Did We Miss Something?
Alexia Putellas x Female Reader
Fluff
The autumn rain in Barcelona had a habit of making the city feel intimate, wrapping the limestone buildings in a damp, golden haze that turned the streetlights into blurry lanterns by five in the afternoon.
Inside the restaurant, nestled deep in the narrow stone alleys of famous Sant Joan Despí neighborhood, it smelled of fried calamari, garlic, stale cava, and seventy years of oak-barrel wine. It was noisy in the way only a room full of professional athletes and their inner circle could be noisy.
Y/N stood at the coat rack near the entrance, shaking her heavy wool coat free of water droplets. She was thirty, old enough to appreciate a good leather jacket and a proper bottle of white wine and young enough to still get dragged out on a Thursday night by a football team that seemed to treat dinner as a competitive sport. She was a freelance creative director, a designer and photographer who had ended up working with FC Barcelona Femení three years ago on a branding project and had somehow been adopted into their orbit ever since.
“If you dripped on my boots, Y/N, I am sending you the dry-cleaning bill,” Mapi León called out from the end of a long wooden table that looked as though it had survived three civil wars.
“Your boots are already ruined, Mapi, they’re hideous,” Y/N replied smoothly, stepping up to the table and immediately bending down to press a warm, loud kiss against Mapi’s cheek.
Mapi grinned, shoving her playfully away. Y/N moved down the line with the practiced, easy familiarity of someone who had shared a hundred late-night post-match pizzas with these women. She kissed Pina on both cheeks, gave Cata a quick, affectionate hug around the shoulders, pressed a kiss to Aitana´s temple as the midfielder gestured wildly with a piece of crusty bread, and finally landed at Patri’s side, slinging an arm around her neck and squeezing her into a brief headlock.
“Evening, detective,” Y/N murmured against Patri’s ear before kissing her cheek too.
“You’re late,” Patri said, though she smiled, patting Y/N’s waist as Y/N pulled back. “Cata was about to eat the napkins”
“Traffic babe, a lot of traffic as you know” Y/N excused herself easily, shedding her wet scarf and tossing it onto an empty chair.
She turned around to face the far corner of the booth.
Sitting in the curved oak banquette, framed by a vintage beer mirror, was Alexia Putellas.
She was wearing a thick, cream-colored shirt that looked ridiculously soft, her golden-brown hair pulled up into a messy, elegant knot, a few stray strands framing a face that had been plastered across three giant billboards on the Passeig de Gràcia. She had been quietly swirling a glass of sparkling water, but the moment Y/N turned toward her, Alexia’s shoulders straightened. Her chin lifted just a fraction. Her dark amber eyes, usually so controlled and imperious on a pitch, softened into something warm, expectant, and entirely unshielded.
For approximately half a second, there was a tiny, invisible shift in the air between them. A microscopic pause where Y/N’s eyes dropped to the soft curve of Alexia’s mouth, and Alexia’s breath hitched, her body imperceptibly leaning forward over the table, waiting for the familiar, soft press of Y/N’s lips against her skin.
Then Y/N extended her right hand.
Straight, flat, palm open, held out at a formal, perfectly civil four-inch distance.
Y/N’s expression was a masterpiece of absolute, terrifying neutrality.
Alexia’s face went through three distinct emotional phases in the span of two seconds. First, absolute disbelief. Second, profound, personal offense. Third, a tiny, petulant drop of her lower lip, a distinct, baby-like pout that she tried desperately to cover by narrowing her eyes into a glare.
Y/N didn't flinch. Her hand stayed extended. She wiggled her fingers once, deliberately.
Alexia let out a breath through her nose, looking down at Y/N’s palm as if it were a dead fish. Slowly, dramatically, and with the posture of a woman being forced to sign her own death warrant, Alexia folded her right hand into a small, tight fist.
She brought her knuckles down against Y/N’s open palm.
Tap.
It was the gentlest, most absurdly delicate little fist-bump in the history of human interaction.
“Good evening, Putellas,” Y/N said, her tone crisp, professional, and infuriatingly polite.
“Hi,” Alexia muttered into her water glass, taking an unnecessarily long sip to avoid looking at her.
“Glad you could make it,” Y/N added cheerfully, turning around without missing a beat and sliding into the empty wooden chair right beside Alexia.
As soon as Y/N’s thigh brushed against Alexia’s under the heavy white tablecloth, the retaliation began. Underneath the table, entirely hidden from the eight pairs of eyes surrounding them, Alexia’s leg shifted. Her knee knocked sharply against Y/N’s outer thigh.
Y/N shifted her leg away.
Alexia immediately moved hers to follow, pressing the entire length of her warm, muscular leg firmly against Y/N’s.
Y/N shifted again, nudging her under the table with her heel.
Alexia didn't budge. She simply planted her leg firmly against Y/N’s, using her height and strength to pin Y/N’s thigh against the leg of the wooden chair, all while picking up her menu with her left hand and casually asking Ingrid if the garlic prawns were any good.
Y/N gave her a sharp, warning side-eye.
Alexia didn't even look at her. She just took a sip of her water, the corner of her mouth twitching with a tiny, triumphant smirk.
Y/N gave up, letting her leg remain pressed against Alexia’s. Beneath the tablecloth, Alexia’s hand slid off her own lap, her fingers blindly reaching out until they found Y/N’s knee. She squeezed it once, tight and possessive, before her long fingers slid up Y/N’s thigh, resting high against her hip, her thumb stroking slow, rhythmic circles through the dark denim of Y/N’s jeans.
Above the table, Y/N unfolded her cloth napkin and laid it across her lap, completely unbothered, using her right hand to reach for the bread basket while her left hand dropped below the table to lace her fingers tightly through Alexia’s.
Alexia’s shoulders instantly dropped three inches. The sulk melted away. She leaned her shoulder subtly against Y/N’s, her head tilting slightly toward the older woman as if pulled by a natural gravitational field.
Opposite them, Patri Guijarro was busy pouring house red into three glasses, but her eyes flicked up, lingering on the subtle shift in posture between the two women. Patri frowned slightly, her gaze dropping to the tablecloth where Y/N’s left arm disappeared below the wood, then back up to Alexia, who was currently looking at Y/N with an expression of such soft, nauseating devotion that it belonged in a period drama.
Patri narrowed her eyes, taking a slow sip of her wine. Something was slightly off, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it yet.
“So,” Y/N said, looking across at Patri to break the silence. “Did Pere give you tomorrow afternoon off, or are you running hills at Montserrat?”
“Hills,” Mapi groaned, dropping her head onto the table. “Because Patri decided we needed more ‘tactical intensity’ in the second half on Sunday”
“It was a sloppy twenty minutes, Maria,” Patri said automatically, though her eyes were still tracking the way Alexia’s elbow was currently resting on the back of Y/N’s chair, her hand casually playing with the loose threads of Y/N’s leather jacket. “We lost structure”
“We won four-nil,” Aitana interjected, rolling her eyes.
“It’s the principle,” Alexia spoke up, her voice smooth and authoritative, stepping seamlessly into her captain persona. But as she spoke, her hand beneath the table tightened around Y/N’s fingers, her thumb continuing its relentless, soothing strokes against Y/N’s knuckles.
“Oh, spare us, Capitana,” Y/N teased, reaching out with her fork to steal a piece of grilled zucchini from the central tapas plate Alexia had ordered for herself.
Alexia immediately dropped her professional face, turning to glare at Y/N. “That’s mine”
“Sharing is caring, Putellas”
“I didn't offer to share with you”
“You didn't have to. We’re friends”
Alexia stared at her for a second, her amber eyes narrowing. “You’re insufferable”
“You love it,” Y/N said easily, popping the zucchini into her mouth.
Alexia reached over and deliberately stabbed a piece of spicy chorizo off Y/N’s plate, popping it into her own mouth without breaking eye contact. “Because it tastes better when it’s yours”
The sentence fell into a brief lull in the table’s conversation. It was said so casually, with such a quiet, unthinking intimacy, that Ingrid paused with her wine glass halfway to her lips.
Y/N choked slightly on her bread, coughing into her napkin. That sounded dangerously like something a person said to a woman they were sleeping with, not a person they gave a polite fist-bump to twenty minutes ago.
Y/N kicked Alexia lightly under the table.
Alexia didn't even flinch. She simply chewed her chorizo, looking completely innocent, a wicked little glint in her eyes.
Patri’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of a millimeter.
An hour later, Y/N excused herself to step outside into the narrow alley for some fresh air and to check a work email. The moment the glass door closed behind Y/N, Alexia’s eyes automatically tracked her through the window. She didn't even realize she was doing it—her body simply reoriented itself toward where Y/N was standing under the yellow streetlamp, wrapping her coat tighter around herself against the drizzle.
“Alexia,” Mapi said, waving a hand in front of her face. “Earth to Putellas. Are you listening?”
Alexia blinked, pulling her gaze back to the table. “What? Yes. The Sunday training schedule”
“I asked if you wanted the last croqueta,” Mapi said, eyeing her suspiciously. “You’ve been staring at the window for five minutes”
“I was looking at the rain,” Alexia lied smoothly, taking a sip of her water.
Patri watched her. She watched the way Alexia’s fingers were absently tracing the rim of Y/N’s empty wine glass. She watched the way Alexia’s shoulders tensed slightly when a group of loud tourists walked past Y/N in the alley, and how they instantly relaxed when Y/N stepped back inside, shaking the dampness from her hair.
When Y/N sat back down, she smelled of cold air and rainwater. She immediately reached for her coat pocket, pulling out a small tube of lip balm, applying it quickly before tossing it onto the table.
Alexia didn't say a word. She simply picked up the tube, applied some to her own lips, and tossed it back into Y/N’s lap.
It was so casual. So terrifyingly domestic. It was the action of two people who had shared a bathroom, a bed, and a life for far longer than anyone at the table realized.
At midnight, the group finally began to split up, standing near the coat rack as people paid their shares and put on their jackets. Y/N was saying her goodbyes, kissing Aitana, hugging Mapi, telling Cata she’d send her the photo files from Tuesday’s shoot.
Finally, she reached Alexia, who was standing near the door, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of a long black wool coat.
Y/N extended her hand.
Alexia stared at it.
The silence between them stretched for three full seconds.
“Seriously?” Alexia murmured, her voice dropping into a low, private register meant only for Y/N’s ears.
Y/N raised an eyebrow, her face a picture of pure innocence. “What?”
Alexia looked around to make sure Mapi and Aitana were busy arguing with the waiter about the bill. “You kissed everyone else”
Y/N’s mouth twitched, the barest hint of a dimple appearing in her cheek. “Congratulations on noticing”
Alexia’s lower lip dropped into that ridiculous, baby-like pout again. Her eyes narrowed into dark, melty pools of irritation. “You're horrible”
“Come on, Ale,” Y/N whispered, her voice warm, teasing, and utterly fond. “Don't make a scene in front of the children”
“Don't ‘Ale’ me,” Alexia muttered, glaring at the extended hand as if it had personally insulted her ancestors. “I hate this”
“No, you don't. Goodnight, Putellas” Y/N wiggled her fingers.
Alexia let out a long, suffering sigh, slowly bringing her fist up and tapping it against Y/N’s palm.
Tap. Y/N closed her hand on her fist a I little longer than she usually done
“I’m not coming over,” Alexia muttered childishly.
“Okay,” Y/N smiled, turning on her heel and walking out into the rain. “See you, girls!” she called out to the rest of the table.
Alexia stood in the doorway, watching Y/N’s tall frame disappear down the wet stone street toward the Metro station. Her expression was a chaotic mix of annoyance, affection, and something so deeply, helplessly soft that it looked almost painful.
And three feet away, Patri stood holding her umbrella, watching Alexia watch Y/N.
A tiny, sharp realization clicked into place in Patri’s brain.
Hang on, Patri thought, her eyes widening slightly. Hang on a minute.
Twenty minutes later, Y/N unlocked the heavy wooden door of her apartment in El Born. It was a high-ceilinged, cozy space filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, plants she constantly forgot to water, and a massive velvet sofa that had seen more Sunday afternoons than it probably deserved.
She kicked off her boots, tossed her keys into the ceramic bowl on the entryway table, and barely had time to walk into the kitchen to pour a glass of water before her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out.
Alexia (23:42): You are annoying.
Y/N smiled, leaning her hips against the kitchen counter, typing back with one hand.
Y/N (23:43): Goodnight to you too, Capitana.
Alexia (23:43): Ale for you if you don’t notice. You kissed everyone.
Y/N (23:44): Ok ALE, And?
Alexia (23:44): You know what I mean.
Y/N (23:45): I genuinely don't. I'm a very affectionate person, Alexia. You know this.
Alexia (23:45): Handshake.
Y/N let out a quiet laugh that echoed in her dark kitchen. She could practically see Alexia sitting on her own sofa, wearing her old PJ´s, pouting at her phone screen like a teenager.
Y/N (23:46): That is our thing.
Alexia (23:46): I hate our thing.
Y/N (23:47): No you don't. You love having a secret.
Alexia (23:47): I hate you.
Y/N paused, her thumb hovering over the screen. A fond, warm sensation bloomed in the center of her chest, heavy and comfortable.
Y/N (23:48): Come over then.
There was a three-minute silence. Y/N set her phone down, taking a sip of water, her heart doing a strange, quiet little flip in her chest.
Alexia (23:51): Give me ten minutes.
Y/N stared at the screen, a smile breaking across her face despite her best efforts to stay cool.
Y/N (23:51): You're ridiculous. You have training at nine.
Alexia (23:52): You invited me.
Nine minutes later, the buzzer downstairs rang.
Y/N pressed the door release and opened her apartment door, standing in the warm light of the hallway. A moment later, the quiet sound of footsteps echoed up the stone stairs, and Alexia appeared.
She had changed out of her dinner clothes into a massive, faded grey hoodie that belonged to Y/N, black leggings, and sneakers, her wet hair pulled into a low, messy bun. She looked entirely different from the poised athlete who had been sitting at that fancy restaurant an hour ago.
The moment Alexia stepped across the threshold, the public restraint vanished as if it had never existed.
Before Y/N could even close the door, Alexia stepped directly into her space. Her long arms wrapped firmly around Y/N’s waist, pulling the older woman flush against her chest, her face burying itself deep into the warm curve between Y/N’s neck and shoulder.
She let out a long, heavy, shuddering breath, completely deflating against Y/N’s body.
Y/N kicked the door shut with her heel, her arms automatically coming up to wrap around Alexia’s shoulders, her fingers threading into the soft, damp hair at the nape of Alexia’s neck.
“You’re horrible,” Alexia murmured into Y/N’s skin, her voice muffled, her grip on Y/N’s waist tightening until there wasn't a breath of air between them.
“You came here,” Y/N pointed out softly, a low laugh vibrating in her chest.
“Because I missed you,” Alexia muttered, entirely without shame, her nose rubbing softly against Y/N’s pulse point.
Y/N froze for a fraction of a second. The words hung in the quiet hallway simple, honest, and entirely devoid of the defensive jokes they usually hid behind.
Alexia seemed to realize what she’d said, her body going slightly rigid in Y/N’s arms.
Neither of them commented on it.
Instead, Y/N simply turned her head and pressed a long, soft kiss against the side of Alexia’s forehead, her thumb gently stroking the back of Alexia’s neck.
Alexia instantly melted. Her entire body relaxed, her weight leaning heavily against Y/N, her hands sliding beneath the hem of Y/N’s t-shirt to rest against the warm skin of her lower back.
“Come on, big baby,” Y/N whispered fondly, shifting her weight to lead them toward the living room. “Let’s get you on the sofa before you fall asleep standing up”
“Not a baby,” Alexia grumbled, though she refused to untangle herself, shuffling her feet in tandem with Y/N’s until they collapsed together onto the massive velvet sofa.
Within ten seconds, Alexia had somehow maneuvered herself so that she was lying almost entirely on top of Y/N. Her head rested heavily on Y/N’s chest, one of her long legs draped over Y/N’s thighs, her arm wrapped securely around Y/N’s waist.
Y/N didn't move away. She picked up the TV remote with her free hand, turning the volume down low, while her other hand settled into Alexia’s hair, her fingers absently scratching her scalp in slow, soothing motions.
They didn't talk about their dynamic. They didn't talk about why Alexia was sleeping in Y/N’s bed four nights a week, or why Y/N kept Alexia’s favorite oat milk in her fridge, or why Alexia’s spare keys were sitting in the ceramic bowl by the front door. They simply stayed there, tangled together in the quiet dark of El Born, falling asleep to the hum of the rain against the glass.
Two weeks later, the trend continued with relentless, absurd consistency.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Y/N was meeting Patri, Clara, and Vicky at a quiet cafe. She was already seated at an outdoor table under a large canvas umbrella, a cortado in front of her, chatting lazily with Clara about an upcoming photo shoot for a sports magazine.
Alexia arrived twenty minutes late, straight from a sponsor meeting, wearing an impossibly chic tailored beige coat and sunglasses pushed up onto her head.
As Alexia walked up to the table, Y/N didn't even look up from her phone. She simply extended her right hand flat across the wooden table, palm open.
Alexia stopped dead in her tracks beside the table.
She stared at the open palm. Then she stared at the top of Y/N’s head.
“Are you serious?” Alexia asked, her voice carrying over the quiet hum of the cafe.
Y/N looked up, her expression a picture of mild, polite inquiry. “Hello. Good afternoon”
Vicky snorted into her cappuccino. Clara let out a loud, sudden bark of laughter.
Alexia let out a suffering sigh, dramatically dropping her leather tote bag onto an empty chair. She folded her hand into a tiny, tight fist and tapped it against Y/N’s palm with a flat, dull bump.
“You’re an evil person,” Alexia muttered, sliding into the chair right beside Y/N.
Without asking, Alexia reached out, picked up Y/N’s cortado, and took a long sip.
Y/N stared at her. “That’s mine”
“Not anymore,” Alexia said smoothly, setting the glass down on her side of the table.
“You don't even like cortados with oat milk. You say it tastes like cardboard”
“I like it now,” Alexia declared stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest and looking out at the plaza.
Y/N shook her head, a fond, helpless smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts. She reached for the sugar packet, casually opening it and dumping it into the glass Alexia had just stolen, knowing full well Alexia hated sweet coffee.
Alexia watched her do it, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “You're terrible”
“You stole my coffee, Putellas. Actions have consequences”
Vicky watched the exchange with absolute delight, while Patri, sitting opposite them, leaned back in her chair, her eyes darting between Y/N’s face and the way Alexia’s knee was now firmly wedged against Y/N’s leg beneath the small cafe table.
She stole her coffee, Patri thought, her detective brain working overtime. Alexia Putellas, who threatens people if they touch her water bottle in the locker room, just drank from Y/N’s glass without asking. And Y/N didn't even flinch.
Later that evening, after Clara and Vicky left, Y/N and Alexia walked back toward Alexia’s car parked two blocks away. The streets were quiet, the golden evening light bouncing off the stone walls.
“You’re nicer to everyone else,” Alexia complained suddenly, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, her shoulder bumping against Y/N’s as they walked.
Y/N turned her head, looking at her with a deadpan expression. “That is objectively false. I let you sleep on my chest for seven hours last night while my left arm went completely numb”
“You kiss them hello,” Alexia persisted, her lower lip doing that familiar, petulant jut.
“Because they’re my friends”
“I’m your friend,” Alexia said immediately.
Y/N stopped walking. She turned around to face Alexia fully, raising an eyebrow, a slow, dangerous little smirk spreading across her lips.
“Right,” Y/N said softly. “You’re my friend just that”
Alexia froze. She realized the exact verbal trap she had just walked straight into. Her amber eyes widened slightly, her cheeks flushing a faint, lovely pink under the streetlights.
“I mean…” Alexia started, her usual cool authority completely failing her.
“Exactly,” Y/N smiled, stepping closer, her hands tucked into her own jacket pockets. “Friends”
Alexia narrowed her eyes, stepping into Y/N’s personal space until their coats were touching. “Don't do that”
“Do what?”
“That face”
“What face?”
“The one where you know you’re right,” Alexia muttered, reaching out and grabbing the lapels of Y/N’s jacket, pulling the older woman firmly toward her until there wasn't an inch of air between them.
They were standing in the middle of a public sidewalk in the Eixample, but Alexia didn't seem to care. She leaned in, her forehead resting against Y/N’s collarbone, her grip on Y/N’s jacket tight and possessive.
“You’re clingy,” Y/N whispered softly into Alexia’s hair, her arms coming up to wrap loosely around Alexia’s waist.
“Don't care,” Alexia grumbled into Y/N’s neck. “You’re annoying”
“And yet you won't let go of my coat”
“Because it smells like you,” Alexia muttered, before stepping back, letting go of the fabric, and turning toward her car with a swiftness that suggested she was trying to escape her own honesty.
Y/N stood on the sidewalk, watching Alexia walk away, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Friends, Y/N thought, a quiet, helpless laugh escaping her lips. Right. Absolute friends.
The dynamic reached a new level of absurdity during an open training session at Sant Joan Despí the following Friday.
Y/N was there on assignment, carrying two heavy camera bodies equipped with long telephoto lenses, sitting on a folding stool near the sidelines while the squad went through their possession drills. She was wearing an oversized black hoodie, a beanie pulling her dark hair back, focused on capturing sharp action shots for the club's official media channels.
During a break in the drill, Y/N walked over to the bench to swap her memory cards. Jana Fernández, one of the younger defenders who had recently recovered from an injury, was sitting on the bench icing her knee. Y/N sat down beside her, laughing as Jana showed her a hilarious video of her dog on her phone.
Y/N was naturally warm. She leaned in close to look at the screen, slinging a casual arm over the back of the bench behind Jana’s shoulders, laughing softly at the video.
Thirty yards away, Alexia was taking a drink from her water bottle.
She stopped. Her eyes locked onto the bench.
She watched Y/N’s arm resting casually behind Clara. She watched Y/N laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She watched Clara smile up at Y/N with bright, youthful enthusiasm.
Alexia’s jaw tightened. Her amber eyes narrowed into two pinpricks of pure, unadulterated, ridiculous jealousy.
Without thinking, Alexia capped her water bottle, handed it off to a trainer, and walked straight across the pitch toward the bench. She didn't run but her stride was long, deliberate, and carried the terrifying momentum of a woman on a mission.
Y/N felt the shadow fall over her before she saw her.
She looked up.
Alexia was standing directly in front of the bench, her hands on her hips, her chest heaving slightly from the drills, staring down at Y/N with an expression that could have melted lead.
“Are you alright?” Y/N asked, her voice dripping with mild, amused inquiry.
“Fine,” Alexia said flatly.
She didn't move. Instead, Alexia deliberately stepped into the narrow space between Y/N’s knees and the bench, effectively blocking Clara’s view of Y/N entirely. Then, with absolute casualness, Alexia reached out and placed her palm flat against the back of Y/N’s neck, her long fingers threading into the hair at the base of Y/N’s skull, squeezing lightly.
Y/N noticed immediately.
Y/N looked up into Alexia’s face, her dimples deepening. “You’re doing your jealous face”
“I don't have a jealous face,” Alexia stated, her hand remaining firmly planted on the back of Y/N’s neck, her thumb stroking the soft skin behind Y/N’s ear.
“You absolutely do,” Y/N whispered, her voice dropping so Clara couldn't hear. “Your eyebrows pull together and you look like you want to tackle someone”
Alexia flicked a brief, sharp glance toward Clara who was suddenly very interested in her ice pack before looking back down at Y/N.
“What are you looking at?” Alexia asked softly.
“Clara’s dog,” Y/N replied, pointing a finger at the phone screen.
Alexia stared at the screen for two seconds. “It’s a small dog”
“It’s a very cute dog, Putellas”
“Mine is better,” Alexia declared, referring to her Pomeranian, Nala, with absolute, unwavering conviction.
Y/N stared at her, her lips twitching as she tried desperately not to burst out laughing. “You are thirty two years old, Alexia. You are a two-time Ballon d'Or winner. Are you seriously competing with a puppy?”
“Obviously not,” Alexia muttered, though she didn't remove her hand from Y/N’s neck for another thirty seconds, until the assistant coach blew the whistle for the next drill.
As Alexia walked back onto the pitch, Y/N shook her head, her face burning, her heart racing.
Sitting twenty feet away on the training ground steps, Patri Guijarro had watched the entire interaction.
Patri’s jaw was practically resting on the concrete.
She walked thirty yards across the pitch, Patri analyzed, her brain putting together the pieces of a grand, terrifying puzzle. She walked thirty yards just to put her hand on Y/N’s neck because Clara was showing her a video. Alexia Putellas is down so bad she’s lost her mind.
That night, Patri went home, opened TikTok, and spent forty-five minutes down a rabbit hole of relationship psychology videos.
At 1:14 AM, a video appeared on her feed:
“Signs two people in your friend group are secretly sleeping together: 1. They greet everyone normally but have a weirdly specific, low-contact greeting for each other. 2. One of them gets possessive over mundane things. 3. The physical distance between them disappears the second they think nobody is watching”
Patri sat up in bed.
She replayed the video three times.
Her eyes widened into massive saucers in the dark room.
“The fist bump,” Patri whispered to her empty bedroom. “The fucking fist bump”
From that night on, Patri became a paranoid, unstoppable detective.
She started watching them. And once she started watching them, she realized that Y/N and Alexia were perhaps the worst secret-keepers in the history of Catalonia.
She noticed how Y/N greeted everyone with warm kisses, but gave Alexia the exact same, absurdly gentle fist-bump every single time.
She noticed how Alexia pretended she didn't care, but her lower lip always dropped into that tiny, offended pout for half a second afterward.
She noticed how Y/N casually handed Alexia her favorite water bottle or a hair tie without Alexia even having to ask, because Y/N already knew what Alexia needed before Alexia did.
She noticed how Y/N automatically reached out to smooth down a stray strand of Alexia’s hair while they were waiting for the team bus, her fingers lingering against Alexia’s temple with a tenderness that made Patri’s teeth ache.
She noticed how, during a group dinner at Mapi’s apartment, Y/N and Alexia had accidentally turned up wearing matching dark green wool jumpers.
“Did you two coordinate?” Mapi had asked, pointing between them.
“No,” both Y/N and Alexia had answered simultaneously, far too fast, far too loudly, before immediately looking away from each other.
Patri had nearly dropped her glass of wine.
The climax of Patri’s silent investigation arrived on a Sunday afternoon at the stadium.
Barcelona had just dismantled Real Sociedad 5-1. The stadium was packed, the crowd roaring, the sun setting behind the hills in a blaze of orange and pink.
Y/N was standing near the tunnel entrance in her dark coat, waiting for the players to finish their lap of honor. She had a cold, unopened bottle of orange Gatorade in her hand, a specific flavor that was never stocked in the dugout coolers, which Y/N always ordered in bulk from a distributor in Badalona because she knew Alexia loved it after matches.
Alexia emerged from the pitch, her jersey damp with sweat, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She was tired, her shoulders slouched slightly, but the moment her green eyes caught Y/N standing by the tunnel wall, her entire face transformed.
She lit up like a Christmas tree.
She walked straight over to Y/N, her stride fast and eager.
Y/N held out the orange Gatorade bottle. “For you”
Alexia looked at the bottle. Then she looked up at Y/N, her eyes softening into two pools of absolute, terrifyingly sweet devotion. “You remembered”
“Unfortunately,” Y/N said smoothly, though her dimples were showing.
Alexia took the bottle, her fingers deliberately brushing against Y/N’s, lingering for two full seconds. She took a long drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, looking at Y/N as if Y/N had just handed her the moon on a silver platter.
Then, Alexia stepped closer, clearly intending to lean in for a proper hug.
Y/N extended her right hand flat.
Alexia’s smile dropped instantly. Her jaw literally dropped. “No”
Y/N tried desperately to keep a straight face. “Come on”
“No,” Alexia said, her voice rising into that cute, stubborn register.
“Alexia”
“No”
Y/N wiggled her fingers. “Handshake”
Alexia looked at Y/N’s hand as if it had personally insulted her family. “You are evil”
“Fist bump, Putellas”
Alexia let out a suffering groan, dramatically folding her hand into a tiny fist and tapping it against Y/N’s palm with an offended bump.
“You are a terrible person,” Alexia muttered, though she immediately stepped into Y/N’s personal space, standing absurdly close to her, sipping her Gatorade while their shoulders pressed together.
Ten feet away, Patri Guijarro was standing near the dugout steps, watching the entire exchange.
Patri’s mouth was wide open.
The Gatorade, Patri thought, her detective brain completing the final circuit. She brings her specific orange Gatorade in her coat pocket. And Alexia gives her a fist-bump while looking at her like she wants to marry her in a church.
Patri tapped Mapi on the shoulder. “Maria”
“Yeah?”
“Look at them,” Patri whispered, pointing a subtle finger toward Y/N and Alexia.
Mapi looked over. Y/N was currently reaching up to adjust the collar of Alexia’s jacket, while Alexia stood completely still, looking down at Y/N with an expression of such soft, helpless adoration that it was almost embarrassing to watch.
“They’re just chatting,” Mapi shrugged.
“No, Mapi” Patri said, her voice deadly serious. “They are not just chatting. They are involved. They have been involved for months”
Mapi stared at her. “What? No way. Y/N gave her a fist-bump ten seconds ago”
“THAT IS THE COVER STORY!” Patri hissed, grabbing Mapi’s arm. “THE FIST-BUMP IS THE COVER STORY!”
The following Wednesday, Y/N was sitting on the sofa in Alexia’s Pedralbes home, her laptop balanced on her knees, working on a layout design.
Alexia was sitting right beside her. Not near her just right beside her, her thigh pressed against Y/N’s, her head resting heavily on Y/N’s shoulder, her long arms wrapped around Y/N’s waist like a human belt while she lazily scrolled through her phone.
Y/N’s phone, sitting on the coffee table, buzzed.
It was a text from Alexia.
Y/N stopped typing. She looked down at Alexia, who was sitting three inches away from her, staring intently at her own phone screen.
“You just texted me,” Y/N said deadpan.
“I know,” Alexia said without looking up.
Y/N picked up her phone and opened the message.
Alexia (16:14): Look at me.
Y/N turned her head, looking at Alexia’s profile.
Alexia slowly turned her head, offering a tiny, goofy, incredibly cute little smile.
Y/N’s phone buzzed again.
Alexia (16:15): Hi.
Y/N had to bite the inside of her cheek until it bled to keep from laughing out loud.
Y/N (16:15): You’re an idiot.
Alexia (16:16): You love me.
Y/N’s thumb froze over the screen.
The room went completely, utterly silent. The low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen sounded suddenly loud.
Y/N stared at the three words on her screen: You love me.
Alexia’s face changed too. She slowly lowered her phone, her dark amber eyes turning to look at Y/N. For once, there was no teasing glint in her gaze. No playful smirk. Just a quiet, vulnerable, terrifyingly honest stillness.
The word hung in the air between them, unspoken out loud, but written in black text on a glass screen, heavier than anything they had ever allowed themselves to acknowledge.
Y/N looked at Alexia. She looked at the woman who slept on her chest, who stole her coffee, who wore her hoodies, who carried her heart in the palm of her hand without ever officially being asked to hold it.
Y/N’s fingers moved over the screen.
Y/N (16:17): You’re clingy.
Alexia stared at the response.
Then, a tiny, soft smile broke across Alexia’s face. She leaned forward, burying her face into the crook of Y/N’s neck, her arms tightening around Y/N’s waist, squeezing her until Y/N let out a breathy laugh.
Alexia (16:18): Coward.
Y/N looked down at the top of Alexia’s head, her heart thumping against her ribs like a sledgehammer.
Coward, Y/N thought, her fingers threading into Alexia’s soft hair, pulling her closer. Yeah. Maybe I am.
The dam finally broke two days later at Parc Güell.
It was a crisp, sunlit Friday morning, and they had arrived early to beat the crowds, walking along the upper terrace overlooking the panoramic view of Barcelona stretching down to the blue Mediterranean sea.
They weren't trying to hide. They weren't making an announcement either. They were simply walking together in the cool autumn air.
Alexia had her long arm wrapped securely around Y/N’s waist beneath her heavy coat, her head resting against Y/N’s shoulder as they walked slowly along the gravel path. Y/N had her arm draped over Alexia’s shoulders, her thumb lazily stroking the back of Alexia’s neck.
They stopped near the famous mosaic serpentine bench.
“Look at the light over the Sagrada Família,” Y/N murmured softly, leaning her head down toward Alexia. “It’s beautiful today”
Alexia didn't look at the Sagrada Família. She turned her head, looking up at Y/N’s profile, her amber eyes soft, heavy, and dripping with affection.
“I don't care about the light,” Alexia whispered softly.
Y/N looked down, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “You’re absurd, Putellas”
“Kiss me,” Alexia demanded softly, not a request, but a gentle, needy command.
Y/N didn't hesitate. She leaned down, her hand coming up to cup the side of Alexia’s jaw, her thumb resting against Alexia’s pulse point. She pressed her lips against Alexia’s in a slow, sweet, lingering kiss.
Alexia let out a soft, contented sigh against Y/N’s mouth, her arms wrapping tightly around Y/N’s waist, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss as the autumn wind blew around them.
Neither of them noticed the soft click-click-click of a telephoto lens from thirty yards away behind a cluster of Mediterranean pines.
By two o'clock that afternoon, the photographs were published on a major Spanish sports news site: LA REINA Y SU AMOR SECRETO: ALEXIA PUTELLAS, PILLADA EN EL PARC GÜELL CON LA FOTÓGRAFA Y/N.
The internet, naturally, completely exploded.
At four o'clock, Y/N and Alexia were sitting on the sofa in El Born, looking at the photos on Y/N’s laptop.
There were six crisp, high-definition photographs: Alexia with her arm wrapped around Y/N’s waist. Y/N kissing the top of Alexia’s head. The deep, breathless kiss against the mosaic bench. Y/N looking down at Alexia with an expression of such pure, unadulterated, helpless love that it made Y/N’s stomach turn over just looking at it.
“Well,” Y/N said casually, leaning her chin in her hand.
Alexia stared at the screen. “Oh”
“That’s not subtle,” Y/N noted.
“No,” Alexia agreed softly.
Y/N scrolled to the next photo. “They got a good one, though. Look at my hair. The lighting is actually quite nice”
Alexia turned to look at her, her amber eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s your concern? The lighting?”
“What?” Y/N looked at her. “We’ve been photographed”
“Yes, I can see that!” Alexia exclaimed, her voice rising into that cute, panicked register. “Together! Kissing!”
Y/N set the laptop aside. She turned on the sofa to face Alexia fully, her expression softening into something warm, steady, and entirely grounded.
“Do you care?” Y/N asked gently.
Alexia hesitated. She looked at Y/N’s face, at the calm green-brown eyes, at the dimple in her cheek, at the woman who had spent two years holding her together behind closed doors.
Alexia’s posture relaxed. “No”
Y/N smiled, reaching out to cup Alexia’s cheek. “Me neither”
Alexia let out a long, shuddering breath, melting forward until her forehead rested against Y/N’s collarbone. Y/N wrapped her arms around Alexia’s waist, holding her tight, pressing a soft kiss into her golden-brown hair.
They weren't scared. They had never been scared of each other. They had simply been two stubborn idiots who loved having something that belonged entirely to them.
The final reckoning occurred on Friday evening at Patri’s apartment in Les Corts.
It was a group dinner, just Patri, Mapi, Cata, Aitana, Alexia, and Y/N.
Y/N arrived first, shedding her coat and kissing everyone hello, kissing Patri on both cheeks, hugging Cata, laughing with Mapi.
Ten minutes later, Alexia arrived.
Y/N walked over to the hallway to greet her.
Alexia stood near the coat rack, her hands tucked into her pockets, looking at Y/N with an expression that was practically glowing.
Y/N extended her right hand flat.
Alexia automatically, helplessly, brought her small fist up and tapped it against Y/N’s palm.
Tap.
Patri Guijarro set her glass of red wine down on the kitchen counter with a sharp, definitive CLACK.
“Right,” Patri declared, stepping into the hallway.
Y/N looked at her. Alexia looked at her.
Patri pointed a finger directly between them. “No. Absolute bullshit. I am done”
Y/N tried to look innocent. “What?”
Patri looked at Alexia. Then at Y/N. Then at the handshake. “I knew it. I knew it for three weeks!”
Alexia’s eyebrows pulled together. “Knew what?”
Patri looked genuinely, deeply offended. “You two are ridiculous! You are the worst secret-keepers in the European Union!”
Y/N tried to keep a straight face. “Patri, I don't know what you're talking about really, enlighten me please”
“THE TIKTOK!” Patri shouted, gesturing wildly with her hands. “I SAW A TIKTOK!”
There was a beat of absolute, dead silence in the hallway.
Mapi poked her head out of the kitchen, holding a bowl of chips. “What TikTok?”
“It said,” Patri announced dramatically, turning to face Mapi, “that when two people in a friend group greet everyone with hugs and kisses, but have a weirdly specific, low-contact greeting for each other... THEY ARE SLEEPING TOGETHER!”
Y/N burst into a loud, uncontrollable fit of laughter, covering her face with both hands.
Alexia’s entire face turned the color of a ripe tomato. “Patri!”
“No, because look at them!” Patri pointed an accusing finger at Y/N’s hand. “Everyone else gets kisses! Cata gets a hug! Mapi gets a kiss! But Alexia gets... THAT!”
Alexia looked down at Y/N’s hand as though seeing it for the first time.
Y/N, still crying with laughter, extended her hand again.
Alexia glared at her. “Don't”
Y/N wiggled her fingers, her dimples deep. “Handshake”
Patri screeched in triumph. “SEE?! SEE HOW SHE LOOKS AT YOU?!”
Alexia finally let out a suffering groan and bumped Y/N’s fist again.
“I KNEW IT!” Patri yelled, throwing her hands in the air. “I KNEW IT SINCE THE GATORADE!”
Y/N was practically doubled over with laughter now, leaning against the wall for support. “You are completely insane, Patri!”
“And you!” Patri pointed at Alexia. “You get offended every single time she fist-bumps you! You make that stupid little baby face!”
Alexia’s mouth dropped open in pure, unadulterated outrage. “I do not make a baby face!”
“You do!” Mapi chimed in from the kitchen doorway, grinning like a maniac. “She totally does! She pouts!”
Y/N wiped a tear from her eye, looking at Alexia. “She’s right, Ale. You do pout”
Alexia turned to Y/N, her eyes wide with betrayal. “Whose side are you on?!”
“Not yours!” Y/N laughed.
Patri folded her arms, looking like a judge delivering a verdict. “And besides, we’ve all seen the photos!”
The hallway went quiet.
Alexia cleared her throat, her face still burning, but her posture slowly shifting. She looked at Y/N.
Y/N looked back at her.
The jokes slowly faded, replaced by something quiet, warm, and entirely undeniable.
“So,” Patri said, her tone softening, a smirk playing on her lips. “Are you two actually going to admit it, or are we going to do this fist-bump routine until you’re eighty?”
Alexia looked at Y/N.
Y/N looked at Alexia.
Alexia stepped out of her shoes, walked past Patri, and stood directly in front of Y/N. She didn't look at Patri. She didn't look at Mapi. She looked only at Y/N—at the clear green-brown eyes, at the dimple in her cheek, at the woman who had been her anchor for three years.
“We’re not friends,” Alexia said softly, her voice ringing clear in the hallway.
Y/N’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in her chest. “No?”
“No,” Alexia said firmly. She reached out, taking Y/N’s right hand in hers—not a fist-bump, but lacing her long fingers tightly through Y/N’s, holding her hand firmly against her hip. “We haven't been friends for a very long time”
Y/N looked down at their joined hands. Then she looked up into Alexia’s dark amber eyes, a soft, beautiful, radiant smile spreading across her face.
“Okay,” Y/N whispered softly.
“Okay?” Alexia asked, her breath hitching.
“Okay,” Y/N repeated, stepping forward, her left arm coming up to wrap around Alexia’s waist, pulling the Barcelona captain flush against her chest.
Mapi let out a dramatic, high-pitched Awwww from the kitchen, while Patri clapped her hands together in absolute, victorious delight.
“Finally!” Patri shouted. “Thank God! I was going to lose my mind!”
Alexia ignored them both. She wrapped her arms tightly around Y/N’s neck, burying her face into Y/N’s shoulder, holding her with a fierce, possessive tightness that said everything six months of jokes had tried to hide.
Y/N held her back, kissing the side of Alexia’s neck, smelling the familiar lavender soap and fresh air that meant home.
An hour later, dinner was in full swing.
The dining table was covered in empty plates, wine glasses, and the loud, chaotic laughter of six women who had known each other too long to have any secrets left.
Y/N was sitting at the end of the table, chatting with Ingrid about a photo shoot in Madrid next month.
Alexia was sitting beside her. Her long leg was pressed firmly against Y/N’s beneath the table. Her arm was slung casually over the back of Y/N’s chair, her fingers absently playing with the soft hair at the nape of Y/N’s neck.
At eleven o'clock, Y/N stood up to head to the bathroom.
She pushed her chair back, stepping away from the table. She kissed Cata on the cheek. She patted Mapi on the shoulder. She gave Patri a quick hug.
Finally, she turned to Alexia, who was sitting in her chair, looking up at her with soft, expectant eyes.
Y/N extended her right hand flat.
The entire table went dead silent.
Patri nearly choked on her wine. “DON’T YOU DARE!”
Alexia stared at Y/N’s open palm.
Y/N wiggled her fingers, her dimples deep, her eyes sparkling with pure, wicked delight.
Alexia let out a long, suffering sigh. Slowly, dramatically, she folded her hand into a tiny fist and tapped it against Y/N’s palm.
Tap.
Y/N grins.
Before Y/N could turn around, Alexia’s left hand shot out, catching Y/N by the wrist. With a firm, effortless pull, Alexia yanked Y/N down into her lap.
Y/N gasped, landing squarely across Alexia’s thighs.
Before Y/N could say a word, Alexia wrapped her arms tight around Y/N’s waist, leaned up, and kissed her properly on the mouth, slow, sweet, breathless, and entirely shameless right in front of the entire room.
Mapi cheered. Patri threw a napkin at them.
Y/N kissed Alexia back, her hands framing Alexia’s face, completely lost in the warmth of her mouth.
When they finally broke apart, Y/N was flushed, breathless, and laughing against Alexia’s lips.
“I thought we had a tradition,” Y/N whispered teasingly.
Alexia smiled, a brilliant, radiant, dimpled smile that lit up the entire room—and pressed another sweet kiss to the tip of Y/N’s nose.
“Traditions change, amor,” Alexia whispered into her ear, holding her close. “Now go to the bathroom so we can go home”
Y/N smiled, standing up, her fingers lingering in Alexia’s until the very last second.
And as Y/N walked down the hallway, Alexia watched her go unhidden, unashamed, and completely, hopelessly in love.
