temporary success. They symbolise mutual support, devotion, and endurance. Because the petals grow in a tight, resilient cluster before opening up spectacularly, it represents a strong bond that can withstand trials. I thought... well, for a long, grueling season where you have to hold everything together under pressure, the team lounge needed something that represents standing firm. Not a standard rose that withers in a week.”
Alexia stared at the orange petals for a long moment, the playful look fading into a profound, quiet stillness. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely capturing you in the busy room.
“Mutual support and endurance,” Alexia repeated quietly, her voice carrying an unspoken weight that sent a sudden rush of heat straight down your spine. A genuine, incredibly soft smile broke across her face. “I think you’re exactly right. We could use a bit of that magic this year.”
A PR coordinator suddenly shouted from across the room. “Alexia! We need you for the photos with the new signings!”
“Coming!” Alexia called back. She turned back to you, her eyes lingering a little longer than necessary on your face. “It was nice to meet you, flower girl. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot more of your work around here.”
“Nice to meet you too Alexia,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The August humidity in Barcelona was a different beast entirely. It turned the city into a slow-moving oven, forcing everyone to seek the mercy of blasting air conditioning or the dense shade of old stone alleys. Inside Floristeria Arrels, the fans hummed a steady rhythm, circulating the comforting scent of damp soil, fresh eucalyptus, and sweet jasmine.
You were standing behind the long zinc counter, carefully binding a bundle of vibrant, spear-like stalks together with twine. Your hair was pinned up haphazardly with a claw clip to keep it off your neck, a few stray strands framing your face as you focused.
“Tia! Tia, look! I made a fortress!”
You looked up to see your nephew, Lucas, sitting on an upturned wooden crate in the corner. He had successfully built a barricade around himself using empty terracotta pots and plastic plant markers.
“That’s a very impressive fortress, Lucas,” you said, offering a warm smile. “But if any of those pots break, your grandpa is going to make you sweep the entire sidewalk.”
“Grandpa is asleep in the back,” Lucas whispered conspiratorially, pointing a plastic dinosaur toward the break room door. “He won't know.”
“I hear everything, you little monster!” your father’s booming voice echoed from the back room, making Lucas giggle and dive behind his ceramic wall.
You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you. This was your daily reality, always chaotic, loud, but grounding. You had been running the shop full-time since your mother passed, balancing the books, managing deliveries, and dealing with a family that treated the retail space like an extended living room.
The brass bell above the front door chimed, cutting through the hum of the fans.
“Welcome to…” You started to look up, wiping your hands on your apron, but the words caught in your throat.
Two athletic women walked into the shop. They were wearing casual athletic gear: shorts, slides, and training shirts that bore the unmistakable badge of FC Barcelona. You recognised them instantly from the sports pages your nephews always left lying around. It was Patri Guijarro and Kika Nazareth.
“Hola,” Patri said, offering a friendly, easygoing wave as she looked around the lush, green interior. “Wow, it really does smell amazing in here. Alexia mentioned your shop has a reputation for the good stuff.”
Your heart did a tiny, unexpected skip at the mention of the captain’s name. You hadn’t seen Alexia since that breathless encounter in July, though you had thought about her crisp white polo shirt and those warm, hazel eyes far more than a vendor should.
“Hola,” you replied, leaning against the counter and offering your best welcoming smile. “Welcome! What can I help you find today?”
Kika wandered over to a display of ferns, poking a frond curiously. “We need something for the locker room. The Joan Gamper Trophy match is coming up, the season is officially starting, and the old fake ivy we had in there looks like it died in 1998.”
“And it’s depressing,” Patri added, walking up to the counter. She looked at you, her eyes narrowing slightly in realization. “So... you’re the famous florist who almost crushed our captain with a ceramic vase last month.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable pink. You instinctively tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Word travels fast, apparently. Yes, that was me. My clumsiness precedes me.”
Patri burst into a hearty laugh. “She told us the new florist looked like a classic Hollywood movie star but had the coordination of a newborn giraffe. I see she was right about both.”
Before you could process the movie star comment or the fact that Alexia Putellas had been describing your appearance to her teammates, Lucas popped his head out from behind his terracotta fortress.
“My tia is not a giraffe!” Lucas announced loudly, pointing his plastic T-Rex at Patri. “She just trips over things because she looks at flowers instead of her feet!”
Kika let out a delighted wheeze, immediately abandoning the ferns to walk over to Lucas's fort. “Who is this? The bodyguard?”
“I’m Lucas,” he said proudly. “And this is my fortress.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucas. I’m Kika,” she said, crouching down to be at eye level with him, completely charmed. “Do you think your fortress could survive a dinosaur attack?”
While Kika distracted your nephew, Patri turned back to you, an amused smirk on her face. “Anyway. We need something hardy. Something that can survive twenty-five footballers celebrating a win, or a lot of steam from the showers.”
You cleared your throat, grateful to focus on your craft rather than your burning face. You reached behind you, tapping one of the tall, striking stalks you had been binding earlier. They were lined with brilliant, trumpet-shaped blossoms that shot upward like spikes.
“For a locker room at the start of the season? You want Gladiolus,” you said, your voice growing confident and passionate as you spoke about the blooms.
Patri tilted her head, inspecting the tall stalks. “Gladiolus? Why those?”
“The name comes from the Latin word gladius, which means sword,” you explained, looking into Patri’s eyes. “Because of their shape, they historically symbolise strength, moral integrity, and preparedness. They’re a warrior’s flower. They don’t look delicate; they look like they’re ready for a challenge.”
Patri stared at the flowers, then looked back at you, thoroughly impressed. “A warrior’s flower. Damn. That’s actually perfect for us.” She turned her head. “Hey, Kika! We’re getting the sword flowers!”
“Get the sword flowers!” Kika called back, currently engrossed in a fierce dinosaur battle with Lucas on the floor.
“We’ll take a big arrangement of those for the lockers,” Patri said, pulling out her phone. “Oh, and before I forget…” She tapped her screen. “Our ex-teammate, Ingrid, texted me. She’s currently playing over in France for Lyon, so being long-distance with Mapi is tough. She wants to set up a regular ‘just because’ delivery to surprise Mapi here in Barcelona since she can’t exactly hand her a bouquet herself. Can I leave the details with you?”
“Of course,” you said, pulling out your order book and grabbing a pen. “I can take Mapi’s address down now, and Ingrid can just text the shop’s business line directly for any future updates. We handle a lot of our long-distance accounts that way.”
“Perfect. I’ll pass the shop’s number along to her,” Patri said, forwarding the contact information. “She wants to set up a steady routine so Mapi gets fresh flowers sent to her place every week.”
“I understand. It’s a hectic calendar for both of them,” you noted practically, jotting down Mapi's Barcelona delivery address in the logbook. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it on a strict schedule so the quality stays consistent every Monday morning.”
Patri smiled, watching your efficient handwriting. “Appreciate it. You run a tight ship here.” She capped her phone and leaned against the counter, casual again. “By the way, Alexia wanted to come today to see the shop, but she got stuck in a late tactical meeting with the coach.”
You tried to keep your hand steady as you shut the logbook, but a tiny flutter in your chest betrayed you. “Oh? Well, she's a very busy woman.”
“She is,” Patri murmured, a knowing, slightly mischievous glint in her eyes. “But she was pretty disappointed she missed the trip. She mentioned she wanted to see what the place looked like.”
You offered a polite, professional smile, though the warmth in your face gave you away. “Well, tell her she’s welcome anytime. Hopefully, I won’t drop anything on her next time.”
“I’ll tell her,” Patri winked.
Ten minutes later, after Kika officially declared a truce with Lucas and promised to bring him a Barça sticker next time, the two players left the shop, carrying a smaller starter plant Patri had insisted on buying for her own kitchen.
As the brass bell chimed shut, the shop fell quiet again. You looked over at the tall, proud stalks of the gladiolus sitting on your counter. A warrior's flower.
Your phone on the counter suddenly buzzed with a notification: a new message from a French country code, displaying a profile picture of Ingrid Engen and Mapi Leon laughing together in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Hi! Patri gave me your number. I’m Ingrid. Can we set up that weekly delivery for Mapi? I want her to have fresh flowers every Monday morning so her week starts right, even if I’m not there to make her coffee.
You smiled, typing back a swift, professional confirmation.
September brought the start of the Champions League group stages and the frantic pace of the Liga F kickoff. For the club, it was a high-stakes whirlwind. For your shop, it meant a steady, thrilling influx of business. You had spent the last two weeks coordinating with the club’s PR department for press room backdrops, but your favorite order of the week had quickly become Ingrid’s Monday morning delivery for Mapi.
She relied completely on you to be her hands and eyes in Barcelona. She would send quick, excited messages from France: Mapi had a really tough match, can we do something super bright today? or It’s our anniversary next week, let’s go all out! You took immense pride in nailing every detail, making sure the long-distance deliveries were flawless. It was a massive account for your shop, and you were determined to keep it perfect.
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when the brass bell above the door chimed. You were sitting on a stool behind the counter, sketching a new layout for the autumn window display.
You looked up, expecting to see your father or one of your weekly dinner friends. Instead, your heart did a violent, sudden stutter against your ribs.
Alexia Putellas walked in.
She wasn’t in her training kit this time. She wore a casual, oversized black blazer over a simple white tee, dark jeans, and her hair was down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She looked effortlessly chic, but as she walked closer to the counter, you noticed the slight tension in her jaw and the faint dark circles under her hazel eyes. The weight of being the captain during a demanding triple-match week was clearly taking its toll.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low. A small, genuine smile broke through her tired expression as her eyes met yours.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied, giving her a warm smile, though you secretly hoped she couldn’t hear the frantic pacing of your heart. You leaned on the counter, looking at her with all the soft, classic warmth of someone completely at home in her own space, even if you currently had a stray piece of green floral tape stuck to your wrist. “What brings you into my jungle today? I thought Patri and Kika were the designated team shoppers.”
Alexia let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning against the counter just a few inches away from you. “They wish. But this isn’t a club order. This one is personal.” She shifted her weight, a subtle shadow passing over her features. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I wanted to get her something... special. Something elegant, but bold.”
A sudden, sharp pang twisted in your chest. It was an annoying, unwelcome feeling, and it caught you entirely off guard. Of course she has a girlfriend, you scolded yourself internally. She’s Alexia Putellas.
Brushing the feeling aside, you instantly locked into your professional element. You wanted to make sure the club captain walked out with something spectacular that represented your shop well.
“I can absolutely help with that,” you said, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing for her to follow you over to the refrigerated display of premium imports. “Tell me a bit more about her style. Is she minimalist, or does she like drama?”
“Drama,” Alexia said instantly, standing close behind you as you slid open the glass doors. The cool, flower-scented air rushed out. “She likes things that look striking. Memorable.”
Your eyes scanned the shelves, bypassing the soft pastel roses and the delicate lilies. Then, you spotted them. Tucked in a protected, chilled bucket were a few pristine, heavy stems with deep crimson and burgundy blooms, their paper-thin petals arranged in tight, heavy, perfectly symmetrical layers. They looked like velvet.
“Burgundy Ranunculus,” you murmured, reaching in to gently pull a stem out.
Alexia leaned in, looking over your shoulder. You could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume, something woody and expensive, and it made your breath catch. “They’re stunning,” Alexia whispered, her eyes tracking the rich, dark petals. “What do they mean? Patri told me you’re really a walking encyclopedia for flower language.”
You turned your head slightly, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia's face. Her hazel eyes were locked onto yours, waiting.
“They’re incredibly unique because of how they grow, they start as these tight, guarded little buds, and then they slowly unfold into these massive, complex masterpieces,” you explained quietly, your voice dropping a register in the quiet space. “In the traditional language of flowers, they don’t represent a loud, flashy confession. They symbolize radiant charm and complete captivation. Sending them to someone means: I am completely dazzled by your light. It’s a sophisticated kind of devotion. It says that even in the biggest crowd, they’re the most brilliant thing you see.”
For a long moment, Alexia didn’t say anything. She just stared at the burgundy ranunculus in your hand, her expression unreadable. There was a strange, distant look in her eyes that didn’t quite match the romantic nature of the bouquet she was buying.
“Radiant charm,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up, her gaze lingering on your face, taking in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnestness in your hazel eyes. She cleared her throat, a polite smile stretching across her lips. “Yes. Let’s do those. A large bouquet of those, please.”
“You got it,” you said, giving her a reassuring nod.
You walked back to the workstation and began to craft the arrangement. You spent twenty minutes meticulously layering the ranunculus with textured sprigs of frosted eucalyptus and delicate, dark foliage to let the deep jewel tones pop. You used thick, luxurious black paper and tied it with a heavy silk ribbon, ensuring it looked flawless.
Alexia watched you the entire time, her chin resting in her hand as she leaned on the counter. She didn’t look at her phone once. She just watched your hands move with practiced grace.
“You’re very good at this, flower girl,” she said softly as you snipped the ends of the ribbon.
“I grew up doing it,” you smiled, looking up. “My mom taught me how to find the rhythm in the flowers. When she passed, it felt right to step in and keep the business going. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.”
Alexia’s expression softened completely, a look of profound respect crossing her face. “It shows. Your family must be very proud of what you’re doing here.”
“They mostly just like the free flower arrangements for Sunday dinners,” you joked, breaking the heavy emotional air with your usual self-deprecating humor.
You handed the massive, stunning bouquet over the counter. Alexia took it, her fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second. A jolt of warmth shot up your arm, and by the look in Alexia’s eyes, she felt it too.
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia said, holding the bouquet carefully. She tapped her card to pay, giving you one last, lingering look before she headed to the door. “Wish me luck for the match on Thursday.”
“Good luck, Ale,” you called out. “Bring back a win.”
As the brass bell chimed her departure, you let out a long, shaky breath, sinking onto your stool. You looked at the empty space where the red camellias had been. You had just made the perfect, romantic bouquet for another woman to receive from Alexia Putellas.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. It was a message from Ingrid in Lyon.
Hey! Mapi loved the Monday bouquet, she literally cried. You’re an angel! Sending you a massive hug from France!
You smiled, typing back a professional, sweet reply. Your shop was successfully handling everything from long-distance love to the club captain’s relationships. But as you looked out the front window, watching Alexia’s tall figure disappear down the sunlit Barcelona street, you couldn’t help but wish, just a little bit, that someone would buy a bouquet of burgundy ranunculus for you.
October brought a welcomed break from the grueling summer heat, replacing the sticky air with crisp, golden autumn mornings. For the club, the schedule was tightening, packed with mid-week fixtures and high-profile sponsor events. For you, it meant adapting the shop’s palette to rich ochres, burnt oranges, and deep plums.
Your biggest project of the month was a massive corporate order for a major FC Barcelona sponsor gala hosted inside the luxury lounges at Spotify Camp Nou. The club’s PR department had requested twenty elegant, low-profile centerpieces that wouldn’t block the guests’ views across the tables. It was a high-earning contract, and you had spent the last two days meticulously prepping the vessels.
Naturally, because your family treated your workplace like a communal living room, the pristine prep area was currently shared with a hyperactive toddler.
“Tia! Look! I’m a bird!”
Your three-year-old niece, Sofia, was currently flapping her arms wildly, running circles around a stack of plastic crates. She was wearing a tiny Barça jersey, a gift from your older brothers, who were die-hard culés, and her pigtails were flying.
“You’re a very beautiful bird, Sofi,” you laughed, keeping one eye on her and the other on the delicate stems you were trimming. “But birds need to stay away from the glass vases, okay? Otherwise, the bird goes into the cage.”
“No cage!” she shrieked happily, veering sharply toward the front of the store just as the brass bell above the door chimed.
“Hola! Is anyo… oh, hello!”
Clara Serrajordi walked into the shop, only to be immediately ambushed at the knees by a small, flying toddler. Sofia had firmly wrapped her arms around Clara’s shin, looking up at the young midfielder with wide, innocent eyes.
Clara froze, her cheeks flushing pink as she looked down at the child, then up at you. She looked a bit shy and completely out of her depth, awkwardly holding a small gym bag. “Oh, um... hola.”
“Sofi, no! Let go!” you gasped, quickly coming out from behind the counter. “I am so sorry. She thinks everyone wearing athletic gear is a playground structure.”
“No, it’s okay,” Clara said quietly, a small, polite smile breaking through her shyness. She carefully squatted down, adjusting her bag so she didn’t drop it. “Hola, little one.”
“I’m a bird,” Sofia corrected solemnly.
“A bird? That’s cool,” Clara murmured, her voice soft and gentle.
You reached down to gently pry your niece away, offering Clara an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind her,” you smiled, straightening up. “I thought the PR team told me I was driving the delivery over to the stadium today?”
“Oh, you are!” Clara nodded, standing up and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I had a break between training and media, and since I live right around the corner, they asked if I could just stop by to escort you through the stadium security gates. They’re doing a high-security sweep for the gala sponsors today, so it’s easier if a player is in the van with you to bypass the main checkpoints.”
She looked around the shop, her eyes wide as she took in the lush, autumnal atmosphere. “Wow. It really is beautiful in here. The captains told us about it, but... yeah.”
“Thank you,” you said warmly, gesturing to the rows of beautifully arranged wooden boxes on the side counter. “They’re all secured in the transport crates. Let’s get them loaded into the van.”
Before you could start lifting, Sofia decided she hadn’t had enough attention. She crept back over to the counter, reached her tiny hand up, and triumphantly swiped the heavy shop keyring with its bright green Floristeria Arrels lanyard right out from under Clara’s nose.
“Keys!” Sofia cheered, running off toward her fort of plastic crates.
“Sofia! No, bring those back!” you called out, about to chase after her, but Clara just let out a quiet, nervous giggle.
“It’s okay, really,” Clara said, rubbing the back of her neck. “We have a few minutes before we need to head out.” She walked over to the counter, watching you lift the first heavy crate. She pointed to the spectacular, multi-petaled blooms sitting in the display tray, showing off shades of dusty rose, deep plum, and metallic, earthy greens. “What are the moody-looking ones? They look like vintage roses, but sharper.”
You smiled, always happy to talk about the stock. “Those are Hellebores. They’re incredible for low-profile gala centerpieces because they sit so elegantly and look high-fashion under dim lighting.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Clara asked, tilting her head curiously.
“They do,” you nodded, securing a low glass trough with tissue paper. “Hellebores represent resilience, survival, and enduring power. In old traditions, they symbolize a strength that protects your peace. What makes them unique is that they actually thrive and bloom in the freezing mud of winter, when most other flowers are dying off. I chose them for the gala because they perfectly mirror the club’s long-standing resilience, no matter how harsh the environment gets, you still produce something beautiful.”
Clara stared at the flowers, nodding slowly. “Resilience and enduring power. Yeah... that definitely fits. Especially with the pressure right now.” She quieted for a second, looking down at the counter before speaking softly. “Alexia actually wanted to ride along with you to deliver these today. She was complaining in the locker room that her tactical meeting ran long and she couldn't make it.”
Your hands froze for a fraction of a second over the cardboard box. You kept your face down, trying to control the sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks, your eyes darting to the floor. “Oh? I’m sure the captain has much more important things to do than haul boxes of flowers in a delivery van.”
“No, she really wanted to,” Clara insisted, her voice quiet but honest. “She keeps telling everyone how knowledgeable you are. Patri and Kika tease her about it, but... I think she just really likes hearing about your work.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. Before you could respond, Clara’s phone vibrated loudly on the wooden counter. She picked it up, her eyes widening slightly when she saw the caller ID.
“It’s Alexia,” Clara whispered, looking a little nervous as she swiped to answer. “Hola, Ale?”
“Clara! Where are you?” Alexia’s smooth, commanding voice echoed clearly through the quiet shop, sounding a bit stressed. “The PR team is asking if the van has arrived at the stadium gates yet. Did you get lost?”
Clara looked at you, her cheeks turning pink again as she spoke into the phone. “I’m at the flower shop, Alexia. We’re just... loading the van now. But Y/N’s niece took the van keys hostage.”
There was a sudden, dead silence on the other end of the line. You held your breath, your face burning.
“Clara,” Alexia’s voice came back, noticeably lower and completely stripped of its previous irritation. “Stop bothering the florista and get on the road.”
“I’m not bothering her!” Clara said quickly, looking at you for help.
You finally stepped in, leaning closer to the phone. “The arrangements are fully loaded, Captain. Clara is doing a great job, we’re just handling a minor toddler situation.”
Another brief pause on the line. When Alexia spoke again, her tone was entirely soft, a quiet warmth bleeding through the speaker. “Hola, flower girl. Don’t let her break anything. I’ll see you at the stadium gates in twenty minutes, then. I’ll make sure security lets your van right through.”
“Looking forward to it,” you murmured quietly.
“Drive safely,” Alexia ordered, though there was a clear smile in her voice before she hung up.
Clara let out a breath, retrieving the van keys from a very cooperative Sofia in exchange for a piece of wrapped candy from your counter bowl. Together, you walked out to the alley where the shop’s delivery van was parked.
“Thanks for the explanation about the hellebores,” Clara said as she climbed into the passenger seat next to you. You adjusted the mirrors and started the engine, shifting the van into gear. As you pulled out into the Barcelona traffic, Clara turned to you with a shy, friendly smile. “I’ll tell Alexia about the resilience part.”
November brought a heavy, damp chill to Barcelona. The vibrant autumn colors of the previous month began to give way to grey skies and a persistent, biting wind that swept through the streets. For FC Barcelona, the honeymoon phase of the early season was officially over. The match schedule was grueling: midweek Champions League fixtures followed by intense away games in Liga F. You could see the toll it was taking on the team just by looking at the sports pages your father left on the counter.
For your shop, November was defined by a monumental contract: the grand opening of a brand-new, permanent exhibition pavilion at the FC Barcelona Museum, dedicated entirely to the history, trophies, and cultural impact of the women’s team. Because the museum was one of the most visited cultural spaces in Spain, the club’s design directors wanted sleek, high-end floral installations to anchor the entrance and the VIP preview lounge. It was a massive architectural project for Floristeria Arrels, requiring structural arrangements that would look flawless under museum spotlighting and hold up against the thousands of fans expected for the opening week.
Behind the large wooden workstation, you were deep in prep mode, snipping the sharpest thorns off a pile of dark, sturdy branches. With your hair piled into a quick, messy bun to keep it out of the way, your hands moved with practiced precision, weaving a spool of thin green wire into the base of a new display.
The brass bell above the door chimed, a sudden gust of cold November air rushing into the warm, earthy sanctuary of the shop.
You looked up, a welcoming smile already forming on your lips. It faltered slightly, your pulse kicking into a familiar, rapid rhythm.
Alexia walked in.
She was pulled tightly into a heavy, dark winter coat, the collar turned up against the wind. But as she stepped up to the counter and unbuttoned her coat, you saw how exhausted she looked. Her shoulders were tense, the usual bright spark in her hazel eyes muted by sheer physical and mental fatigue. The weight of captaining a team through a high-pressure mid-season slump was practically visible.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said. Her voice was lower than usual, a bit rough around the edges, but she still managed to give you a genuine, tired smile.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied softly, your natural empathy instantly tuning into her heavy mood. You leaned against the counter, looking at her. “You look like you’ve been run over by a tractor. Rough week?”
Alexia let out a dry, breathy laugh, running a hand through her hair. “A tractor might have been gentler. We had a late flight back from Sweden, training at dawn, and now I have to spend the afternoon at the museum preparing for the grand opening of the pavilion.” She sighed, looking around the quiet, warm shop as if it were a life raft. “Your brother already has the main transport crates at the stadium, but I told the PR team I’d come swing by to check on the final VIP accent pieces. Mostly, I just wanted to escape the stadium noise for a minute.”
“You have fifteen minutes before you need to be there?” you asked, noticing the way her fingers were tightly laced together.
Alexia blinked, checking her watch. “Yeah. About that. Why?”
“Sit,” you said, gesturing to the heavy wooden stool on the customer side of the counter. “I just brewed a fresh pot of chamomile and honey tea in the back. You’re not leaving this shop looking that stressed. It’s bad for my brand.”
Alexia stared at you for a second, surprised by your quiet assertiveness. Then, the tension seemed to melt out of her shoulders all at once. “Okay,” she murmured, pulling herself up onto the stool. “Thank you.”
You disappeared into the back room for a moment, returning with a steaming ceramic mug. You slid it across the counter to her. Alexia wrapped her hands around the warm mug, inhaling the sweet, herbal steam. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the shop’s heaters and the rustle of the wind outside. You turned back to your workstation, giving her space to just breathe, your hands methodically wrapping floral wire around a thick stem.
“What are you working on?” Alexia asked quietly, breaking the silence. She was watching your hands move, her chin resting on her palm.
You looked down at the bundle of small, paper-like blossoms in your hands. They were a deep, striking purple, clustered tightly together on stiff, branching stems. They didn’t look like traditional, delicate flowers; they felt rugged, papery, and completely indestructible.
“These are Statice,” you explained, your voice soft in the quiet room. “Most people call it Sea Lavender.”
“Statice,” Alexia repeated, testing the word. “Like statistics?”
You laughed softly, your hazel eyes crinkling. “No, though I’m sure your analysts love those. It comes from the Greek word for ‘causing to stand’, because the flower holds its color and shape for years, even after it’s been cut and dried. It practically never fades.”
Alexia took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze locked onto yours. “Does it also have a meaning?”
“It does,” you nodded, setting the bundle down. “Statice symbolizes remembrance and sympathy, but in modern botany, it represents success and turning adversity into triumph. Because it can grow in harsh, salty coastal soils where nothing else survives, it’s the flower of endurance. It tells someone that no matter how grueling the winter gets, they have the permanent strength to see it through.”
Alexia stared at the purple blossoms for a long moment. The heavy, quiet tension from September felt like it was shifting into something deeper, a silent understanding passing between you. She looked up from the flowers, her hazel eyes searching your face, lingering on the soft curve of your lips.
“Endurance,” Alexia murmured, her voice carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “I think I needed to hear that today.”
“I know,” you said softly, offering her a reassuring, warm smile. “That’s why I’m the florist and you’re the captain.”
Alexia smiled, a real, bright smile that reached her eyes this time. She finished the rest of her tea and stood up, looking visibly lighter, the exhaustion pushed to the background. She picked up the small, beautifully styled box of VIP table accents you had set aside. “I should get back to the museum complex before they send a search party for me.”
“Let me walk you to the door,” you said.
You walked around the counter, opening the heavy wooden door for her. The cold November wind instantly caught your hair, blowing a few blonde strands across your face. Alexia stepped closer to you for a brief second, using her tall frame to shield you from the biting gust.
As she tucked her hands into the deep pockets of her coat, you quickly reached into your apron.
“Here,” you said, slipping a small, dried sprig of the deep purple Statice into the front pocket of her heavy coat, right beside her fingers.
Alexia froze, looking down at your hand, then up at your face. Her breath hitched slightly in the cold air, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to your eyes.
“For luck,” you whispered, your cheeks flushing from more than just the cold. “A reminder that you endure.”
Alexia’s expression softened into something intensely private, a look that made your heart do a violent flip. She reached up, her thumb brushing against your cheek for a fleeting second, sending a jolt of pure warmth straight down your spine.
“Thank you, flower girl,” she said quietly, her voice full of an unspoken weight. “For the tea. And for the flowers.”
You watched her drive away into the grey November afternoon, your hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on your cheek where her thumb had rested.
December transformed Barcelona into a city of lights. The streets were filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts, and festive decorations lined the shopfronts. Inside your shop, the air was a rich, intoxicating mix of fresh pine needles, cinnamon sticks, and dried orange slices. The annual Barça Christmas charity gala was coming up, and the club had commissioned you for massive festive wreaths, garlands, and dozens of premium poinsettias. Your shop looked like a winter wonderland, albeit a very busy one.
The holiday rush was in full swing, and you were currently losing a wrestling match with a massive, incredibly stubborn pine garland. A festive red velvet ribbon kept your hair pinned back and out of the line of fire, leaving you free to squint through a shower of flying needles as you used both hands to heave the heavy, fragrant greenery onto the display rack.
“Tia! Tia, look at me! I’m a Christmas elf!”
You turned around to see Lucas, wearing a floppy green felt hat he had found somewhere, trying to balance a pinecone on his nose.
“You’re a very helpful elf, Lucas,” you laughed, adjusting a stray piece of twine. “But if you want to be a real elf, you need to help me move these heavy crates of soil to the back before the delivery van arrives.”
“Elves don’t do heavy lifting, Tia. That’s for trolls,” Lucas said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.
“I heard that!” your father’s voice barked from the back room. “And I am not a troll, I am your grandfather! Go sweep the entrance!”
Before Lucas could argue, the brass bell above the front door chimed, letting in a swirl of crisp December air and a burst of loud, familiar laughter.
You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. Your heart instantly did a familiar, erratic skip. It wasn’t just one player this time, it was a whole delegation. Patri, Kika, and Clara all walked in, led by Alexia. They were bundled up in thick winter jackets and beanies, their cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Hola!” Patri announced loudly, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. “We heard the florist was drowning in pine needles, so we came to inspect the goods.”
“And to escape fitness training,” Kika whispered, giving Lucas a high-five as she walked past him. “Hey, Lucas. Nice hat.”
“Hola, everyone,” you smiled warmly, your eyes instinctively finding Alexia. She was wearing a cream-colored knit beanie and a dark coat, and the moment her eyes met yours, the tired lines on her face seemed to soften. She gave you a quiet, lingering nod, her gaze dropping briefly to the red ribbon in your hair before looking back at your eyes.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, stepping up to the counter. “We were driving past and saw the delivery van outside. We figured you had a lot to load for the gala tomorrow, so we came to help.”
“You... came to help load crates?” you blinked, looking at the four professional athletes standing in your small shop. “I don't think the club’s insurance covers the captain straining her back lifting my poinsettias.”
“Please,” Patri scoffed, already grabbing the handles of a heavy wooden crate full of festive centerpieces. “We lift weights for a living, Y/N. This is a warmup.”
“I’ll help!” Clara said quietly, stepping forward with a shy smile. She carefully lifted a delicate tray of white cyclamen, making sure not to crush the leaves, looking very focused on doing a good job.
For the next fifteen minutes, your quiet shop was filled with absolute chaos. The players formed a mini-assembly line, carrying the heavy arrangements out to your delivery van. At one point, your friends happened to walk past the shop window on their way to a café. They froze, their jaws dropping as they saw the captain of FC Barcelona carrying a box of pinecones while Kika chased Lucas around a display of ferns. They caught your eye through the glass, pointing and mouthing, ‘What is happening?!’ You just flushed bright red and shrugged, waving them off.
Alexia carried the final, massive holiday wreath inside from the prep table. As she set it down on the counter, she breathed out a puff of air, her cheeks rosy from the chill.
“That should be everything,” Alexia said, leaning against the counter, just inches away from you. She looked down at a stunning arrangement you had set aside on the corner display. It featured a towering, majestic white flower with thick, velvety petals blooming spectacularly from a bulb. “Wow. What is this one? It looks like a crown.”
You smiled, stepping closer to her, your shoulder brushing lightly against hers. A sudden, electric warmth bloomed in your chest despite the December chill.
“That’s an Amaryllis,” you explained quietly, your voice soft and confident. “Specifically, a winter Amaryllis.”
“Does this one have a story?” Alexia asked, turning her head to look at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours.
“It does,” you nodded. “The name comes from the Greek word amarysso, which means ‘to sparkle.’ In botanical lore, it symbolizes splendid beauty, worth beyond beauty, and determination. Because it’s a bulb that sleeps all through the autumn and then blooms in the absolute dead of winter, it represents a deep, indestructible pride. It says that even in the darkest, coldest times of the year, something breathtaking can grow if you give it time.”
Alexia stared at the white petals, her expression turning quiet, a sudden, heavy shadow crossing her eyes. She looked down at her coat pocket, the very pocket where you had slipped the purple statice flower a month ago.
“Something breathtaking in the dead of winter,” Alexia murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense and searching, lingering on your lips for a second too long.
Before the silence could stretch, Patri called out from the doorway. “Hey, Ale! Are you buying that bouquet for the gala, or are we heading out?”
Alexia blinked, pulling herself out of the moment. She cleared her throat, a slightly forced, distant smile appearing on her face. “Right. Um, actually... can you wrap up a separate bouquet of red roses and holly? I need to take it with me tonight.”
Your chest tightened, a familiar, cold pang of reality hitting you. The girlfriend. You had almost forgotten, caught up in the warmth of the shop and the way Alexia looked at you.
“Of course,” you said, your professional mask slipping back on perfectly. “Give me five minutes.”
You wrapped the holiday bouquet with practiced efficiency, tying the ribbon tightly. You handed it over the counter, ensuring your fingers didn’t brush against hers this time. You didn't want to complicate things.
“Thanks, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, holding the romantic bouquet in her arms. She looked like she wanted to say something else, her eyes scanning your face, but she held back.
“Thank you all for the help,” you told the group, forcing a bright, cheerful smile. “See you at the gala tomorrow.”
After the players piled out of the shop, laughing and shoving each other into the cold evening air, the store felt suddenly huge and incredibly quiet. Lucas came over, taking off his elf hat and looking up at you with his smart-aleck eight-year-old eyes.
“Tia,” he said thoughtfully. “She looked sad when you gave her those roses.”
“Go sweep the entrance, Lucas,” you murmured, turning back to your counter.
You looked at the white amaryllis, sparkling under the shop lights. Splendid beauty, waiting in the dark.
x bonus chapter x
The Spotify Camp Nou hospitality suite was transformed into a glittering winter wonderland for the annual Christmas charity gala. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the massive room, reflecting off the silver trimmings and the dark green velvet tablecloths.
You stood near the grand entrance, smoothing down the skirt of your dark emerald dress. You had opted to leave your hair down, the soft waves brushing past your shoulders, and your eyes swept over the room with a sense of quiet pride. Every single table was adorned with your low-profile centerpieces, the rich pine, cinnamon accents, and striking white amaryllis catching the light perfectly. The club’s PR director had already stopped by to praise your work, noting that the atmosphere had never felt so elegant.
But despite the success, you felt entirely out of your element. You were a florist, used to dirt under your fingernails and the quiet hum of your family’s shop, not the clinking of champagne glasses and the flashing cameras of the Catalan media.
“You look like you’re plotting a getaway,” a smooth, familiar voice murmured from beside you.
You turned your head, your heart instantly doing a violent, familiar flip.
Alexia was standing there. She had traded her usual training gear and casual blazers for a breathtaking, floor-length gown in a deep midnight blue that hugged her athletic silhouette perfectly. Her hair was styled in sleek, polished waves cascading down one shoulder, and her eyes were looking down at you with an intense, quiet focus. Up close, her presence was almost dizzying.
“Alexia,” you said, a soft, breathless smile breaking across your face as you looked her up and down. “I could say the same about you. The dress suits you much better than a football kit.”
Alexia let out a low laugh, a genuine warmth spreading across her features. “Don’t let the managers hear you say that. But thank you. You look... incredible, flower girl. Truly. The emerald suits you.”
“Thank you,” you replied, your cheeks heating up slightly. You gestured to the room around you to redirect the focus. “What do you think of the arrangements? They look okay under the bright lights?”
“They’re perfect,” Alexia said softly, her gaze drifting over the room before settling right back on your face. “Everyone is talking about them. You completely transformed the space.” She paused, shifting her weight as she took a sip from her glass. “I saw your friends’ faces through the window yesterday, by the way. I think Patri scarred them for life.”
You laughed, the tension leaving your shoulders. “They texted me immediately demanding to know why the Barça captain was acting as my personal delivery courier. I told them I just have excellent customer service.”
“Clearly,” Alexia smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Before the conversation could deepen, a sudden shift in the room caught your attention. A stylish, striking woman walked up to the bar a few meters away, gesturing for Alexia to join her. It was the girlfriend. You recognized her instantly from some late-night stalking.
Your chest tightened with that familiar, unwelcome pang of reality. You instinctively stepped back, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind your ear as your professional mask slid firmly into place. “Your guest is waiting. You should go, Ale.”
Alexia looked over her shoulder, her smile faltering. The lines of exhaustion and tension you had seen in November seemed to flash across her face for a brief second. When she looked back at you, her hazel eyes were guarded, lacking the easy warmth she had just shared with you.
“Right,” Alexia said quietly, her voice dropping a register. She looked at you for a long, lingering moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but the noise of the gala swallowed the space between you. “Enjoy the night, flower girl.”
“You too,” you murmured.
You watched her walk away, watching the way her posture shifted back into the rigid, perfect composure expected of the club's leader as she greeted her partner.
You didn’t stay much longer after that. You slipped out of the gala before the main courses were served, taking a taxi back through the brightly lit streets of Barcelona.
January in Barcelona arrived with a biting, crisp clarity. The holiday lights were packed away, leaving the city streets feeling stark and quiet under the pale winter sun. At the Ciutat Esportiva, the atmosphere was thick with intense focus; mid-season awards were being announced, and the press room was constantly booked for high-profile mid-season press conferences.
For your shop, January meant providing clean, minimalist arrangements for the media rooms: lots of structured greenery and sharp white accents that looked professional on television.
A persistent draft from the front door had you shivering slightly, prompting you to pull your thick wool cardigan tighter around your shoulders. A neat, high ponytail kept things out of your way as you leaned over the counter, the bright glow of your phone screen lighting up your face during your favorite Monday morning ritual: trading quick texts with Ingrid.
Hi Y/N! Let’s do something warm and bright for Mapi this week, Ingrid’s text from Lyon read. She’s feeling a bit down with the winter training schedule. Maybe some yellow or orange?
I have some stunning winter marigolds and orange ranunculus that just arrived, you typed back quickly, a soft smile on your face. I’ll make it look like a little burst of sunshine. How is France treating you?
Freezing! 🥶 But the football is good. Hey, by the way... is the vibe at the club offices as weird as Patri says it is? She texted me saying the locker room has been completely silent all week.
You paused, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. I haven’t been to the club this week, just the press room. Why is it silent?
There was a pause, the little typing bubbles appearing and disappearing before Ingrid’s reply popped up. Alexia is single again. Apparently, it happened right after the New Year. Nobody is brave enough to ask her about it, but Patri says she’s just throwing herself entirely into training.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent thud against your ribs. You stared at the words on the screen, a flood of conflicting emotions rushing through you. Single. The relationship you had meticulously crafted bouquets for was over. You thought back to the Christmas gala, the heavy, guarded look in Alexia’s eyes and the forced smile she had worn.
Before you could type a response, the brass bell above the door chimed. You looked up instantly, your breath catching in your throat.
But it wasn’t Alexia. It was Patri.
The midfielder walked in, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her heavy Barça parka. She looked tired, the usual mischievous spark in her eyes replaced by a quiet, subdued sigh as she approached the counter.
“Hola, chica,” Patri said, offering a small, weak wave.
“Hola, Patri,” you replied softly, setting your phone aside. “You look like you’ve been freezing on the pitch all morning.”
“Pretty much,” Patri muttered, leaning against the counter. “I’m here to pick up the press room displays for tomorrow’s briefing. Are they ready?”
“They’re right here,” you said, gesturing to the sleek, white ceramic vases filled with elegant eucalyptus and structured white stems. As you began to carefully wrap the base of the vases in protective paper, you kept your tone casual, though your pulse was racing. “Ingrid actually just texted me. She mentioned things have been a bit heavy at the training ground.”
Patri let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing her face with her hands. “Yeah. It’s tough. Alexia... she’s going through a lot right now. The breakup was rough, and instead of taking a breath, she’s just practically living on the pitch. First one there, last one to leave. She won’t talk to any of us about it.” Patri looked around the shop, her eyes landing on a display of small, delicate plants in the corner. “She usually comes here when she’s stressed, but she told me to pick these up today. I think she’s just hiding.”
Your chest pulled tight with a quiet, aching empathy. You didn’t want to fix Alexia’s problems, that wasn’t your place, but as a florist, you knew that sometimes when people couldn’t find the words, the flowers could speak for them.
You stopped wrapping the vase and walked over to a specific wooden shelf near the window. Tucked away in a small terracotta pot was a cluster of hardy, delicate white blossoms that looked like tiny, frozen bells.
“Take this to her,” you said quietly, bringing the pot back to the counter.
Patri tilted her head, looking at the small white flowers. “What is it?”
“It’s White Heather,” you explained, your voice soft and steady in the quiet shop. “It’s one of the few things that can bloom beautifully in the dead of January. In old botanical language, white heather symbolizes protection, good fortune, and the fulfillment of wishes.”
You looked up, meeting Patri’s eyes. “It’s not a romantic flower, and it’s not flashy. It’s a flower given to tell someone that you wish them peace and safety while they navigate a storm. Tell her... tell her it’s just a sponsor’s gift for the captain. A wish for a good second half of the season.”
Patri stared at the white heather, a soft, knowing expression gradually overtaking her tired face. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “A sponsor’s gift. Right.” She took the little pot gently, nesting it into her arm. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I think she really needs a little bit of protection right now.”
After helping Patri load the sleek arrangements into her car, you stood inside the doorway, watching the vehicle pull away into the cold January afternoon.
You walked back to the counter, picking up your phone to see a final text from Ingrid: Make sure to look after Ale if she stops by! x
You looked out the window at the grey Barcelona sky. Alexia hadn’t come to the shop this month, choosing to hide away in the noise of her training.
February brought the frenetic, dizzying rush of the Valentine’s Day season. For your shop, it was easily the most chaotic week of the winter. The counter was practically buried under mountains of crimson roses, delicate pink tulips, and heavy satin ribbons. Your father had been brought out of retirement (again) to handle the delivery logs, and your friends had even offered to help clip thorns after their corporate day jobs.
To make matters more intense, FC Barcelona had a massive home game at the stadium on Valentine’s Day weekend, meaning the club had ordered dozens of presentation bouquets for the VIP suites and the pre-match ceremonies. You had been working fourteen-hour days, your hair thrown into a messy bun with a pink silk ribbon, your eyes bright but exhausted.
It was late on a Friday afternoon when the heavy Valentine’s rush finally hit a brief, blessed lull. Your father had taken Lucas to get hot chocolate, leaving the shop quiet save for the hum of the coolers.
The brass bell above the door chimed, letting in a crisp breeze.
You looked up, automatically reaching for a fresh sheet of wrapping paper. “Welcome to Floristeria Arrels, give me just one second…”
The words died in your throat.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was wearing a casual green-colored hoodie under a dark jacket, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her hands shoved into her pockets.
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. You hadn’t seen her in almost two months, and up close, you could see the change. She still looked tired from the grueling winter season, but the heavy, suffocating shadow she had carried in December was gone. Her eyes looked clear, grounded, and entirely focused on you.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low in the quiet shop as she walked up to the counter.
“Hola, Alexia,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter. You offered a warm, slightly tentative smile. “You survived the January schedule, I see.”
“Barely,” Alexia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that sent a sudden rush of warmth straight to your core. She leaned against the wooden counter. “Patri gave me the white heather, by the way. She said it was a ‘sponsor's gift,’ but somehow I didn’t think some sponsor’s administrative office was choosing specific botanical wishes for my peace and safety.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable crimson. You instinctively tucked a stray blonde curl behind your ear, looking down at your hands. “Well... I just thought the captain could use a little luck for the second half of the season.”
“Thank you,” Alexia said quietly, her voice full of sincere warmth. “It’s sitting on my kitchen counter right now. It helped, flower girl. Truly. It was nice to have a bit of quiet luck around.”
A heavy, incredibly soft silence fell between you. The sharp, romantic tension from the autumn hadn’t disappeared; instead, it felt like it had thawed into something much more intimate, stripped of the boundaries that had kept you apart before.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a soft smile as you gestured to the sea of red roses surrounding you. “Are you here to brave the Valentine's Day madness? I can whip up a custom bouquet if you need one.”
“No,” Alexia said instantly. She looked at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly direct focus. “No more red roses. I’m actually just here for my own apartment. I wanted some fresh greenery. Eucalyptus, maybe? Something clean.”
Your chest loosened, a wave of relief washing over you that you couldn’t quite hide. “I can definitely do eucalyptus. Let me grab the fresh bunches from the back.”
You walked over to the cold storage, pulling out a lush, fragrant bundle of silver-dollar eucalyptus. As you brought it back to the workstation, you noticed a small, rustic clay pot sitting on a lower display shelf, holding a cluster of delicate, low-growing purple flowers. They were simple, wild, and blooming right out of the dark, rich soil.
“Here,” you said, setting the eucalyptus down and carefully leaning over to tend to the little plant.
Alexia leaned in, her chin resting on her hand as she watched your fingers gently brush a stray speck of dirt off one of the heart-shaped leaves. “What are those?”
“These are Violets,” you murmured, looking up to meet her gaze. “They’re traditional February blooms. In old floral language, they symbolize modesty, faithfulness, and subtle, unspoken affection.”
You gently traced the edge of a velvet petal, your voice soft and steady. “Because they’re small and grow close to the earth, they don't shout for attention like roses do. But they’re incredibly hardy. They bloom right out of the soil even when the ground is still cold, signaling that the winter is ending. It’s a plant that represents a quiet, fresh start.”
Alexia stared at the tiny purple flowers, then slowly raised her eyes to your face. She took in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnest warmth in your hazel eyes. She didn’t look away, the silence stretching between you until it felt completely breathless.
“A quiet, fresh start,” Alexia repeated, her voice dropping to a low, intimate register. She stared at the tiny purple flowers for a long moment, then looked up, her eyes locking onto yours. “I think a fresh start is exactly what I’m looking for.”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs, the silence between you suddenly feeling completely breathless. You managed a small smile, lifting the little clay pot. “Then the violets are yours. On the house.”
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia whispered, her eyes softening with a genuine warmth.
You turned to the workstation to package everything up, laying out a large sheet of thick brown kraft paper to bundle her heavy branches of silver-dollar eucalyptus. Because the stems were springy and full, the paper kept unrolling and snapping back as you tried to fold it.
Seeing you struggle slightly, Alexia instinctively leaned over the counter and reached out to press her palm down on the edge of the paper to hold it steady for you.
As you brought your hand down to tape the seam, your fingers slid right across the back of her hand. It was a complete accident, a sudden brush of skin against skin. You caught your breath, your hand freezing for a split second against hers. Alexia didn’t move her hand away either; she just kept holding the paper flat, her hazel eyes flicking up to catch yours with a quiet, lingering intensity that made your skin tingle.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice a little breathier than intended as you quickly finished taping the paper.
“Anytime,” she replied softly, a slow, amused smile playing on her lips as she finally pulled her hand back. You leaned against the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you picked up your shears.
March brought the long-awaited arrival of spring. The biting winter winds softened into gentle, warm breezes, and the sun lingered just a bit longer over the city’s plazas each evening. For the club, March meant the intense preparation for the final stretch of the season, split up by a brief international break. For your shop, it meant a vibrant explosion of color as the first true spring blooms began to arrive in heavy wooden crates.
A heavy delivery crate sat open on the counter, trailing loose packing straw onto the floor as you worked. With your hair swept up and held securely out of your face by a smooth silver clip, you lifted out the final tray of potted bulbs. They weren’t quite blooming yet, but the tightly closed green buds were fat and bursting at the seams, showing just enough hints of bright yellow to promise a sea of golden warmth in a few days’ time.
The brass bell above the door chimed cheerfully.
“Hola!” Patri’s boisterous voice echoed through the shop before she even fully stepped inside.
You looked up, a bright smile instantly taking over your face as Patri walked in, closely followed by Kika. Both were dressed in casual tracksuits, looking relaxed and sun-warmed from an early training session.
“Hola, regulars,” you teased, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you today? Don’t tell me Patri already managed to kill that pothos she bought in January.”
“No, that thing is indestructible, just like you said,” Patri laughed, walking up to the counter and resting her elbows on the wood. “We actually need a nice birthday plant for Kika’s aunt. Something that says ‘I love you’ but also ‘I forgot your birthday was this week and ordered this at the last minute’.”
“Hey! I didn’t forget,” Kika protested, though she was grinning as she wandered over to inspect a shelf of flowering cacti. “I just... misplaced the date.”
“Right, right,” you chuckled, stepping out from behind the counter to help them browse. “I have some beautiful potted orchids, or some fresh jasmine that smells amazing.”
As you walked them through the options, Patri kept casting sideways glances at you, a mischievous, knowing smirk playing on her lips. Finally, as you reached for a lush potted jasmine, Patri casually leaned against a display rack.
“So, chica,” Patri started, her tone entirely too innocent. “Alexia’s apartment has been smelling a lot like eucalyptus lately. I visited her apartment last night, and the girl who can barely keep a cactus alive has a perfectly manicured, tiny clay pot of purple violets sitting in prime real estate on her kitchen windowsill. Care to comment?”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, instant pink. You instinctively tucked a loose blonde curl behind your ear, your hazel eyes darting down to the plant in your hands as you tried to maintain your professional composure. “I just sold Alexia some fresh greenery, Patri. It's my job.”
“Uh-huh,” Kika chimed in, abandoning the cacti to join the interrogation, a massive grin on her face. “And is it your job to make our captain smile at her phone in the middle of video analysis? Because she’s been doing that a lot. Especially on Monday mornings after she sees the arrangements you send for Mapi.”
“I... I just provide good customer service,” you stammered, looking every bit the flustered, classic beauty as you tried to dodge their playful glare.
“Right, ‘customer service’,” Patri purred, swapping a highly amused look with Kika. “Well, just so you know, the captain’s schedule is absolute madness right now, but she’s suddenly magically free every single Tuesday afternoon. Completely single, too. And she really likes flowers. In fact, she’s been complaining that she doesn’t have a good excuse to come by the shop this month because the administrative team handled the international break orders online.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. The realization that Alexia was talking about you, that she was looking for reasons to see you, sent a wave of pure, thrilling heat through your chest.
To hide your burning face, you quickly turned back to the workstation, picking up a small trowel and reaching for a tray of vibrant potted bulbs you had been sorting earlier.
“If you two are quite finished playing matchmaker,” you said, your voice breathless but carrying a playful edge, “I need to finish processing these.”
Patri walked over, tilting her head at the rows of green, goose-necked stalks pointing out of the dark soil. She nudged one of the fat, swollen tips where a sliver of bright yellow was tearing through the papery casing. “Well, these look ready to burst. What are they?"”
“They’re Daffodils,” you murmured, grateful to anchor yourself back into your craft. You carefully brushed a bit of loose earth from the rim of a small pot. “They’re the ultimate flower of March. In traditional botanical lore, daffodils have a bit of a dual meaning. Historically, they could represent unrequited love, but globally, they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, and unequaled affection. They’re the very first flowers to break through the soil after the frost, showing that the sun is finally back.”
Patri stared at the yellow flowers, then looked up at your flushed face, her expression softening into a genuinely warm, supportive smile. She reached out, lightly tapping the counter.
“Let’s go with the new beginnings part,” Patri said softly, giving you a reassuring wink. “I think the frost has officially melted, chica. You just have to wait for the sun to walk through the door.”
“Yeah,” Kika agreed, nodding enthusiastically as she picked out the jasmine plant. “And definitely don’t charge her for the next batch of eucalyptus.”
You laughed, the nervous tension giving way to a soft, bubbling happiness. After wrapping up Kika’s aunt’s plant and waving the two mischievous midfielders away, the shop fell into a quiet afternoon lull.
You looked down at the bright yellow blossoms growing from the little pot, their golden petals catching the warm March sunlight streaming through the storefront window. A fresh start. A new beginning.
April arrived with a sky-high spike in adrenaline. The city was practically vibrating with anticipation as FC Barcelona rolled into the Champions League Semifinals. The pressure on the squad was immense; every training session was hyper-focused, and the media presence at the Ciutat Esportiva was constant.
For your shop, April meant a flurry of quick, efficient corporate orders for the stadium’s luxury boxes. But inside Floristeria Arrels, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the high-stakes football world. It was a haven of soft rain, damp pavement outside, and the intoxicating, sweet scent of blooming spring bulbs inside.
Rain lashed violently against the storefront glass as the clock ticked past closing time on a stormy Thursday evening. A few loose strands of hair had escaped your bun, framing your face as you hoisted a heavy, freezing zinc bucket into place, determined to get the last of the fresh imports organized before finally calling it a night.
The brass bell above the door gave a sudden, sharp chime as the door pushed open against the howling wind.
You looked up, surprised. “Oh, sorry, we’re just about to…”
The words evaporated.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was pulled into a dark, rain-slicked club jacket, her hood pushed back to reveal her hair, which was slightly damp from the storm. She looked completely worn out, not just physically, but mentally. The sheer weight of captaining the team through the highest-stakes week of the season was evident in the tight line of her jaw.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said quietly, her voice low and carrying a hint of hesitation. “I saw the lights were still on. I know it’s late.”
“Hola, Ale,” you breathed, setting the heavy bucket down. Your heart kicked into that familiar, erratic rhythm, but your immediate instinct was to offer her a reprieve from the storm outside. “Don’t worry about the time. Come in. You look like you just played ninety minutes in a downpour.”
Alexia let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, stepping further into the warm, fragrant sanctuary of the shop. She didn’t stay by the door; she walked right up to your workstation, leaning her hands against the aged wood. “Just ran from the car. The pressure this week... it’s loud. Everywhere I go, people are talking about the semifinal. I just needed twenty minutes where nobody asks me about tactical formations.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” you smiled warmly, your eyes locking onto hers. “The flowers don’t care about football.”
Determined to keep things light and give her the distraction she desperately needed, you went to move a large bucket of water and fresh cuttings out of her path. But your natural coordination chose that exact moment to fail you.
Your sandal slid on a slick spot of wet tile.
“Whoa!” you gasped, your arms flailing.
In your panic, your elbow clipped the rim of a heavy plastic bucket, sending a tidal wave of cold water splashing across the floor. You went down, landing awkwardly on your knees amidst a sea of scattered green stems and puddles.
“Y/N!” Alexia reacted with lightning-fast athlete reflexes, instantly dropping to her knees beside you on the wet floor. Her strong hands caught your forearms, stabilizing you. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your wrist?”
Your cheeks burned a violent, brilliant crimson. You looked up, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia’s face. The proximity was dizzying. You could see the golden flecks in her hazel eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. You looked incredibly striking in your flustered state, your breath hitching.
“I’m fine,” you squeaked, your voice breathless as you looked down at the absolute disaster on the floor. “I told you... giraffe coordination. I just ruined my clean floor.”
Alexia stared at you for a heartbeat, taking in your wide eyes and your bright blush. Then, a sudden, beautiful sound broke through the quiet shop. Alexia laughed. It wasn’t the polite, guarded chuckle she gave to the media; it was a deep, genuine, chest-deep laugh that completely wiped the exhaustion from her face.
“You really are a hazard, flower girl,” she teased, her eyes crinkling with pure amusement as she let go of your arms to pick up a wet leaf.
“I’m a professional, I swear,” you laughed along, the embarrassment melting into a soft, bubbling happiness.
Together, sitting on the floor of the closed shop, you began grabbing the scattered stems. Alexia reached for a bundle of elegant, unbroken flowers that had escaped the water. They were sleek, cup-shaped blossoms of a stunning, soft pastel pink.
“Tulips, right?” Alexia asked softly, holding one up between you. The playful mood suddenly shifted, dropping into a quiet, heavy intimacy.
“Yes, those are Pink Tulips," you murmured, your voice steadying as you looked from the flower to her eyes. “They’re the heart of spring.”
“Do they have a meaning too?” Alexia asked, her voice dropping a register, her hazel gaze locking onto yours.
“They do,” you nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Unlike red tulips, which are very bold and aggressive about love, pink tulips are different. They symbolize affection, deep caring, and the attachment of a budding romance. They represent a feeling that is growing quietly, carefully... but securely. It’s the flower you give when you realize you're forming a bond you don’t want to lose.”
The silence that followed was completely breathless, heavy with a thick, undeniable tension. The storm outside seemed a million miles away.
Alexia didn’t look down at the tulip. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, intense and completely focused. Slowly, deliberately, she reached her hand up. Her warm fingers gently tucked a stray, damp lock of your blonde hair behind your ear, her thumb lingering against your jawline for a fraction of a second. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight down your spine.
“A budding romance,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze dropping briefly to your lips before rising back to your hazel eyes. “I think that’s a very beautiful meaning, flower girl.”
You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe. The promise of what was growing between you felt completely overwhelming.
Alexia gently broke the spell, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you up from the floor. You took it, your skin tingling at the contact. She helped you grab a towel to quickly dry the rest of the floor, the heavy atmosphere shifting into a comfortable, warm hum.
When she finally prepared to leave, holding a simple bunch of the pink tulips you had wrapped for her, she stood by the door for a long moment.
“Thank you for the distraction,” Alexia said softly, her hand on the brass handle. “I think I’m ready for the match now.”
“Go win it, Captain,” you smiled, looking at her with all the earnest support you possessed.
As the door closed and she stepped out into the April rain, you leaned back against the wooden counter, your fingers tracing the spot on your jaw where her thumb had rested.
May in Barcelona was a golden, chaotic blur. The city was completely painted in blaugrana as the FC Barcelona women’s team pulled off a historic, breathtaking run, securing both the league title and the Champions League trophy. The entire city was in a state of absolute euphoria.
For you, May was a beautiful war zone. The club had put in massive, sweeping orders for the victory parade, the stadium gala, and the official team reception. Your shop had been working around the clock, but for the final presentation, you had to bring your craft directly into the heart of their celebration.
The media lounge at the Ciutat Esportiva was humming with organized energy. Security guards were tightly managing the perimeter, team photographers were uploading files, and the back of the room had been cleared out specifically for your workstation. You stood behind a long, white-draped table, focusing entirely on the grueling task of assembling the final massive presentation bouquet for the evening’s formal gala.
Your hair was pulled back securely in a claw clip to keep it out of your eyes, and you wore your dark green Floristeria Arrels apron over a clean linen blouse, your hands moving with practiced efficiency.
“The last of the stadium crates are fully secured in the van, Y/N,” your older brother said, walking up to the table with a clipboard. He had volunteered to manage the heavy loading today, and his calm, reliable presence was the only reason you were keeping up with the club's strict schedule. “Lucas is just finishing up the final inventory check.”
You looked over to see your nephew standing dutifully by the transport boxes. He took his job incredibly seriously, wearing a playful cardboard “gold medal” around his neck that he’d made to match the team’s achievements.
“Perfect. Thank you both,” you smiled, exhaling a soft breath of relief as you bound the thick floral stems with green twine. “Lucas, you’re officially the best assistant manager I’ve ever had.”
Lucas beamed proudly, checking off the last item on his list. “All thirty gold-ribbon packages are accounted for, Tia.”
Before you could praise him further, a sudden wave of lighthearted banter and clear, echoing laughter spilled into the lounge from the main corridor, signaling that the morning media restrictions had finally lifted.
The busy room instantly fell into a respectful hum as the players began to flood into the space. It was Patri, Kika, and Clara Serrajordi, all grinning from ear to ear, laughing loudly. And walking right in the center of them, looking completely radiant, was Alexia.
They weren’t in their formal gala gowns yet; they were wearing their official victory shirts, their faces glowing with the sheer, unmatched high of being champions of Europe.
“The champions are here!” Patri announced, throwing her arms wide as she spotted your workstation.
Your brother’s eyes widened, and he immediately grabbed Lucas by the shoulder, pulling him back to give the players room. “Hola, everyone,” you smiled, a rush of genuine, thrilled happiness washing over you as you looked at them. “Congratulations! The whole city is so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Y/N,” Clara Serrajordi said quietly, giving you a shy, proud wave from behind Patri.
Your eyes instinctively traveled across the crowded space, instantly locking onto Alexia. The moment her eyes met yours, the celebratory, public mask she had been wearing all morning seemed to drop. A quiet, incredibly deep warmth flooded her expression. She didn’t say anything at first; she just stood there, taking you in: your messy hair, your flushed cheeks, and the absolute focus with which you were navigating their high-profile chaos.
“We came to check on the final presentation bouquets before the media team takes them,” Patri said, leaning over the table to peek at your work. “Are we good to go?”
“Everything from the van is already styled in the main reception hall,” you said, nodding toward the majestic, sprawling arrangement on your table. “I’m just finishing up this last one.”
The bouquet was spectacular, filled with massive, lush flowers with incredibly thick, tightly packed layers of soft, voluminous petals that looked like ruffled silk.
Alexia stepped closer, bypassing her teammates to stand on the other side of your white-clothed table. She looked down at the breathtaking arrangement, her voice dropping into a low, private register. “Wow. These are incredible, flower girl. They look so heavy, like clouds.”
“They're Peonies,” you murmured, your voice dropping into that soft, confident register as you looked up into her hazel eyes.
“Peonies,” Alexia repeated softly, her gaze locked onto yours over the sea of pink and white petals. “What do they mean for a victory?”
“They’re the flower of honor and prosperity,” you explained, your heart doing a familiar, rapid thud against your ribs. “In old traditions, peonies represent good fortune and a legacy of success. But because they take years to establish their roots deep in the soil before they can bloom this spectacularly, they symbolize a triumph that was earned through deep, patient dedication. They say that the glory is real because the work behind it was real.”
Alexia stared at the peonies, a profound, quiet emotion passing over her face. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely full of an unspoken weight. The bustling lounge, your family, her teammates, everything seemed to fade into the background for a long, breathless moment.
“Patient dedication,” Alexia whispered, her voice carrying a promise that made your chest tighten with a thrill of anticipation. “I think that’s the most perfect meaning yet.”
“Hey, Capi! The media director needs us for the trophy photos!” Patri called out from the other side of the lounge, breaking the spell. Kika and Clara were already moving toward the backdrops, waving to the staff.
Alexia blinked, pulling herself back, but she didn’t move away immediately. She reached across the workspace, her fingers lightly brushing against yours for a brief, electric second that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.
“I have to go do the media rounds,” Alexia said softly, her eyes searching your face one last time. “But as soon as the madness of this week ends... I’m coming to the shop. We need to talk.”
“I’ll be there,” you whispered, a soft smile breaking across your face.
You handed her a single, perfect pink peony from the leftover batch on your table. Alexia took it carefully, holding the stem lightly against her victory shirt like a badge of honor, before turning to join her team under the bright flashing cameras.
You stood behind the table, watching her walk away into the golden afternoon light of the complex, your heart beating wildly.
June arrived with a quiet, golden stillness that settled over Barcelona. The roaring crowds at Spotify Camp Nou had cleared, the parade confetti had finally been swept from the avenues, and the relentless, high-octane pressure of the football season had officially evaporated into the off-season. For the club, the year was a wrap. For your shop, the heavy corporate contracts were successfully completed, leaving Floristeria Arrels in a peaceful, lazy summer lull.
You were standing by the front window, the afternoon sun warming your skin. Your hair was loosely braided and tied back with a simple green silk ribbon. The shop was a fragrant paradise of summer blooms, but without the chaotic rush of the past few months, it felt incredibly spacious.
Your contract with FC Barcelona was officially up for renewal. The paperwork was sitting on your counter, waiting for your signature, a testament to a year of hard work, flawless execution, and a family business preserved.
The brass bell above the door gave a soft, familiar chime.
You turned around, a welcoming phrase already on your tongue, but the words instantly caught in your throat.
Alexia walked in.
She wasn’t wearing a club jersey, a sponsor’s tuxedo, or a rainy-day training jacket. She was dressed in a casual, crisp white linen button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, light jeans, and white sneakers. Her hair was down, catching the golden June light, and her eyes looked completely relaxed, free of the crushing weight of the captaincy.
But as she approached the counter, you noticed something you had never seen on Alexia Putellas before. She looked nervous. Her hands were tucked behind her back, her posture slightly tentative.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth, low, and carrying a soft, hesitant warmth.
“Hola Ale,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter to meet her in the center of the shop. You offered a warm, genuine smile, your heart beginning to hammer a familiar, frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Or should I say Champion? What brings you by? I thought the club orders were officially done for the summer.”
“They are,” Alexia said, stepping closer. The faint, clean scent of her woody perfume immediately enveloped you. “The club is done. I’m not here for Barça, I’m here for myself.”
Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hands out from behind her back.
Your breath hitched, your hazel eyes widening in complete surprise. Held carefully in her hands was a bouquet. It wasn’t one of the grand, perfectly symmetrical corporate arrangements you usually made. It was small, slightly rustic, and clearly wrapped by hand. It was a beautiful, striking mix of deep crimson roses and delicate, star-like blue forget-me-nots.
“I, uh... I went to a little shop on the other side of the city,” Alexia admitted, a faint, endearing flush creeping up her neck as she looked down at the flowers, then back up into your eyes. “Because I knew if I tried to buy flowers from you, you’d just give me a lecture on botanical history or try to give them to me on the house. And I wanted to buy these for you.”
You stared at the bouquet, a profound, overwhelming wave of emotion rushing through your chest. You looked up at her, your eyes bright and soft. “Alexia…”
“I looked up the meanings,” Alexia continued, her voice dropping into a low, intensely private register as she stepped even closer, completely closing the distance between you. “The pink roses are for admiration and new beginnings. No pressure, no complications. Just... the joy I feel whenever I’m around you.”
She offered the bouquet to you, the tall, striking stalks of vibrant blue delphinium framing the soft pink petals beautifully. Your fingers brushed against hers as you took the stems, sending a warm, electric jolt straight to your core.
“And the delphinium is for an open heart,” she added softly, her hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Because this entire season, through the hardest months and the highest pressures, coming into this shop and seeing you was the one thing I couldn’t forget.”
Your heart did a violent, joyful flip. You held the rustic bouquet against your linen shirt, looking up at her with all the striking, classic warmth you possessed. “You did your homework.”
“I had a very good teacher,” Alexia murmured, a beautiful, relieved smile breaking across her face. She reached out, her warm hand gently cupping your jaw, her thumb tracing your skin just like she had in the April rain. This time, there was no storm, no phone calls, and no relationship boundaries keeping you apart. “The season is over, flower girl. No cameras, no press, no football. Just me. I want to take you out on a proper date. If you’ll have me.”
“I would love to,” you whispered, leaning into the warmth of her hand, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.
Alexia’s eyes darkened with a sudden, deep affection, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your hazel eyes. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting months to do this.”
Slowly, she leaned down, her lips meeting yours in a soft, incredibly sweet, and lingering kiss. It tasted like summer, like a fresh start, and like the perfect culmination of a year spent growing roots in the dark.
☆ Summary: Being Barça's newest signing is the easy part. The real challenge is letting someone get close. With Alexia, things quickly turn physical, and while you have no problem taking control, letting yourself be seen is a different story. But Alexia isn't used to being kept at a distance.
☆ Word Count: 6.6k
☆ Warnings: Ale's very babygirl • reader is grumpy • golden retriever and black cat vibes • Ale's on her period • literally just vibes no plot.
☆ A/n: Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!! <3333 This is, once again, a direct continuation from where we left off.
Part 6 here
The day had been horrible.
Mostly because it had begun so well and unravelled so badly, and even though it was only five in the afternoon, you were certain it wouldn't get any better from here.
Cuddling with Alexia in the morning had been wonderful, even if it had terrified you a little bit. Having sex with her was amazing; that part wasn't the problem at all, even if it had made you both late to breakfast. Watching Alexia shower afterwards had been honestly a divine experience, even if you were in a rush and couldn't fully enjoy the view.
But then came the soreness, the ibuprofen, and that rather cryptic phrase she had said in the hotel room, the one you still hadn't quite worked out what to do with.
"You have to decide, torito. Your rules. If they still apply or not."
You sighed, shifting against the brick wall of the stadium park. You hadn't known how to process her words then, and you certainly didn't now. Instead, you had done what you always did and disappeared into your own head.
The air was cold around you, while the setting sun washed the Sevilla sky in shades of pink and orange. You took a deep breath, but Alexia filled your thoughts the same way the ocean filled the lungs of unsuspecting swimmers – burning from the inside out, starving every cell of oxygen before leaving them to die an agonising death.
The asphyxiating overthinking was precisely why you had needed thirty minutes to change after the final whistle. You had needed space away from the mistake you had made on the pitch, away from Alexia snapping at you, away from Patri and Kika's gentleness, away from the dangerous voice screaming in your head that Alexia detested you now.
And look where that logic had got you... Getting called out for letting Kika hug you, watching Alexia admit her jealousy with trembling lips before she kissed the top of your head and walked away, leaving you alone.
You wondered if she had done that to process everything that had happened.
"I do notice," her voice echoed in your brain. "When you're not there."
You closed your eyes, but instead of seeing Alexia, you saw the same image behind your eyelids for what felt like the sixteenth or seventeenth time since the final whistle.
The stupid (tiny!) gap you left right in front of the box. The Sevilla girl running. The goal that sealed the defeat.
Now, as you stood in the stadium car park watching a mechanic inspect the underside of the team bus, the scoreboard that no longer existed anywhere except the back of your mind still glowed one-nil. The old voice that you had spent months gradually learning to argue with had found its footing again after the match, and it showed no sign of leaving.
You don't belong at a club like this. The voice was so calm and certain and fucking annoying. Today just reminded everyone.
You knew it wasn't true. You knew the voice in your head wasn't always right, that you shouldn't trust it, but it didn't matter. The thought had already dug its roots in deep, and it was going to require an exhausting amount of mental energy to pull it back out, perhaps days.
A loud and metallic sound snapped you back to the reality of the car park. You looked up just in time to see the mechanic lift an important-looking piece of metal that you were pretty sure wasn't meant to come out of the engine… but not that you were an expert in buses or anything.
The bus back to Barcelona had broken down right outside of the stadium after everyone had already climbed aboard. The plan had been to head back home right after the game; that was why everyone had packed their bags, but it seemed like a change of plans would be necessary.
Marta, sitting near the front of the bus, had overheard the driver complaining about something and passed the news to Caro, who leaned across the aisle to tell Esmee. Within about thirty seconds, the information had spread through the entire bus in a broken-telephone manner. Which meant everyone had to haul their (heavy!) belongings back off the bus and out into the cool evening despite having spent ninety minutes running and fighting on the pitch. Unsurprisingly, everyone was tired and not particularly pleased with the situation.
"We broke down?" Ona asked, a childlike pout forming on her face.
"We broke down," Marta confirmed.
"Yeah, of course we did," you muttered under your breath. This occurrence was so fitting for a day like today, almost poetic.
Pere appeared from the front of the bus, phone pressed to his ear, wearing the expression of a man who had already mentally checked out for the day hours ago and was operating on nothing but professional obligation. He held up a hand for quiet, finished his call, and looked over at the team.
"The bus is staying here tonight," he said. "And so are we. They can't fix it until tomorrow morning, so we have to go back to the hotel."
A beat of silence fell over the team.
"So… the hotel here in Sevilla," Vicky asked slowly, processing the news. "The one we just checked out of?"
"Yes."
"And we're staying another night…?" She continued
"Yes."
"That's good, actually," Cata chimed in. "I forgot my good shoes in the hotel gym..."
"This whole trip is so horrible," Syd sighed. Her headphones were resting around her neck, spilling out a song far too melancholy for this situation.
"Maybe it's your fault," Clara said in a bored voice, her arms crossed over her chest. "Your horoscope was predicting all kinds of bad things, and we still agreed to let you come with us."
"Agree to let me come?!" Sydney shot back, exasperated. "It's not like I can just skip a match because my sun sign happens to be in a terrible position!"
"Yeah, yeah, but–"
"Enough," Alexia's voice cut through the air. "Both of you. Quiet."
They fell instantly quiet, and so did everyone else.
"Oh," Vicky said in a hushed whisper, nudging Kika's side. "Capi's mad.
And so… they waited. And waited.
The mechanic was still beneath the broken-down bus, poking and prodding while everyone waited for ubers. Needless to say, the whole squad was scattered in various forms of shared misery.
Cata was sitting on her travel bag with her headphones in, looking like she very much did not want to be bothered. The younger girls, meanwhile, had clustered around Alexia, the way they always did when something went wrong on a game day.
It was almost endearing from a distance.
Alexia was visibly grumpy, yet as though drawn by some collective gravitational pull, the kids had gathered around her anyway. Aicha was perched on the low wall beside her, Vicky on her other side, Clara nearby, and Syd hovered just behind.
All of them were talking nonstop and overlapping each other, clearly discussing anything and everything unrelated to football just to distract themselves, or maybe distract Alexia. They didn't like it when she was in one of her so-called moods.
At one point, Alexia muttered something short and dry, and the girls immediately laughed. Alexia looked faintly pained by how easily she had made them laugh when she was trying so hard to be unavailable and intimidating.
You watched as she pressed her face briefly into her hands before looking up again. She was, you realised, trying very hard to project the image of a captain who was perfectly fine, the untouchable leader who certainly wasn't eating herself alive over the defeat.
Patri was right; Alexia was extremely competitive, far too hard on herself.
A few meters away, Kika, Patri and Esmee were leaning against the side of the bus, sharing a bag of salty snacks.
"Look at her," Kika whispered, putting a chip into her mouth and motioning toward Alexia with her chin. "Ale looks like a stressed-out mother duck whose ducklings won't stop misbehaving."
"Do not let her hear you say that," Patri said teasingly. "She's five seconds away from making them run drills around the car park just to get some peace of mind."
Esmee shrugged. "That's totally on her, though. I bet she can't sleep until she's convinced every new blaugrana kid feels welcome… and then they grow attached to her."
"Like leeches," Kika said, watching Vicky shove a phone right in Alexia's face while Clara rested her head on Alexia's shoulder, eating a bag of biscuits and letting crumbs fall all over the captain's shirt.
"Like leeches," Patri agreed. "Very annoying leeches."
"She's miserable," Esmee added as Syd set up her phone to film a tiktok, making sure Alexia was unmistakably right in the middle of the frame. The catalan rolled her eyes, shushing Syd and shooing the phone away.
"Nah," Kika countered. "She's right where she wants to be."
Then their attention shifted to you instead.
Patri held up a hand to wave you over. Urgh, more socialisation, but you went over anyway.
"Hi," you said drily, though you didn't hesitate to accept the chips Patri offered.
"Still upset?" Esmee asked nonchalantly.
"No," you lied.
Patri chuckled. "Yeah, right. You look like a puppy that's just been kicked out of its home, but of course you aren't upset."
"We'll recover from the loss, amiga!" Kika said cheerfully. "Don't worry about it–"
"I'm not upset about the game," you interrupted. It was a half-truth.
"What are you upset about, then?" Esmee pressed.
"Nothing," you said quickly, instantly regretting opening your mouth.
Patri and Kika shared a smirk "Let me guess," Patri began. "Problems in paradise?"
You glared at her. "There is no problem."
"Oh, but there is a paradise?" Patri teased back.
"This is exactly why I don't talk to you people," you grumbled, taking another chip.
"You are awfully private," Kika said dramatically, rolling her eyes. "That's soo rude! I literally tell people everything."
"That's kind of a problem on its own," Esmee murmured.
"Don't try to defend her," Kika shot back. "You two are way too alike. Why did we only find out you were dating on your three-month anniversary?!"
"Because I wasn't dating any of you," Esmee deadpanned.
Kika nudged Patri. "Can you help me out here?"
Patri chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Chica, you won't get any information out of Y/n or Esmee by asking. You have to observe."
You stood there stone-faced as they continued to analyse your supposed love life as if you weren't standing right in front of them. You took that as a clue to step back from their circle.
Your eyes drifted across the car park back to Alexia. You looked away before she could catch you staring, though deep down, a part of you wanted her to see you. You were used to hiding; it felt safe, but with Alexia, you wanted to be perceived.
Yet she didn't look up; she turned to her phone instead.
It is a joy to be hidden and a disaster not to be found.
Her uber notification must have come through, because she checked her phone and tapped the screen (rather aggressively) before looking around the car park. Her warm, honey-coloured eyes found yours.
She stepped away from her ducklings, who were practically breathing down her neck and walked the small distance between you.
"Hey," Alexia murmured, keeping her voice down so only you could hear as she held up her phone to show the app. "You're coming with me, right?"
You looked at the screen, then glanced past her. The kids were already lingering a few steps behind her, pretending they didn't care while obviously waiting for her to decide who was getting in her uber.
They were praying for a spot in the car. Cute. They really did admire Alexia like an older sister.
"I don't think there's space," you said, gesturing to the situation with a tilt of your chin.
Alexia glanced over her shoulder quickly, assessed the kids, and turned back to you.
"We'll meet at the hotel then," she said simply.
And that was it.
She turned, and without a single word, the girls simply followed, falling into step behind her in a loose cluster, their voices already rising in volume around her. Aicha said something that made two of them laugh, and even Alexia smiled a bit. She could pretend to be grumpy, but those girls were her ultimate weakness; she could never keep it up for long.
You looked down at your own phone; your uber was four minutes away.
Another night in the hotel room, you thought. Another night with Alexia… maybe?
You shook your head, trying to clear your mind. You shouldn't be thinking about this right now.
She seemed alright with you again – she had just told you she would meet you at the hotel, right? But what exactly does "meeting at the hotel" mean? Sharing a room again? Or going to separate rooms? Had the plumbing issue been fixed? Should you be asking to stay with Kika instead? No, better not; Alexia would have an aneurysm… So, maybe Esmee?
Patri couldn't fit in your uber ride, so she stayed behind to catch the next one with Cata and Pina. That left you sandwiched between Kika and Esmee in the backseat for the entire twenty-three-minute drive, during which Kika could not, for the life of her, shut the hell up.
By the time the car finally pulled up outside of the hotel, Kika had told so, soo many terrible jokes, and Esmee had rolled her eyes at every single one of them.
When you walked into the hotel, the first thing you noticed was how much quieter the lobby was compared to that morning. A few of your teammates were visible through the restaurant window: Clara and Aicha at a table near the back, Aitana sitting with Pajor right beside them, having an early dinner from the look of it.
You continued to walk until you saw her.
Alexia was sitting in one of the leather armchairs near the check-in desk; her travel bag was at her feet and her phone in her hand. Her eyebrows were furrowed, and her pink lips were set in a pout. She looked composed, but tired. You wanted to cover her face in soft kisses, to smooth out the exhaustion on her brow.
Alexia looked up the moment you stepped through the doors. Without saying a word, she stood, picked up her bag, and crossed the lobby toward you.
"Vamos?" she said simply. [let's go]
"I have to check in again," you said, looking at the front desk.
"I've already done it for both of us," she said casually. "Come on."
"Oh, alright… yeah," you said, caught slightly off guard by how seamlessly she had handled it. "Thank you."
You followed her to the lift, and neither of you acknowledged the fact that she had been sitting in the lobby waiting for you when she could have already been upstairs beneath a scalding shower.
She had waited for you, you thought.
The lift was empty when it arrived at the lobby. You stepped inside, and Alexia pressed the button. You watched the doors close and stood beside her. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable; it was just filled with exhaustion. The complete "emotional rollercoaster" of the day had drained you both.
The floor numbers climbed and seemingly did not stop doing so. You were tired. You wanted to sleep, but your brain was already spiralling, waiting for the conversation about the room assignments to come.
Were you sharing again? Well, it was kind of obvious you were…. Unless she had only checked you both in because it was easier? Should you ask for a key to a separate room? Something in your gut told you Alexia would be upset if you did so.
Before your thoughts could settle, her hand brushed against yours. She didn't take it; her fingertips simply rested against your knuckles for a second.
You loved her warmth, loved how soft her skin felt against you. An ache settled in your bones; it said you didn't deserve to touch her today; you didn't deserve her softness. Still, you didn't pull away.
When the doors opened on your floor. Alexia withdrew her hand and stepped out first. She walked down the hallway with familiarity, stopping in front of the exact same door from this morning. Alexia didn't make a big deal out of it; she just held the door open for you as if sharing space again was the most natural thing in the world.
You dropped your bag beside the bed and sat on the edge of the soft, queen-size mattress. And then, before your rational mind could even register the room, the walls, the mattress beneath you, or Alexia's proximity, the match began again.
It replayed behind your eyelids over and over. You saw every angle of it, every bad decision you made.
Alexia was standing in the middle of the room. She was never one to sit when she was thinking too much about something, so instead, she began moving around the room back and forth, moving from one wall to the other like a broken pendulum.
"We were too passive after halftime," she said, her voice tight with frustration. "Don't you think?"
"I was out of position," you said to the floor.
"We just weren't pressing them enough in the second half… we weren't coordinated. Everyone was doing their own thing… I should have stepped up sooner and reorganised us."
"I read the run wrong," you muttered, ignoring her analysis to focus on your flaw. "I saw the forward making her move, and I waited a second too long… I never wait too long; I don't know what happened!"
Alexia kept pacing, making you dizzy. "We gave them too much space; they had their whole wings to themselves! What was I thinking when I told Esmee to focus on the centre?"
You ignored Alexia right back, locked in your own mind loop… Neither of you was listening to the other. Alexia kept pacing and pacing while you hadn't even taken your shoes off yet.
"Honestly, it's all my fault," you said bitterly "If I had been better positioned, a bit further to the left, that ball might never have reached Cata."
That finally made Alexia stop pacing. She turned to look down at you. "You can't blame yourself for–"
"I watched it back during the drive here," you said. "I was the only one between her and Cata–"
"Which means nine other players on that pitch – myself included – failed before she ever got that close to the goal." Alexia countered.
"But I am the full-back, Ale." Your voice came out flat. "If they score, that's on me. That's my job. That's what I'm here to do, you know? To defend, or well, try to. The game is on me."
Something softened in Alexia's expression, and suddenly she didn't look like a captain trying to comfort a teammate. She looked like… You weren't quite ready to name what she looked like.
"Tori, I was too hard on you," she said, her voice gentle. "I'm sorry."
"No, Ale, it was a fair point, okay?" you said, deflecting immediately. "You don't have to be sorry for–"
"Don't say I was just doing my job," she interrupted. "My job doesn't mean being rude to you."
You tilted your head, analysing her. "You correct other players too," you pointed out. "You don't tell them you are sorry."
She seemed almost confused by her own actions. "I-I, well, I always corrected them, yes, but I'm not half as harsh with them as I was with you…I'm not apologising for the note," she said slowly. "I'm apologising for how I said it. There's a difference."
You opened your mouth, but then closed it. The room felt awfully quiet. You wanted to scream into its void just to break the tension.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
"I know," you muttered. "Me too."
She looked at the ceiling, then looked at the floor, rubbing her neck.
"I'm the defending midfielder," she said, beginning to vent, "If we don't score, if the press falls apart, if we can't hold possession… that's on me. The whole game is on me," she added, parroting your exact words back.
"Great," you deadpanned. "So we were both terrible at our job, huh?"
"Apparently."
"Wonderful," you said. "Really brilliant. Excellent day's work from both of us."
"Remarkable."
You got up from the mattress and walked past her, going to the window and pulling it open. You breathed in the evening air; it was such lovely weather for such a disaster of a day. When you turned around a few moments later, Alexia still hadn't sat down. Her arms were crossed.
"I had it," she muttered, pacing again. "We could have the game under control; we knew their pattern… I knew their-"
"You can't track every run perfectly for ninety minutes-" you tried to reason.
"I almost always do," she rolled her eyes.
"Almost is the word of the day," you said. "Honestly, we were all rubbish today. Stop putting it all on yourself."
"Stop being reasonable," she grumbled. "I just want to be annoyed."
"Then be annoyed."
"I am."
She let herself fall to the bed with a sigh. You wandered over and dropped down beside her, both of you staring up at the cream ceiling.
"So, we both played badly, we're stuck in this hotel for another night because the bus decided to break down, and it has been a genuinely horrible day."
"Yes," you said simply.
"Good," she said, her side pressing slightly against yours. "So glad we agree on one thing."
"...Were we really just arguing about who failed more?" she continued.
"Yes."
Alexia was about to respond when a knock interrupted her.
Before either of you could even process it, the latch clicked, and the door swung open. In mere seconds, the two of you scrambled up, and by the time the door swung open, you were standing very stiffly near the foot of the bed while Alexia had somehow ended up leaning against the small wooden desk as if she had been there all along doing God knows what.
Vicky stood in the doorway, taking in the room with her sharp, brown eyes.
"Irene sent me," Vicky announced, completely unfazed by the sudden intrusion she just made, "She said if you don't come down to get something to eat now, Capi, the dining room is going to close,e and you'll have to survive on the vending machine–"
Vicky cut herself off as her eyes shifted from Alexia over to you. She blinked once, her face shining with mischief.
"--and apparently you too, Y/n," Vicky added, her tone dripping with amusement. "I didn't realise you two were sharing a room again. I thought the plumbing issue got fixed?"
You could feel your face burning under her gaze, your defensive instinct coming up all at once.
Alexia stared at her, her captain's face locked in place. "Does Irene sending you mean you can just walk into people's rooms, Vicky?"
"Well… I knocked," she said innocently. "So that's not on me."
"Oh, you knocked," Alexia said sarcastically. "Does that mean you can just open the door unannounced?"
"It wasn't locked!" Vicky argued, as if not really understanding what she did was wrong.
"Next time it will be. You can't just walk in."
Vicky's eyes moved around the room again with (very exaggerated) innocence. She took everything in more slowly this time.
She noticed the slightly rumpled duvet and the way both your bags were scattered around. Vicky looked at you, then Alexia, before locking eyes with you, her absolute favourite target.
"Right," Vicky said, "Sorry. Well, I'm also here because I'm genuinely upset about the match. I need emotional support. I need my captain… por favor…? Or are you too busy with Y/n? Am I interrupting something crucial? Oh! Maybe Y/n need emotional support as well?"
"Go find Patri," Alexia cut in, pointing a finger toward the corridor before you could snap at Vicky. Now."
"Patri's not–"
"Patri is exactly as much a captain as I am right now. I'm off duty," Alexia interrupted. "Go down to have some dinner. Eat real food. Talk to Patri. Close the door behind you."
"What about your dinner?" Vicky pressed, taking one last look between the two of you. "Aren't you guys coming down?"
Alexia held the bridge of her nose. "Go."
Vicky lingered, just long enough to make it clear she was leaving on her own terms before pulling the door shut behind her. Her footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Then, a moment later, her voice came bright and happy, echoing through the corridor. "Hey Serra, guess who Capi's in her room with–"
You sat very still, already dreading tomorrow morning's breakfast, when the kids would (undoubtedly) ask whether Vicky had really caught the two of you sharing a room again.
"Vicky knows," you said flatly.
"She doesn't know anything," Alexia replied.
You looked at her. "Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you are trying to make me feel better?"
"I want to make you feel better," Alexia deadpanned.
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Ugh."
"It's okay," Alexia said, trying to offer you a smile. "She won't tell anyone."
You gave her a side eye. "She literally just shouted down the hallway about us to Clara."
"Yeah, but Clara won't say anything."
You groaned again. "Honestly… whatever. Patri knows. Esmee knows. Kika knows. Now Vicky and Serra know…"
"It's not that bad," Alexia countered.
"Do you want them to know about us? Knowing how they are going to tease us?"
Alexia shrugged. "You just have to glare at them, and then they stop. Problem solved."
"I can't glare at people! I get flustered and embarrassed! I'm not half as intimidating as you are."
"I'll intimidate them for you," she smiled as if life was all unicorns and rainbows.
"Oh, you're so kind," you said, rolling your eyes.
When Alexia spoke again, her voice had dropped all of its captain's authority.
"You know what… we should cuddle," she said seriously, which did not match her proposition. "It's been way too long of a day for us."
You studied her up and down. She looked soft and tired, and you needed her to want to touch you.
"Mhmm… okay," you agreed. "Come here."
Alexia shifted a little closer until her shoulder brushed yours. She was testing the waters, seeing if it was really okay. Physical intimacy between you was a rare currency when sex wasn't involved, after all.
After a brief moment, Alexia finally curled into your side, tucking her face against your collarbone as though she had been wanting to do it all day. You stayed very still, adjusting to her weight and her warmth.
"I really didn't mean to snap at you," she said, her voice muffled
"I know," you said, "I'm serious, Ale. You can stop apologising; it's alright."
"It's not, though," she propped herself up on one elbow so she could look at you. "I won't do it again, vale?"
You chuckled. She was cute. "I hope you don't… you sounded a bit intimidating."
Alexia blushed, which was not the response you had expected from a two-time Ballon d'Or winner. You looked up at her, your mind slipping back into its familiar habit of picking every little thing apart.
You found yourself thinking about the part of you that had been waiting, somewhere deep and private, for her to finally see you fail.
About how the correction on the pitch had landed like something you had been half-expecting ever since you had arrived in Barcelona, ever since you met Alexia. Somewhere in a tired, masochistic corner of your brain, there had almost been a sense of relief.
Finally, there it is. Here is the flaw that was always bound to surface.
There was something oddly bittersweet when people were mad or upset at you. Something strangely comforting about disappointing people. How fucked up have you chilhood been for you to feel comfort in that?
It felt safe to know you had made a mistake, because it meant people would stop expecting things from you. They would know you were incompetent, bad and imperfect... except Alexia wasn't looking at you as if you were any of those things right now. She wasn't looking at you like that at all.
Weird.
You didn't want to talk to her about it, though.
You kept those messy thoughts to yourself. Instead, you let yourself stay with her, cuddling, sharing very sweet, absent-minded kisses that barely lasted longer than half a second. But right as you were beginning to melt into her body, to relax, Alexia made a strange face and pulled away.
"Hey, what–" Before you could ask what was wrong, she disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, murmuring about how she was going to be right back.
You frowned and sat on the bed, listening to the sound of running water. Should you go up and knock on the door? What had happened? You chose to stay put and let Alexia do her thing.
While you waited, your thoughts drifted back to the book you had been reading earlier that week – Madonna in a fur coat – when the water stopped, and the bathroom door opened.
Alexia stepped out, looking, somehow, even more grumpy than when she had gone in. She stood in the doorway and looked at you miserably.
"I got my period," she announced flatly. "I wasn't due for three days. This day needs to end. I'm serious."
You blinked up at her, sitting up a little as you abandoned Sabahattin Ali's universe. "Oh… your peri–"
"I think you're messing with my hormones," she added, crossing her arms. "I haven't been this early in years!"
You pressed your lips together.
"...I'm sorry? I didn't mean to mess with your menstrual cycle."
She pouted at you. "You don't sound sincere at all."
"I'm sorry I don't sound sincere," you said. You couldn't help but think she was rather adorable like this, all pouty. "Do you need anything? Want me to get your bag or–"
"I don't have anything with me, tori. Nada " She gestured helplessly at herself, as if to illustrate the full extent of the situation. "I don't have pads, tampons, nothing! We were supposed to be back in Barcelona by now. I didn't plan for this to happen!"
"Okay, baby, hold on," you said, walking to your own bag. "I'm supposed to have stuff here somewhere, just–" You unzipped your bag and started rummaging through it, searching for a pad, and while on it, you found medicine, one of your little notebooks, the good pen you had been looking for ages, and then, finally, you pulled out the pad. It was a bit creased, but it would do its job.
You walked over and held it out to her.
"I've got a few more if you need them," you said. "They are in the internal left pocket of my bag… and sorry, I don't have any tampons. I can go out for them if you want?"
"No, this is good enough, thank you," she muttered, the pout still holding strong. "I'm just frustrated! I'm literally thirty-two, I should know by now to always carry tampons with me wherever I go…"
"Ah, come on, don't do that, Ale", you said gently. "It came three days early; you are allowed to be caught off guard, don't stress over it, yeah? Just get whatever you need from my bag. I'm sure the girls can help you out, too."
She nodded. "Thank you, torito." Then she walked back into the bathroom.
When she came back out, you closed the distance between you without thinking. Your hands settled on her waist, and you felt her go less rigid beneath your touch, the tension in her shoulders releasing one layer at a time. She pressed herself back into you, her head on your shoulder.
"Feeling a little better?" you asked.
"No, I'm devastated," She pouted into your neck. "And it's all your fault, tori."
"Devastated?" You teased her "That's a big word."
"You are not helping."
"Sorry… let me try again. How is it my fault you got your period?" you said, your voice sweet. "That doesn't make sense, sweetheart."
"You make my body go all wrong," she said.
"I do?"
"Uhum."
Your thumb traced slow circles against her waist as you gently guided the two of you back onto the bed. "You make my mind go all wrong. Guess we're even, then?"
Alexia was quiet for a moment, but then she spoke. "So… I forgive you, and you forgive me?" she murmured. "For messing each other up?"
"Yes, bebé," you whispered, kissing her cheek. "I forgive you, and you forgive me. You are such a good martyr," you said fondly. "Has anyone told you that?"
"Only when I'm on my period," she mumbled.
"Hm," you chuckled.
Alexia's breathing had slowed against your shoulder. You were waiting for the request, almost certain she was about to send you out for an emergency trip to buy her whatever she might need.
"...I'm waiting," you said finally.
"Mhmm… for what?" she murmured.
"For you to send me out for a heat pad. Or ibuprofen. Chocolate. That's usually how this goes. Isn't it?"
She lifted her head enough to look at you; she was a bit tired, her eyelids were heavy. "I don't eat chocolate on weekdays. And I don't usually need heating pads."
You looked at her. "Ah, you don't get cramps?"
"I do sometimes, but they are very, very mild," she said. "I barely feel anything most of the time."
"Oh. That's great."
"Yeah, but I do get light headaches sometimes," she continued. "Barça's doctor told me it's because of low iron, so sometimes I have to take some tablets."
"Poor baby," you murmured, pressing another kiss to her temple.
"I'm waiting too," Alexia said after a moment, nosing at your skin.
"For what?"
"For you to tell me about your period." She said, then she moved like a clingy cat and pressed her cheek against yours. "I just told you about mine; it's only fair, sí?"
"You think it's that easy to get information out of me, capi?" You smirked, teasingly.
"No," she said, her hand drifting lazily up and down your side before coming to rest against your hipbone, and then she tucked her face against your chest. "That's why I'm asking nicely. Please. Be nice to me. I'm bleeding. I'm in pain."
"You just told me you're barely cramping."
"Yes," she said with great dignity, "but you said I was a good martyr. So this is me being a good martyr… Por favor? Tell me?"
You exhaled and looked at the ceiling, giving what she wanted. "Fine, Putellas. I get bad periods.
… Crickets.
"Okay, and…? That's all you're giving me?"
"Well, yes. That's it. I bleed a lot and have bad cramps. The absolute worst mood you've ever seen, too… I'm not exactly a joy to be around."
"Hmm," she sounded a bit suspicious. "Really? I've never noticed any of it, and we've known each other for what? A year?"
"I think I'm just very good at hiding it," you said proudly, but alexia didn't match your energy.
Alexia looked up at you and didn't smile. "You say that like it's a good thing."
You blushed. "I thought it was."
"I don't think it is."
"Oh." You didn't really expect that answer.
Was there one thing you did in life right?
"I mean… I've never noticed you getting more sensitive around that time, or more emotional." She tilted her head slightly against your shoulder.
"I would have thought I'd notice. I should've, shouldn't I?" She furrowed. "I pay attention to you… I even know when Vicky is on hers because she cries at literally everything, and she doesn't even have to tell me."
"Well, I don't get sensitive," you explained. "So that must be the reason why you never noticed. I don't really cry much."
"No?"
"No, I just get a bit angry, impatient. That kind of stuff."
"Angry how?" She asked.
Alexia had apparently decided that tonight was the night she was going to ask every single question she had been collecting for months.
"Just… well, just angry." You said with a small shrug, searching for the right scientific term and coming up with nothing. "Everything irritates me, and tiny things suddenly feel much more urgent than they actually are. That kind of anger."
Alexia didn't say anything immediately, which meant she was thinking about it properly, turning it over in her head.
"So right now," she said slowly. "With the game, and the broken bus, and all of it… You aren't–"
"I'm not on my period," you clarified with a smile. "Unfortunately, this is just me on my good day."
She hummed. "So if you were on your period–"
"Today would have been exponentially worse," you confirmed. "Yes."
"Hmmm… " She narrowed her eyes slightly. "I'll make a note."
"Please don't."
"I'm your captain," she said teasingly. "I have to know these things for scheduling purposes."
"You don't schedule anything. Ever. That is literally not your job."
"As captain, I have a great deal of influence when it comes to scheduling," she replied proudly.
"Oh," you said flatly. "What do you do? Glare at people until they move training?"
"Do you always have to be this sarcastic?"
"Sorry."
"Anyway… tell me next time when you are due," she said matter-of-factly. "Actually… I have a better idea! We should share a period tracking app!"
"Absolutely not." You shook your head immediately. "Nope."
"But-"
"I will leave this bed right now," you threatened. "At once."
In response, she tightened her arm around your waist, pulling you closer to her. Alexia's breathing was even out against your shoulder again, before her voice cut through the silence.
"You know what? Since we're in a talking mood…"
"You're in a talking mood," you interrupted her. "I'm definitely not."
"...you haven't talked about your ex since that night," she continued, ignoring you.
Your stomach turned at that. "You're awfully curious tonight."
"I like getting to know people."
"Funny of you to say that," you said. "I'm pretty sure everyone on the team would tell me they don't remember the last time you played personal quiz with them."
"Okay," she said, without missing a beat. "Maybe I like getting to know you."
You smiled despite yourself, which she definitely felt against your shoulder.
"Oh, are you into me or something?" You teased. "That's so gay of you."
"You're changing the subject," she rolled her eyes, blushing. "Again."
"I'm trying to," you admitted.
"Don't try." She moved, settling more firmly against your body, as if to make clear she wasn't going anywhere. "Let me propose an exercise, torito. One where you don't overthink every single word before it leaves your mouth."
You pouted. "I don't think my brain works like that."
"You can try."
You sighed in defeat. "I'll tell you about my ex if you tell me about yours."
Alexia chuckled. "That's not how it works. I always talk to you about myself, sí? I've already done my part. You're the one who drops a bomb in my lap every two weeks and then goes completely silent."
You rolled your eyes.
She won.
A/n: Hiii!! I hope you guys liked this chapter! I had lots of fun writing it hehehe; they are just so endearing and fucked up in the head!! I personally love how Ale goes all captain with the kids, and then she melts with Tori.
Come talk with me about it!! Talking about fic really helps me with motivation and ideas, hehe
ꫂ❁ Summary: Alexia doesn't lose control. Not on the pitch, and certainly not with you. Until you give her no choice but to.
ꫂ❁ Tags: smut (18+), strap sex, strap sucking, face fucking, finger sucking, rough sex, a bit of fingering, some dirty talk, jealousy, r is a brat and kika loooves drama
⇢ word count 11.1k
a/n: this idea came to me in the middle of the night a few days ago and i just had to do it. let me know what you think!
Life with Alexia was more than you’d ever hoped for, possibly even more than you deserved. She took care of you in all the quiet, steady ways you’d always wanted someone to. It was hard to imagine her ever doing anything wrong. Everything she said and did came so easily to her, like she’d already thought it through weeks before it happened.
On the pitch, she was the same. She never lost her head out there. She never lost it with you either.
And that was the problem.
You were obviously happy with her; you'd be stupid to say otherwise. Yet, deep down, you knew something was missing. It took you a long time to understand fully, but once you did, you never stopped thinking about it.
It had been a particularly tough game, especially for Alexia; that much you knew. She'd been subbed off after a not-so-favourable performance — in her eyes — and though it was a rare occurrence, you knew just how angry she was about it, even before you saw her that night.
She didn't talk at all on the drive back, instead staying slumped in her seat as the radio played at a low volume, her eyes glued to the window as you drove. You knew better than to ask about it then, so you didn't.
"Are you hungry?" You ask softly, as the older woman lies on the couch with her hood over her head, strings pulled so tight that you could barely see her face.
"Estoy bien."
You nod to yourself, not really sure how to navigate this situation.
As you go to sit next to her, you feel her stiff body loosen just with your presence, and you decide to test the waters a bit.
"I thought you played well."
"Cariño." Her voice is firm, not necessarily angry, but you can tell it's a warning. It's rare for her to talk to you like this.
"You did, I'm not lying."
"You were not watching the same game, then." She sits up, loosening the strings of her hoodie to take a swig of water from her bottle. When she stands, she tugs the hoodie off completely, tossing it onto the couch beside you. The sudden movement makes you flinch a little, but you hide it well. Or you think you do, you honestly can't tell since she barely takes any notice of you.
Her jaw is set tight as she looks forward, eyes fixed on the coffee table. You can almost hear her thoughts whirring, undoubtedly going over her mistakes in the game, the things she could've done better. She's obviously angry, and you should be doing more than simply sitting there, but you can't bring yourself to look away from her right now. There's a heat radiating off of her, and you just wish she would—
"I should've done better," she mutters to herself. "I had sixty minutes to fucking do better."
Her fingers drag through her hair roughly, her forearms flexing, veins shifting ever so slightly under her skin. Your eyes naturally drift upwards to her now exposed biceps, and they linger there for a bit before her deep sigh startles you.
"Ale," you start softly, "you're being a bit harsh on yourself, no?"
At that, she glares at you sharply, and it hits you harder than you anticipated. For a moment, you wait, hoping she'll say something, maybe argue—just anything. But she doesn't.
She exhales, her shoulders slumping as the tension in her body seemingly disappears as quickly as it arrived.
"I'm going to go shower, mi vida," she says quietly and way too calmly for your liking. She leans over and presses a soft kiss to your temple, then straightens and walks away towards the bathroom.
You sit there, blinking at the empty space she left behind, wondering how she can be so calm even when you know she feels everything but that. How, just a few seconds ago, she looked at you in the way you've always wanted her to. It was there for such a brief moment, and you would've missed it had you not been so desperate for it. How silly you were to think that maybe, for once, she would finally stop holding back. That perhaps she would stop treating you like you're fragile and that you'd shatter if she touched you or talked to you differently than she always has. You know she loves you—more than anything—and of course you don't take it for granted. Sometimes you just wish that she would, just for once, lose control with you.
Over time, you realised the only way you could get your point across was by making her mad yourself. Instead of waiting for her to have a bad game or day at training, you needed to be the one riling her up in the first place.
So you did, on any occasion you could.
Your next attempt came by naturally, at night, whilst Alexia was up late, staring at her laptop screen instead of being in bed with you.
It wasn't uncommon for her to do this on her off days, reviewing clips from her matches or training sessions — going over all that she needed to improve on. Usually, she would've done it earlier in the day whilst you were working, but instead she thought now was a suitable time for it.
"Babe, you said you were going to be done like an hour ago?"
Her eyes stay glued to that damn screen, a faint frown on her brow as she rewinds the video once more as if your interruption ruined her fifth rewatch of the same clip.
You sigh, frustrated and tired, as you flop onto the couch next to her. You bump into her slightly, which earns you a tut from her lips.
"Un momento," she says absently as she clicks on another clip, from a game this time, and you squint as you look at her screen, the brightness so high it could probably burn your retinas off.
She'd been like this all night; as soon as she ate, she was on her laptop watching the same videos over and over. You wanted her attention, her eyes on you, her hands… You glance down. Her finger moves across her trackpad as she selects another video — a free kick she took in the game that didn't go in. She keeps rewinding it at the point where her boot touches the ball, and you roll your eyes. You sit up a little and lean into her as she lets the video play fully, and you watch it too, trying to figure out what it is you're supposed to be looking for.
"The game's over, by the way." You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't think watching it over will change the fact that you didn't score."
That makes her pause — just a little. Her finger hovers just as she was about to rewatch the clip once more, and you feel a warmth pool in your stomach, knowing you definitely struck a nerve.
"It helps me." Her voice is low and steady. "I need to do it, amor."
You scoff as you lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. "I think it's stupid, honestly."
She exhales through her nose, "It is not stupid."
"Yes, it is."
Her head turns ever so slightly, her eyes catching yours for a beat before she returns to her screen. She doesn't say anything, and it infuriates you.
"Typical," you mumble under your breath, but she catches it, of course she does.
"¿Qué dijiste?" (What did you say?)
The sharpness in her tone makes your eyes widen a little, and you straighten up at the sound of it.
You clear your throat, feeling a little bolder suddenly. "I said, typical."
She looks at you once more and tilts her head. "Vale." Then smiles softly before clicking on another video. "Typi-cal…" She tests the word out on her tongue as she presses play.
You want to scream, tell her to notice you, make her notice… But you don't. Instead, you get up and go to bed, knowing your girlfriend won't be finished anytime soon.
As you were doing the last parts of the laundry, you walked into your bedroom to see Alexia sitting on the edge of the bed, hair still wet from the shower, while she's rolling one of her shoulders with a slight wince on her face.
You lean against the doorframe as you watch her for a moment. "The same one still?"
She glances over at you, the corner of her mouth tugging up a little. "Yeah," she winces again as she moves it barely an inch. "Nothing helps."
You walk into the room, putting away all the folded clothes before turning to her. "I could help, if you like?"
A brief flash of hesitation washes over her, but she nods. "Thank you."
She lifts her shirt off and lies on the bed, groaning quietly at the strain on her shoulder in this position, and you reach for the bottle of oil on your nightstand.
When your hands first touch her, she exhales a long, slow breath that tapers off into a low groan, and you feel your body react almost instantly to it. Your fingers falter a little, barely noticeable to anyone but you. After quickly collecting yourself, you press deeper into her shoulder, earning you another noise that forces you to release a breath that you weren't aware that you were holding.
"You should've told me that it was still hurting, baby." You whisper as your thumbs dig into her shoulder blades.
She turns her head slightly on the pillow so you can see her. "But, you worry too much."
You give her back a light slap in response, which makes her laugh, and it rolls through you, settling somewhere deep in your stomach.
As your hands work her shoulders, your eyes naturally trail down her back, taking in the different designs on her smooth skin, and you smile to yourself. You don't notice the woman beneath you has noticed your new distraction until she clears her throat loudly.
"Sorry," you mumble as you move your hands back up to her bad shoulder, "got distracted."
Her quiet laugh fills the room. "Does my body distract you this much, cariño?"
Usually, you'd back down, let her win because a part of you liked that — but you don't this time.
"It does."
She looks over her shoulder then, and the way her gaze meets yours makes your breath hitch before you can control it. There's a tension hanging between you both; you know she feels it as her eyes flicker down to your lips, staying there as she subconsciously licks her own.
Yet, when you think things are about to escalate, she blinks, and her expression softens before she turns back and rests her head against the pillow.
"Sigue, lo estás haciendo bien." (Keep going, you’re doing well.)
The warmth in her tone should calm you down, but it does the opposite. With a huff, you continue to work into her shoulder, perhaps pressing harder than you should — not that she would notice. Yet another time, when you wished she would take that next step and she ended up backing away completely.
You're sitting at the counter, scrolling through your phone, when she brings it up.
"It's just a small thing," she says as she takes out a pan from a cupboard, "and it's my turn to host this time."
You hum as you try to act casual — you already knew about this dinner happening tonight, given the fact that she literally told you last week. It was good timing, because you thought you could use tonight to your advantage. Alexia had been impossible lately, despite all of your attempts; she was always as oblivious as ever. Honestly, you were starting to run out of ideas, so this was perfect.
The shirt you were wearing was one of Alexia's, in fact, a little oversized for you, and you'd unbuttoned a few too many buttons, the soft fabric able to slip further over your shoulders with the subtlest of movements. Your shorts barely show, the shirt covering most of them unless you stretch or lean a certain way.
It was definitely not appropriate for the occasion, and had this been any other time, you would have behaved, but in your eyes, you really had no choice. You want Alexia to get mad and tell you off for being careless. To have her stop being so gentle and actually do something about it.
Alexia turns around, wondering why you haven't gotten up yet. Then her eyes flicker over you, up and down, then once again as if she's missed something.
She blinks a couple of times before speaking, "Go get ready then."
"I am ready." You turn your attention back to your phone, fighting the smile creeping to your lips.
She pauses, setting some wine glasses down on the table. "¿Perdón?" You feel her eyes across your skin again, lingering on your exposed shoulder for a moment too long. "You're not wearing that."
You look up, and you swear you can see her gulp slightly. "Why not?"
She blinks, caught off guard by the fact that you're actually questioning her right now. Then, she shakes her head like she’s trying to steady herself. "Porque lo digo yo, bebé," (Because I said so, baby) she says finally, calmly.
Swivelling off your seat, you get up and wander over to her. She's already focused on cooking and, knowing her, probably has forgotten about your conversation already.
You press your body into her side, wrapping your arms around her waist, a soft sigh slipping past your lips as you lean your head against her shoulder. She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t react either; she just keeps stirring, her eyes never leaving the pan.
Your frustration builds up as she refuses to acknowledge you. "I thought you liked this shirt," you bring up again, wanting the attention back on you.
She sighs exasperatedly, moving away from your touch to grab other utensils. "I do."
Then she turns back to you, taking you in once more, and her eyes stay on your neck, your shoulder, down to your legs and back to your eyes once more. Her jaw tightens; she looks like she's holding herself back, like she wants to say something. You're aching for her to.
Both of you stay there like this, her eyes locked onto yours as you're tilting your head at her, waiting and hoping that she'll snap.
But nothing happens.
A small breath escapes her, and she gives you a soft smile, then goes back to what she was doing, leaving you staring at her in shock. You thought she was going to lose it; you could've sworn she was close to doing so, but she dropped it. Again.
You let out a short, bitter laugh as you walk off into the living room, shaking your head. There's clearly no point in trying anymore.
You're unaware, but as you leave, she looks over her shoulder for a moment, taking you in, then goes back to stirring the contents in the pan.
The apartment smells amazing. Roasted vegetables and garlic wafting in the air as you're perched on the arm of the couch, adjusting your shirt slightly so it reveals even more skin. You're doing your best to act casual, but every muscle in your body feels like it's on fire for the woman who is currently trying to do three hundred things in the kitchen at once. Obviously, you tried to offer your help earlier, which Alexia proudly declined, something she loves doing to you lately, clearly.
A ring at the door has your attention, and finally, you can put yourself to use — socialising.
Irene is first to arrive, and you welcome her warmly, and Alexia gives her a small wave from the kitchen as she walks by. Not long after, Cata and Claudia are the next to arrive, and the place starts to liven up, and you slowly feel yourself forgetting the frustrations of the past few weeks as the minutes go by.
Finally, Kika and Esmee arrive. You know not because they rang the doorbell but because you can hear them down the hall, and you perk up at the thought of seeing them again after a while. Out of all of Alexia's teammates, you're closest with them — Cata and Claudia come in a close second. You're not sure how it happened, but as soon as you were introduced to Esmee and Kika, you clicked with them instantly. Being around Kika definitely makes you more chatty; her personality is so infectious, and you know you're definitely way more annoying when in her presence — much to everyone else's dismay. Esmee was basically her polar opposite, and that's how your friendship worked so well. Whenever you both needed to be taken down a few notches, Esmee could just about manage — most of the time anyway.
As you open the door, Kika practically throws herself at you, enveloping you in a tight hug, and you laugh, trying to keep your balance.
"Girl, you look so hot, what the hell?" She whispers into your ear, a little too loud, as it manages to catch Alexia's attention. You notice instantly the way her hand pauses mid-stir, her smile faltering just a bit. Her gaze fixed on Kika's hand lingering on your exposed shoulder as she looks over your shoulder to wave at the others. Your hand swats hers away playfully, but you appreciate that someone thinks you look good enough to compliment tonight. Esmee gives you a quick hug before going to sit with everyone else, and you stand there for a bit as Alexia watches you, her eyes burning into the side of your face. After a few seconds, you catch her gaze with yours, and she offers you a tight smile before turning away. Finally, it feels like things are beginning to turn in your favour.
As everyone begins to congregate at the table, you begin to walk over to where Kika is already sitting, but a hand on your waist stops you before you can get there.
"No," a low whisper in your ear, "a mi lado." (next to me) It isn't a question, and you know you should listen; something in her tone tells you not to question her. So you don't.
Alexia goes around, plating up for everybody, and you barely take notice as you're chatting away with Kika opposite you, with Cata chiming in here and there. Even when your plate is put down in front of you, you don't acknowledge it.
When Alexia finally takes her seat beside you, there's an air around her that makes you shift ever so slightly. The scent of her perfume cuts through the air and momentarily has you distracted from your current plan.
Across from you, Kika is still mid-story, something from international duty, and you watch her as you eat, trying not to spit out your food as you're laughing. It doesn't escape the woman beside you that you're laughing louder at what Kika's saying compared to everyone else.
"I literally texted you as soon as it happened, didn't I?" She looks to you, and you nod with a smile as you put your hand on the table near your wine glass. The quick shift to English as she asks you the question catches a few people off guard besides you and Esmee, but everyone continues to listen regardless. Kika's hand lands on top of yours as she laughs. It's casual and obviously means nothing.
Not to Alexia, though.
It's the way you and Kika are in your own bubble, as if everyone else doesn't matter — as if she doesn't. Her jaw stiffens as she finishes the rest of her wine, placing it down on the table a little harder than anticipated, and you look over at her. Your eyes flicker down to her hand, still gripping the empty glass, and you feel a small urge to say something to her. You don't.
Kika's hand tapping yours lightly tears your gaze away as you continue listening to what she has to say. Meanwhile, your girlfriend sits beside you quietly, trying to figure out how she's going to get through tonight without exploding.
After everyone finished eating, they made their way to the couches, preparing to play whichever board game they could all agree on — from the shouting you could hear, it was not going to be an easy decision.
You find yourself walking into the kitchen, where Alexia is wiping down the counter, seemingly in the same spot over and over again.
"I think it's clean enough now," you tease as you lean against the counter, facing her.
She definitely hears you, her glance giving her away, but she doesn't reply.
You tilt your head slightly. "You okay?" Your voice drops a level, not wanting the others to overhear—not that they could with the way Cata and Kika are yelling right now.
As you open the fridge to get a bottle of water, you hear her footsteps behind you, which makes you freeze a little.
"¿Qué te crees que estás haciendo?" (What do you think you're doing?)
As you turn to her, you blink a few times as you feign confusion.
"Getting water? I'm thirsty." You walk past her, letting your shoulder graze hers on purpose.
Your heart rate is skyrocketing; you know you're pushing your luck, but this is the most Alexia has acknowledged your antics for the last few weeks. Why on earth would you stop now that it's starting to get good?
"No juegues conmigo." (Don't play with me.) Her voice cuts through you, and you turn away from her so you can let out a breath you've been keeping in for far too long.
"I'm not allowed to drink water now?" You smile over your shoulder, and her eyes narrow at you. Unimpressed.
She exhales deeply, stepping closer to you, and the space between you shrinks into nothing, her body pressing against yours firmly. Her hand grips your hip, stopping you from moving away, not that you're even thinking about doing that right now.
"¿Me tomas por tonta?" (Do you take me for a fool?) She murmurs low, and your pulse spikes, and you feel your face warming instantly.
She continues, her eyes locked on yours, "¿Y en la cena? ¿Qué fue todo eso?" (And at dinner? What was all that?)
Feigning innocence once more, you shake your head as a small smirk creeps onto your lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Her jaw clenches, and you don't miss the way the vein in her neck stands out sharply against her skin. Your body thrums as her grip doesn't let up, her nails digging into your skin, and you find yourself biting your lip softly as you look at your very angry girlfriend.
"Behave."
You let out a short laugh, more amused than anything, and you shake your head again as you move out of her grasp. Your eyes find hers once more before you leave to join everyone else. Alexia leans forward, hands braced on the counter as she watches you disappear into the living room. She's starting to understand what you're doing, but she knows you'll listen and act normally for the rest of the evening. You always listen to her.
Yet, she doesn't seem to know you at all, because you're only getting started.
By the time Alexia makes it into the living room, she misses the start of the round of UNO, so she's made to just observe this time. Cata and Claudia are sitting together, shielding their cards from each other defensively, whilst Irene and Esmee are sitting pretty relaxed beside each other, sipping their drinks here and there.
The sight of you makes Alexia stop in her tracks, though. You're on Kika's lap, leaning into her as you point at her cards, shaking your head at every suggestion she makes. Both of you are trying to be casual, but of course, Alexia sees through it all. You want her to see it.
She sits down, takes a swig of her wine, swirling the rest of it as her eyes burn into the side of your head.
"¿Puedes dejar de elegir el azul? Nadie tiene azul." (Can you stop picking blue? Nobody has blue.) Claudia frowns as she picks up another card after Cata has changed the colour for the fiftieth time.
"Deberías elegir mejores cartas entonces." (You should choose better cards then.) Cata sticks out her tongue, and Claudia slaps her forehead with the back of one of her cards.
Irene wordlessly places a blue 6, and Esmee groans as she's also made to pick up another card.
You move off Kika's lap to grab your glass off the table, and you meet Alexia's eyes for a few seconds before sitting next to Kika, leaning against her side to tell her which card to play next.
"Anything but blue because Cata's are literally all blue," you whisper in her ear, and she laughs with a nod. Kika plays a green 2 on top of the blue 2 Esmee picked up and put down moments before. You notice Cata's smile drop as she looks back at her own cards. Too easy.
Alexia feels her eye twitching at the sight of you across the coffee table, and she decides to direct the attention onto you, seeing as it's what you want, apparently.
"Why aren't you playing, nena?" Her tone is casual, definitely not out of the ordinary to everyone else, but to you, it's all but comforting.
As you're about to reply, Kika places her hand on your thigh and answers on your behalf, "Ella es la árbitra, Alexia." (She's the referee, Alexia.)
Alexia scoffs at that, her eyes rolling just slightly. "Apenas una árbitro si solo te está ayudando a hacer trampa." (Hardly a referee if she's just helping you cheat.)
"No es hacer trampa." (It's not cheating.) Kika smirks at Alexia across the room, "Ella está siendo realmente útil, en realidad." (She's being really helpful, actually.) She then places a green reverse card on the pile, grinning mischievously.
Alexia shakes her head with a bitter laugh, her gaze flicking down briefly to Kika's hand still resting on your leg, and the others start looking at each other, not knowing whether to say anything or continue playing.
After Esmee takes her turn quickly, not wanting to say anything, Irene clears her throat as she puts a card down onto the pile, "Uh… recoge cuatro…" (Uh… pick up four…)
"¿Otra vez?" Claudia groans in annoyance, slapping her hand down onto the pile of spare cards with a glare in the direction of a very pleased-looking Irene. Cata gives Claudia a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she sulks, looking at the… fourteen cards in the winger's hands.
Just as everyone thinks it's safe to breathe again, Alexia speaks once more.
"¿Y tú, vas a seguir mirando las cartas de Kika?" (And you, are you going to keep looking at Kika's cards?)
You go to open your mouth again, but Kika steps in again, a sly grin on her lips as she speaks. "Todo forma parte de nuestra estrategia, Alexia." (It's all part of our strategy, Alexia.)
Alexia arches her brow and nods, "¿Ah, sí? Interesante. (Oh, really? Interesting.) She's doing her best to appear calm, but only you notice the way her knuckles are turning white from gripping onto the arm of her armchair so hard. You pluck up the courage to look her in the eyes and already see she's been waiting for you to. The heat of her gaze prickles your skin as you feel your breathing start to become uneven.
As you both stare each other down, Kika's hand on your arm brings your attention back to her, using her cards to hide her mouth, asking you if she should unleash her two +4 cards onto Esmee. Instead of answering right away, you look over at Alexia and make sure she's watching you first, then you nod in reply to Kika's question.
It's been so long since you've seen your girlfriend look at you this way, and in all honesty, you're not sure if it's ever been truly in this way. You've seen her angry on the pitch and, obviously, after some bad games. This, however, was fully because of you — no external reasons, just your behaviour. It's what you wanted, but it's completely untouched territory. You don't really know what your next move should be. Perhaps you've done enough; maybe you should rein it in for the night and deal with Alexia after. Or…
"UNOOO!" Kika shouts gleefully, and the others mumble and groan between themselves.
"How come you only helped, Kika?" Esmee frowns at you as she tries to peek at the last remaining card in the Portuguese woman's hand.
"Because I'm her favourite," Kika sticks her tongue out at Esmee, and the latter rolls her eyes.
You expect a comment, a noise or anything from Alexia, but nothing comes. All she does is sit there, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her eyes bore into you, like nobody else is in the room right now.
Once it's Kika's turn again, all eyes are on her, awaiting the inevitable.
She sighs deeply, getting up to go pick up another card, and everyone playing, besides Claudia, who is far from winning, breathes a small sigh of relief. Then, Kika slaps her last card onto the pile, and she wins the game.
"You're so annoying," Esmee mumbles, dropping her cards down on the table.
"You're a sore loser," Kika shoots back with a cheeky smile as she sits back down next to you, leaning her head on your shoulder. You don't push her off; instead, you lean into the contact as your body relaxes ever so slightly.
Cata stands up and stretches her arms with a groan. "La única perdedora adolorida aquí es..." (The only sore loser here is...) She turns to Claudia, who is sulking as she sinks deeper into the couch.
"Es culpa tuya que tuviera tantas cartas." (It's your fault that I had so many cards.) She scowls as she sits up a bit.
Everyone watches their bickering fondly, whilst Irene shakes her head with an amused smile as she starts collecting the cards up. The only person not smiling or talking currently is the woman across from you. You're not sure if she's looked away from you in the past thirty minutes, even though you were doing your best to avoid her eyes most of the time; you always felt them on you.
Kika notices your silence and follows your gaze, her eyes landing on Alexia before a knowing smirk spreads across her face.
Her hand slides to your face, her fingertips grazing your jaw as she tilts your head slightly toward her. "I think my work here is done." Her voice is quiet, and her eyes dart to Alexia as she says it.
You bump your shoulder against hers, trying to bite back a smile. "Do you not think it was a bit much?" You say with uncertainty, and Kika moves back a little to look at you properly.
"Oh, absolutely." She looks over at Alexia once more, then looks back at you. "You're so dead, girl."
At that, you feel your stomach drop slightly, the gravity of the situation properly hitting you for the first time tonight.
Kika goes over to Esmee to gloat some more, leaving you alone on the couch. As you sit up, you decide to look at Alexia again.
No words need to be said. The message is loud and clear: she's had enough.
Cata and Claudia are the last to leave. You walk them to the door, your laughter filling the now quiet apartment. Cata pulls you into a tight hug, and you groan as she nearly squeezes your organs out through your ears. As you push her off you with an eye roll, you kiss Claudia on the temple, and you promise to meet up with them again on one of their off days in the future.
Earlier, when everyone started to get ready to leave, Kika had pulled you to the side and asked you if she should stick around for more 'moral support', but you instantly declined — you know you've absolutely crossed the line tonight. One more interaction with Kika probably would've ensured you wouldn't have lived to tell the tale.
Speaking of.
The click of the door beneath your fingers makes your anxiety worse, knowing that you're truly on your own from here on out. You're not sure how to go about this — whether to act normally or bring up the night's antics. The thought of doing so makes you feel a bit nauseous, so you decide to go and collect your neglected water bottle from hours ago on the counter instead. Alexia emerges from the hallway, and you don't acknowledge her presence as you sit on one of the stools. You notice a text notification, and you start typing your reply.
"Get up."
The way she's talking to you chills you, your body stiffening as soon as you hear it. You don't move, though. Opting to glance at her momentarily, then back to your phone.
"You're ignoring me now?" She scoffs as she walks towards the counter, and before you know it, your phone is ripped out of your hands and slammed harshly down onto the surface without a care. The action makes you jump, but you cover it up with a small snicker.
"Can you give that back?" You mumble, "I wasn't finished." You go to grab the phone, but she's too quick for you, her hand slamming on top of it.
For a moment, you stay there looking at each other, and you don't know what to say. You weren't used to any of this. This was what you wanted for so long, for her to be looking at you in this way. She's livid. You swallow hard, refusing to be the first to break eye contact; you want to show her that you're not intimidated. Though your body's reactions definitely tell a different story.
"All night," she begins slowly, "you have been testing me."
You feel yourself ache at her voice, and you shift in your seat, crossing your legs tighter together in a desperate attempt to find some relief.
"I literally didn't do anything," you say, brushing her off like she isn't setting your entire body alight just by looking at you.
Her jaw tightens, teeth gritting together as she walks over to you, and you instinctively cower under her as she looks down at you. "Firstly, I told you not to wear this. You do it anyway." She grabs the collar of the shirt you're wearing and gives it a rough, dismissive tug, the fabric slipping back down your skin. "Then, at dinner, you barely look at me. Only at Kika. ¿Por qué?"
You lean back, trying to create more of a distance between you so you can breathe, but she's having none of it.
"Contéstame." (Answer.)
Your eyes drift to her hand gripping the edge of the counter, then back to her face before replying. "I'm always like this with Kika. I don't know why you're being so weird for."
"Weird?" Her tone drips with mockery; it sends a shock through your veins, and you use all your strength not to react. "What is weird is how you think whoring yourself around all night is normal behaviour."
Oh.
Your cheeks burn up in an instant, and your heartbeat slams against your chest. You search in her eyes for regret or anything to suggest she didn't mean that. There's nothing.
"¿Qué es?" Her face lowers to your level, and your breath hitches ever so slightly. "You don't agree?"
You say nothing.
"You let her put her hands on you, mi niña." She says softly, a stark contrast to how she was just talking to you. The sudden change makes your head spin a bit. "Right in front of me. All night. Did you like that?"
"I—No."
"Hm? Explícame entonces." (Explain it to me then.)
You shake your head as you go to stand up, "I'm not having this conversation right n—"
"You will stay where you are." She cuts you off calmly, but with that tinge of coldness that's making you throb painfully. "When I ask you something, you answer. ¿Sí?"
Before you realise, you're nodding as you look up at her.
"I just wanted—" Your gaze falls to your lap, ashamed of having to admit why you went to such lengths tonight and on all the occasions before. "It's just that…you're so kind."
Alexia laughs at you, and it's so unexpected that it makes your heart sink a bit.
"You threw yourself at my teammate because you think I'm kind? Dios mío, lo he escuchado todo." (My God, I've heard it all.)
"No!" You start, and you feel your face getting hotter by the second. None of this is working. "The problem is, you always treat me like I'm too delicate for anything else."
She doesn't say anything, so you take that as a sign to continue.
"I love the way you love me, more than anything." Alexia's eyes soften for a brief second, but you catch it. "It's just that sometimes… I wish you wouldn't hold back so much in other ways."
The silence stretches for a while, with the faint buzzing of the fridge accompanied by the noise of your heartbeat in your ears, consuming you. All of it feels overwhelming as you wait for your girlfriend to say something.
Her brow furrows and her head tilts, as if she's letting the words settle in her mind before she responds.
"So tonight you play games with me? To make me angry? That's what you want?"
You sit up, your back straightening as you try to appear more in control of the situation.
"I wanted you to fucking look at me." You spit out, pushing yourself to your feet. She's still towering over you, but not as much.
There’s a flicker of disbelief in her eyes, and it only makes the smugness in your chest grow. You're going to see how far you can go before she fully snaps.
"Kika paid more attention to me tonight than you have in weeks." You tilt your head as you get close to her, your voice as challenging as the look in your eyes. "Maybe I enjoyed that, so what?"
The air between the two of you thickens, and you can almost see the remaining thread of restraint she was holding on to snap completely.
"Bedroom." She demands sharply, and for once, you don't have anything smart to say back.
Without realising, you take a small step back. Alexia stays there, unmoving, whilst her fury radiates off her body. You know you should be feeling at least a drop of remorse, but you can't bring yourself to. This side of Alexia is turning you on so much, and you don't want it to stop.
"Not asking again. Go."
The urge to defend yourself, to anger her even more, is so strong, but instead, you find yourself turning around and obeying her. She grabs your phone before her eyes return to you, burning into the back of your head as you walk down the hallway. Whilst you're trying to hide the biggest smile on your face.
"Get on the bed." Her voice is so stern it rocks you to your core, and you do as she says. Sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her as she makes her way towards you after throwing your phone onto the nightstand.
Before anything escalates, you think about apologising. You probably took it too far, and you don't want this to get out of hand. "Alexia, I—"
"Cállate." Her hand grips your jaw firmly, locking you in place as you look up at her. You don't even want to blink; the thought of momentarily slipping out of her gaze makes you tremble.
"You're going to listen to everything I say," she says slowly. "I'm in control."
You nod obediently, still a bit restricted by her tight grip on your chin.
Her fingers loosen on you, and you let out an exhale without realising. She trails two of her fingers to your lips, prodding at them gently, and you open them without her having to ask you. Her long, slender fingers fill your mouth, your eyes rolling back a bit as they venture deeper toward your throat. She keeps her eyes locked onto yours, and you don't dare to look away.
"Así," she praises you softly as her fingers push deeper into your mouth, testing how far you can take her. Tears prick at your eyes as she fully has you at your limits, but you couldn't think of complaining in the slightest. Her gaze pins you in place, and the fading memory of the power you had over Alexia earlier is now fully replaced with your aching need for her to make you forget about your antics altogether.
A low chuckle makes your eyes flutter. "Mírate, baby." (Look at you, baby.) The fingers in your mouth press roughly down onto your tongue, opening your mouth wider as she smiles down at you. "You do know how to listen, after all."
She nods her head over to the pillows, and you take the hint and shuffle back on the bed. Her fingers slip out of your mouth, and your small whine at the loss of contact doesn't fall on deaf ears; the older woman smirks at the sound as she waits for you to lie down.
Her fingers loosening the buttons of your shirt are hurried and lacking care. Your stomach tightens at how she hasn't asked you if you're okay or for your permission, which she always made sure to never skip over. As she pulls the shirt off your body, your mind starts to race, wondering what she's planning to do to you. If any of this is an indication, you know she isn't going to take it easy on you. Wordlessly, she unclasps your bra, and you hear the faintest growl rise from her throat as she takes the sight of you in.
She lifts and removes her shirt, leaving her in her sports bra. You can't help but trail your eyes over her toned body and the way each muscle tightens with even the smallest of movements.
You're not so subtle as you think, and she notices your new distraction, "Mírame." (Look at me.)
The way her eyes darken as you finally look back at her makes you shiver. The heat of her gaze on you is so intoxicating that you barely notice her hands moving to take your shorts off until she yanks them down with a single, swift pull. Hooking her fingers into the waistband of your underwear, she tugs them down with zero regard. A small rip sound pulls you out of your daze, and you catch a glimpse of the ruined fabric before she bunches it up in her hands and throws it behind her.
"Ale…" The desperation in your voice almost makes her lose her focus, and you can see her gaze soften for a millisecond before it snaps right back.
Before you're able to comment on it, two fingers roughly enter your pussy, and a scream rips from your throat. Her free hand grips your thigh as she spreads your legs wider with every thrust; it almost hurts. Each muscle in your legs being tested to their limits whilst she shows you no mercy.
"This is what you wanted, ¿sí?" Her deep voice cuts through your mind's haze. The pace of her fingers not letting up as each movement dragging against the walls of your cunt starts to make you lightheaded. All you can muster are whines and whimpers, which only infuriate her more.
A low groan escapes her as she keeps her eyes on your tear-filled ones. "¿Así que ahora no puedes hablar? What happened, preciosa?" (So now you can't talk?)
You whine quietly, trying to catch your breath as her thrusts slow down.
It's impossible to form a single coherent thought, let alone say it out loud, and from the way she's looking at you, it's obvious to her that you're close to your limit.
Not that Alexia cares.
The loss of her fingers hits you like a brick wall, and you feel a lone tear roll down your face as the pent-up frustration and desperation of tonight lash through your body. You can feel the painful throb of your untouched clit as the cold air swirls over it, but you know better than to do anything about it. Alexia moves off the bed without even giving you a second look before opening a drawer, and you see her holding her harness. Everything is fine until the toy she grabs isn't your usual one. No, instead it's one you've never even seen before. It looks way too big, almost obscenely large. In that moment, it finally hits you just how pissed she is at you. You feel your mouth go dry as she steps into the harness, pulling it over her muscular thighs and adjusting it to her liking. The silicone looks huge even in her hands, which is enough to make you tremble by itself.
As she makes her way towards you, your legs instinctively open wider, which elicits a low chuckle from her.
"No, amor." She coos as she stands near the edge of the bed, "Get me ready first."
It takes you a few seconds to understand what she means, and you hurriedly get off the bed, falling to your knees in front of her, and finally, you can see the sheer size of what she wants to fuck you with.
A wave of fear strikes you, and you start shaking your head, your skin burning up as the seconds tick by.
"Ale, I can't—" A shaky exhale leaves you as she edges closer to you. "That's too—"
"You will take it, cariño." Her long fingers wrap around the tip of the dildo to begin with, gradually sliding down the length as she strokes it in front of you. No matter what you say, you know there's no getting out of this.
She gently prods the head at your lips, and you reluctantly part them as she pushes herself in slowly. As she goes deeper, you can feel your jaw trembling from the strain, and your eyes meet hers in a desperate plea for her to go slower. A smile tugs at her lips as she reaches down to your cheek, stroking the warm skin tenderly as her hips move forward, plunging herself deeper into your throat.
"¿Te gusta eso?" (Do you like that?) The way she's speaking to you makes you feel so small, so powerless. With every word of hers, you feel your arousal dripping down your thighs and pooling onto the floor beneath you.
A raw, muffled noise from you catches her attention, and her jaw tightens subtly, and even in your daze, you notice. She watches as your cheeks bulge with each of her thrusts, the way you struggle around her, but are still so eager to take it all.
"Eso es…" (That's it...) She says through gritted teeth, "Solo tómalo." (Just take it.)
Your nails dig into her thigh, desperately trying to ground yourself as she continues to ravage your mouth. A sharp hiss breaks from her throat as she fists her hand in your hair, forcing herself deeper in your mouth as her movements grow rougher and more fluid. Each inch presses down on your tongue, the width and weight of it impossible to ignore.
It's so overwhelming, even more so when you feel the tip teasing the back of your throat. Each thrust makes it harder for you to breathe, but you don't stop, even with the burning feeling crawling over your chest; you want to show Alexia how much you want her.
It's almost as if she notices, and her movements start to lessen, the grip in your hair loosening.
"Tranquila…" She murmurs, and you feel her move away from you, the strap shifting out of your mouth, and you feel painfully empty all of a sudden. A thin trail of spit connects you both before she fully pulls away, and you gasp as you try to catch your breath.
Alexia doesn't move, nor does she speak up just yet. Instead, her eyes stay on you, her head tilting as she takes all of you in — analysing the damage she has done to you. The curve of her smile is so taunting, and you swear you shrink under it without even meaning to.
Her thumbs swipe at the tears that roll down your face, not from pain but quite the opposite. You need her so badly. To take you in any way she wants, however hard she wants. All you want is to feel her.
"Do you regret it?" She asks calmly as she strokes your hair idly, and you start to get lost in the feeling before she clears her throat, reminding you that she is, in fact, still here.
You know she's expecting you to have learnt your lesson, to say sorry, and promise you won't act the way you have been again. Honestly, you're not really in the position to be pissing her off even more right now. As you swallow hard, you look down at her strap and the way it glistens with your saliva in the low light of your bedroom. When you look back at her, she's smiling more, knowing she has you right where she wants you.
"No."
Her smile drops in an instant, and the delicate hand stroking your head stops in its place.
"Súbete a la cama." (Get on the bed) She says gruffly, and it takes you a moment to understand what she said.
The pain in your knees tears through your body as you stand up, every single joint in your legs screaming at you in the process. You don't know how she wants you, so you play it safe and lie on your back, waiting for her next move.
"Aun después de todo eso, sigues sin aprender." (Even after all that, you still don't learn.)
You start to open your mouth, but the glare she shoots at you warns you to shut your mouth, so you do exactly that.
Alexia kneels onto the bed, not in a hurry and clearly wanting to make you suffer for as long as possible. She moves towards you, and you sink further back into the pillow beneath you, as if trying to create more of a distance between the two of you. Alexia is having none of it, though. She traces the line of your jaw before tightening her hold, commanding your attention.
"If you want to act like a slut," her voice is so soft despite her strong hold on your chin, "then you should be fucked like one."
The room felt as if it was spinning; all you could feel was the dull throbbing between your legs and how empty your pussy felt. How badly you needed her to completely wreck you.
"Get on your knees."
You obey, you don't even try to answer back. It's a struggle to keep yourself steady in this position; your muscles feel like they're on fire.
A hiss spills from her lips as she studies every inch of you, bent over and trembling as you wait for her to touch you. A very lovely reminder of who has control. Her hand strokes the curve of your ass warmly, trailing down to your drenched cunt, and she spreads you a bit more, wanting to see all of you. The silence in the room is so thick you can feel your heartbeat thumping in your ears, as each touch of hers feels as if it is singeing your skin.
"Mírate, mi amor…" A lone finger trails down your pussy, your arousal coating her finger with ease. "All of this just from having me in your mouth and touching you a little, hm?" She chuckles, the sound low and mocking. Your face heats up from embarrassment, and you let out a sound of protest, which isn't acknowledged much to your dismay.
A warm hand presses into the small of your back, making you arch until you're almost face down on the bed. The head of the dildo is at your entrance, and before you're able to brace yourself, she slams herself inside you, not bothering to let you adjust to the thickness at all. You tried your best not to scream; instead, a strained cry tore from your throat as your fingers dug desperately into the sheets beneath you. Nothing could've prepared you for the sheer force with which she was driving into your cunt. You had taken her like this before, but the size of the strap and just how hard she was fucking you was nearly pushing you past your limit.
The obscene sound of your cunt wrapping around her filled your ears, accompanied by the low grunts coming from the older woman's mouth as she pounded you without stopping. A sharp slap on your ass makes your hips unintentionally buck towards the harness, and somehow more of it slips inside you.
"You're taking all of it, mi niña." She sounds equally proud and turned on, both of which make your head spin, as you can barely focus on anything other than how full you feel.
You feel her lean over you, her breath hot against your ear as she speaks, and you can hear the smile on her lips, "Do you like having your pussy full like this?"
A fragmented noise between a moan and a cry leaves your lips as she continues to fuck you relentlessly. As she leans back, her fingers wrap around your hair, twisting it around her fist as she yanks back sharply. You're flush against her, and at this angle, you somehow feel your cunt stretch even wider as she sinks deeper inside you.
"Así, cariño," her free hand reaches around you, her fingers rolling over your hardening nipple, and you start to feel lightheaded at every sensation filling your senses. You wanted to hold out for longer, try to show her that you couldn't be ruined so easily, but it was impossible. Your body was betraying you before your mind got the chance to catch up.
Her teeth graze your shoulder lightly at first, and a shiver ripples through you as she deepens the bite. The feel of her tongue soothing the deep mark on your skin has your eyes rolling back, your stomach coiling tightly at the sensation. She kisses your shoulder a couple of times before harshly pushing you forward, and your arms completely give out as you collapse into the sheets. She slows her pace, letting you recover just a little before pulling out of you completely. One of her hands crashes down against your ass once more, and you yelp, your voice raw and almost gone, which brings a smile to the older woman's lips.
"Boca arriba," (On your back,) her stern words are an order, and you know you have no way out of this, even if you're feeling this exhausted.
With shaky arms, you manage to push yourself off the bed and roll onto your back. Upon seeing her face, you feel a familiar rush of heat flooding through you and down to your core. Something about the way she keeps you in her sight makes all of this so much more overwhelming. Your gaze drops, and you see the strap gleaming in the low light — the evidence of what she's done to you.
During your daze, you feel her strong hands on your knees, spreading your legs wider until no part of you is hidden from gaze.
"Alexia…" You breathe out pathetically, and her eyes snap to yours, and the rest of your words catch in your throat, unable to escape.
She responds with a hum, the faintest curve tugging at her mouth.
"Please, I need—" A whine escapes your lips as her thumb roughly meets your swollen clit, pressing down firmly as she feels the skin throb beneath her.
"No me importa." (I don't care.) A sharp slap meets your clit, and it makes you cry out, the sting making your eyes prick with tears again as they threaten to fall. Her expression hardens as she watches you, the brief calm from moments ago now replaced with the same simmering anger she had been enveloped in all evening.
You don't get a chance to talk because she's already lining the silicone to your cunt before burying herself inside you again. Every inch hugged your walls as she slid further inside, and if it weren't for her grip on your thighs, you'd be trembling more.
Each thrust pulls another obscene sound from your throat, along with the sound of your pussy as it swallows every single inch of the woman above you.
"Debería follarte así más a menudo." (I should fuck you like this more often.)
The words feel like electricity hitting you, and your body replies for you as you snap your hips upward, defiantly trying to chase the thickness buried in your cunt.
"Did you enjoy acting like a whore all night?" She asks you as she groans deeply, the harness of the strap rubbing against her own clit furiously. In that moment, you're truly looking at her, and you can see just how turned on she is. Even if this was supposed to be a lesson to teach you to act right, it was obvious she was enjoying it just as much, if not more than you were.
At first, you laugh before it fractures off into a high-pitched moan as she lifts one of your legs over her shoulder, the new angle stretching you wider.
"What if I did?" You challenge her as you breathe out raggedly, and you feel her thrusts stutter for a beat before she moves closer to your face.
Her hand finds your jaw, holding you softly as she makes you look at her.
"¿Ah, sí? You're still going?"
You lean into her hand on your face, and her eyes soften unexpectedly, and her thumb strokes the skin there as her movements are slower but still reach you deep. All through this, your soft moans fill her ears, and she fights herself to try and stay angry. Yet, the sight of you—flushed and irrevocably hers—makes her stomach flip.
Her thumb glides over your bottom lip, a tender contrast to everything else. Without her needing to ask, you part your lips, and she slips it inside. It's as if your eagerness sets her off all over again, as her hips begin to move again, almost erratically.
"Dios, eres increíble." (God, you're amazing.)
An amused hum rumbles from your throat as your tongue swirls around the pad of her thumb, sucking it in a little deeper as you lock eyes. The way her lips are parted, as she tries to catch her breath, tells you all you need to know. She's trying her hardest to stay in control, but as each moment passes by, it continues to slip from her grasp ever so slightly.
"All of this," she begins hoarsely, "belongs to me, amor." Her thumb slips out from your mouth, and you pant quietly, catching your breath. A spark of defiance flashes across your eyes as you bite your lip before you speak.
"Are you sure?" You whisper, half as a taunt and half in a plea.
For a heartbeat, neither of you says anything. The air between you becomes charged, and Alexia surges forward. Her mouth crashes against yours, messy and urgent as her tongue expertly rubs against your own. You moan into her mouth, each sound spilling from your tongue uncontrollably and begging as each roll of her hips sends vibrations through your cunt as it desperately clenches around the thick girth of the silicone. Your fingers thread into her head as you pull her closer, attempting to meet her force equally, but each time you fall short. Lips wrap hungrily around your tongue, sucking possessively, making you subconsciously clench even more around the dildo slamming inside you. A strained moan leaves your mouth and slips into Alexia's before she pulls away suddenly to get a better look at you.
"Solo yo puedo follarte así." (Only I can fuck you like this.) Each word is punctuated by a snap of her hips against yours, and you can subtly feel a low heat building up gradually in your stomach.
"Say it."
A pleading sob leaves you as her thumb strokes your clit again, and you feel your eyes roll back slightly. "O-only you."
"Only I what?" It's humiliating. You feel so exposed and completely under her control, and you know this is all you've ever wanted.
"Only you can fuck me like this," you manage to repeat, and the smile on her lips sends a jolt through you.
"Muy buena."
Her mouth finds yours again, softer this time, without the urgency of before. She wants to savour all of you, her lips brushing against yours with a type of tender possessiveness you're not sure you've ever experienced before.
There's a slight change in angle as she moves inside you, and it has you crying out against her lips, your pussy clamping down hard on her strap in strong pulses. The sound of your cunt being ravaged, accompanied by the sinful noises erupting from your throat, has Alexia's body shuddering against you.
"Joder, mi amor." Her words dissolve into a low guttural moan as the harness grinds against her throbbing clit, the splintering heat of her orgasm wrecking her more than she anticipated. As your body convulses underneath her, you feel the wind ripped from your lungs at the sight above you; each raw and uncontrolled sound that falls off the older woman's tongue has you feeling dizzy. You've never seen her like this — so utterly consumed to the point where she has lost herself like this. Without wasting any time, you cup her cheek tenderly, and she leans into your hand, her eyes half-lidded and still so full of love.
A tired laugh falls from your mouth, and she smiles at you before leaning in and capturing your lips in hers, slower and unhurried. Your moans from before are now tapering off into content hums, mingling with her faint groans as her hips rock slowly into yours. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against yours. Her thumb strokes delicate circles on your jaw before leaning down to kiss the warm skin there.
"No sabes lo que me haces," (You don't know what you do to me,) she utters quietly, sounding completely drained, and you can definitely relate.
A breath of laughter escapes you, and you nuzzle her cheek gently as you say, "I think I have a pretty decent idea…"
Before she's able to reply, you move your hips upwards, and the small contact makes her gasp slightly before she lets out an amused groan. Her lips hover above yours before she whispers a small, "Eres imposible." (You're impossible.)
It's a short-lived kiss, but it's just about what you can handle in your current state. Eventually, Alexia pulls back, her eyes trailing downwards between your bodies. Her gaze lingers on the aftermath of it all for a few moments, wanting to appreciate the number she did on you. Then, at an agonising pace, her hips begin to move away from yours. She drags herself out of you in a way so that you can feel every last inch leave your tightness. A broken sound catches in your throat, something between a gasp and a moan, as you feel your cunt clench as if to keep her in you just a bit longer. The emptiness you feel is almost too much, and you watch as you're finally separated, not realising how hard you're breathing.
Another thing you don't realise is that Alexia's eyes are back on your face again. Her breathing falls into a steady rhythm, a sharp contrast to your own, but her expression tells another story altogether. The way her lips curl into that smug grin of hers, accompanied by that ever-present simmering heat that seems to be building the more you both keep quiet.
"You need to stop doing that," you sigh, lazily covering your eyes with your forearm to break the intense eye contact. She chuckles to herself, and you feel her get up off the bed, presumably to clean herself up first—leaving you until last because it's always her favourite. You go to turn onto your side with a loud groan as you feel your entire body aching so much, to the point where you're not sure you'll be able to physically get up without help.
Alexia watches you fondly whilst she wipes down the silicone, smiling to herself, amused as you continue to grumble your many complaints. She's about to say something cocky, but a flash of light on the nightstand steals her attention. It's your phone, with a new notification. Seemingly, you're still too out of it to notice, so she types in your password to see who on earth could be bothering you at this hour.
11:57 PM
Kika: I really didn't mind staying… I could've gone for another round of UNO if you know what I meannnn ^.^
You: Do you want me to die or something
Kika: Is she pissed then? Did our hard work pay off?? ;)
—
1:24 AM
Kika: Your lack of reply tells me all I need to know
Kika: And you're welcome btw!!! I'm here all week
She stands there, staring at the screen in silence for a few long seconds. A muscle in her jaw ticks as she feels the calm wash away from her completely.
"Cariño…"
You turn onto your right side with a confused mumble, and then your eyes drop to her hands. Your heart almost flies out of your mouth.
The older woman drops your phone back onto the nightstand with a dull thud before turning away to walk over to the drawers, picking up her harness again.
"Babe, let me explain fir—"
She cuts you off flatly. "Get back on your knees."
bit longer than usual… but the one everyone’s been asking for
masterlist
the house had been quiet when alessia left that morning. she'd kissed leah goodbye and then crouched down in front of you, still curled up beneath the duvet after climbing into your mummy's bed in the early hours, hair sticking up in every possible direction.
"i've laid everything out for you, lovie." alessia smiled as you moved slightly still not coming to the terms of it being morning time, as you nodded sleepily.
"and your england shirt's on the chair." alessia continued even though she was talking to you she was merely more reminding leah as you nodded sleepily again. "and your trainers."
"ok." was the most response your mummy got this morning as you stirred a little more, leah lying across from you scrolling aimlessly through her phone.
"and don't give mama a hard time." alessia added on the end her expression a bit more firm even though you didn't see it you could hear it
you moved to sit up slightly as you shot your mummy an offended look. "i never do. i mama's angel!"
leah had laughed so hard she'd nearly spilled her coffee on the white sheets of the bed, before muttering, "my angel devil"
several hours later and leah would come to regret not checking the wardrobe before casually mentioning the england shirt.
she's been so confident, too confident of everything going smoothly.
alessia had laid everything out before leaving for matchday. your tiny england shirt. navy shorts. white frilly socks. even your favourite little trainers sat neatly by the bedroom door.
simple and easy. there was absolutely no reason this should become difficult.
"angel," leah called from the bottom of the stairs as she slipped her own jacket on, having been ready for ages now. "are you nearly ready?"
"nearly!" you callled back your voice travelling down the stairs.
leah smiled to herself. "good girl!" she checked the time on her phone, you both were running perfectly on time.
five minutes passed and leah packed snacks into your little backpack, knowing majority would more than likely be gone before you even made it to wembley.
another five minutes disappeared. still no small footsteps. still no excited five-year-old charging down the stairs announcing that you were ready.
leah frowned as she placed her keys back on the table that was next to the door, "angel?"
"still getting dressed!" you called back, sounding hurried.
"...how are you still getting dressed?" leah called back but you probably hadn't heard her as there was no response just the unmistakable sound of wardrobe doors opening and closing and drawers sliding
something falling onto the floor and a tiny voice saying, "oops."
leah laughed quietly to herself but that should've been her warning.
she climbed the stairs, already rehearsing a gentle reminder that they needed to leave soon. "angel?" she knocked lightly before pushing open the bedroom door.
"...absolutely not." leah gasps as she stood mouth wide open at the door
you stood proudly in front of the full-length mirror, one hand on your hip, the other smoothing down the front of your shirt with enormous satisfaction.
not the england shirt alessia had carefully folded onto your bed. not even one of your many arsenal tops.
instead... you were wearing a tiny barcelona shirt that reached just below your shorts. the blue and garnet stripes looked almost comically bright against the rest of the room.
leah slowly walked around until she could see the back, her shoulders dropped.
across it, in bold white letters... ALEXIA.. 11
you spun around with the biggest grin imaginable. "i look pretty."
leah pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to think of a way that was going to slowly let you down, "angel..."
"what?" you glanced at your mama through the mirror, slightly confused you were ready so why weren't you leaving yet?
"...you do look pretty." leah began, her bottom lip being bit by her top lip at she tried desperately to find the words, "you also look.... very spanish-"
you giggled, the type that would make anyone melt, you definitely not understanding what leah was getting at, " i match alexia!"
"...you certainly do." leah sighed as you twirled twirled once in front of the mirror before holding your arms out dramatically.
"so we're ready!"
"no." leah said quickly as you stopped still.
you blinked, confused. "...no?"
"no." leah echoed as she walked over to the bed and picked up the untouched england shirt. it still had the tiny fold lines from where alessia had laid it out that morning.
leah held it up. "what happened to this one?"
you shrugged with complete innocence. "i changed my mind."
"i can see that." leah said as the england top stayed in her hands, there was no ways she could let you watch england in a barcelona shirt.. "we're watching england."
"i know."
"so..."
"so." you shrugged, you didn't get what the problem was, mama had asked you to get ready so you did.
"...why are you dressed like barcelona?" leah asked as maybe there was a compromise the two of you could make and you would wear the england shirt to the england game.
"'cause alexia plays there." you smiled, pointing to the shirt you were wearing as leah nodded, "and she's my favourite."
"i know she is."
"so..." you looked at her as though that explained absolutely everything which, in your mind, it did.
leah stared back as the silence stretched. eventually leah crouched so you both were at eye level. "sweetheart..."
"yeah?" you smiled at leah.
"you can wear this another day." leah tried slowly it hurting slightly that she was going to have to hurt your feelings slightly.
"but i want it today." you frowned, as your brow furrowed.
"but england are playing spain" leah tried again to explain, as you nodded along "alexia plays for spain... so don't you think.."
leah paused, mentally trying to solve a puzzle that had currently had no solution. "...maybe today we wear england?"
"i am supporting england." you told leah as she blinked losing your point of argument straight away.
"...you're wearing spain's captain on your back." leah pointed to your barcelona shirt.
"it's barcelona."
"i know it's barcelona."
"so not spain." you quipped back with a smile as leah was stunned slightly by your quickness.
leah opened her mouth then closed it again. technically... "that is not the point."
"but mummy knows i love alexia." you pouted, as leah held you closer rubbing a hand up and down your back as she hummed.
"she love alexia too..." you continued your ramble, as leah's face turned a little, "and alexia is mummy's friend"
"...they are?" leah asked more thinking aloud, not being totally in the loop on that apparent friendship.
"so it's nice." you finished your ramble as you looked a leah with a small smile, as she rubbed a hand over her face.
somehow every answer only made the conversation harder, "you're making this incredibly difficult for someone who's only five." leah mumbled as she looked back at you.
"i'm nearly six."
"that doesn't help."
you folded your tiny arms, deciding you weren't taking the shirt off. "i'm wearing this one."
"no.”
twenty minutes later, the england shirt had been offered and rejected. an arsenal shirt had been suggested as a compromise and again rejected.
even a plain white t-shirt had somehow been dismissed because... "it doesn't have football on it."
leah was rapidly running out of ideas.
"angel."
"no."
"angel."
"no."
"you have approximately three minutes before we absolutely have to leave." leah spoke seriously looking at the time on her phone before sliding it back in her pocket.
"i'm ready." you said with a hint of sass as you stood hand on the stair railing coming down the stairs painfully slow.
"in the wrong shirt." leah mumbled turning to grab her keys as you heard her, "in the right shirt."
leah turned back to you as you managed to come down a stair, "what if mummy feels sad?"
your eyes widened as you pressed both hands dramatically to your cheeks taking a seat on the stairs, "mummy would never be sad."
"she might." leah raised an eyebrow, this was her last gamble.
"no." you huffed.
"she could think you aren't cheering for england."
you frowned, really frowned and for a whole five seconds leah thought she'd finally won.
then your little face lit up. "i'll cheer really loud."
"...in a spain shirt."
"a barcelona shirt."
"that's... somehow worse."
"i'll shout..." you took the deepest breath you could manage. "COME ON MUMMY!"
the shout echoed around the hallway so loudly it probably reached the neighbours that leah actually flinched.
leah rubbed a hand over her face before looking back at you who was standing in front of her with all the determination of someone three times her size.
"...thank you for the demonstration," leah said dryly.
you folded your arms across your little barcelona shirt and lifted your chin triumphantly. "see?" you declared. "i told you i can shout really loud."
"i heard you," leah replied, trying not to laugh despite herself.
"so mummy will hear me too." there was absolutely no flaw in your logic, at least not in your own mind.
leah pinched the bridge of her nose. the two of you had been having the same conversation for the better part of half an hour.
england shirt? "no."
arsenal shirt. "no."
anything that didn't have alexia putellas' name on the back was apparently a "definite no." in your eyes
every suggestion had been met with the exact same answer, so with no ideas left...
leah reached for her phone. if anyone was going to convince you...it would be alessia. leah opened their messages and quickly typed.
le | we have a situation.
the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
less | ??
leah glanced over at you, who immediately posed the second you realised a photo was being taken.
you planted your feet proudly on the third step up from the bottom, backpack already on. barcelona shirt neatly tucked into your shorts. alexia's name stretched proudly across the back.
then, just to make absolutely sure alessia understood how pleased you were with yourself. you gave the camera two enthusiastic thumbs up and the biggest grin imaginable.
leah sighed dramatically before sending the photo. three little dots appeared almost immediately. another message popped up.
less | 😂😂😂
a second later...
less | that's the one gio bought her
leah slowly lowered her phone and looked back at you. the shirt. the suspiciously smug smile and the complete lack of guilt.
"...of course he did," she muttered to herself.
leah typed another message.
le | THIS IS NOT FUNNY.
the reply came before she'd even locked her phone.
less | little bit funny.
leah rolled her eyes so hard they practically reached the ceiling.
leah | she has refused for THIRTY MINUTES.
another typing bubble.
less | gotta pick your battles sometimes babe 😂
leah stared at the message in complete disbelief.
le | you're unbelievable.
the was a pause this time before another reply appeared.
less | she's still coming to support englnad.
less | just... in a very lovie way.
leah looked over at the little girl again.
you were quietly spinning in circles now, making the barcelona shirt flare out around you as though you'd already won the argument.
which, judging by alessia's response... you probably had.
leah sighed cause as frustrating as it was...alessia wasn't entirely wrong. you weren't refusing to support england.
you were just insisting on doing it while proudly wearing the shirt of the footballer you adored most in the world.
another message appeared.
less | tell her i love her.
leah smiled despite herself, of course that was alessia's priority.
she typed one final reply.
le | she'll use that against me.
less | yeah probably 😂
leah laughed quietly under her breath before slipping her phone back into her pocket then she turned around.
you were already standing by the front door, bouncing impatiently on the balls of your feet. the second leah looked at you, those bright eyes widened hopefully. "mummy says she loves me?"
"...yes."
your smile grew even wider. "and she didn't say i have to change my shirt?"
leah hesitated, only for the tiniest fraction of a second. just enough for the guilt to settle in. "...no."
you gasped dramatically before throwing both fists into the air. "i win!"
you celebrated as though you'd just scored the winning goal at wembley, bouncing twice on the spot before rushing over and grabbing leah's hand.
"come on!" you said excitedly, already tugging her towards the front door. "we don't want to miss mummy!" leah allowed herself to be pulled along, laughing softly as she followed.
halfway down the hallway she glanced at the little barcelona shirt beside her. at the bright navy and garnet stripes. at PUTELLAS 11 stretched proudly across the back. then at the tiny hand wrapped so trustingly around her own. her heart softened despite every ounce of exasperation she'd felt over the last thirty minutes.
she let out the long, weary sigh of someone who had accepted defeat long before the final whistle. "i hope your mother appreciates how many grey hairs you've just given me."
you immediately looked up at her, studying leah's hair with complete seriousness. and after several seconds of careful inspection you shook your head. "you don't have grey hairs."
leah smiled. "...i will by kick-off."
you burst into a fit of giggles that echoed through the hallway then you tilted your head. "i still look pretty though?"
leah's entire expression melted. she crouched just enough to press a gentle kiss against the top of your head before smoothing down one of the little curls that had escaped your ponytail.
"you do." her smile grew. "you also happen to be the most stubborn child in england."
you beamed proudly, taking that as the highest compliment imaginable. "i get it from mummy."
leah laughed properly this time, she couldn't even deny it.
"...unfortunately," she said, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as you both stepped outside together, "you really, really do."
⸻
the atmosphere at wembley swallowed up almost everything else.
flags, songs, england shirts everywhere. except... one very small barcelona shirt.
several staff members smiled as you walked past hand in hand with leah
one laughed. "brave choice today."
you nodded confidently. "i know."
leah muttered under her breath. "tell me about it." as you took your seats not far from the england dugout
england won and as the final whistle blew the stadium erupted.
you were already bouncing on the balls of your feet, practically tugging leah's arm out of its socket every few seconds.
"mummy!" you squealed, already pointing towards the pitch even though alessia was still surrounded by teammates, staff and cameras.
leah laughed quietly, shaking her head. you bounced again, unable to stand still for more than half a second.
"can we go?" you asked, your voice high with excitement. "please mama? can we go now?"
"as soon as they let families through," leah said patiently, smoothing down a curl that had escaped your ponytail. "they'll open the barrier in a minute."
"but it's been ages." you dragged out the word in frustration.
"it hasn't." leah smiled knowingly.
"it feels like ages." you let out an exaggerated sigh, your shoulders slumping dramatically before you immediately started bouncing again.
every few seconds you stretched onto your tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd of waiting families. "can you see mummy?"
"not yet."
"what about now?"
"nope."
"now?”
leah couldn't help laughing. "no, sweetheart."
the wait felt endless. for you, every second seemed to last a whole minute. you practically vibrated with excitement, clutching your esme the elephant
the second the barrier finally open, you didn't even wait for leah to finish saying, "careful..." you were already off.
tiny trainers flying across the grass.
"slow down!" leah called after her, laughing despite herself. across the pitch, alessia turned at the sound of a familiar voice.
"lovie?"
there you were. tiny, curly hair bouncing behind you with every step. the bright barcelona shirt stood out amongst a sea of white england shirts like a beacon.
alessia couldn't stop herself laughing. of course, only her daughter would wear a barcelona shirt to an england match.
alessia opened both arms wide. "lovie!" she called, her face breaking into the biggest smile she'd worn all day.
"mummy!" you squealed back, your little legs somehow moving even faster. you launched yourself the final few steps.
alessia caught you effortlessly, lifting you straight off the ground with a soft grunt before spinning you around once.
"there she is," alessia laughed warmly, pulling you into a tight hug. "there's my girl."
you wrapped both arms around her neck so tightly it was almost impossible to breathe. "i missed you," you mumbled into alessia's shoulder.
"i missed you too," alessia replied softly, rubbing gentle circles across your back.
you leaned back just enough to beam at her. "i saw you score!" you announced proudly, your eyes impossibly bright.
alessia gasped dramatically, "you did?" she asked, widening her eyes in mock surprise.
you nodded so enthusiastically your curls bounced. "i shouted really, really loud."
"you did?"
"mhm!"
alessia tapped the end of your nose. "i heard you."
you narrowed your eyes suspiciously before dissolving into a giggle. "you didn't," you declared confidently.
"i definitely did," alessia insisted with a grin
"no you didn't."
"i've got super hearing."
"you haven't."
"i have."
"you were all the way over there," you argued, pointing towards the corner flag on the opposite side to where you'd been sitting.
"i still heard you."
"nuh-uh.”
"yep."
you laughed so hard you nearly slipped from alessia's arms "you being silly, mummy"
"i might be, just a little bit" alessia brushed a curl away from your face before finally taking a proper look at what you were wearing.
her eyes dropped to the navy and garnet shirt, she tilted her head dramatically. "...hang on," she said, pretending to sound confused as if she hadn't seen the photo of you before you'd left the house with leah. "where's your england shirt?"
you blinked then looked down at yourself as though you'd genuinely forgotten what you'd put on that morning. "oh."
you shrugged one shoulder without a hint of guilt. "i wanted alexia."
alessia pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. "i can see that," she chuckled.
you searched her face carefully. "you don't mind?" you asked quietly.
alessia's expression softened immediately as she shook her head. "no, baby,," she said gently. "i don't mind."
"really?"
"really."
you smiled with obvious relief. "you still know i wanted england to win," you explained earnestly.
"i know," alessia replied, nodding.
"and i cheered when you scored."
"i know you did."
"i shouted, 'go mummy!'"
"you did."
"and..." you hesitated for a second before admitting with complete honesty, "...i shouted for alexia too."
alessia laughed again, unable to help herself. "i figured that might've happened."
"i like both of you." you admitted as alessia nodded she knew this, "but you're my favourite.”
alessia raised an eyebrow playfully. "...by a lot?"
you leaned in conspiratorially. "by this much," you whispered, holding your fingers barely an inch apart.
alessia laughed loudly. "only that much?"
you burst into giggles. "no." and you threw both arms as wide as they would go. "THIS much."
"that's better," alessia said, pulling you into another hug and kissing the top of your head.
a little later and you had somehow vanished. alessia frowned, immediately scanning the pitch.
"where's..."
"there!" leah laughed, pointing towards the opposite side of the grass.
ella was sprinting away with exaggerated panic plastered across her face. "no!" ella cried dramatically, glancing over her shoulder. "she's too fast!"
behind her, you chased after her with determined little legs. "i'm gonna get you!" you squealed between giggles.
"you'll never catch me!" ella called, deliberately slowing down just enough for you to think you were gaining.
"i will!"
"no chance!"
"I'M REALLY FAST!"
"you are!" ella laughed. "that's the problem!"
a second later ella pretended to trip over absolutely nothing.
"oh no!" she stumbled dramatically before collapsing onto the grass with an exaggerated groan. "i've been caught!"
you launched herself onto ella's back, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
"i win!" you declared triumphantly, throwing your arms in the air.
"you always win, kiddo" ella sighed theatrically, throwing one arm over her eyes. "i never stood a chance."
"you didn't," you agreed very seriously.
leah and alessia smiled as they watched the pair rolling around on the grass as alessia slipped an arm around leah's waist, "you look tired."
"i argued with a five year old for thirty seven minutes," leah said with a dramatic sigh, folding her arms across her chest.
alessia glanced over at her, a smile already tugging at her lips. "only thirty-seven?" she teased. "i'm impressed."
leah let out a quiet laugh and shook her head. "thirty-nine if we're being precise," she corrected.
alessia laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. "you could've just let her," she pointed out, bumping leah's shoulder lightly.
"i know," leah admitted with an exaggerated groan. she looked across the pitch to where you were currently chasing ella around with determined little legs before turning back to alessia.
"but it's england!" she exclaimed, throwing one hand into the air.
"i know," alessia replied, still smiling.
"and she's wearing spain's captain on her back," leah continued in disbelief.
alessia chuckled, trying not to laugh too hard at how genuinely offended leah still sounded. "it's barcelona," alessia corrected gently.
leah gave her an unimpressed look. "it's practically the same thing today," she argued.
alessia couldn't help herself. she stepped closer and pressed a soft kiss to leah's cheek. "thank you," she murmured.
leah blinked, her teasing expression immediately melting into something much softer. "for what?" she asked quietly.
alessia glanced over to where you were now triumphantly declaring yourself the winner of yet another game you'd definitely been allowed to win.
"for looking after her," alessia said, her voice warm with gratitude. "for putting up with thirty-nine minutes of negotiations over a football shirt... and everything else while I've been away."
leah smiled, reaching for alessia's hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "always" she replied without an ounce of hesitation.
the final whistles of conversations echoed around the pitch as staff began gently ushering players towards the tunnel.
"come on, girls!" someone from england's staff called. "inside, please!"
one by one, players started saying their goodbyes to family members.
ella dramatically complained that she'd "definitely pulled a hamstring" after losing six games of tag to a five-year-old before jogging away, making you giggle as you waved your auntie ella goodbye.
leah reached for your hand. "come on, angel. mummy has to head in, we'll see her afterwards"
you nodded, though your eyes wandered around the pitch one last time, trying to soak everything in.
then you stopped. "...mama." leah followed her gaze.
a small group of spanish players were making their way towards the same tunnel from the opposite side of the pitch, chatting amongst themselves and signing the odd shirt and taking a few photos with fans.
one of them looked up, mariona. the arsenal forward paused mid-conversation her eyes immediately landed on the tiny barcelona shirt.
a grin spread across her face. she nudged the player walking beside her, saying something quietly in spanish. laia looked over too before laughing softly.
mariona gave the group a quick wave to say she'd catch them up before changing direction completely. instead of heading for the tunnel...
she walked straight towards them.
"lovie," alessia laughed quietly beside leah. "i think you've been spotted."
your eyes widened. "super mario!"
you let go of leah's hand and hurried over, stopping just in front of the arsenal teammate you'd seen dozens of times at your mummy's training.
mariona's smile softened immediately, she crouched down so she was eye level with you, "hola, pequeña," she greeted warmly.
you gave a shy little wave. "...hiya."
"its good to see you again," mariona said, her english carrying its familiar spanish accent.
you nodded. "you too.”
mariona's eyes drifted down to the shirt as she laughed quietly. "i had a feeling you'd be wearing barcelona."
you looked down proudly, smoothing a hand over the front. "my uncle gio got it for me," you explained. "when he was in spain"
"its beautiful," mariona told you sincerely.
you beamed. "i love barca."
"i can tell," mariona replied with a grin.
laia had wandered over by now, folding her arms as she smiled at the little girl. "even today?" she asked teasingly, raising an eyebrow.
you nodded without a second's hesitation. "i wanted england to win," you said earnestly. both spanish's players smiled.
"nut..." you continued, glancing down at the shirt again with obvious pride, "...i also like alexia."
mariona laughed, exchanging an amused look with laia. "i think someone would quite like to hear that."
you frowned in confusion. "...what?"
mariona held out her hand with an encouraging smile. "venir."
you instinctively looked back over your shoulder towards your mummy and mama, "can i?"
alessia smiled immediately. "go on."
leah chuckled, giving you a gentle nudge forward. "just don't forget who feeds you, yeah!"
"i won't!" you promised quickly before slipping your tiny hand into mariona's.
mariona smiled to herself as she led you towards the tunnel where the remaining spanish players were waiting and across the pitch the a few players drifting between groups of supporters.
they were signing shirts, posing for photos, stopping for small conversations that were never quite as quick as security wanted them to be.
meat the advertising boards, alexia was doing exactly that. a barcelona shirt then a spain one, a programme and then another shirt.
she thanked each supporter with a smile, chatting in spanish before moving onto the next person. then she looked up.
mariona was walking towards her and beside her a tiny little girl with bouncy curls and a barcelona shirt that looked just a touch too big.
alexia’s eyes immediately landed on the back of it.
PUTELLAS. 11.
her own name and she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. “hola.”
you stopped, instantly. every ounce of confidence you’d somehow found talking to mariona and laia completely disappeared.
you simply stared, wide-eyed. mouth slightly open.
mariona chuckled quietly beside you. “i think you’ve made someone very nervous.”
your trainers stayed rooted to the grass, mariona gave your shoulder the gentlest little nudge. “it’s okay.”
alexia laughed softly, already lowering herself into a crouch so she wasn’t towering over the little girl. “hola.” her voice was gentle as she waved slightly, patient and warm, “you don’t have to be scared.”
you swallowed, you couldn’t quite believe the alexia putellas was in front of you, “…hi.”
alexia glanced back at mariona with an amused smile “you’ve found a Barcelona supporter at wembley?”
mariona grinned. “not just any supporter.” she rested a hand lightly against your shoulder. “this little one has spent all afternoon proudly wearing your shirt.”
alexia looked back at you. “you wore my shirt?” a tiny nod came from you,
“you came to watch england…” another nod. “…and you still chose barcelona?”
you finally found enough courage to speak, very quietly. “so everyone knew.”
alexia tilted her head. “knew what?”
“…that you’re my favourite.” it was barely above a whisper. the kind of confession only someone standing inches away could hear.
for a second, alexia’s smile softened into something almost emotional. “well…” she placed a hand gently against her own chest. “thank you.”
she glanced back at mariona again, curiosity dancing across her face. “whose little girl is she?”
alexia looked between them once more then shook her head with a small laugh. “no…”
mariona nodded towards the england players still scattered across the pitch. “she’s baby russo.”
alexia blinked. “…russo?”
“alessia’s daughter.”
recognition immediately washed over her face as her eyebrows lifted. “no…”
mariona laughed. “si.”
alexia looked back at you in complete disbelief before glancing across the pitch. and sure enough standing a little further away: alessia and leah were both watching.
alessia had one hand over her mouth, already smiling before anything had even happened. leah folded her arms with a grin.
as alexia looked back to you. “so…” a playful smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “your mummy plays against me…”
you nodded. “…but today you wore my shirt.” another tiny nod as alexia laughed. “i think that’s very brave.”
nearby, laia had spotted the entire exchange unfolding and saying a word she pulled her phone from her pocket, “this needs recording,” she muttered with a smile.
the camera quietly captured everything.
alexia turned her full attention back to you. “so…”
“how old are you?”
“five .”
“five?”
you nodded. “i turned five.”
alexia smiled. “a big age.” she pointed gently towards the football still tucked under one of the advertising boards. “do you play football?”
“a little bit.” you nodded as mariona spoke for you saying you were football mad.
“a defender?”
you immediately looked horrified. “no.”
alexia laughed. “no?”
“i like passing.” you told alexia imitating one of your passing moves that you had learnt.
mariona snorted, “already a midfielder.”
alexia nodded approvingly. “a very important job.” she looked down at the barcelona shirt again. “and who bought you this?”
“my uncle gio.” you grinned proudly, “he knows barcelona is one of my favourite.”
“and he chose very well.” alexia nodded approvingly as you smiled shyly at the compliment. every answer came in tiny sentences, barely louder than a whisper.
nothing like the confident little chatterbox who had spent the afternoon proudly explaining to anyone who would listen why you couldn’t possibly wear an england shirt because “mummy already wears england.”
alexia found it endlessly adorable. another another minute of chatting and she reached into the pocket of a staff member standing nearby and borrowed a marker.
then she held it up. “may i sign your shirt for you?”
your eyes became enormous. “the… the shirt?”
alexia nodded with a smile “if that’s okay with you.”
for a second you simply stared as though you couldn’t quite believe you’d heard correctly then your entire face lit up. “yes please!”
alexia carefully turned the fabric so it stayed flat. slowly and neatly she signed her name beneath the number eleven. making sure not to smudge the ink before handing the pen back.
“there.”
you immediately looked down you reached out with one tiny finger and very carefully touched the fresh signature then looked back up.
your eyes were sparkling. “…thank you.”
“it was lovely meeting you, y/n.” alexia smiled before gently ruffling your curls. “i hope you keep enjoying football.”
“i will.”
“and maybe…” alexia winked. “…one day i’ll see you playing.”
you looked as though you’d stopped breathing altogether. “i’ll try.”
mariona smiled. “i think someone will remember today forever.”
“i think so too,” alexia replied warmly as she waved goodbye, a media officer ushering her away.
mariona held out her hand. “come on, pequeña.”
you slipped your tiny hand into mariona’s as you started walking back and laia’s phone was still recording and caught the exact second you spotted alessia standing not too far in the tunnel.
“mummy!”
you broke into a run. alessia barely had time to open her arms before the little girl launched herself forwards.
“oof!” she laughed, catching you effortlessly. “you met her!”
“I MET HER!” you squealed, practically bouncing in alessia’s arms.
alessia laughed, unable to stop smiling. “i know!”
“she talked to me!” you continued breathlessly, your words tumbling over one another in your excitement.
“i know she did,” alessia replied warmly, smoothing a curl back from your forehead.
“she knew my name!”
alessia’s eyes widened in exaggerated surprise as she gasped dramatically. “did she?”
you nodded so enthusiastically your curls bounced. “yeah! mariona told her i was little russo, and then she said, ‘it was lovely meeting you, y/n!’”
alessia couldn’t help laughing. “well… she was right.it was lovely meeting you.”
“and she touched my shirt!” you added, looking down at the signed barcelona top as though it had suddenly become the most precious thing in the world.
alessia grinned, glancing at the signature beneath the number eleven. “i noticed.”
“and she said uncle gio picked a good one!”
alessia smiled fondly, already imagining giorgio’s reaction when he heard the story. “i’m sure he’ll be very pleased to hear that.”
you hugged the front of your shirt protectively before looking back up at your mum, still beaming from ear to ear. “he’ll never believe me.”
“and…” you leaned in close, lowering her voice as though sharing the world’s biggest secret. “…she signed it.”
alessia looked down at the shirt, there it was. alexia putellas’ unmistakable signature beneath the eleven.
she couldn’t stop laughing. actual tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “i think…” she kissed the top of your curls. “…she liked you.”
you looked down at the signature one more time carefully smoothing the shirt with both hands then you looked back at her mum.
your voice was barely a whisper. “i think…” a tiny smile spread across your face. “…this is the best day ever.”
⸻
for the next three weeks, everyone suffered. every conversation somehow found its way back to alexia.
one morning over breakfast, you took a bite of your toast before announcing very matter-of-factly, “did you know alexia said my shirt was beautiful?”
alessia didn’t even look up from making coffee, used to this now. “yes” she replied with an amused smile.
a few hours later, as leah walked past the living room, “mama,” you called after her, “did you know alexia signed it?”
leah paused dramatically and rested a hand against her forehead. “only because you’ve told me fourteen times today.”
you frowned thoughtfully before holding up one finger. “it was fifteen,” you corrected proudly.
leah looked towards alessia. “…we’re raising a statistician.”
at breakfast the next day, you poked at your pancakes before looking up. “i think alexia likes pancakes probably.”
alessia smiled over the rim of her mug. “probably.”
leah snorted into her tea. “what makes you think that?”
you shrugged. “because everyone likes pancakes.”
“…can’t argue with that logic,” leah admitted.
in the car on the way to training, you gazed out of the window for a few moments before wondering aloud, “i wonder what Alexia’s favourite colour is.”
from the driver’s seat, alessia laughed. “i’ve absolutely no idea, baby.”
“you should ask her.”
leah burst out laughing from the passenger seat. “oh, just send her a quick text, less. ‘morning, by the way, what’s your favourite colour?’”
alessia shook her head, laughing. “i don’t think that’s happening.”
that evening, after stories had been read and the bedroom lights were dimmed, you hugged esme the elephant tightly.
“mummy?”
“mh?” alessia hummed, tucking the duvet around you.
“do you think alexia remembers me?”
alessia’s expression softened instantly. she brushed a curl away from your face. “i think she probably does.”
“you do?”
“i do.”
you smiled to herself. “good.”
even facetiming nonno and nonna became impossible. the second mario answered, “hi, tesoro!” he greeted with a grin.
“look!” you exclaimed, already scrambling to hold the barcelona shirt up to the camera.
mario chuckled patiently. “i’ve seen it, tesoro.”
“but have you seen the signature today?” you asked very seriously, tilting the shirt to make sure he had the perfect view.
carol laughed from somewhere behind him. “i don’t think signatures move, sweetheart.”
“they don’t,” you agreed with complete confidence. “…but it’s still nice to look at.”
eventually, leah found alessia laughing in the kitchen one evening while you carefully folded the signed shirt for the night.
"this," leah said, leaning against the counter, "is your fault."
"my fault?" alessia gasped with such dramatic effect as she was still trying to compose herself.
"you laughed instead of backing me up." leah pointed out with a smirk as she nicked one of alessia’s biscuits
"i did." alessia agreed quietly.
"and now our daughter thinks she's best friends with alexia putellas."
from the living room, you called proudly, "i am!"
leah closed her eyes. "there it is." alessia couldn't help herself. she laughed, wrapping an arm around leah before looking towards the living room where you were already telling esme the elephant, in great detail, exactly how alexia had smiled at her.
"you know," alessia said with a grin, "it could be worse."
leah raised an eyebrow, alessia smiled. "at least she still wanted england to win."
leah considered it. "...i’ll allow it."
from the living room came one final announcement. "when i grow up..." a dramatic pause. "...i’m going to play with mummy." another pause. "...and then with alexia.”
alessia and leah exchanged a smile. some dreams, they decided, were simply too lovely not to encourage.
summary: after listening to another story about your dates from hell eli decides to play matchmaker between you, her new neighbor that runs a fashion empire and her daughter, alexia
notes: i tried something new dialogue wise and i can’t tell if i hate it or not
The bright Barcelona sun pierced through your curtains, dragging you awake in a golden haze that made you regret every last glass of wine from last night.
“I should not have drunk that much,” you groaned, pulling on your favorite sweatpants and a matching zip-up hoodie, both stitched with the tiniest embroidery of your brand’s monogram, SL, on the hem. You slid on oversized sunglasses, gold lettering of your brand glinting faintly on the temple, and padded barefoot toward the door.
The air outside was warm already, scented faintly with the jasmine crawling over the garden walls. Barcelona was supposed to be a short-term escape. Just a place to breathe, to create again, to stop feeling like Paris and your brand were swallowing you whole. You had rented this little house on impulse, enchanted by its courtyard garden. What you hadn’t expected was Eli Putellas next door, waiting with her teapot and smile that could shame the sun.
Eli had welcomed you into her orbit like you were a long-lost niece. Morning tea, shared watering cans, gossip traded over hydrangeas. She told you stories about her daughters with maternal pride and exasperation, and in turn listened as you rambled about disastrous dates, sleepless nights, and half-baked baking experiments.
The best part? She had no idea who you were. To Eli, you weren’t the woman behind Solenne, a brand that graced billboards in New York, Milan, London, Paris. You weren’t a “genius” that glossy magazines liked to profile. You were simply the young neighbor who showed up in sweats with mismatched socks, laughed too loud, and burned toast more often than not. And you loved it.
Today was no different. You found her already on her patio, cup of steaming tea in hand, the stray cat she always fed sprawled lazily on a chair beside her.
“Oh, carinyo, you can’t be serious,” Eli said, shaking her head, dark eyes sparkling as you stood with the hose poised over her rose bush.
“Eli. I swear,” you said, one hand clutching your stomach as you laughed at the memory. “She ordered three raw eggs—of the menu, cracked them into a glass, and just—” you mimed throwing your head back, swallowing. “Like she was in a Rocky montage. At dinner! Our poor waitress was so weirded out.”
Eli nearly spit out her tea. “Ai, Déu meu!” She pressed a hand to her chest, scandalized. “In front of you? In a restaurant? This is barbaric, nena. Not a date.” [Oh, my God]
“It was performance art,” you deadpanned, turning off the hose and sinking into the chair across from her. “I took one look at that protein cocktail and knew I was leaving early. Paid the bill, wished her the best of luck with her cholesterol, and went to a bar with a friend instead.”
Eli leaned forward, eyes wide in horror. “Nena… where are you meeting these women? Honestly. Are you… are you picking them up off the street?”
You burst out laughing. “Not off the street! Just… friends of friends, mostly.” You shrugged, sipping from your mug of herbal tea. Which wasn’t technically a lie. The problem was most of your “friends of friends” existed in circles of money and monotony, the kind of people who thought raw eggs counted as a personality trait.
Eli sighed like a martyr and patted your knee. “I worry about you. Too beautiful, too smart, too funny, and yet you sit across from me telling me stories about egg-guzzling gym rats.”
You groaned dramatically, hiding your face behind your mug. “I’m starting to think Barcelona is cursed.”
“Barcelona is not cursed. Your taste in women is cursed,” Eli corrected primly, before softening with a chuckle.
The conversation lulled for a moment, the sound of cicadas buzzing lazily between you. Eli set her mug down and gave you that motherly tilt of her head.
“How’s work, nena?” she asked warmly.
Your lips curved into a small smile. For once, the answer was easy. Back in Paris, you’d felt smothered by your own success, drained dry of creativity. But here in Barcelona? Here you woke up with sketches dancing behind your eyelids, with a need to touch fabric and sew until your fingers ached.
“It’s been… wonderful,” you admitted softly. “I sent some sketches to the company for feedback before I start sewing.”
Eli beamed. “See? You are happiest when you are creating.”
She didn’t know, of course, that the “company” was yours. That the sketches she thought were shuffled off to some faceless superior were instead passed down to your atelier, your team waiting for your word like scripture. You let her think you were just one of many designers. You downplayed it easily. “Oh, nothing glamorous. I just stitch a few things here and there, send them along, and hope they don’t look like trash bags.”
Eli swatted your arm, scandalized. “Trash bags? Ai, dona, don’t speak about your work like that! If it comes from you, it cannot be ugly.”
Her faith in you made your throat tighten. She really had no idea.
“If you ever need help, nena, I am right here,” she added earnestly.
You smiled into your mug. “I’ll keep that in mind, Eli. Maybe you can help me wrestle a sewing machine when it misbehaves.”
Eli suddenly grew quiet, staring at you over her tea. You felt the weight of the mom-stare and shifted nervously in your chair.
“…What?” you asked warily.
“How old are you, nena?” she asked, squinting slightly like she was lining up puzzle pieces.
“Twenty-seven,” you answered slowly, suspicious. “Why?”
Eli looked up toward the sky as if calculating something, then back at you with a triumphant nod. “That will work.”
“What will work?”
She ignored you, speaking more to herself. “Yes, yes… that will be fine.”
“Eli,” you warned.
She set her mug down with a decisive clink. “Alright. Enough of this nonsense. You have been on a multitude of dates since you arrived in Barcelona and they have all failed—”
“Geez, thanks for sugarcoating it,” you muttered.
“So,” she continued briskly, “I am taking matters into my own hands. My daughter Alexia—”
“Eli…”
“No, no, no, no, no.” She wagged a finger at you. “Let me finish before you say yes.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“She is only three years older than you. You like them older, don’t deny it. She is beautiful, strong, successful. She plays for Barça. You should come to a game with me, nena. It’s in a couple of weeks. Don’t you know someone on the team?”
You hesitated. “Hm… yes. The company sponsors a few players on the women’s side, and some on the men’s.” You tried to make it sound casual, though it wasn’t exactly easy to hide a sponsorship portfolio the size of yours.
“Perfect.” Eli clapped her hands, delighted. “I know Alexia is free next Saturday. You are also free next Saturday. The two of you will go on a date, and then we will go to the game later that week. Perfecto.”
“Eli…” You started, but faltered when she held up her hand like a queen commanding silence.
“Not taking no for an answer,” she said firmly. “You think about it. You have a business trip, no? After you return from your business trip, you give me your answer.”
You bit back a laugh at her sheer determination. “…Fine. But only because it’s you.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she said smugly, rising to her feet. Then, as if matchmaking her daughter was just a warm-up, she called back over her shoulder: “Now. What bread did you make yesterday?”
You followed her inside, chuckling. “Fresh baguettes. With honey and jam from that market you showed me.”
Eli clasped her hands to her chest like you had just announced world peace. “Ah! This I must try. Move over, I am taking over your kitchen.”
And just like that, your terrifying new reality, going on yet another blind date, was eclipsed by Eli raiding your bread basket.
“Hola, Mami.”
Alexia kissed Eli on the cheek before sliding her gym bag against the wall. Her hair was still damp with sweat from practice, sticking to her temples, and all she wanted was to shower in Eli’s guest bathroom and then devour whatever was simmering on the stove.
“Hi, vida,” Eli said slyly, not turning from the cutting board. Her knife worked in a steady rhythm, onions piling in neat crescents beside her. The smell of sautéing garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen, warm and inviting.
Alexia narrowed her eyes at the tone immediately. “What are you plotting?”
“Me?” Eli raised her brows, slicing into a clove of garlic with exaggerated innocence. “Nothing. Just… good news.”
From the couch, Alba cackled like a crow. “Oh no. You’re in trouble.”
Alexia groaned. “Alba, don’t encourage her.”
But Alba was already pushing herself up, abandoning her reality show. She jogged barefoot to the kitchen, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. “I need front row seats for this.”
“Alba, calla,” Eli scolded, pointing the knife at her like a conductor’s baton. Then she turned back to the pan, sweeping the onions into the sauce with a flourish. “So. I know you said no more dating, Alexia—”
“Ay, Mami…” Alexia leaned heavily against the counter, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Alexia,” Eli said sharply, knife still in hand. “Listen to me. She is lovely. My neighbor, the one I told you about? From Paris. But her Spanish and Catalan, perfect. How rare is that?”
“Mama…”
“Twenty-seven years old,” Eli continued, plowing straight over her daughter’s groans. She began stirring the sauce with gusto, like she was narrating a recipe. “Works for a small fashion brand in France, but she came here for inspiration. Such a sweet girl. Very modest, very polite. Too humble, honestly. Her sketches are beautiful. And the clothes she sews—¡un arte!” [it’s art]
Alexia frowned despite herself, curiosity slipping in. “Fashion?”
“Yes, fashion!” Eli waved the wooden spoon dramatically, nearly splattering sauce across the counter. “Clothes, bags, shoes, you know everything. And she is single.” Eli’s voice dropped conspiratorially, eyes flicking toward Alba as if this was top secret gossip. “She tells me about her disaster dates. The last on ordered raw eggs. In a glass and drank them!”
Alba clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “Perdona? What kind of Rocky Balboa nightmare is that?”
“Exactly!” Eli smacked the spoon against the pot for emphasis.
Alexia covered her mouth, but a laugh still broke through. She shook her head, fighting it down. “That’s… disgusting.”
Eli leaned across the counter, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “So, you will take her out Saturday. I know her favorite restaurant, the French one downtown. It reminds her of home.”
“What?” Alexia blinked. “No. No way.”
“Yes way.” Eli was already bustling to the oven, sliding out a tray of salmon like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “And I made the reservation for you.”
Alba clapped her hands together. “Oh, this is better than reality TV.”
“Mama!” Alexia shoved her hands through her hair, pacing now. “You’re setting me up on a blind date without even asking me?”
Eli smiled sweetly, setting the salmon on the counter. “Finally, she understands. Besides, I am your mother. I have the power.”
Alba leaned across the table, stage whispering to Alexia, “You’re doomed.”
“Shut up, Alba.”
Eli carried on as if she hadn’t heard. “She would be here tonight but she is traveling. Business trip in Madrid, I think.”
Alexia squinted. “Madrid?”
You weren’t in Madrid. You had told Eli you were in Milan for meetings with an upcoming brand you wanted to buy. But Eli had latched onto Madrid and, once again, you hadn’t corrected her.
Alexia groaned. “Mami, I’m not interested in dating. I told you. I’m focusing on football right now.”
“Football, football, football!” Eli threw her hands up toward the ceiling. “Is that all you think about? You will shrivel into an old woman with only a ball for company. Live a little!”
Alba snorted, already stealing a piece of bread from the counter. “Imagine her tombstone: Here lies Alexia. Married to football. Boring at parties.”
Alexia smacked her arm. “Alba!”
Eli, unfazed, plated the salmon like a general preparing her troops. “Saturday. No tracksuits. She will probably want to drive herself, so be on time—no, be early. And you will dress nicely, entiendes?”
Alexia groaned, dropping her head into her hands like the world was ending.
Alba patted her back with mock sympathy. “Poor thing. Forced to have dinner with a beautiful, talented woman. What a tragedy.”
Alexia lifted her head just enough to glare at her sister. “I hate you.”
Alba grinned, already buttering her stolen bread. “Love you too.”
And for all her groaning, Alexia couldn’t help the tiniest flicker of intrigue at the edges of her mind. Paris, fashion, sketches, humble, pretty, disaster dates with raw eggs. She shoved the thought down quickly, telling herself it didn’t matter. She was done with dating….Right?
Your Milan apartment was the kind of place people in magazines tried to imagine into existence. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the skyline, the faintest shimmer of sunset draping the Duomo in gold. The air inside smelled faintly of peonies and vanilla, your signature diffuser, and beneath it, the sharper tang of leather and varnish from the prototypes strewn across your glass coffee table.
You stood over them like a curator at a museum, your silk blouse tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers, hair twisted up to keep it off your face. One bag in particular caught your eye with thin sheets of recycled marble dust pressed into supple panels, the surface cool under your fingertips.
“Magnifique,” you whispered before switching into Italian for the pair of twenty-something Milanese sisters perched nervously on the edge of your cream sofa. Your voice carried awe, not performance. You lifted the bag, cradling it like fragile porcelain. “This—this is not accessory. This is a conversation. People will stop in their tracks. They will want to know the story.”
The sisters exchanged a look, one biting her lip, the other blinking fast. Pride warred with disbelief on their faces.
“We… we were not sure anyone would see it that way,” the elder confessed, her Italian lilt strong. “Most people told us it was… troppo strano. Too strange.”
“That is why I am here.” You set the bag back on the table as if it were a relic from another era, reverent. “Fashion without risk is death and being safe is boring. What you two are doing? This is resurrection. This is… future.”
A spark of hope lit their faces. The younger sister leaned forward. “You mean you would use our designs?”
“I don’t just want your designs.” You leaned in, the dim light catching the sheen of your blouse, your tone deliberate. “I want you. Both of you. Your hands, your imaginations, your madness. I don’t buy talent to cage it, I give it a stage. Solenne should not only whisper luxury. It should scream daring. And you—” you gestured to the marble bag, then to the shimmering woven-metal prototype— “you two are daring.”
Silence, thick and weighty, hung for a moment. The sisters sat stunned. Then the younger burst into a shaky laugh, covering her mouth. “Is this real? We thought you were only coming to… look. To be polite.”
Your smile was faint but sharp with certainty, the kind that had charmed venture capitalists and terrified rivals. “I never just look.”
By the time they left, their eyes were bright and their hands trembled as though they were carrying invisible contracts already signed. You could see it, the marble dust and the metal threads woven seamlessly into Solenne’s fall/winter line. The kind of risk that didn’t just make waves, it made history.
Hours later, you stepped out of a taxi into the cool Milan night, the hum of scooters and chatter in the streets below rising like music. Desiree, your assistant, best friend, and unofficial keeper of your sanity, walked beside you in her oversized blazer, phone in hand as always. She was already typing up the outline of the contracts, thumbs flying.
“Des, you’ve been typing since they left,” you said as you tugged your coat tighter.
“That’s because unlike you, I don’t trust lawyers to capture the poetry of ‘marble dust handbags,’” she replied without looking up.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. Desiree had been with you since you were eighteen, two wide-eyed girls sharing a cramped dorm room at FIT in New York. You had a sketchbook full of dreams, she had a major in Cosmetic and Fragrance Marketing she wasn’t sure she even liked. Somewhere between 3 a.m. study sessions and scarfing down 7 dollar pizza from the sketchy corner store, she had become your family. When your brand exploded in the middle of your freshman year, Desiree hadn’t hesitated, she jumped ship to join you. “Assistant,” she called herself, though the truth was she ran half of Solenne when you were too exhausted to blink.
As you both entered your Milan headquarters, Desiree finally shoved her phone into her bag and smirked. “So. You were saying Eli set you up?”
You groaned so dramatically it echoed in the marble lobby. “Yes. Oh, she thinks I’m in Madrid, which… I never said. I told her Milan. But she decided Madrid, so now I am apparently in Madrid. Oh how I love that woman.”
Desiree snorted. “Honestly? As she should. I love her. She makes sure you eat, she bosses you around, she calls you nena. She’s like, Mediterranean me and it’s amazing.”
“She also made a reservation at that French place for a blind date,” you muttered, pressing the elevator button. “I told her I wasn’t sure, but she just smiled at me and waved a spoon in my face. It was… terrifying.”
Desiree stopped mid-step, her eyes wide with glee. “Wait. Hold on. Let me guess.” She snapped her fingers. “Alexia Putellas.”
You froze, hand hovering over the elevator panel. “…She did not say the name.”
“She didn’t have to. Who else is she setting you up with? Eli said her eldest daughter, plays for Barça, of course the last name Putellas. Do the math, genius.”
You blinked. “Dating is messy. Especially when it’s with someone else in the public eye. You know how I feel about that.”
The elevator dinged. Desiree shoved you inside and leaned against the rail, arms crossed, eyes glittering. “Babe. You’re telling me you’re too busy to have dinner with one of the hottest, most eligible women in Spain? And Eli already likes you? You realize you already got the Mom approval before the date and you want to blow that up?”
You pressed your palms to your face. “You are supposed to be my assistant. You’re supposed to support me in these situations.”
“I am supporting you. Supporting you to finally get some.” Desiree grinned wickedly. “At least go for the food. Worst case? You eat steak frites and text me an SOS halfway through.”
By the time you sank into your desk chair upstairs, you were half-smiling despite yourself. You scrolled through emails until Desiree plopped onto your office couch, kicked off her heels, and tucked her legs under her.
“I’m just not sure, Des,” you admitted. “Fall/Winter Fashion Weeks are approaching and for some reason we’re doing all four. Who even approved that schedule?”
“You did,” she said flatly, picking at the hem of her blazer.
You groaned. “Why do I hate myself?”
“Because you’re a control freak.” She leaned forward, her tone suddenly softer. “But listen. You’ve been at this since you were fifteen. Designing, grinding, raising your sister, taking care of your cousins, supporting your grandmother. You’ve been responsible your whole damn life. You’ve never been allowed to just… be twenty-seven. To do stupid things like date. Or fall in love.”
Her words sank into you, quiet but heavy. You stilled, fingers hovering over your desktop keys.
“Babe,” Desiree continued, now standing to take your hands. “You keep going on dates with bums because you know they’re bums. It’s safe. They’ll never stick. Eli didn’t raise a bum. So you’re scared, because what if it’s different this time? What if it’s real?”
Silence stretched, the city humming outside your windows.
Finally, you groaned, letting your forehead drop to the back of your chair. “Fine. Maybe I’m scared of a real relationship.”
Desiree beamed. “And that’s progress.” She smacked your arm. “So go on the damn date. What’s the worst that could happen? You eat good food, flirt a little, and if it’s a disaster, you send me memes about it after. Done.”
You peeked up at her with a reluctant smile. “You are insufferable.”
“And you love me.” She flopped back onto the couch with the dramatic sigh of a woman who had just won a war. “Now, let’s order pasta. Milan men are useless, but their chicken is actually bomb.”
When your plane touched down in Barcelona that Saturday morning, exhaustion tugged at your bones, but you didn’t head home. Instead, you drove straight to Eli’s… which was next door but you get the point. The original two day in Madrid had been longer than expected, endless meetings stacked on top of one another, but somehow your mind was already buzzing with the next project. Still, when it came to Barcelona, Eli was your first stop as always.
You knocked on her door, and within seconds, it swung open.
“¡Nena!” Eli beamed, pulling you into her arms before pressing a kiss to each of your cheeks. Her perfume smelled faintly floral, and her lipstick left the faintest smudge on your cheek.
You laughed, letting her pull you inside. “Buenos días, Eli.”
“How was Madrid?” she asked immediately, guiding you toward the kitchen like you lived there. She set a steaming cup of coffee in front of you before even taking her seat, fussing over the sugar jar and sliding a plate of toast your way. “Come, sit, tell me everything.”
You stirred the coffee, the spoon clinking softly. “It was good. The company absorbed a Milanese small business and then hired the creators to work as designers. Then we are starting the process to launch a fragrance line. So that’s another thing I have to think about. You know, the scent combinations, packaging, mood boards, all of it.”
Eli waved a hand as if dismissing your empire sized worries. “Ai, carinyo, just smell around the garden and something will come to you. The roses, the jasmine, all the herbs, it is all there. You designers make things complicated when it is simple.”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “If only the investors thought that way.”
Her lips curved into a sly little smile, one you’d grown to recognize over these past months. Mischief lived in that smile.
You set down your cup slowly, narrowing your eyes at her. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Like what?” she asked, feigning innocence far too dramatically to be believable.
You leaned back, crossing your arms. “Like you’ve just successfully trapped me in one of your schemes.”
Eli pressed her fingers together in mock contemplation before breaking into a grin.
“Tonight at eight, right?” you said before she could open her mouth, already laughing.
She clapped her hands together like a little girl. “¡Sí, nena! At the French restaurant you like. What is the name again?”
“La Vigne Cachée,” you supplied with a sigh.
“¡Eso! Yes, yes,” Eli nodded enthusiastically, shooing you with her hands. “Take the whole day, eh? Get your nails done, buy new makeup, wear that black dress—the one that shows off your cul.” [Ass]
“Eli!” you gasped, your hand flying to your chest before you dissolved into laughter. “You cannot just say that!”
“¿Por qué no? It is true,” she shrugged, sipping her own coffee with perfect composure. “If I had that dress and that cul, I would wear it every day. Even to the bakery.”
You buried your face in your hands, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “You are outrageous.”
“I am honest,” she corrected, patting your arm like she was offering sage wisdom. Then she stood suddenly, tugging you up with her. “Go, go, go. No wasting time. This is important!”
“Important?” you echoed, dragged halfway to the door with a piece of toast still in your hand.
“Yes!” she insisted, waving her free hand in the air like a conductor. “Do your hair, paint your nails, spray some of that fancy perfume. Make sure she cannot look away.”
“She?” you repeated, voice tight with amusement.
Eli only smiled knowingly, kissed you on the cheek again, and quite literally shoved you out the door.
As you stumbled onto the front step, still laughing, you called back, “If this goes badly, Eli, I’m blaming you!”
Her voice followed you down the walk, triumphant and teasing. “If it goes badly, it is because you didn’t wear the black dress!”
La Vigne Cachée was the kind of place that whispered exclusivity with its dim golden light, velvet drapes, and tables spread far enough apart that privacy felt like part of the service. The air carried the soft hum of French jazz, the scent of butter and garlic weaving through candle smoke.
Alexia had arrived absurdly early like too early. She had told herself it was because she hated being late, but really, it was because Eli had been insistent, mysterious, even and Alexia hadn’t been on a real date in years. She sat there, fidgeting with the edge of her napkin, shifting her water glass, checking her phone. She had played numerous high stakes games and never felt such anxiety as she did in that moment.
And when those doors open and you walked in, her world stopped and her anxiety flared.
You stepped into the restaurant with an elegance that made heads turn. Your French curl braids flowed over your shoulders, catching the light like threads of silk. The black gown clung to you in the right places, the thigh-high slit daring yet effortless. The fabric looked impossibly smooth, like liquid under the chandeliers, but it was something you had made yourself. It was a prototype spun from hemp, disguised as luxury silk, something you had been working on for quite some time.
Your smile was radiant, the kind that warmed the room instantly, and for Alexia, it felt like someone had just cut the power to everything else. The noise of the restaurant dimmed, the servers blurred, and her chest tightened like she’d just sprinted up the pitch.
You caught sight of her immediately, sitting at a corner table, stiff but striking in her blazer, her hair falling in soft waves. Her eyes were locked on you, wide and unguarded, and it made you bite back a knowing smile. She didn’t recognize you and quite frankly you liked that.
“Alexia?” you said softly as you reached the table.
She stood so quickly her chair almost scraped the floor. “Sí—uh, yes. Hi.”
Your laugh was low, playful, your accent wrapping around the word. “Hi.”
She pulled out your chair, still looking as if she couldn’t believe you were real. You slid into it gracefully, the slit of your gown revealing just enough to make her look away quickly, ears pink.
“So,” you began once she sat back down, tilting your head. “You like to arrive… how do you say? Extremely early?”
Her lips quirked. “I—well, I didn’t want to be late.”
“Mm,” you teased, leaning on your hand. “Or maybe you were nervous.”
Alexia gave a short laugh, looking down at the table as if it could save her. “Maybe.”
“Don’t worry,” you said, your tone gentle, mischievous. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
Her head snapped up at that, eyes widening, and you laughed, enjoying the flush spreading across her cheeks.
From there, the conversation flowed with shocking ease. You didn’t talk about work, neither of you asked the expected questions about careers or accomplishments. Instead, you talked about little things.
Her favorite spots in Barcelona. Your favorite bakeries in Paris. How she preferred the beach at sunrise, while you swore sunsets were superior. The worst dates you’d both been on. Your reenactment of the story of the man who tried to split the bill after ordering three bottles of wine had her wheezing.
The flirting came naturally, slipping into the spaces between laughter.
When the waiter asked if you wanted another glass of wine, Alexia said yes without hesitation, just to stretch the night longer.
When your hand brushed hers reaching for the breadbasket, neither of you moved right away.
When you leaned in to tell her a story, she leaned in too, like she couldn’t bear the thought of space between you.
By the time dessert arrived, Alexia had forgotten every reason she’d sworn off dating. All she knew was that she didn’t want this night to end. And by the way she caught you smiling at her—playful, knowing, and utterly captivating, she suspected you didn’t either.
The dinner stretched on until the candles at your table had burned low, wax pooling at their bases. Neither of you noticed the time until the waiter gently cleared his throat and dropped the bill.
Outside, Barcelona’s night air was warm but crisp, the kind that hummed with weekend energy. The city lights reflected off the cobblestones, laughter spilling from nearby bars. You and Alexia lingered on the steps of La Vigne Cachée, neither moving to leave.
Alexia shoved her hands in her pockets, shoulders rolling like she was preparing for a post-match interview. “So…”
“So,” you echoed, smiling. “You survived, didn’t you? My company isn’t that bad?”
Her laugh was soft, genuine, and it made your chest flutter. “Better than I expected.”
You arched a brow. “Expected? You were expecting bad?”
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head, eyes wide. “Not bad. I just… I didn’t expect this.” Her voice dipped at the last word, like she wasn’t sure she should admit it.
For a moment, you simply looked at her. The way the streetlamp hit her hair. The sharp angles of her jaw softened by the hesitant smile tugging at her lips. You had a rule, always. No kissing on the first date. that ways you were able to keep things clean, controlled, at your pace. But standing here, watching Alexia fight to keep her composure when you could practically feel the gravity pulling the two of you together… it made you reckless.
You stepped closer, close enough that she inhaled sharply. Your fingers brushed her arm, just a whisper of contact, and her eyes flicked to your lips before darting back up.
“Do you always look like you’re thinking too much?” you teased, voice low.
Her throat bobbed. “Probably.”
That was all it took. You leaned in and kissed her, soft but sure, your hand finding the edge of her jaw. Her lips parted in surprise before she melted into it, her body angling instinctively toward yours and her hands finding your waist. It wasn’t long, but it was enough to make the world tilt, the hum of traffic, the chatter from the bar across the street, all of it dimmed until there was only the warmth of her mouth and the rush of your pulse.
You pulled back just slightly, close enough that your breath still mingled with hers. “I don’t usually do that,” you admitted, a playful glint in your eyes.
Alexia’s lips curved slowly, a little dazed, a little triumphant. “Neither do I.”
You laughed, brushing your thumb against her sleeve before stepping back. “Well… maybe rules are meant to be broken.”
She was still watching you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics, her smile lingering even as you waved, slid into your car, and disappeared into the night.
And for the first time in a long time, Alexia Putellas didn’t think about football.
To say you and Alexia had hit it off was an understatement. It wasn’t fireworks or some chaotic crash of chemistry, but it was something softer, something that hummed underneath your skin like a rhythm you already knew. You truly just… clicked.
Both of you the eldest siblings, both of you carrying the weight of responsibility for younger sisters, both of you working so hard your family could finally breathe. Alexia bought her mom a home and gave Alba a safety net. You worked yourself ragged so your grandmother could retire and your younger sister could dream without limits. It was a bond that required no explanation, you simply understood each other.
Alexia knew you worked in fashion now, of course. But she didn’t recognize you. She thought Solenne was some small but promising label, and you didn’t correct her. She wasn’t the type to scroll endlessly through Instagram or devour fashion magazines, and she couldn’t care less about trends. She posted on social media when her sponsors required it and that was the extent of it.
Oddly enough, you liked that. Because with Alexia, you weren’t the girl who was Karl Lagerfeld’s apprentice at the ripe age of sixteen (he discovered you after a video of the amateur fashion show when viral.) Not the twenty one year old who inherited Chanel’s creative director seat only to be torn apart by critics when you stepped down. Not the woman who built her own multi-million empire before the age of thirty. With Alexia, you weren’t even the genius behind Solenne.
You were just you. The you who drew silly sketches and shoved them under Alexia’s nose, demanding opinions she didn’t know how to give. The you who dragged her unwillingly to Pilates, laughing at her grimaces. The you who stopped to feed every stray cat on your morning walks with Eli. The you who drove like the Formula 1 was your day job, forcing Alexia to clutch the passenger seat like her life depended on it. But Alexia loved every messy, unpolished piece of that you.
No one was happier about the two of you than Eli. Which is how you ended up getting kidnapped into Sunday dinner.
“Nena, enough is enough.” Eli planted herself in the doorway of your sewing room, hands on her hips. Her sharp eyes swept across the organized chaos of fabrics draped over chairs, sketches pinned to the glass board, and journals stacked like teetering towers. “You finally have the day off, Alexia is already at my house, and you can finally meet Alba.”
You didn’t even look up from the machine as you guided a seam through the needle. “Eli, I’m almost finished—”
Eli gasped dramatically and marched right up to you, plucking the thread from between your lips. “Don’t you dare talk with needles in your mouth, and don’t think I didn’t notice.”
You gave a nervous laugh. “Notice what?”
“Did you even eat today?”
You froze and the whir of the machine died as you sheepishly turned to face her, guilty
as a schoolchild.
Eli narrowed her eyes, then sighed, muttering in Catalan. “Ai, these artists. Starving yourselves for ‘the vision.’” She looped her arm through yours and started pulling you away from the table like a misbehaving teenager.
“Eli, I’m still in my these clothes—”
“They are black leggings, nena. Nobody will care. Let’s go.”
You allowed yourself to be dragged through the backyard, the two of you slipping through the little garden gate into her house like you had a hundred times before.
“The next time you do this,” Eli warned, wagging her spatula as you stepped inside, “you don’t want to know what I will do. Entesa?” [Understand?]
“Yes, mademoiselle,” you mumbled, head down like a child caught sneaking sweets.
“Bonita!” Alexia’s voice came from the living room as she immediately got up and wrapped you in a hug, lifting you slightly off the ground. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be buried under sketches.”
Before you could answer, Eli whacked the back of Alexia’s head with the spatula.
“Ow—Mama!” Alexia ducked, glaring at her mother.
“And what is wrong with you? You knew she was in that sewing dungeon all day and didn’t drag her out?” Eli whacked her again, making you snort.
“Mama!” Alexia yelped, dancing out of reach.
You clutched your stomach as you laughed harder than you had in weeks, watching Eli chase her grown daughter around the kitchen with a spatula.
“What the fuck?”
The new voice made you turn. A woman stood in the doorway, jaw practically on the floor. You recognized her instantly from Eli’s framed photos, Alba.
Her eyes bulged. “You’re—you’re—you’re—”
“Alba!” Eli smacked her youngest with the spatula now. “Language, niña! Mouth like a sailor.”
Alba stumbled back, pointing at you like she’d seen a ghost. “Mama, do you know who this is? This is the creator of Solenne. The one I dragged you to in Paris. Lagerfeld’s prodigy. Chanel’s golden child. The reason my bank account cried for six months after that handbag.”
You tried to hold back, but laughter exploded out of you again, especially when Alexia tightened her grip on your waist, looking baffled.
“Ugh, you two are impossible,” Alba groaned at her mother and sister’s dumbfounded expression, digging her phone out of her pocket. “Fine. Look. Wikipedia. Here. Read.” She shoved her phone between them.
Alexia leaned over her shoulder. “Wait, what?”
Eli squinted at the screen. “Nena!” She whirled back to you, scandalized. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
You wiped tears of laughter from your eyes. “Eli, I did tell you. I told you about my company, my designs, my reasons for moving—”
“You made it sound like you were knitting sweaters for Etsy!” Eli smacked you lightly with the spatula, too.
“Ow—Eli!”
“You need to give yourself more credit. This is incredible. You should be proud.”
Your smile softened. “I am proud. It’s my baby. But sometimes…” You shrugged. “Sometimes it feels safer to keep it small.”
Eli softened, cupping your cheek for just a second before turning back to the stove like nothing had happened. “Bah. Enough. Dinner!”
Dinner was a warm, chaotic blur. Eli served roast chicken with lentil salad, proudly remade from your accidental invention last week. Conversations flowed, effortlessly as you and Alba fell into easy banter. Yes, she fangirled at first, she even snapped a sneaky photo to send to her friends in a group chat, but after five minutes she was roasting you like a sister.
“You’re cooler in person,” she admitted between bites of salad. “Like, not as scary. I thought you’d be… I don’t know. Untouchable.”
“Untouchable?” you laughed. “Alba, you’ve seen me choke on tea at your mother’s table.”
“She’s right,” Eli agreed dryly. “Not untouchable. A disaster.”
Everyone laughed, even Alexia, though she slipped her hand over yours under the table.
Later, when Eli asked about your sister, pride bubbled up in your chest as you told them about Olympe and her basketball dreams, about little Étienne and his big heart.
“Nena, where is your sister? I never asked. She’s in university, right?” Eli handed you the bread basin she had, filled with cut up sliced of the sourdough loaf you gave to her.
You smiled at the thought of your sister. “Olympe? She’s in her first year of uni. She goes to university in America, and she plays for the woman’s basketball team at her school. She wants to go into the WNBA,” you explained with pride.
Eli smiled as well, “That’s very good! When she joins we will all go watch her games.”
You laugh at Eli’s ambition, she was already planning this far ahead.
By the time you and Alexia slipped out into the night, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Déjà vu,” you teased as Alexia walked you home, the moonlight catching in her hair.
She grinned. “What do you mean?”
“Standing outside like this. First date all over again.”
Her laughter was soft, full. She pulled you into her arms the second you unlocked your front door, tumbling onto your couch in a heap of limbs and quiet giggles.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Solenne?” she pouted, tugging playfully at your leggings.
“Chérie, I did tell you,” you laughed, brushing a curl from your face. “You just weren’t listening.”
Her lips brushed your shoulder. “Mama’s right. You don’t give yourself enough credit. I didn’t think ‘too humble’ was a thing until you.”
You exhaled, voice softer. “Sometimes the attention is overwhelming. “I know. I just enjoy the quiet, I’m not sure. Sometimes the attention can be… Comment dit-on cela en espagnol?” [How do you say this in Spanish?]
“Overwhelming?” Alexia offered.
“Yes. Exactly, it’s overwhelming. Like when I stepped down as creative director at Chanel to put my full attention on Solenne after I graduated, and the whole thing was blown out of proportion. All these reporters saying it was the worst decision of my career and my brand would never take off. It got so bad some teachers at my little cousin’s school talked bad about me near him and had him in hysterics. My poor Étienne, he had to change schools which is the last thing he needs. Since then, I guess I realized it’s safer to keep it small, even when it isn’t small at all.”
Alexia only hummed, her hand sliding under your shirt, rubbing circles at your waist. “Well… small or not, I’m proud of you.”
You blinked back a sudden rush of emotion, whispering, “Thank you, mon amour.”
Alexia let the silence sit, but the warmth of her hands dragging up and down across your skin was a reminder she was still here.
“Why did you choose Solenne?” Alexia asked.
“My grandmother’s name. She’s always supported me and when I started it was the only thing I could give to her really, I was only fifteen,” you whispered, the reputation of Alexia’s hands lulling you to sleep. “Besides it sounds elegant and classy, which was all I wanted.”
“How old is your sister and cousin? I don’t think you’ve told me.”
“Olympe is actually seventeen. She graduated a year early so she could go play early. She plays for the University of Connecticut. Étienne is eight going on nine. He’s my baby, I love him so much. He has the sweetest heart, and he’s really into football right now. Olympe is trying to turn him onto basketball. He lives with our mamé because both of his parents travel for work,” you let out a loud yawn. [Grandma]
Alexia kissed your temple, her voice gentle. “Go to sleep, guapa. I’ll be here in the morning.”
And you did wrapped up in her warmth, lulled by the simple, unfamiliar peace of being loved without expectation.
The box felt like it was shrinking around you the longer the match went on. The cheers from the crowd below were deafening, the claps of drums and chants of culers vibrating through the glass. Yet your nerves buzzed louder. You fiddled with your stacked rings, gold, platinum, brushed silver, sliding them up and down your fingers until Eli reached over and gently stilled your hand.
“Nena, what is wrong?” Eli asked when you suddenly folded yourself in half in your seat, hair falling like a curtain around your face. “The game is almost over and you spent most of it worrying and staring at Alexia.”
“I can’t do this,” you whispered against your knees, then lifted your head to groan. It wasn’t your first football game, you knew Jules Koundé and went to many of his games. “This isn’t like cheering for Jules or Aurélien or the French team. This is… different. This is me wearing her jersey. This is me sitting in the family box. This is Alexia.”
“Aww,” Alba cut in with a teasing smirk, her eyes never leaving the pitch as the final whistle blew. “You already got the WAG routine down. Cute outfit, nervous energy, cheering for your girl like the world is ending.”
You sat up straighter and looked at her, scandalized. “It’s technically Alexia and I’s first public outing where people might connect dots. I was already spotted at concessions and you know how I value my privacy, so if one—”
“You’re rambling again,” Alba sing-songed, resting her chin on her fist. “Huge ball of anxiety, but you’ll live. Stop overthinking.”
You blinked at her. Eli blinked at her. The two of you turned in tandem, shocked.
“What?” Alba asked, defensive under your twin gazes.
“That’s actually… good advice,” you said slowly, as if testing the words.
Eli clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “It’s a miracle.”
Alba tossed her hair dramatically. “What can I say? Genius strikes when you least expect it.”
“I can say you finally had a good thought,” Eli muttered into her coffee cup.
“Mama!” Alba gasped.
You laughed so hard you clutched your stomach, rings clinking together, just when the door opened.
“What are we laughing at?” Alexia’s voice floated in, warm and amused. She looked radiant with her sweat slick hair tied up, cheeks flushed, and her jersey clinging to her still burning skin.
“Good game, vida,” Eli said, rising to kiss her daughter’s cheek.
“Yeah, good game, I guess,” Alba mumbled, before Eli smacked her arm and physically nudged her toward the door.
“We are going to the family room,” Eli announced far too quickly, dragging Alba out despite her whining.
“Subtle,” you whispered with a grin.
Alexia stepped closer, and without thinking you were already out of your chair, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her hands immediately found your waist, pulling you flush against her. You gave her a quick peck, murmuring, “Good game, chérie. So proud of you.”
Alexia’s lips curved before she tightened her hold and captured your mouth again, this time slower, lingering, kissing you like she’d been waiting the whole ninety minutes for this exact moment.
“Capi will you make the TikTok—
“What the fu—”
“Capi?”
You both jolted apart, Alexia spinning halfway toward the door where Jana, Bruna, Esmee, and Salma stood in a messy clump. Jana’s jaw had practically hit the floor. Bruna’s eyes were comically wide. Even Esmee, usually reserved, had her mouth parted in shock. Salma, however, was smirking.
“Oh, my God,” Bruna whispered. “You’re kissing someone.”
“Not just someone,” Jana pointed, eyes narrowing as if solving a puzzle. “That’s—wait. That’s—”
“Hi,” you said smoothly, switching into your practiced but genuine smile that you used for investors, journalists, the rare public appearance. You extended your hand like you hadn’t just been caught making out with their captain.
“Uh…” Esmee blinked, still processing.
Bruna elbowed her. “Say something!”
You chuckled lightly, then turned toward Salma, who was already stepping forward. “Salma,” you greeted warmly, pulling her into a hug. “Congratulations again on the contract. I’m so glad we’re working together.”
Salma grinned knowingly. “Gracias. I had a feeling this was coming.”
Alexia stood frozen, her ears red. “Am I… am I the only one who didn’t know about Solenne?” she muttered under her breath.
Jana’s eyes shot open wider. “Wait. Solenne? You’re Solenne?”
“Like… the fashion Solenne?” Bruna’s voice cracked on the word. “The one on Vogue last month?”
“Well, I created it.” You smoothed the skirt of your dress under your Alexia jersey and shrugged delicately. “But tonight I’m just here as Alexia’s date.”
That sent the three of them into a fresh wave of whispering chaos. Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Okay, enough,” she said firmly, shepherding them toward the hall. “Go. Make your TikToks. Leave us alone.”
The four scurried off, still whispering loudly.
When they disappeared, Alexia groaned. “They’re never going to let me live that down.”
“They’ll survive,” you teased, linking your arm through hers as you walked out together.
Outside, your freshly detailed black G-Wagon gleamed under the stadium lights, windows tinted dark enough to bounce back the reflection of the floodlights. Eli and Alba had texted that they’d gone ahead to the restaurant, giving the two of you space.
Alexia opened the passenger door, hand sweeping theatrically. “Get in.”
You shook your head immediately. “Absolutely not. You just played ninety minutes. You’re exhausted. I’ll drive.”
“Carinyo.” Her voice softened, her hand still braced on the door. “Please. Let me spoil you. Besides, you drive like a lunatic.”
Your lips twitched, torn between practicality and the warmth in her eyes. Finally, with a mock sigh, you slid inside.
Alexia shut the door, jogged around, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The car purred to life.
“You better drive safe,” you teased, buckling in.
Alexia smirked, shifting into gear. “Bonita, as long as I don’t drive like you we will be safe.”
The G-Wagon peeled smoothly out of the lot, the two of you laughing as the city lights blurred around you, hearts beating just a little too fast.
