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I actually loved your new fic it was such a cool concept…they’re so cute 🥰

Thank you for reading and entertaining this little ghostly fic.

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So, ghost girl story; at first she didn’t have id and that’s why the didn’t know nothing about her, and then she had a passport with a lastname; color me surprised and confused

Nice catch! I was really thinking let’s just make her a Jane Doe. But IRL, she’ll probably get deported without any Visa. The logic police in me decided to insert that — and I was too lazy to rewrite the entire premise again. So ya, let’s just play along to fanfic “logic” 😉.

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This Haunting Feels Like Home (Supernatural romance one-shot)

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Y/N

Summary: Alexia Putellas moves into a too-cheap villa on the edge of Barcelona looking for quiet. What she finds is a barefoot girl in silk pyjamas sitting in her window seat, sipping imaginary tea and calling herself Y/N — a self-proclaimed “resident spirit” with no memory of how she died, or if she even did. Y/N is strange. Sweet. Teasing. A little chaotic. And very much a ghost. (Probably.)

Featuring chaos crew: Mapi Leon, Jana Fernandez, Patri Guijarro, Ona Battle

Word count: > 12k

————————————————————————

The real estate listing had called it “quietly charming with historic bones.” Which, as it turned out, was code for: creaky, slightly musty, and likely haunted.

Alexia Putellas didn’t care. She’d lived through worse things than faulty plumbing and suspicious drafts — like a cruciate ligament in three languages, or losing a Champions League final while bleeding through her sock. At least this villa, nestled high in the hills above Barcelona, didn’t demand interviews, rehab, or press conferences.

Just solitude.

She dropped her final moving box onto the scratched wooden floor and leaned against the threshold of the reading room — her new favourite spot. Arched ceilings, a dusty chandelier, bookshelves that groaned like old men, and at the far end, a deep window seat with sun-bleached cushions. The glass fogged lightly at the edges, blurring the view of the dusky treetops. A storm was threatening.

Alexia sighed, dragging a hoodie over her tank top. The house smelled like orange oil and forgotten winters. She turned to unpack a stack of her mother’s cookbooks when she heard it — the creak.

Not just any creak. A deliberate one.

She spun around.

And blinked.

Because sitting — no, lounging — in the window seat, one leg tucked beneath the other like she owned the place, was a barefoot woman in silk pyjamas. Cream-coloured with tiny embroidered moons. Her hair just passed her jaw and soft-looking, like she’d just woken up from the afterlife or a particularly dramatic nap.

She was holding a porcelain teacup. There was nothing in it.

“Don’t scream,” the woman said, English with a vaguely mid-Atlantic drawl. “You’ll make me feel dead or something.”

Alexia didn’t scream.

She did, however, tilt her head. “You’re barefoot on my first edition.”

The woman looked down, then smiled. “Virginia Woolf. Good taste.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes. “This is my house.”

“Technically, I was here first.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug and sipped her empty cup. “But I’m not picky. We can share.”

Alexia took a cautious step forward, watching the strange, very corporeal-looking girl who had materialized in her reading room like some kind of indie film meet-cute gone wrong.

“Okay,” Alexia said slowly. “You’re a ghost.”

“That’s a little reductive.” She stood — gracefully, annoyingly, like someone who used to dance ballet or ruin women for sport. “I prefer the term resident spirit. Ghost feels so… Halloween.”

Alexia just stared. “Am I having a stroke?”

“Possibly,” the girl said cheerfully, then held out her hand. “Y/N.”

Alexia did not shake it.

Y/N blinked. “Rude.”

“I don’t shake hands with poltergeists.”

“I’m not a poltergeist. I don’t throw things. Not anymore.”

Alexia leaned against a nearby bookshelf. It groaned in protest. “You’re not real.”

“Define real.”

Alexia rubbed a hand over her face. “Okay. If you’re a ghost—sorry, a resident spirit—why are you wearing silk pyjamas from, like, La Perla?”

Y/N plopped back onto the window seat. “I woke up in them. No idea why. Honestly? Bit bougie for me.”

“You… woke up?”

“Sort of. In between.” She tapped her temple. “I don’t remember how I died. Or if I died.”

Alexia crossed her arms. “This house was empty for two years.”

“Yeah, well. So was I.”

Thunder cracked overhead, and all the lights flickered. Alexia winced. Y/N didn’t flinch — just looked vaguely amused.

“You’re taking this well,” the ghost said.

“I’ve had media training. Nothing shocks me anymore.”

“I like you.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Y/N stretched lazily, then rolled her eyes when Alexia didn’t laugh. “You’re no fun. Do you want me to do a ghost thing?”

“No.”

“Because I can. Like, float. Or fade. Or whisper Latin backwards.”

Alexia raised a brow. “That’s not Latin. That’s just Spotify in shuffle mode.”

Y/N grinned, delighted. “You are fun. You’re just repressed.”

Alexia rubbed her temples. “This isn’t happening.”

“Oh, it is,” Y/N said. “And just so we’re clear, I live here.”

“You’re dead.”

“I’m adjacent to dead.”

“This is a very expensive hallucination.”

Y/N paused. Something soft entered her eyes. “You’re lonely.”

Alexia froze.

“I can feel it,” Y/N said, quieter now. “It comes off you in waves. Like cold. Or regret.”

Alexia stepped back. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t… read me. You don’t know me.”

Y/N looked down. For the first time, she seemed less like a ghost and more like a girl who had once had a room of her own.

“I know you make espresso at 11 p.m. I know you read cookbooks like novels. I know you talk in your sleep — in Catalan, mostly. I know you say ‘mierda’ under your breath when you drop things.”

Alexia swallowed. Her throat was dry.

Y/N met her eyes. “I know you’ve been alone for a while. But you don’t have to be. Not here.”

Silence.

Then Alexia said, “Do you haunt everyone like this? Or am I just lucky?”

Y/N smiled — lopsided, almost bashful.

“You’re not the first to live here,” she said. “But you’re the first I’ve stayed visible for.”

Alexia blinked. “Why?”

Y/N shrugged. “Maybe because you saw me.”

Outside, the storm broke — wind howling, branches clawing the sides of the house. But inside, there was warmth. The faint scent of lavender. A girl in pyjamas.

Alexia shook her head and turned to leave. “Don’t touch my books.”

Behind her, Y/N called out, voice teasing: “Do you want me to tuck you in tonight, landlady?”

“Goodnight,” Alexia said firmly.

“Sweet dreams, Alexia Putellas.”

Alexia paused.

And then, without turning, she muttered, “Try not to float through any walls. The humidity messes with the circuits.”

——————

Alexia tried ignoring her for three days.

She went about her business like normal: trained in the mornings, iced her knee in the afternoons, and aggressively organized her spice rack by color and country of origin. She texted Jana a photo of her turmeric, captioned “Do ghosts get hungry?” and was met with thirteen skull emojis and a message that read simply: don’t piss it off. ask if it has unfinished business. also do u need sage??

Y/N, for her part, was impossible to ignore.

She appeared in mirrors uninvited, commented on Alexia’s outfits (“that’s the third black top this week — bold of you”), and had taken to lounging on Alexia’s kitchen counter like some kind of unsolicited interior décor.

“You’re not even slightly transparent,” Alexia muttered one evening, glaring at her over a pot of boiling lentils.

“I’m emotionally transparent,” Y/N offered, spooning air from an empty bowl. “It’s very evolved of me.”

Alexia stirred harder.

“I could float if you want,” Y/N offered. “But it’s a lot of effort and sometimes I go through ceilings and it’s awkward.”

“Don’t you have other�� ghostly duties? Unfinished business? Someone else to haunt?”

Y/N blinked. “This is my unfinished business.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t remember dying. That feels… unfinished.”

Alexia stopped stirring. “You really don’t remember?”

Y/N shook her head. “Nothing concrete. Just impressions. Warmth. Wind. A headache.” She twirled her fingers. “But this house — it hums. It’s familiar.”

“Right.” Alexia exhaled. “Of course my villa came with cursed amenities.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “It’s not a curse. It’s companionship. I’m an add-on.”

“Like fiber internet,” Alexia muttered.

“Like an emotional support ghost,” Y/N corrected with a grin. “You’re welcome.”

——————

The first rule they agreed on was no haunting guests.

Alexia made this clear after Patri and Ona came over for lunch and Y/N opened every cabinet in the kitchen mid-conversation.

“She’s the silent one,” Ona whispered to Patri, already spooked. “You never trust the quiet ones.”

“I can hear you,” Alexia hissed through gritted teeth.

Patri raised an eyebrow. “So can the cabinets.”

After they left, Alexia found Y/N floating horizontally over her reading room, chewing on a toothpick that wasn’t real.

“They’re not ready for me,” she said, dreamy. “But that Ona girl? Skeptical. She’ll come around. Give her time.”

“She nearly pissed herself.”

“She’s dramatic.”

Alexia made her second rule: don’t watch her sleep.

“I wasn’t watching you,” Y/N said, affronted. “I was admiring your cheekbone symmetry. That’s totally different.”

“It’s creepy.”

“It’s flattering.”

“I’m putting salt around my bed.”

Y/N snorted. “Please. That only works on demons and your ex-girlfriends.”

Alexia flinched. “Low blow.”

“Sorry,” Y/N said, softer this time. “I’ll stop. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I could’ve been. I give excellent fire hazard energy.”

——————

Rule three came after the night Y/N disappeared mid-sentence.

Alexia had been reading in the library — actual reading this time. Y/N had perched beside her, pretending to flip through a cookbook titled Catalan Flavours.

Alexia had just asked her something — something stupid and mundane, about how ghosts felt about gluten — when Y/N blinked out like a blown candle.

One second: laughter, sarcasm, warmth.

The next: silence. Absence. A cold spot beside her that made her heart kick up like it was outrunning grief.

She’d searched the house for hours. Called Jana in a panic. Threatened to smudge the entire place in holy water. Y/N reappeared at 3:00a.m. in the bathtub — sheepish.

“I panicked,” she said. “I felt… pulled.”

“By what?”

“I don’t know.” She pressed her hands to her chest. “But it wasn’t kind.”

So they made it a rule. No vanishing mid-conversation. No flickering without warning. No bathtub apparitions after midnight.

Y/N agreed. Then asked if she could at least haunt the espresso machine during mornings.

Alexia said no.

Y/N did it anyway.

——————

They developed a rhythm.

Y/N followed Alexia from room to room like a cat with too many opinions. She offered dramatic commentary on everything: Alexia’s Spotify playlists (“I didn’t peg you for indie heartbreak girlies, but I see it”), her cooking (“Chickpeas again? You’re so protein-core”), and her attempts at vacuuming (“You missed a ghost crumb”).

Alexia tried not to laugh. She failed often.

Y/N never sat still for long. She was a ghost in motion — folding into corners, clinging to stair railings, dancing barefoot across the hallway to an unheard rhythm. Sometimes Alexia wondered if she’d been a dancer. A musician. Someone who once chased sunsets barefoot until the sky forgot her name.

One evening, after training, Alexia returned home sore and silent. She dropped her kitbag at the door and collapsed on the floor of the reading room.

Y/N floated down beside her — just enough to be near, not close.

“Bad day?”

Alexia didn’t answer.

Y/N didn’t push.

Instead, she whispered, “If I had bones, I’d let you crack mine for comfort. But all I have is vibes.”

Alexia snorted. “Thanks.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want me to make fun of your playlist again?”

“Please don’t.”

“Want me to go?”

Alexia paused.

Then shook her head.

Y/N sat beside her.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

——————

The house didn’t creak anymore — it sighed.

Alexia had grown used to its rhythms: the soft groan of the bannister when the wind shifted; the almost imperceptible pulse of the hallway chandelier when Y/N passed beneath it; the faint scent of lavender and burnt toast that seemed to follow her whenever she hovered near the kitchen.

It had been seventeen days since Alexia moved in. Seventeen days of ghostly banter, spectral sarcasm, and… companionship.

The kind that didn’t ask too much.

The kind that didn’t flinch when Alexia woke from dreams she couldn’t remember, fingers clenched, jaw aching.

The kind that existed like moonlight — soft, quiet, always just a little too far away to touch.

Her friends are heavily invested in the development.

Patri, who was now convinced Y/N was a metaphor for Alexia’s repressed desires.

Jana, who started mailing her jars of rose quartz labeled “Anti-Thirst Salt.”

Mapi, who — God help her — had started pitching a TikTok docuseries called Ghost: Haunt Me Harder.

Alexia, frankly, she wasn’t sure what was happening.

What did you call it when the person you might be falling for had no pulse?

——————

It happened again during the full moon.

Alexia couldn’t sleep. Her knee throbbed from training, her brain was noisy, and Spotify kept shuffling from Mitski to Arctic Monkeys with aggressive emotional whiplash.

Around 2 a.m., she padded down the stairs, hoodie swallowed over her shorts, only to hear piano.

Bad piano.

Off-key. Messy. Full of heart.

She followed it.

Y/N was in the study — perched at the old upright like she’d been born at midnight. The moon painted her in silver. Her fingers moved slowly, pressing chords that didn’t belong together but felt like they did.

She was humming under her breath. Soft. Crooked. Lonely.

Alexia stood in the doorway for a moment before speaking.

“You’re tone-deaf.”

Y/N jumped. One of the keys let out a particularly tragic squeak.

“I’m atmospheric,” she huffed. “There’s a difference.”

Alexia crossed her arms. “You know the neighbors might think I’m dating a tortured jazz student.”

Y/N turned slowly. Her eyes glittered. “Wouldn’t be the worst rumor.”

Alexia chuckled, stepping into the room. The floorboards barely creaked beneath her.

Y/N slid over on the bench and patted the space beside her. “Come on. Teach me something.”

Alexia sat. Their shoulders nearly touched.

“You don’t know how to play?”

“I forgot,” Y/N murmured. “If I ever knew. Memory’s a little… clouded. Comes and goes. Mostly goes.”

Alexia hesitated. Then lifted her hand and pressed a C chord. Clean. Simple. Warm.

“Start there,” she said.

Y/N followed her lead, mimicking the motion. Her fingers brushed Alexia’s.

“Did you always want to be a footballer?” Y/N asked quietly.

Alexia nodded. “Since I was four.”

“Must be nice. To remember.”

“It’s not always.”

They fell into silence. The piano hummed beneath them like a second heartbeat.

After a while, Y/N whispered, “I think I was loved once.”

Alexia glanced over.

Y/N’s gaze was on her own hands. “I remember dancing. I remember someone laughing at how bad I was. I remember… warmth. Mouths. A summer song.”

Her voice cracked slightly. “But I can’t remember the face.”

Alexia didn’t say anything. She just sat still.

“And sometimes,” Y/N added, “I wonder if the person is reason I’m stuck. Like maybe I left something unsaid. Or unforgiven.”

Alexia turned her body to face her. “Or maybe you’re here because you’re meant to find someone new.”

Y/N looked up. “You think ghosts get second chances?”

“I think people do. Even spirit ones.”

Y/N smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s very footballer of you. Always chasing hope.”

Alexia shrugged. “It’s the only thing we’re trained not to lose.”

Their eyes met.

The piano stopped.

The room felt smaller. Warmer. Realer.

Y/N shifted, knee brushing Alexia’s.

She whispered, “Do you ever think about kissing me?”

Alexia didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Because her hand was already reaching — slow, tentative — brushing Y/N’s cheek. And then lower, thumb resting just under her chin.

Y/N leaned forward.

And just as their lips were about to meet—

Y/N blinked out.

Gone.

Completely.

Vanished.

The bench groaned under Alexia’s sudden shift. The air grew cold. The moon disappeared behind clouds.

Alexia stared at the empty space beside her.

“Y/N?” she called, standing. “Y/N, this isn’t funny.”

No answer.

“Come on,” she tried again, now pacing, heart thudding. “You made a rule. No disappearing.”

Nothing.

Not a shimmer. Not a whisper. Not even a flicker of lavender in the air.

Alexia stood alone in the dark, the echo of almost still trembling on her lips.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t train the next morning.

Didn’t answer Jana’s texts or Patri’s offers of “aggressive spiritual support.”

She just sat at the piano.

And waited.

——————

Alexia didn’t mention the kiss-that-almost-was.

She did, however, mention the vanishing.

Over brunch, no less — at a café in Gràcia that served oat milk cortados and vegan ensaïmadas, which she chose purely for its distraction value. But not even flaky pastries could soften the blow of her saying:

“So… Y/N blinked out again.”

Patri dropped her fork.

Jana nearly choked on a piece of caramelized apple.

Ona, unfazed, just sipped her coffee. “Maybe she got bored.”

“She was mid-kiss,” Alexia deadpanned. There, she let it slip.

“Oh.” Ona blinked. “Okay, dramatic.”

Mapi leaned in like she was watching a telenovela. “Did you feel it? The ghost lips? Were they cold?”

“She vanished before the kiss,” Alexia muttered.

“Damn,” Jana sighed. “That’s heartbreak and horror.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Alexia admitted, voice lower now. “She looked—off. Not scared, exactly. Just… pulled. Like something yanked her out.”

Patri looked serious now, brow furrowed. “That’s not normal.”

“None of this is normal.”

“No, I mean that’s not spiritually normal,” Patri corrected. “Spirits don’t just vanish without reason. Something must’ve… shifted. Something’s calling her back.”

Mapi raised her eyebrows. “Like a ghost boss?”

“Like… an unfinished thread,” Patri said. “She might be tethered to something. A memory, a person. Something stronger than you.”

“Stronger than me?” Alexia scoffed. “I’ve been emotionally ghosted by an actual ghost.”

“Dramatic,” Ona muttered again, but softer this time.

Jana leaned forward, conspiratorial. “Okay. This is clearly a case for…”

Everyone groaned.

“Don’t say it,” Alexia warned.

“PROJECT CHICA BOO!” Jana beamed, raising her phone like it was Excalibur.

“Oh my God,” Mapi whispered reverently. “It has a name now.”

“No,” Alexia said.

“Yes,” Jana countered. “And it’s going to have a Canva logo.”

Patri pulled out a tiny notebook. “We should start with cleansing the house. Salt lines. Herbs. Maybe bell chimes.”

“I’m not turning my home into a witchy IKEA,” Alexia muttered.

“You live with a ghost who steals your shorts,” Ona pointed out. “The line’s already crossed.”

Mapi was now furiously sketching a storyboard on a napkin. “Episode one: Gay, Ghosted, and Gutted.’”

Alexia dragged a hand down her face. “You’re all terrible.”

“You’re in love with her,” Jana said softly.

Alexia stilled.

She didn’t deny it.

The table fell quiet.

“She made you less sharp around the edges,” Patri added, her voice gentler now. “In a good way.”

“More patient,” said Ona, shrugging. “Which is horrifying, honestly.”

“Also, your skin’s been glowing,” Mapi chimed in. “Do ghosts do skincare? I have questions.”

Alexia exhaled, shoulders sagging. “She was becoming… something real. And now she’s gone. Again.”

“Which is why,” Jana said solemnly, “we investigate.”

——————

The Project Chica Boo headquarters was—of course—Alexia’s house.

They arrived that night armed with candles, ridiculous snacks (Mapi brought ghost-shaped gummies), and entirely too much enthusiasm for a supposedly cursed villa.

Patri began by staging a “cleansing ceremony,” which involved swinging a bundle of burning rosemary like a lightsaber while muttering softly in Catalan.

Jana wore sunglasses indoors and referred to herself as an “empath.”

Mapi documented everything on her phone with the solemnity of a war correspondent. “Day one. House full of estrogen. One ghost, potentially in lesbiana limbo.”

Ona leaned against the kitchen counter, deadpan. “Has anyone considered that maybe the ghost is just… over it?”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

“What?” she shrugged. “Even dead people have boundaries.”

Alexia rolled her eyes but said nothing. She was busy staring at the corner of the room where Y/N used to hover during movie nights. Her favorite hoodie — the Barça one — still hung over the armchair. Untouched. Hollow.

“She was learning to play the piano,” Alexia said suddenly.

Everyone went quiet.

“She didn’t remember her past. But she remembered how to hum. She made jokes about haunting me, but she always knocked before entering rooms. Even when I said she didn’t have to.” Her voice cracked. “She was starting to remember. And then something took her.”

Patri crossed the room and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe it’s not about what took her. Maybe it’s about what’s trying to bring her back.”

Alexia looked at her. “You think she’s… alive?”

“I think,” Patri said carefully, “that whatever she is — ghost, coma spirit, echo — she chose to stay visible for you.”

“Maybe she’s lost again,” Mapi said quietly. “And she needs help finding the way back.”

Alexia’s throat tightened. “Then I’ll wait. However long it takes.”

“No,” Jana corrected, eyes sparkling. “We hunt.”

“Jana,” Ona sighed.

“What? You’re the one who brought sage in a fanny pack!”

Patri reached into her bag and pulled out a deck of tarot cards. “Let’s ask.”

Alexia hesitated. Then nodded.

They gathered around the reading room table. The chandelier above them flickered once. The piano in the corner sat silent, a ghost of music lingering in its keys.

Patri shuffled the cards.

The first card: The Moon.

Illusions. Mystery. The subconscious.

The second: The Lovers.

Choices. Connection. Unspoken bonds.

The third: The Hanged Man.

Suspension. Stasis. A soul caught between worlds.

They all stared at the spread.

“She’s not gone,” Patri whispered. “She’s somewhere between.”

Jana’s voice was barely audible. “Then what do we do?”

Alexia looked at the cards, then the room.

“We bring her back.”

——————

Alexia didn’t expect her to come back.

Not really.

Not after three silent days, two failed salt-line rituals, and one particularly unhinged moment where she genuinely considered getting a tattoo of Y/N’s ghost doodle on her ribcage — “for closure,” she told herself. Jana said it was “camp,” Mapi said “do it,” and Patri offered to hold her hand. Alexia didn’t go through with it. She couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she returned home each night with a stupid kind of hope tucked under her ribs.

And on the fourth night — she was there.

Y/N.

Sitting on the window seat like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t disappeared mid-kiss and dragged Alexia’s entire sense of reality with her.

Alexia froze in the doorway.

Y/N looked up from a book she wasn’t reading and smiled like stars were casual.

“Hey.”

Alexia didn’t move.

“Is this… real?” she asked, voice shaking slightly.

Y/N tilted her head. “I think so.”

Alexia crossed the room in three strides. “You left.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You promised you wouldn’t vanish.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Y/N repeated, this time quieter. “I don’t know what happened. It was like I got yanked. Hard. Like something… outside of me took hold.”

She looked down. Her voice was trembling. “It was dark. And cold. And I couldn’t find you.”

Alexia crouched in front of her, hand hovering but not quite touching. “Are you okay?”

“I think so. I don’t know.” Y/N swallowed. “Being back hurts a little. Like my skin’s too tight. Like I’m stitched together by memory and barely holding.”

Alexia looked at her — really looked.

There was something different. Not just the flicker in her outline or the strange gleam in her eyes. Something deeper. Grounded.

“You’re more solid,” Alexia said.

“I feel more here,” Y/N replied. “And it’s terrifying.”

They sat in silence for a long time.

The window creaked behind them. The villa sighed.

And then Alexia stood, held out a hand.

“Come on.”

Y/N took it — no hesitation.

She was warm.

——————

They ended up in the library — because Alexia didn’t know where else to go, and Y/N didn’t want to float anymore.

“I remembered something,” Y/N said, sitting cross-legged on the floor, barefoot and rumpled. “I remembered a book.”

Alexia tilted her head. “Which one?”

Y/N pointed. Second shelf. Brown leather binding. Un Sueño Lento.

“It was my favorite,” she whispered. “It used to sit on a nightstand I can’t picture anymore.”

Alexia retrieved it and handed it to her.

Y/N clutched it like something holy. “I think I was in love with someone once.”

Alexia didn’t flinch.

“But I don’t think she loved me back.”

That made her flinch.

Y/N continued, gaze far away. “I think I died with that knowledge. Quietly. In pieces.”

Alexia sat beside her. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Y/N looked at her then — really looked. “Because it doesn’t feel like this.”

“What doesn’t?”

“This.” Her voice was barely a breath. “This thing with you. It’s different. It’s soft in the center. Like… velvet. Like hands and teeth and something brave.”

Alexia stared at her, heart pounding. “You remember velvet?”

Y/N leaned closer. “I remember you.”

Alexia’s voice cracked. “You weren’t supposed to come back.”

“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you,” Y/N whispered.

Then she kissed her.

And this time, she didn’t vanish.

The kiss was awkward at first — because ghosts aren’t built for this and athletes aren’t known for slowing down.

But then it shifted.

Deepened.

Y/N gasped against her mouth, clutching her hoodie like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.

“You’re warm,” Alexia murmured.

“So are you,” Y/N whispered. “Too much. Like fire. Like blood.”

Alexia kissed her again. Slower this time. Tender. Patient. Like learning a second language from the mouth of someone you can’t afford to forget.

“Tell me this is real,” Alexia whispered.

“I’m here,” Y/N said, lips brushing hers. “I’m so here.”

She kissed down her jaw. Across her collarbone. Mouthed the line of her throat like it held scripture.

Alexia didn’t ask her to stop.

——————

Later, they lay on the floor.

“I’m scared,” Y/N murmured.

Alexia ran her hand down Y/N’s back. “Of what?”

“That I won’t stay. That something will take me again.”

Alexia looked down at her. “Then I’ll find you. Again. And again.”

Y/N closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.

Inside, the villa held its breath.

——————

The next morning, Alexia woke up on the library floor, limbs tangled in the throw blanket and the lingering scent of lavender.

Sunlight streamed through the cracked window, pooling gold onto the rug.

But the space beside her was empty.

No breath.

Nobody.

No warm fingers twining into hers.

Just a hollow kind of silence that tasted like someone had erased a song mid-verse.

She sat up slowly, heart already dropping, calling out the name before her lips could stop it.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

She searched every room.

The kitchen — empty.

The reading room — untouched.

The piano bench — still slightly crooked, but vacant.

The mirror where Y/N sometimes left fog-written messages (“Nice outfit, Casanova”) was blank.

“Y/N,” Alexia tried again, louder this time. “This isn’t funny.”

Nothing.

Not a shimmer, not a giggle, not the usual sarcastic commentary about Alexia’s socks never matching.

Gone.

Like smoke that forgot how to linger.

She stood in the middle of the study, hands shaking.

She waited.

For a flicker.

For a creak.

For a sign.

And when none came, Alexia sat back down — slowly, knees folding like paper.

——————

She didn’t cry until the second day.

The first day, she tried rationalizing it: Maybe Y/N had just faded again. Maybe it was temporary. But by the second night, when the storm rolled in and Y/N didn’t return with it — no bad piano, no barefoot teasing, no knock at the door to her soul — she broke.

It came quietly, like a leak in the ceiling she hadn’t noticed.

She was sitting on the piano bench, holding the book Y/N had remembered — Un Sueño Lento — and it fell open to a page with no writing, just a faint stain where fingers had turned too often.

Alexia pressed her forehead to the page and sobbed.

Not for what was.

But for what had almost been.

——————

Mapi came first.

She didn’t knock. Just entered like a force of nature, holding two takeaway bags and a cursed-looking plant.

“This house is depressing,” she declared, setting things down. “I’m here to yell at you.”

Alexia didn’t even look up. “She’s gone.”

Mapi paused. “Gone gone?”

Alexia nodded. “She disappeared after the night we—” she stopped. “After she said she was scared.”

Mapi’s voice softened. “And you said?”

“I said I’d find her. I promised.”

Mapi sat beside her, surprisingly quiet. “And now?”

Alexia looked up, eyes rimmed red. “Now I don’t know if she ever existed at all.”

Mapi punched her arm. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not that imaginative.”

Alexia cracked a smile despite herself.

“You loved her,” Mapi said simply.

Alexia closed her eyes. “I think I still do.”

——————

Jana arrived later with Patri and Ona in tow. They brought crystals, pastries, and terrible energy.

“This house has grief vibes,” Patri muttered, lighting something that smelled like regret and rosemary.

“She’s not dead,” Alexia snapped.

Everyone turned to her.

“I don’t think she ever was,” she said more quietly. “She said she felt stitched together. Like memory was the only thing holding her. What if she’s not dead? What if she’s—somewhere else?”

“Like an alternate dimension?” Mapi asked hopefully.

“No,” Alexia said. “Like a hospital.”

Silence.

Jana blinked. “Wait. You think she’s—”

“In a coma,” Alexia whispered. “Somewhere close. I think her spirit wandered. And now it’s gone back.”

“That’s…” Patri paused. “That’s not impossible.”

“She said coming back hurt. Like being forced into skin again.” Alexia looked around. “What if she’s waking up somewhere, confused and alone?”

“Then we find her,” Ona said, unexpectedly determined.

Alexia met her eyes.

“I mean,” Ona added with a shrug, “if you can fall in love with a ghost, I can do a hospital sweep.”

——————

It started with a dream.

That night, Alexia finally fell asleep, face still sticky from dried tears and grief, wrapped in the hoodie Y/N used to steal.

She was back in the reading room.

Except everything was soft — glowing at the edges.

The window seat had no glass. The books fluttered like breathing.

Y/N was standing near the piano.

But she wasn’t translucent.

She was… tethered. Heavier.

Her skin shimmered like static.

“Y/N?” Alexia said.

Y/N turned.

She smiled — soft, sad, knowing.

“I remember your heartbeat,” she said. “It was louder than mine.”

Alexia ran to her. “Where are you?”

Y/N lifted a hand, touching Alexia’s cheek. “I think I’m waking up.”

“No,” Alexia breathed. “Don’t go.”

But Y/N was already fading. Again.

“Find me,” she whispered. “Please.”

Then: silence.

Then: darkness.

Alexia woke with one word in her throat:

“Hospital.”

—————

Alexia had always trusted instinct more than logic.

It’s what made her a midfielder: the pause before the pass, the breath before the breakaway, the quiet faith in a gap no one else could see.

So when she woke up trembling with the name Hospital in her mouth, she didn’t hesitate.

She got dressed in silence — black hoodie, joggers, hair scraped into a messy bun. Her hands trembled as she tied her laces. The city was still asleep. The hills wore mist like a shawl.

She didn’t tell anyone where she was going.

Just drove.

Window down. Music off. The only sound her own breath and the vague static of fate humming in her ears.

She didn’t know which hospital — Barcelona had dozens — but she followed the feeling. Like chasing the echo of someone else’s heartbeat. Like searching a field for a dropped ring you were never meant to wear.

——————

It took her four tries.

The first hospital was sterile and humming with pre-dawn emergency cases. She scanned the names at the front desk and walked the halls with a calm so eerie the receptionist didn’t dare question her.

Nothing.

The second was private and plush and far too well-funded. The kind of place where people were never listed as Jane Doe.

The third was full of noise and broken vending machines and nurses who wore exhaustion like war paint.

Still, no trace.

Alexia was about to give up — about to believe she’d finally hallucinated her way into full madness — when she reached the fourth.

A public hospital near the edge of town.

Old tiles. Flickering lights. A waiting room that smelled like overbrewed coffee and resignation.

She almost didn’t go inside.

But the piano in the dream had shimmered like this — a little cracked at the edges, like the world was trying to come through.

She walked slowly through the corridor, sneakers echoing on linoleum. No ghosts. No flickers.

Then—

She passed a room.

Room 12.

And froze.

Her chest pulled. Like a string inside her had just snapped taut.

She turned.

The door was open.

A nurse walked by. “Family only—”

Alexia didn’t hear her.

She stepped inside.

And there she was.

Y/N.

In a hospital bed.

Alive.

But not awake.

Hooked to monitors. A cannula taped to her hand. Cheek turned slightly toward the window, lashes dark against pale skin.

Alexia’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the chair beside the bed and sank into it, shaking.

The room was warm. Quiet. There was a small radio on the nightstand playing soft classical music. Someone had left a crossword half-filled on a clipboard.

But Alexia only saw her.

Her ghost.

Her girl.

Real.

She leaned forward, barely breathing.

“Y/N?”

No response.

She was still.

More still than she’d ever been.

Alexia’s fingers hovered above hers, then curled gently around them.

Warm.

So warm.

Like skin. Like memory. Like hope.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Then the tears came.

A nurse eventually returned. She paused in the doorway.

“You know her?” she asked softly.

Alexia nodded, throat too tight to speak.

“She came in last year,” the nurse said. “An accident. No ID. No one claimed her for months until we found some paperwork in her bag. Passport had water damage. American, apparently. Digital nomad visa.”

Alexia stared. “No family?”

“None listed. No visitors. Not until today.”

Alexia blinked back more tears.

“She’s in a coma,” the nurse said gently. “But she’s stable. Vitals strong. We don’t know what’s keeping her under.”

“I do,” Alexia whispered.

The nurse tilted her head.

Alexia shook hers. “Never mind. It sounds insane.”

The nurse offered a smile. “Insanity is relative. I’ve seen worse.”

——————

She stayed for hours.

Just sat there, holding Y/N’s hand, whispering little things she didn’t know she’d needed to say.

“I found your book,” she murmured. “You said it was your favorite. You said you loved the word lento.”

She traced the line of her wrist with her thumb.

“You made fun of my playlists but cried when I played Bon Iver. You called my espresso machine ‘haunted,’ and you stole every hoodie I own.”

Alexia let herself laugh, quietly. The sound caught in her throat like glass.

“You weren’t dead,” she said. “You were asleep. And I was falling in love with a ghost who wasn’t a ghost.”

She leaned closer. “You said you’d find your way back. I think this is you, trying.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “So I’m here. I’ll wait.”

—————

Mapi was the first one she texted.

Room 12. She’s real. She’s alive. But she doesn’t know me. Not yet.

Mapi replied instantly:

Do you want company or space? I can bring snacks. Or fight God. Your call.

Alexia replied with a photo of Y/N’s hand in hers.

Bring both.

——————

They made it a ritual.

Jana brought books.

Patri brought candles she wasn’t legally allowed to light in a hospital.

Ona brought the How Not To Be A Ghost Again guide she had handwritten with ironic bullet points.

Mapi brought ridiculous comics she drew of “Ghost Y/N” bullying Alexia during training.

Alexia brought herself.

Every day.

No matter what.

She read to her.

Talked to her.

Played her songs.

Held her hand.

She told her stories. Shared secrets. Confessed things she’d never even said aloud in therapy.

“You made me softer,” she said one night, eyes stinging. “And I didn’t know I needed that.”

She tucked Y/N’s hair behind her ear and added, “You told me to find you. So I did. Now it’s your turn.”

——————

Then, one Tuesday evening — exactly one week after Room 12 became her sanctuary — Y/N’s fingers moved.

Just barely.

Alexia jolted up.

“Y/N?”

A flicker.

Lashes fluttered.

Alexia leaned forward, hand cradling her jaw.

“Come on, cariño. Come back to me.”

——————

A breath hitched.

A blink.

A flutter of lashes.

Y/N stirred.

Alexia sat up fast, hope choking in her throat. “Y/N?”

Y/N blinked. Squinted at the light.

She turned her head slightly, gaze landing on Alexia.

And frowned.

“…Who are you?”

Alexia froze.

“What?” she managed, voice small.

Y/N blinked again. Confused. “I… I don’t…”

She looked around. “Where am I?”

Alexia’s heart fractured — a sharp, clean break across her chest.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

Y/N looked at her again. “Do I know you?”

Alexia tried to smile. It hurt.

“Not yet,” she said softly. “But you will.”

——————

Alexia had expected joy.

Maybe a whispered “Hey, you,” like the first time Y/N returned to her window seat.

Maybe a crooked smile, teasing and too soft, and a quip about Alexia looking more tired than usual.

Maybe just a hand reaching for hers — instinctive, magnetic, certain.

She hadn’t expected confusion.

Or the way Y/N looked at her like a stranger.

“Do I know you?”

It shattered her more than the silence ever had.

Alexia tried to stay composed — didn’t flinch, didn’t cry, didn’t let the crack inside her widen enough to swallow the moment whole. She just smiled. Carefully. Like it was muscle memory and not heartbreak.

“I’m Alexia,” she said softly, gently withdrawing her hand from Y/N’s. “You’re in a hospital in Barcelona. You’ve been unconscious for… a while.”

Y/N blinked, sluggish and unfocused. Her voice was hoarse. “Why…? What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” Alexia said. “Last year. They found you with no ID. You’ve been here since.”

Y/N’s gaze shifted, brow creased. “I don’t remember… anything.”

“That’s okay,” Alexia said quickly. “You don’t have to right now.”

A nurse stepped in then, startled to see her patient awake.

Alexia moved away, quiet and invisible, as the medical routine began: checks, vitals, questions about pain, basic orientation.

When the nurse asked if she knew her name, Y/N hesitated.

“Y/N,” she said at last. “I think.”

The nurse smiled. “That’s right. That’s what’s on your passport.”

Y/N looked at her hands. “It doesn’t feel like mine.”

Alexia lingered in the doorway.

She waited for Y/N to glance back. For recognition. A flicker. A shadow. Anything.

But it didn’t come.

So she left.

——————

She didn’t return for two days.

Not because she didn’t want to.

Because she didn’t know who she’d be walking into that room as. A stranger? A lunatic? A girl who’d fallen in love with a ghost?

When she finally did return — same black hoodie, a tupperware of soup from Patri, and Mapi’s latest illustrated comic titled Chica Boo: The Hospital Era tucked under her arm — she paused outside Room 12 for a full three minutes.

She practiced her smile. Then stepped in.

Y/N was awake, sitting upright, pale but alert.

She looked up, curious. “Hi.”

Alexia’s chest tightened. “Hi. I wasn’t sure if you’d be—”

Y/N tilted her head. “You were here before.”

Alexia nodded. “Yeah. I was.”

Y/N blinked. “Did we… know each other?”

Alexia sat in the corner chair. “Sort of.”

Y/N studied her. “Did you work here?”

“No.”

“Were we… friends?”

Alexia swallowed. “You were… living in my house.”

Y/N stared.

“As a ghost,” Alexia added quietly.

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

Alexia laughed, embarrassed. “You probably think I’m insane.”

“I don’t think anything yet,” Y/N said gently. “I feel like my head’s full of fog and bad static.”

“I can leave.”

“No,” Y/N said quickly. “You feel… safe.”

Alexia looked up.

“Familiar, maybe. Not like a memory, just… a sense. Like déjà vu without the details.”

Alexia breathed in carefully. “I brought you soup.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Then you definitely knew me.”

——————

She came back every day after that.

Sometimes Y/N was alert. Sometimes tired. Sometimes gone behind the eyes, adrift in the slow surf of waking up.

Alexia never pushed.

She brought things to anchor her:

A lavender candle. A cheap radio that played the same two classical stations.

The worn book — Un Sueño Lento — with a corner dog-eared on the page Y/N once pressed her cheek against.

She read to her from it.

Didn’t say you used to love this.

Didn’t say you played piano on rainy nights and told me I smelled like heartbreak.

Didn’t say we kissed once and it felt like my ribs forgot how to hold me.

She just read.

Waited.

Stayed.

——————

Patri visited one evening and sat beside her in the hospital garden.

“She doesn’t remember you at all?” she asked gently.

Alexia shook her head. “Not even a flicker. It’s like… she came back, but the version that loved me didn’t.”

Patri was quiet a long time. Then said, “But you remember.”

Alexia stared at the floor. “Yeah. Every second.”

“Then maybe it’s your turn.”

Alexia frowned. “My turn to what?”

“To haunt her.”

——————

So she did.

Gently. Softly. Without expectation.

She brought crossword puzzles and filled in only half. Let Y/N guess the rest.

She told stories without the names — memories of a friend who made bad jokes and stole hoodies.

She smuggled in Mapi’s comics, which Y/N called “truly unwell, but oddly charming.”

And every so often, Y/N would tilt her head and say, “You remind me of something I dreamt.”

And Alexia would nod, even if it shattered her.

“I hope it was a good dream.”

Y/N would smile.

“Yeah,” she’d whisper. “You were kind to me in it.”

——————

One morning, Alexia walked in to find Y/N staring at the window.

“Dreamt again,” Y/N murmured, not looking at her. “You were there. We were in a room full of books. You told me to stay.”

Alexia sat down, carefully. “Did you?”

Y/N looked at her then — eyes clear for the first time in weeks.

“I tried,” she whispered. “But something pulled me away.”

Alexia nodded. “You came back anyway.”

“Do you think,” Y/N said slowly, “people can find their way back to things they’ve forgotten?”

Alexia reached for her hand, gently.

“I think,” she said, “some things never really leave you.”

Y/N looked down at their fingers.

“I believe that,” she said quietly. “Even if I don’t know why.”

—————

Alexia didn’t expect Y/N to fall in love with her again.

Not like before.

Not with ghost jokes and piano keys and the stolen hush between rainstorms. That had been lightning. A haunting. A fluke of fate that lived outside time.

This?

This was slow.

Painfully human.

And she was learning to be okay with that.

——————

Every morning, Alexia arrived with something small:

A folded paper crane.

A playlist scribbled on a napkin.

A chocolate croissant she pretended wasn’t warm from her favorite bakery in Gràcia.

Y/N called them “offerings from my weird tall shadow.”

Alexia called them “insurance in case your soul wakes up before your memory does.”

It became a rhythm.

She would sit beside her in Room 12, flipping through Un Sueño Lento for the hundredth time, and Y/N would ask her questions like,

“What’s your favorite regret?”

Or

“Do you believe in second-firsts?”

Alexia would answer them honestly — never mentioning Barcelona, or football, or how every one of her teammates knew Y/N by name even if Y/N didn’t remember any of them.

Some things were too fragile to hold all at once.

So Alexia let them live between the pages of the book.

She started slipping little notes inside it, tucked between chapters like:

In case you wake up and forget me again,

I liked you because you floated through walls

but still knocked first.

— A.

Y/N found the first one on a Tuesday.

She didn’t say anything. Just glanced at Alexia a little longer than usual.

Then asked, “Did I used to write poems?”

Alexia smiled. “You used to bully poems. But occasionally, yeah.”

“I don’t remember any of them.”

“That’s okay,” Alexia said. “I remember enough for both of us.”

——————

Some days were harder than others.

Y/N would grow restless, frustrated with the haze in her mind.

“I feel like I’m living in someone else’s body,” she muttered once, staring at her hands like they didn’t belong to her.

“You’re not,” Alexia said gently.

“You sure?” Y/N said. “Because I don’t remember the shape of my own laugh. I don’t remember my favorite food. I don’t even know if I’ve ever been in love.”

Alexia bit her tongue so hard it nearly bled.

Instead of answering, she passed her a pen and said, “Then start writing new things down. You don’t have to remember to be real.”

Y/N stared at the pen.

Then nodded.

And started a list on the back of a napkin:

Things I Like (Maybe?)

– warm butter

– the sound of rain against stone

– people who say things like they mean them

– Alexia’s voice (???)

– cinnamon

Alexia pretended not to notice the fourth bullet.

——————

She never told Y/N about the night in the library.

Not because she wanted to protect herself — but because she wanted to protect her.

The version of Y/N who had kissed her hadn’t been fragile. She’d been cheeky and strange and bright like something otherworldly. She’d chosen Alexia.

This version was still building herself, one corner at a time.

Alexia refused to impose a love that belonged to another lifetime.

So she stayed quiet.

Waited.

Left offerings.

One afternoon, Y/N was flipping through Un Sueño Lento when she looked up and said, “Did you ever lose someone you loved?”

Alexia nodded. “More than once.”

“Did you find them again?”

“Not always.”

“But sometimes?”

Alexia looked at her. “Sometimes they come back in a different shape. Sometimes they don’t know you. But you know them.”

Y/N stared at her.

“Do you think you know me?” she asked.

Alexia’s voice cracked a little. “I think I never stopped.”

Y/N blinked. Then smiled — small, tentative, but real.

She tucked another note into the book, beside Alexia’s.

No words.

Just a tiny sketch of a girl sitting in a window seat, legs folded beneath her, holding a teacup full of stars.

——————

Later that week, Alexia found another list Y/N had started in the back of her medical chart.

People I Trust (???):

– Nurse Clara

– Alexia, who brings me soup

– Alexia, with sad eyes and good eyebrows

Alexia smiled at that one.

Because it was progress.

Not all memory is made of names.

Some of it is made of feeling.

——————

One day, Y/N turned to her and asked, “Why do you keep coming back?”

Alexia didn’t flinch. She didn’t joke.

She just said, “Because you stayed with me when you didn’t have to. So now I’m staying with you.”

Y/N blinked fast, then looked down.

“I don’t remember you,” she said quietly. “But I… miss you.”

Alexia reached across the blanket.

Took her hand.

Pressed their palms together.

“That’s enough,” she said.

And it was.

——————

The first memory came quietly.

Not with thunder. Not with drama.

Just a cup of tea.

Y/N was sitting on the hospital windowsill — legs drawn up, arms curled around the paper cup Nurse Clara had left her. The sun cast long strips of light across her blanket. The piano station Alexia had tuned on the tiny radio played softly in the corner.

She sipped, then paused.

And stared at the steam.

“I’ve been here before,” she said.

Alexia looked up from where she was reading beside her. “Here?”

“No,” Y/N said, slow. “This. Tea. Window. That music.” She turned, brow furrowed. “You. It’s like déjà vu, but warmer.”

Alexia closed the book. Her fingers trembled slightly. “That’s good. That’s something.”

“I saw a window seat,” Y/N continued. “And a storm. And you. You were yelling at me for standing on your book.”

Alexia’s laugh escaped like a breath she’d been holding for months. “Virginia Woolf. First edition.”

“I think I kissed you,” Y/N said softly.

Alexia’s smile vanished.

Y/N turned toward her, eyes wide. “Did I?”

Alexia hesitated. Then said, “Yes.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Was I good at it?”

Alexia blinked. “You vanished halfway through.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Oh.”

“You said you were scared,” Alexia added, quieter now. “That something was pulling you.”

“I don’t remember why.”

“You don’t have to.”

Y/N looked at her for a long moment.

Then whispered, “I wanted to stay. Even then.”

Alexia nodded, throat tight. “You did.”

——————

The second memory came with thunder.

It was late — rain tracing the window like breath on glass.

Y/N was dozing lightly, cheek resting on her pillow, when she shot upright, gasping.

Alexia was on her feet in seconds. “What is it?”

“I saw you.”

Alexia froze.

“You were crying in a library,” Y/N said, eyes wild, voice breathless. “You were holding a book and saying my name and I wasn’t there but I wanted to be—”

Her hand reached blindly.

Alexia caught it, held it tight. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Y/N buried her face in her shoulder. “I thought I was gone.”

“You weren’t,” Alexia murmured. “You were just between.”

Y/N pulled back slightly, gaze meeting hers.

——————

The third memory wasn’t a memory at all.

It was a choice.

Y/N was being discharged.

Her strength had returned in fragments — walking unaided, asking questions, finishing sentences that once trailed off like smoke.

The doctors were cautiously optimistic. She’d regained cognitive coherence. Her scans were stable. They called it “unexplainable progress.”

Alexia didn’t correct them.

Because what would she say?

She was a ghost in my house, and we fell in love before she had a pulse.

Instead, she stood beside her as the papers were signed.

Y/N wore a hoodie that was unmistakably Alexia’s. Again.

She hadn’t asked.

Alexia hadn’t stopped her.

They stepped outside together. The sun hit them both like a benediction.

Y/N turned to her.

“So now what?”

Alexia didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “Now you choose.”

Y/N looked confused. “Choose what?”

“If you want to remember everything. Or… if you want to start again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You loved me once,” Alexia said. “As something else. As someone who didn’t have a last name. As a ghost in a villa full of bad plumbing and stormlight. But you don’t owe that love to this version of yourself.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “But I remember pieces now. I remember floating. I remember bad piano. I remember… you.”

Alexia shook her head gently. “You remember a feeling. Not a timeline. That’s not the same.”

Y/N took a breath. “So you’re saying we can’t go back.”

“I’m saying,” Alexia whispered, “we don’t have to.”

Y/N studied her for a long, still moment.

Then said, “Okay.”

Alexia blinked. “Okay?”

Y/N stepped closer. “Then let’s do both.”

Alexia frowned. “What?”

Y/N smiled. “Let me fall in love with you again. But this time as me. This me.”

Alexia exhaled like she hadn’t known she was drowning.

And when Y/N reached for her hand this time, it wasn’t uncertain.

It was deliberate. Solid.

Alive.

——————

They didn’t return to the villa immediately.

They moved slow.

Alexia brought Y/N to cafés she once haunted.

Y/N dragged Alexia into museums and insisted she critique abstract art like a pretentious ghost who once majored in philosophy.

Jana screamed when she saw her.

Patri cried into her toast.

Mapi asked for a full possession demonstration and then cried when Y/N called her an “emotional raccoon.”

Ona simply hugged her and whispered, “Welcome back.”

Bit by bit, Y/N began to remember more.

Not all at once. Not neatly.

But in quiet flashes.

The feeling of rain through the window.

The song Alexia hummed under her breath when making coffee.

The ache in her chest when she disappeared and forgot what it meant to want.

——————

One night, weeks later, they sat on the new window seat in Alexia’s newly repainted reading room.

Y/N curled up beside her, sipping real tea this time.

Alexia looked over. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I think I’m whole now. Even if I’m still missing pages.”

Alexia smiled. “That’s okay. I like rereading.”

Y/N leaned in and kissed her — soft, slow, no magic needed.

Just skin.

Just breath.

Just choice.

When they pulled apart, Y/N grinned. “So… is this the part where I confess I was never haunting the espresso machine?”

Alexia stared. “You were messing with it?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Alexia groaned. “You’re unbearable.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, curling into her side. “But you’d miss me if I vanished again.”

Alexia kissed the top of her head.

“I’d find you,” she whispered. “Even in the next life.”

————————————————————————

A/N: If you’ve reached here, and reading this, thank you for entertaining this cockamamie idea of mine. Let me know if more supernatural romance genres should be entertained.

[arabella-syntax]

Soft & Steady (One-shot)

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Jana Fernandez (Friendship/Slice of life)

Summary: They’ve always been in each other’s orbit — captain and chaos, steady and sharp, woven quietly through the years. But the 2024/25 season is different. Not a love story. Just a story full of love.

Word count: > 8k

————————————————————————

Location: Ciutat Esportiva, post-match recovery session

Time: Early afternoon, two days after a Champions League group match

The recovery room always smelled vaguely like eucalyptus and regret.

Jana Fernández was the only one left inside, stretching in silence as a Spanish indie playlist hummed lazily through the speakers — something acoustic and vaguely tragic, probably curated by one of the interns trying too hard to be chill. The physios had come and gone, offering ice, massages, half-hearted banter. She had declined most of it.

Her quad still ached from Wednesday night — a full-throttle sprint down the right wing followed by a slide-tackle she definitely mistimed, but got away with. Barely. It wasn’t a yellow, but it should have been. She knew that. So did the ref. And so did Alexia, who had met her with one sharp look and a twitch of her mouth that might have been amusement.

The mat beneath her was slightly damp with sweat. Her ponytail stuck to the back of her neck. The match had gone well. They’d won. She should feel good.

But her brain wouldn’t stop buzzing — not with the post-match press comment about Jill being seen at a match with someone new, not with the way the locker room laughed too hard at something she didn’t hear, not with the way her chest still clenched every time she opened her Instagram messages and saw nothing from her.

The door opened.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

Alexia walked with the kind of soft authority that didn’t need announcing — long strides, trainers scuffing slightly on the floor, hair up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The queen of doing everything like she’d just decided to do it — and somehow always getting it right.

She didn’t say hello. She didn’t ask to join.

She just lowered herself onto the mat beside Jana with a faint groan, sitting with her knees bent, arms looped loosely around them. She looked at the ceiling. Jana kept stretching.

“You’re late,” Jana muttered.

“I’m dramatic,” Alexia replied.

Jana snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

A beat of silence passed, stretching as comfortably as a blanket between them.

Outside the glass doors, the afternoon sun bled over the pitch — gold and warm, too nice for mid-November. The kind of weather that made you think about beginnings instead of endings.

“You played like it didn’t hurt,” Alexia said quietly.

Jana didn’t respond at first. Just shifted into a deeper stretch, nose almost to her shin, jaw tight.

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t,” she said finally, voice muffled against her own thigh.

Alexia hummed. A low, knowing sound.

They sat there in tandem, the unspoken weight of shared knowledge between them. Both had been through it — the surgeries, the isolation, the climbing-back-up when no one was watching. The ache of your body doing what it used to do without effort, but now with second guesses. The whispers of will she still be fast? and is she even the same player?

“You’re sharper than before,” Alexia added, after a while. “Smarter.”

“Or just more paranoid.”

“Same thing,” Alexia said. “Except one of them gets you a trophy.”

Jana allowed herself a small smile. The kind you don’t offer to most people — just the ones who’ve sat with you in silence long enough to earn it.

Alexia leaned back on her hands, letting her head tilt toward the ceiling.

“I almost didn’t come in today,” she said.

Jana turned to glance at her.

“Didn’t want to face the tactical review?”

“No,” Alexia said. “Didn’t want to face the quiet.”

Jana nodded slowly. She understood. Sometimes quiet was heavier than noise.

“Then why’d you come?”

Alexia shrugged. “Felt like you’d be here.”

Jana blinked. Swallowed.

“That’s stupid.”

“Maybe,” Alexia said. “But I was right.”

There was no soft music anymore. The playlist had ended, or glitched. The room was still.

Jana sat up, pulling her knees toward her chest, mirroring Alexia without meaning to. Their shoulders brushed. Just barely. Neither of them moved.

“I have leftovers,” Jana said, almost abruptly. “Pasta. Actually edible.”

Alexia didn’t look at her. Just said, “Bring them.”

Then got up, knees cracking, and left — just as casually as she’d entered.

Jana stayed seated for a minute longer, alone again. Except now, the silence didn’t buzz. It breathed.

——————

Location: Alexia’s apartment, Les Corts

Time: That same night, just past 9 p.m.

The front door buzzed three times.

Jana didn’t wait for a reply before climbing the stairs. She knew Alexia hated answering intercoms — said it reminded her of press calls. If you knew her, you just came up.

The lights in the hallway were dim, golden. Alexia’s apartment always smelled like clean linen, dried lavender, and occasionally — like now — absolutely nothing. The kind of neutral, grown-up stillness that suggested a life spent more outside than in.

Jana knocked once, soft. Then again, louder.

The door opened halfway.

Alexia stood in loose grey sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. Hair down. No makeup. Eyes tired, but alert. Like she’d been resting but never quite relaxed.

“You didn’t say what time,” Jana said, holding up a paper bag like a peace offering. “I brought carbs. Also attitude.”

Alexia stepped aside. “You always bring attitude.”

“I like to be consistent.”

Inside, the apartment was dimly lit — only the warm glow from the kitchen overhead light and a small lamp near the couch. A playlist murmured low from the speakers, something moody and mostly instrumental. Alexia’s taste in music ran somewhere between ambient melancholy and breakup soundtracks that never said it out loud.

Jana kicked off her sneakers and padded into the kitchen, pulling out two Tupperware containers like sacred artifacts.

“Pesto,” she declared. “With actual garlic. Not that watery mess from the training canteen.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow as she reached for plates. “You cook now?”

“I survive,” Jana said, pouring the pasta into a pan to reheat. “It’s my post-breakup hobby. That, and cutting my own hair. Which, as you can see, went fine.”

Alexia eyed the slight unevenness at the ends of Jana’s ponytail. She said nothing. But her mouth twitched.

They moved around the kitchen in a quiet rhythm, not choreographed but familiar — plates passed, forks retrieved, olive oil added without asking. The kind of domesticity that didn’t come from romance, but repetition.

They sat on the counter, feet dangling.

Jana tucked into her food with immediate enthusiasm. “If you say it’s bland, I’m leaving.”

Alexia chewed. Swallowed. “It’s… edible.”

Jana gasped in mock offense. “Putellas, I slaved over a hot stove.”

“You microwaved it.”

“With love.”

A pause. Alexia looked at her. “I can taste the trauma.”

Jana rolled her eyes. “Speaking of. Jill posted a reel today. Her and the new girl. Walking their dog.”

Alexia didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly.

“Cute,” she said.

“Yeah,” Jana replied. “Hate that dog.”

The silence after that was soft. Not awkward, just… lingering.

Jana set down her fork. “You don’t have to ask how I’m doing.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

Another beat.

Then Jana sighed, gaze fixed on the wall across from her. “It’s not heartbreak, you know? Not really. I don’t miss her. I just miss… being missed.”

Alexia’s voice was low. “I know the feeling.”

Jana glanced over. “You and Olga?”

Alexia didn’t answer right away. She took another bite. Chewed slowly. Swallowed.

“She doesn’t talk about endings. She just… gets quieter.”

Jana tilted her head. “And you let her?”

Alexia looked down at her plate. “I think I’m tired of fighting to be wanted.”

That one landed heavier than expected. Jana blinked, throat suddenly dry.

They didn’t say anything for a while. The music changed to something with strings.

Then Jana nudged Alexia’s knee with hers.

“I’d miss you. If you disappeared.”

Alexia didn’t look up. But she smiled — just barely. “You’d miss the pasta.”

Jana grinned. “That too.”

They finished eating. Eventually moved to the couch, not to talk but to sit. One leg folded beneath them each, a blanket thrown lazily over both of their laps. The television played something neither of them were watching — a baking show, maybe. It didn’t matter.

Sometime between the second ad break and the credits, Alexia’s head tilted sideways and landed gently against Jana’s shoulder. Her hair smelled faintly like rosemary shampoo and the night.

Jana stayed still. Didn’t shift. Didn’t speak.

She just let her be.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — neither of them felt alone in the silence.

——————

Location: Esferic Barcelona – a sponsor gala

Time: Saturday night, formalwear, cold canapés

Alexia regretted agreeing to the gala five minutes after walking through the glass doors.

She hated these events — sterile smiles, forced laughter, the sting of perfume that clung to your throat. Everyone pretending they weren’t checking who posted what on Instagram that week. She tugged slightly at the collar of her navy blazer, tailored sharp but slightly too tight at the shoulders.

No Olga. Not anymore.

They hadn’t spoken all week, unless you counted the shared calendar reminder for their shared apartment’s electricity bill. Alexia paid it in silence. Olga hearted the transaction. That was it.

She made her way to the bar, nodding politely at a few executives in suits who called her la eterna capitana with performative reverence. She ordered a soda water with lime. Boring. Clean. Untraceable.

It wasn’t until she turned around that she saw her.

Jana — in a deep green satin dress that didn’t belong anywhere near a twenty-three-year-old with no business looking that good after a full training week. Hair up. Little gold hoops. That signature chaos barely contained behind mascara and lip gloss.

She wasn’t alone. Ona stood beside her, grinning, hands already animated mid-story. A few other Barça girls were gathered around, all dressed to kill, all pretending they weren’t half bored.

But Jana caught her gaze. Instantly.

And without hesitation, she stepped away from the group and headed toward her.

“Hola,” Jana said, stopping just close enough that Alexia could smell her perfume — something fresh, sharp, citrusy.

“You clean up well,” Alexia said.

Jana looked smug. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” Alexia replied, sipping her drink. “Just impressed.”

A smirk. “You look like a Dior ad with a grudge.”

“I am a grudge.”

They both smiled — soft, secret, just for each other.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Jana said.

Alexia tilted her head. “You didn’t ask.”

“I thought you hated sponsor galas.”

“I do.”

“So why come?”

Alexia looked down into her glass, the lime bobbing like it was trying to escape. She shrugged. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Jana’s eyes softened. But before she could respond, a voice cut across the space.

“Alexia! Over here!”

It was one of the media directors — all bleached teeth and schedule reminders. He waved her over for a group photo, next to a board of sponsor logos and football-shaped lights.

Alexia winced. “Do me a favor?”

“Always.”

“Meet me on the back terrace in five.”

The terrace was quieter — removed from the main event, fairy lights strung lazily along the railing, the sound of city traffic humming below.

Alexia stood by the edge, drink in one hand, jacket now draped over her arm. The night was warm. She looked relaxed, but Jana could tell from the way her other hand tapped her thigh — she wasn’t.

“She said my name in past tense,” Alexia said, when Jana approached.

Jana leaned against the railing beside her. “Olga?”

Alexia nodded, barely.

“When I was with Alexia,” she quoted, voice dry. “Not while. Not still. When.”

Jana was quiet.

“She said it like I was a thing that happened to her,” Alexia continued. “Like a song she used to love but forgot the lyrics to.”

Jana didn’t speak. Just gently took the glass from Alexia’s hand, set it down on the ledge, and stood in front of her. Close.

Alexia didn’t look at her.

“She said it like I’m already gone,” Alexia murmured.

Jana reached forward. Not to hug. Not to hold. Just to place one hand — flat and certain — against Alexia’s ribcage, where her heart was still beating, slow and steady.

“You’re not gone,” Jana said softly. “You’re still right here.”

Alexia’s eyes flicked up to hers, something unreadable behind them.

The music inside swelled — an old Rosalía remix echoing through the glass doors. But out here, it was just them. And the city. And the sound of breathing that wasn’t quite even anymore.

Jana let her hand linger. Not long. Just long enough to remind her: You’re seen.

I Then she stepped back. Picked up the glass. Handed it back.

Alexia took it without a word.

“I hate these events,” Jana muttered, glancing toward the door.

“Let’s go,” Alexia said.

“Won’t they notice?”

“They always notice,” Alexia said. “But they never ask why.”

And with that, they slipped back through the crowd. Not hiding. Not hurrying. Just two people walking shoulder to shoulder, toward anything quieter.

——————

Location: Montjuïc overlook, late night

Time: 1:00 a.m., two days after the gala

The text came in just after midnight.

ALEXIA: Up?

Jana stared at the glowing screen in the dark, thumb hovering.

No emoji. No follow-up.

She didn’t need one.

JANA: Always.

The parking lot was nearly empty when Jana pulled in. Her car was sponsored — Cupra Formentor. Sleek and midnight in colour. A contrast to the backdrop of Montjuic.

Alexia was already waiting.

Leaning against her own Cupra Terramar, hands shoved in the pockets of a zip-up hoodie, hair down and messy. She looked like someone who hadn’t planned to go out but couldn’t stay in.

Jana parked. Got out. Slammed the door gently.

They didn’t say anything at first.

Just stood there for a moment under the streetlight, listening to the hum of Barcelona still buzzing below the hill.

“Do you want to talk?” Jana asked finally.

Alex reached over and pulled Jana into a hug, which Jana reciprocated.

“I think it’s over,” Alexia said softly, into Jana’s hair.

Jana didn’t ask who. She didn’t have to.

Alexia continued, voice low and strangely steady. “She hasn’t said it. But I think she’s waiting for me to.”

They pulled away gently.

“And you won’t?” Jana asked.

Alexia’s jaw tensed. “I don’t want to be the one who quits. Not again. Not this time.”

Jana leaned her head against the window. “It’s not quitting if you’re just… letting go.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jana turned to look at her. “I don’t think so. Quitting is leaving because it’s hard. Letting go is leaving because it’s gone.”

Alexia didn’t answer. Just stared out at the city lights, unfocused.

“You know what’s worse than a breakup?” Jana said, voice suddenly too loud in the quiet.

Alexia raised an eyebrow.

“Being in something that’s already dead, and pretending it still breathes.”

That one hung in the air like smoke.

Jana kept going. “I tried that with Jill. Said we were ‘working on things’ for three months when what I really meant was I was avoiding the fact that she’d already walked halfway out the door.”

Alexia looked at her then — really looked.

“Do you miss her?”

Jana shook her head. “No. I miss who I thought I was when I was with her. Big difference.”

Alexia nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

A few more moments passed.

Then, quietly: “I don’t think I know how to stop loving someone who’s already stopped.”

That was it.

The crack in the voice. The first real fracture in all the poised control Alexia wore like armor. Jana didn’t flinch. She didn’t rush to fill the silence.

She just reached across and linked their pinkies.

A touch so small it almost didn’t count. But it did.

Because Alexia’s grip tightened, barely.

And she didn’t let go.

They stayed like that for a long time — two figures overlooking a city that never really slept, pinkies looped together, saying nothing. Letting the stillness be a kind of balm.

Eventually, Jana spoke, almost a whisper. “We’re not broken, you know. Just… bruised.”

Alexia’s eyes were still fixed on the lights.

“I know,” she said.

But her voice didn’t sound convinced.

And Jana didn’t push.

——————

Location: Estadi Johan Cruyff, Barça Femení league matchday

Time: Second half, mild spring afternoon

Ona jogged off the pitch with a low five for Jana, sweat glinting on her brow, her braid sticking slightly to the back of her neck.

“You’re up,” she said breathlessly. “Try not to get carded this time.”

Jana grinned, bouncing on her heels. “No promises.”

Coach gave her the nod. The assistant handed over the substitution board. Alexia, standing near the halfway line during the change, caught her eye with a barely-there glance. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just a look — steady and quiet — that said, I see you.

Jana ran onto the field.

The match wasn’t particularly high-stakes. A clean 2–0 by the 75th minute. Comfortable, almost boring. But Jana played with sharp edges — chased down loose passes, recovered at full speed, barked orders with a confidence she hadn’t worn so openly before.

From the captain’s perch in midfield, Alexia watched her. Every sprint, every clever switch.

Every time she made the same pass Alexia would’ve chosen.

The chemistry was natural. Always had been.

Commentators had started noticing.

“Look at the connection between Putellas and Fernández,” the sideline broadcaster said into the mic during a lull in play. “I know it’s cliché to say ‘they finish each other’s sentences,’ but if you watch their passing lines—”

The co-host chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

“Or maybe they finish each other’s texts too. There’s been a lot of off-field bonding between the captain and our versatile right-back lately.”

“Friendship goals?”

“Maybe more than goals, eh?”

Laughter.

The camera cut to a wide shot: Alexia and Jana exchanging a quick look after a well-defended corner. No smiles. Just precision. Trust. Proximity.

But that didn’t matter to the headlines.

In the tunnel post-match, the media swarmed like they always did. Microphones. Cameras. Half-listened questions.

Jana was pulling her warm-up top back over her head when one reporter caught her attention — smiling too eagerly, voice coated in something sticky.

“So Jana,” he started, “great performance today. You and Alexia seem to have found quite the rhythm lately — on and off the pitch?”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“Well, there’s been a lot of buzz,” he continued. “You two are inseparable these days. Dinners, events, training clips. Something more than just teammates?”

A camera clicked. Two more joined in.

Jana offered a tight, polite smile — the media-trained kind.

“We’re friends,” she said calmly. “We look out for each other.”

The reporter didn’t hide his smirk. “That’s what they all say.”

Jana turned away before she could say something sharper. She’d already given them their clip.

Inside the locker room, the energy buzzed: music, laughter, post-win glow. But Jana was quiet as she peeled off her socks, wiped grass from her shins, and stared into her open locker like it held answers.

Alexia slid onto the bench beside her without a word. She hadn’t overheard the question — but she’d seen Jana’s jaw clench from across the room. That was enough.

Jana said nothing at first. Just exhaled long through her nose.

Then: “They want to turn it into a headline.”

Alexia nodded once. “Of course they do.”

Jana looked at her, eyes sharp but tired. “What do you think it looks like?”

Alexia paused. “To them? Something soft enough to sell, but messy enough to click.”

“And to you?”

Alexia turned to her, expression unreadable.

“To me,” she said quietly, “it looks like the only real thing I have left that isn’t being watched.”

That pulled something tight in Jana’s chest.

A long beat passed.

Then Alexia added, “We don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Jana tilted her head. “But it’s hard. When everyone wants to name something that doesn’t need naming.”

Alexia looked down at her hands, calloused and tired.

“You ever notice,” she said softly, “how no one ever questions when men are close? It’s just— camaraderie. Brotherhood. Leadership. But we get tenderness, and suddenly it’s scandal.”

I Jana laughed under her breath, bitter and short. “You mean I can’t link pinkies with my captain at 2 a.m. without the whole of Twitter losing its shit?”

Alexia smiled. “Unfortunately not.”

They sat in that space again — the one between banter and truth. The one only they seemed to recognize.

Jana finally leaned her head on Alexia’s shoulder, briefly, before pulling away.

“Next time,” she said, “we should just hold hands in the dugout and call it performance art.”

Alexia smirked. “Might as well do a TikTok whilst we’re at it.”

——————

Location: Alexia’s apartment, Les Corts

Time: Rainy evening, the kind that smells like change

Rain streaked the glass like it had a vendetta.

Barcelona didn’t get this kind of weather often — the slow, mournful kind, where every drop dragged itself down the window like it couldn’t bear to fall. The city was soaked in silver. Traffic moved like a whisper. Somewhere below, a dog barked. Then silence again.

Jana held the mug in both hands, watching steam curl into the air like a secret.

The tea was too hot. She didn’t care.

Alexia sat on the windowsill, one leg up, her back against the cool frame. Her hair was still damp from the shower. She wore a crewneck with a fading Copa de la Reina logo and mismatched socks — the left one with a tiny Barça crest, the right one black and full of holes.

Between them: the soft thrum of the rain, and everything they hadn’t said.

“She left today,” Alexia said quietly.

Jana looked up.

“Olga?”

Alexia nodded. “Took the rest of her stuff. Said I could keep the moka pot.”

Jana tried for a joke. “Generous.”

Alexia didn’t laugh. Just stared at the street below like it might offer her answers.

“There wasn’t a fight,” she added. “No shouting. No tears. Just… bags, keys, a quiet door. I offered to call her a cab.”

“Did she say anything?”

Alexia shrugged. “Said she was sorry it took so long to leave.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. Jana flinched on her behalf.

Alexia glanced over, eyes tired but clear. “You ever think silence can be crueler than screaming?”

“All the time,” Jana murmured.

The rain fell harder, soft percussion against the glass.

Jana got up, crossed the room, and sat beside her on the wide ledge. Their knees touched. Neither of them pulled away.

“Do you feel better now that it’s over?” Jana asked.

Alexia was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “No. But I feel… honest. And I haven’t felt that in a while.”

Jana nodded, eyes on her chipped nail polish. “Being honest is brave.”

“No,” Alexia said. “It’s just overdue.”

A long pause stretched between them. Not uncomfortable — just open.

Then Alexia looked at her.

Really looked.

“You’ve been here,” she said softly. “Without asking why. Without asking for more. Just… here.”

Jana met her gaze. “You’d do the same.”

“I have.”

Another pause. Then Jana added, just above a whisper: “You taught me how to show up.”

Alexia blinked. She looked like she wanted to say something more — something real, raw, final — but the words didn’t come.

So instead, she reached for Jana’s empty mug, set it down carefully on the side table, and rested her head against Jana’s shoulder.

It was such a quiet thing. So soft, it barely existed. But Jana’s breath caught anyway.

After a moment, Alexia spoke again.

“Do you think we’ll always have this?”

Jana didn’t answer right away.

She looked at the window. At the rain. At the streetlight blinking down the road, the red tail of a passing taxi.

Then she said: “If we’re careful.”

Alexia’s voice was barely audible. “And if we’re not?”

Jana smiled, small and sad. “Then we’ll ruin it beautifully.”

A knock of thunder in the distance. Or maybe it was just her heart.

Alexia sat up slowly, their knees still pressed together.

She looked at Jana for a long moment. Then smiled — not big, not bright. Just enough to say: Thank you for not asking me to be anyone else tonight.

“I should sleep,” Alexia said.

“Yeah,” Jana replied, standing. “Me too.”

She grabbed her coat. Slipped her shoes on. Headed for the door.

Alexia stayed seated.

Jana paused at the threshold.

“Night,” she said.

Alexia nodded. “Goodnight.”

——————

Location: Ciutat Esportiva + Alexia’s rooftop + group chat chaos

Time: Mid-April, a rare free Friday afternoon

The spring sun over Sant Joan Despí had finally stopped being shy.

Training had ended early — the kind of light session that came with laughter, rondos, and a reminder that the season’s end was creeping into view. There was the Liga title to secure, the Champions League semis to prep for, but the vibe was soft. The kind of softness only April could bring.

Jana leaned against the fence outside the training ground, still in her recovery slides, socks pulled high, water bottle tucked under her chin as she typed with both thumbs.

JANA (to group chat):

Bruna says no to matching bikinis. Coward behavior.

ONA:

Bruna just doesn’t want to get mistaken for your girlfriend again.

BRUNA:

i’m literally just trying to tan without headlines thanks

PATRI:

as long as you all let me nap on the boat i’m good

(also Jana stop bullying Bruna we’re still recovering from Ibiza ‘23)

Jana laughed out loud. A warm kind of laugh. The kind that came easily now.

“Funny?” came a familiar voice.

She turned — Alexia, walking toward her, sunglasses already on, curls pulled into a low ponytail. She looked relaxed, tank top tucked loosely into her joggers, one AirPod dangling from her collar like she was too lazy to put it back in its case.

“Group chat’s on fire,” Jana said. “Patri’s already threatening nap violence and Bruna’s scared of coordinated swimwear.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Mallorca’s gonna be chaos.”

“The best kind.”

Alexia smiled. A real one. Not the polite one for cameras. The kind that tugged at the corner of her mouth and made the scar near her lip dip just slightly.

“You still good for London?” she asked.

“Cowboy Carter? Absolutely,” Jana said. “I’ve already got an outfit.”

Alexia eyed her warily. “Please tell me it’s not fringe.”

“No comment.”

“God help me.”

They walked together to the lot, side by side, no rush. Just rhythm.

A few fans outside the gates spotted them, waved. One shouted something about “Jalexia!” — and neither of them flinched anymore.

That night, they sat on Alexia’s rooftop.

The city stretched below them, warm and wide and alive. A bowl of olives balanced dangerously on a stack of unread newspapers. Jana had one leg thrown over the other, her phone out, filming Alexia mid-eye-roll.

“Can you at least pretend to like being on camera?” she teased.

Alexia deadpanned into the lens. “Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a Gen Z menace.”

Jana giggled. Posted it to Instagram Stories immediately.

Within minutes, the DMs started rolling in. Speculations. Heart emojis. Fans spiraling over a blurry photo of their feet resting side by side on the coffee table.

Jana handed over her phone. Alexia scrolled through the replies, amused.

“Still think we should’ve hard-launched at the Beyoncé concert,” Jana said, taking a sip of sparkling water.

“I’m not hard-launching anything except my playlist,” Alexia replied. “We’re doing deep cuts only. ‘Alligator Tears’ or nothing.”

“I love it when you pretend you’re not a fan.”

Alexia turned her head slowly. “I’ve literally seen her live four times.”

Jana grinned. “Exactly. Closet Beyhive.”

There was a quiet after that. Not awkward — just filled with warmth.

The kind of silence you share with someone who has seen you, unfiltered, and stayed anyway.

Jana rested her chin on her knee. “You told your family I’m coming to Mallorca, right?”

Alexia nodded. “Told them I’m arriving a week later. You’ll be there first with the girls. I’ll meet you after I spend some time with mamá and Alba.”

“And we’re still doing Sóller?”

“If we don’t, I’ll cry.”

“I’m not carrying you out of a vineyard again.”

“You dropped me.”

“You told me you could walk.”

“I lied.”

They both laughed.

And for a moment — the kind that arrives softly, unannounced — everything felt aligned. No headlines. No speculation. No undercurrent of sadness.

Just friendship, blooming in its own time. Neither defined nor denied. Something that had survived the cold and come out steady on the other side.

A breeze picked up.

Alexia reached down, grabbed a blanket, and tossed it over both their legs.

Jana didn’t move away.

The stars above were faint — too many city lights — but Jana looked up anyway.

“Hey, Ale?”

“Mm?”

“I think we made it through.”

Alexia looked at her. “Through what?”

Jana smiled. “Whatever that was. The part where everything hurt.”

Alexia was quiet for a moment. Then she leaned back in her seat, gazing at the sky, one hand resting casually on Jana’s ankle.

“We’re not done hurting,” she said.

“No?”

“But we’re not hiding anymore.”

——————

Location: London

Time: June 13h, 2025 — a few weeks before the Euros, Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter Tour

London was hot.

Not Barcelona hot — not sun-baked plazas and dry skin — but the muggy kind, where the air sat on your neck like a damp scarf. But Jana didn’t care. She had her cowgirl hat on, and Alexia was next to her with a matching cowgirl hat, shoulder-to-shoulder as they wove through the crowd outside the stadium.

“Okay,” Jana said, bouncing on the balls of her feet, “top three songs you need her to play. Go.”

Alexia, cool in a black leather jacket and boots she’d sworn were “practical” but were definitely from some suspicious Balenciaga drop, barely blinked.

“Alligator Tears, Texas Hold ‘Em, Riverdance Interlude.”

Jana groaned. “Ugh, Riverdance Interlude is not even a real track.”

“It is in my heart,” Alexia said.

They were close now, almost to the arena doors, moving with the tide of rhinestones and leather fringe. Jana had painted tiny silver stars under her eyes. Alexia had on a hat she borrowed from Patri and refused to return.

“Wait—” Jana stopped in her tracks, grabbing Alexia’s arm. “You posted the cowboy selfie on your story, didn’t you?”

Alexia shrugged. “Let them talk.”

And oh, they had. Her DMs were chaos.

MAPI: 🤠👀

ONA: You both look like you’re about to release a lesbian country album and honestly I’d stream

PATRI: Nice hats!

They entered the arena as the lights dimmed.

The opening visuals were thunder and honey — a wide screen filled with prairie moons and black cowgirl silhouettes. When Beyoncé stepped out — tall, glorious, draped in midnight fringe and holding a silver mic like a weapon — the arena roared.

And Jana? Jana screamed. Full-volume. Throat-shredding.

Alexia turned to her mid-Ya Ya and said, completely serious:

“If you faint, I’m not carrying you out.”

Jana didn’t hear her. She was too busy screaming the chorus.

They danced — shamelessly. Jana pulled Alexia into a spin during Spaghettii, and Alexia flipped her off, then smiled so wide Jana thought maybe she’d keep it forever.

During Alligator Tears, Alexia went still — not sad, just reverent.

“She wrote this for someone she still loves,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Jana.

Jana looked at her, face caught in soft pink light, and nodded. “Don’t they always?”

Later, after the encore, the stadium lights still pulsing, Jana handed her phone to a stranger and said, “Can you take a photo? Sorry — we’re like, married.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Divorced, actually. Very bitter.”

The photo was a little blurry. But it captured it: Alexia with one hand on Jana’s shoulder, Jana grinning too hard, the cowboy hat tilted halfway off her head.

They looked like joy had found them. And neither of them had run from it.

Back at their hotel, still buzzing, still barefoot from ditching their boots in the hallway:

“I needed that,” Jana said, brushing her teeth with one foot on the sink.

Alexia leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You needed a stadium of screaming women, and a Beyoncé gospel interlude to remind you life is good?”

Jana spit into the sink and grinned. “Yes.”

Alexia shrugged. “Fair.”

She turned to leave, then paused.

“We should do Mallorca right after this. Just… breathe. Before the Euros.”

Jana wiped her mouth, quiet for a moment.

“Yeah,” she said. “I want to see you in sunlight.”

Alexia looked at her for a long time. Something flickered across her face — recognition, maybe. Of something bigger than either of them were naming.

“Okay,” she said. “Then don’t forget your sunscreen.”

And so they flew home with polaroids, and half-memorized harmonies.

Not everything had to be defined.

Some things could just be good.

————————————————————————

A/N: Let me know if you would be interested in reading more friendship fics.

[arabella-syntax]

have you through about writing more jana+aggie things? i would love to see more

Hey anon! If I happened to see new fan clips stitched up on social media, I would be inspired. Never say never!

[arabella-syntax]

I loved Let’s play Pretend…they were so cute 🥰

I’m glad it came off that way. Intention was to make it campy, fun, endearing at the same time.

Thank you for reading!

[arabella-syntax]

Everything I Love Catches Fire Eventually (One-shot)

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

Summary:

everything i love catches fire eventually.

she was the match. you were the spark. together, you built hell and called it home.

Word count: >5k

————————————————————————

You shouldn’t have texted her.

You know that now. You knew it before. You knew it when your thumb hovered above the send button like a guillotine blade.

But like most of your worst decisions, it came with a good excuse.

“You left your necklace here.”

She didn’t. The necklace was in your purse, tangled with a hair tie and a receipt from the bar where she whispered I love you like it was a joke. You’d fished it out three days ago and held it like evidence in a trial that never took place.

Now here you are. Two drinks deep. Lips raw from biting. In her hallway again, the smell of bergamot and betrayal crawling up the walls like smoke.

“Are you going to say hi,” she says, voice cool, amused. She leans against the doorframe in a hoodie and nothing else, because of course she does.

You arch a brow. “No, I thought I’d just silently haunt the corridor like your emotional consequences.”

Her mouth twitches.

There it is. That laugh you’ve both weaponised.

You step inside. She closes the door behind you like it’s a vault, and you’re the secret she’s not supposed to want anymore.

It’s been… what? Six weeks? Eight? Since she said the thing. Since you said worse.

Since she scorched you with her silence and you retaliated by sleeping with someone who looked like her in just the wrong ways.

Your first mistake was loving her.

Your second was thinking she wouldn’t burn the house down when she got bored.

Your third is being here now.

“Nice to see you,” she says.

You glance around. Her apartment hasn’t changed. Same minimalist decor. Same self-help books she never finishes. Same plants she forgets to water unless you remind her.

“You painted the walls.”

She shrugs. “Felt like I needed a change.”

You eye the colour. A dull shade of smoke grey.

“Bold,” you deadpan.

Alexia crosses her arms. “You said you had my necklace.”

“Right.”

You reach into your coat pocket and hand it to her. It’s coiled like a noose.

She takes it carefully, like it might bite.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Then she does that thing — that infuriating, goddamn thing — where she tilts her head and studies you like you’re something tragic in a gallery she can’t stop returning to.

“You look tired,” she murmurs.

“I sleep better now.”

That’s a lie. You haven’t slept properly since she left. Your dreams are just reruns of arguments with better lighting.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks, already walking to the kitchen. She doesn’t wait for your answer. She never did.

You follow like a fool. Like a moth. Like someone who knows exactly how this ends but doesn’t mind the inferno.

She pours you a glass of red wine and hands it over like a peace treaty soaked in gasoline.

You both drink.

“So how’s football?” you ask, once the silence starts to calcify.

Alexia snorts. “Still kicking balls. You?”

You smirk. “Still burning bridges and writing about it.”

You never wrote before her. Now your Notes app reads like a Bon Iver album on painkillers.

There’s a long pause.

“I heard about you and Leila,” she says, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t keep her up the night she found out. Like she didn’t punch her shower wall so hard the tile cracked.

“Mutual destruction is the fastest way to heal,” you reply.

Another lie.

Leila was kind. Too kind. You sabotaged it within a week.

Alexia sips her wine like she’s trying not to scream.

“So why’d you really come?” she asks. “Was it the necklace? Or were you hoping I would still be flammable?”

You grin, sharp and tired. “Baby, I’m the fucking arsonist. You know that.”

She laughs, low and wrecked.

And just like that, the tension ignites again — old flames licking the edges of something you never buried deep enough.

You shouldn’t kiss her.

You really, really shouldn’t.

But then she says your name like a confession and touches your wrist like a match to a fuse, and you’re gone.

There are moments—small, specific, cinematic—where you swear the universe is just fucking with you for fun.

Like now.

Like Alexia’s thigh pressed between yours on the kitchen counter. Like the bitter tang of wine still clinging to both your lips. Like the heat of her mouth moving against yours like it never forgot how.

This isn’t reunion.

This is relapse.

You’re not kissing Alexia because you miss her.

You’re kissing Alexia because she ruined you so well, no one else feels quite right.

Your back hits the fridge. She lifts you without asking. Her hands know you like crime scenes. Your body responds like it’s been aching for arrest.

“I hate you,” she whispers into your neck.

“Not as much as I hate myself,” you gasp.

There’s a beat. Then she bites you.

Later, after the world stops spinning and her breathing steadies like a clock you want to smash, you lie on her bed in the kind of silence reserved for hotel rooms after affairs.

You watch the ceiling. It doesn’t blink back.

Alexia stares at the fan like it’s got answers.

“I should not let this happen again,” she says, voice low.

You stretch one arm behind your head. “Me neither. But we’re terrible at rules.”

“I burned all your letters.”

You nod. “I made a bonfire out of your texts. Invited my therapist. She brought marshmallows.”

A ghost of a smile.

Your jokes always did get her at the worst times.

It’s 2:45 a.m. when you sit on her balcony, wearing her hoodie and your regret.

Barcelona is quiet, which is rare. Or maybe you’ve finally gone deaf to the city’s noise. Maybe the only thing you hear now is your own internal alarm.

Behind you, Alexia lights a cigarette. She doesn’t smoke unless she’s unraveling.

You glance at her.

“Since when?”

“Since tonight.”

She passes it to you. You take a drag even though you hate it. Even though it tastes like high school mistakes and cheap revenge.

“So what are we?” she asks.

You exhale slow. “Same as we ever were. Disaster-adjacent.”

“Is this a reset or a retry?”

“Alexia,” you say, turning to her, “if you need to label it, it’s probably already over.”

She laughs, but it’s hollow.

“I loved you,” she says, like she’s telling a ghost.

“You still do,” you reply, like an accusation.

She doesn’t argue.

Instead, she takes the cigarette back and stares at the horizon like she’s waiting for it to catch fire.

You sleep in her bed.

You wake up tangled. You always did.

When you try to leave, she grabs your wrist.

“Don’t,” she says, quiet.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because if I stay, we’ll make it worse.”

She laughs again—bitter, bleeding.

“What’s worse than this?”

You kiss her forehead.

“You’re asking the arsonist.”

Outside, the sun’s already rising.

You walk down the street with your hair still smelling like her shampoo, your thighs aching, your lungs raw from secondhand damage.

You think about what she said. About the necklace. About the fire.

About how love—real, brutal love—isn’t just the spark. It’s what you burn to keep it alive.

And maybe some girls are forests.

But you?

You’ve always been the fucking flame.

You told yourself you’d leave and mean it this time.

You even made it down the block, hoodie zipped, bruises blooming like wildflowers in all the secret places.

But then she texted:

“Did you mean it?”

And like the emotional fire hazard you are, you doubled back.

Now you’re in her kitchen again, two mugs of coffee and a list of unspoken things between you longer than the Catalan anthem.

You watch her. She’s barefoot, hair tied up, hoodie sleeves too long. She looks domestic. Devastatingly so.

“I meant all of it,” you say. “Even the parts that hurt me.”

Alexia doesn’t look up. “That’s a terrible way to love.”

“I never claimed to be good at it.”

She hums. “You were just… good at me.”

There’s that silence again. The kind that settles in your collarbones like grief. The kind that smells like wet ash and old perfume.

“You think we keep doing this because we can’t quit,” she says.

You nod. “I think we keep doing this because no one else knows the code to detonate us properly.”

She finally looks at you.

Eyes like embers.

You wonder how you ever walked away from them the first time.

That afternoon, you don’t leave.

Instead, you sit on her living room floor surrounded by photo albums and the remains of a past neither of you has the spine to fully erase.

She finds the one from Mallorca. The trip you took before it all started burning.

She holds it up.

“We look happy here.”

You glance at it.

“We were.”

“Do you think we ever actually liked each other, or were we just addicted to the version of ourselves that came out around each other?”

You smirk. “I think you liked who you were when I made you laugh.”

She smiles—sharp, self-protective.

“You’re right. I liked her a lot.”

By 6 p.m., you’ve fallen into the old rhythm: sarcasm, sabotage, small graces mistaken for affection.

You cook. She pours the wine. The whole thing looks like a relationship if you blur your eyes enough.

She hands you a glass and says, “This feels like pretend.”

You clink hers. “It always did.”

You drink. You toast to what was, what might have been, what still stings under your ribcage.

Then, as you’re drying dishes, she says it.

The worst thing.

The most honest thing.

“I’m seeing someone.”

You freeze.

Of course she is. She’s Alexia fucking Putellas. The whole world wants to kiss her, kill for her, write eulogies about how she held a wine glass.

“Oh,” you say, like you stubbed your soul on a piece of furniture.

“It’s not serious,” she offers.

You nod. “Neither are landmines. Still does the job.”

She steps closer. “I didn’t tell you to hurt you.”

“No,” you say, setting down the glass. “You told me because you needed to see if I’d still burn for you.”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “Do you?”

You don’t answer.

She already knows.

You fuck one more time, like it’s the last cigarette in a dying pack.

It’s raw, silent, teeth-bared.

No I love yous.

Just the sound of every reason you shouldn’t be here crashing against the walls of her bedroom.

When it’s over, she lies facedown. You trace the outline of her shoulder blade like you’re reading Braille for danger.

“You should go,” she says into the pillow.

You nod.

You don’t move.

Later, when she’s in the shower, you take the old photo from Mallorca and fold it once, then again, then again.

You leave it on the counter with a note:

“You were the smoke. I was the spark. Together, we built hell and called it home.”

Then you leave.

This time, for real.

You think.

You try. You really do.

You stop saving her voicemails.

You stop checking her matchday stories.

You stop reading horoscopes like they’re coded warnings from a universe too bored to be subtle.

You date someone new. Someone lovely. Someone who says “bless you” when you sneeze and doesn’t turn intimacy into a courtroom cross-examination.

It lasts three weeks. Two and a half if you don’t count the slow fizzle of your enthusiasm.

She kiss you like she’s trying not to break you.

You miss being ruined.

You tell your therapist you’re over Alexia.

She nods, scribbles something, and says, “You mentioned her six times in the past ten minutes.”

“Habit,” you say.

“Obsession,” she says.

You both sip tea and pretend you didn’t just name the ghost in the room.

You see her again two months later.

You don’t plan it. That would be unhinged.

But Barcelona is small when your pain is big.

She’s on Passeig de Sant Joan, hair in a messy bun, hoodie sleeves pulled over her palms, sunglasses hiding nothing.

You’re carrying groceries and a month of dignity.

She sees you first.

Of course she does.

“Hi,” she says, like you didn’t explode each other in every room of her flat.

You squint. “Shouldn’t you be at training?”

She smirks. “Off day. Coach thinks I need rest.”

You hum. “He’s right. Your stamina’s always been questionable.”

That earns a laugh. One of the good ones.

The one that starts in her chest and ends in yours.

You hate how easy it still is.

“How’ve you been?” she asks.

“Functional,” you lie.

“Liar.”

“Hypocrite.”

She tilts her head. “Still writing poems about me?”

“Only the ones I don’t publish.”

“Still sleeping alone?”

You hold her gaze. “Only when I want to.”

She doesn’t look away.

She never did.

You grab coffee because pretending you’ve matured is easier than walking away.

She sits across from you like no time has passed.

Like the last time she touched you didn’t leave a permanent watermark.

She tells you she’s still seeing that girl. The one with the cute laugh and zero emotional wreckage.

You tell her you’re trying celibacy.

She snorts. Nearly spills her cortado.

You watch her laugh and hate how your body still lights up like it’s been waiting for a match.

You finish your drink and stand.

“Don’t text me,” you say.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll reply.”

She watches you leave.

That night, you dream about her again.

Not the dramatic dreams. Not the ones with sex and screaming and slamming doors.

Just one where you’re brushing your teeth together.

One where she steals your toothpaste and pretends she didn’t.

One where it was normal.

Safe.

One where you made it out alive.

You wake up crying.

And laughing.

At yourself, mostly.

2:10 a.m.

Your phone buzzes.

Alexia:

“You forgot your lighter.”

You stare at it for a long time.

You light a cigarette you don’t want.

Exhale.

“Keep it.”

Then — in the cruelest move of all — you put your phone on silent.

You do not call.

You do not text.

You simply sit there, letting the silence settle like ash.

Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let something burn out without fanning the flame.

The worst thing no one tells you about healing?

It’s boring.

No midnight dramatics.

No sobbing on tiled floors.

No dopamine hit of texting your ex something catastrophic and poetic at the same time.

Just… tea. Walks. Breathwork.

Your therapist calls it “reclaiming regulation.”

You call it “emotional gentrification.”

You move cities. Temporarily, you say.

Your friends raise eyebrows.

You blame work. Language classes. Soul-searching.

But really, it’s the corners of Barcelona. The ghosts that greet you at every bus stop. The coffee shop chair where her knee knocked yours. The streetlamp you leaned against after your fifth almost-breakup.

Madrid’s cleaner. Louder. Less haunted.

Except for you. You’re still haunted.

Three months go by.

You don’t text her.

She doesn’t text you.

Mutually assured silence.

Then — one day — a text arrives.

“I never lit the fire. You just kept handing me the gasoline.”

You laugh.

Then you cry.

Then you laugh again, because of course she’d send you a metaphor in the text.

You frame it. Not to romanticise it.

But to remind yourself: You gave her the tools. She just knew how to strike them.

It’s your birthday when she texts again.

Just a single message.

“Happy birthday, incendiaria.”

You stare at it for a minute. Maybe two.

You consider replying something sharp.

Something like, “The fire department says hi.”

Something like, “I don’t burn for you anymore.”

But the truth?

You do.

Not with the old, ravenous heat.

But something slower now.

Contained.

A fireplace, not a house blaze.

Warmth instead of destruction.

So you don’t respond.

Not because you’re angry.

Because you’re healing.

And that has to mean something now.

Sometimes, late at night, when Madrid is quieter than you thought a city could be, you still think about her.

About the mess. The metaphors. The smell of her hoodie.

But you don’t miss the chaos.

You miss the quiet before the match struck.

You miss who you were when she looked at you like you were worth surviving for.

But you don’t miss burning.

Not anymore.

————————————————————————

A/N: I swear the next fics will have a much lighter tone.

[arabella-syntax]

Don’t Wanna See You at the Party (One-shot)

Pairing: Leah Williamson x FemmeReader

Summary: six months since the breakup, you said you were over it. then you showed up to the party she might be at. in that outfit. wearing that perfume. ready to heal — just loud enough for her to notice. but she’s here. and she’s glowing. and she’s with another.

Word count: 5k

————————————————————————

You stare at your reflection with the kind of contempt usually reserved for exorcisms and Instagram Lives.

This top? Slutty.

This skirt? Dangerous.

These heels? Certified weapons of post-breakup warfare.

“I look unbothered,” you declare flatly, smoothing the hem of your barely-there dress. It’s the colour of sin and just as breathable. Your group chat is going off in the background — a collective scream of: don’t go, you’re spiralling, isn’t she gonna be there??

Which is why you muted them three hours ago.

There’s a fine art to showing up to a party you shouldn’t be at. An entire thesis could be written about “accidentally” looking your best while maintaining an aura of I didn’t even think about this, I swear.

Tonight, you’re the thesis.

Tonight, you’re the dissertation and the defence.

Tonight, you are the girl Leah Williamson broke up with in April and the girl she’s going to see again — accidentally, coincidentally, cosmically — in July.

You reach for your perfume. The one you wore when she first told you she loved you, head pressed into your neck, hands somewhere between holy and hellish. You hesitate.

Then you spray it.

Twice.

You don’t believe in closure. You believe in cleavage.

“Let her think I moved on,” you mutter. “Let her burn.”

Your flatmate pokes her head in, visibly horrified. “You’re actually going? To her party?”

“It’s not her party,” you lie. “It’s Alex’s birthday.”

“Alex is her mutual. And that invitation was a landmine in a glitter envelope. You realise that, right?”

“I’ve been bombed by worse.”

Your flatmate squints. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you’re fine by dressing like a music video villain.”

You smirk. “Good. Maybe I’ll lip-sync something devastating in the bathroom mirror later.”

She groans and throws a pillow at you. You duck, flawlessly.

You’re already thinking about your entrance. The timing. The music. What kind of walk says “I forgot you existed” but also “You’ll never recover from losing me”? You land somewhere between runway model and the angel of vengeance.

————

Outside, the Uber’s pulling up. You give yourself one last look in the mirror. The kind of look that would make your therapist ask, “Is this about empowerment or revenge?”

The answer, of course, is yes.

Let the games begin.

The door swings open and immediately, you hate everyone.

The music is offensively cheerful. Someone’s playing Charli XCX like it’s a warm-up ritual for spiritual rebirth. People are dancing in that ironic, too-cool East London way — all elbows and micro-movements, like joy is embarrassing and must be disguised as disinterest.

You make your way through the crowd like Moses, if Moses wore red lipstick and self-loathing. A girl with bangs and too much glitter offers you a shot. You don’t ask what it is. You down it. Fireball, maybe. Regret, definitely.

You tell yourself you’re here for Alex. It’s her birthday. Technically true. But the truth has never stopped you from lying well.

You spot her before she spots you. Of course. The room bends in her direction like she’s gravity and everyone else is just debris.

Leah fucking Williamson.

She’s standing near the kitchen, drink in one hand, hip cocked just enough to be fatal. And beside her — there it is. The final nail. The girl.

You blink. She’s tall. Brunette. Probably vegan. Wears a matching co-ord like it’s a political statement. You’ve never hated a stranger more efficiently.

Leah laughs at something she says, head tilted, tongue tucked behind her teeth in that way you used to call her “Oh, babe, you’re trying not to smile, you’re so obvious” look.

Your stomach turns in on itself like a traitor. You drain your drink.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” a voice hisses beside you.

It’s Keira. Mutual friend. Professional meddler. Also the last person you texted before coming here — “Should I be hot or civil or both?”

“Both,” she replied. “But don’t be weird.”

“I’m here for Alex,” you say again, because if you repeat it enough, it becomes true. That’s how religion works.

Keira looks at you like she’s about to perform an intervention via smudging stick and sarcasm.

“I don’t think Leah knows you’re coming.”

You smile, glassy and murderous. “Good. I want her to be surprised.”

Keira winces. “This isn’t a Netflix limited series.”

“No. It’s worse. It’s real life, and I’m the unhinged ex with a decent skincare routine.”

She snorts, because she can’t argue with facts.

Behind her, you catch Leah looking at you.

It’s quick — a flash of recognition, then discomfort, then the worst possible thing: indifference. Her gaze flicks away like you’re no more than a mildly interesting art piece someone bought just to fill a wall.

You clench your jaw. Turn away. This is fine. This is going great. This is the exact opposite of spiraling.

Keira watches you spiral.

“Don’t. Do not make a scene.”

“I’m not gonna make a scene,” you say, already planning three potential scenes. One involving tears, one involving karaoke, and one where you lock yourself in the guest bedroom and text your ex from the floor like a Victorian widow.

You reach for another drink. Someone hands you something bubbly and dangerously pink.

You down it in one go.

Across the room, Leah’s girlfriend (you assume it’s her girlfriend — or her rebound, or worse: her “emotionally safe space with benefits”) leans in and whispers something in her ear.

Leah laughs again.

You consider walking into traffic.

“Let’s go outside,” Keira says, yanking your arm.

“Why?”

“Because you’re about to catch a charge.”

You let her pull you toward the patio. The drink starts to hit your bloodstream like bad news. You’re officially floaty. Perfect.

Before you disappear through the sliding doors, you glance back.

Leah’s looking again.

This time, she doesn’t look away.

You smile like a knife.

She’s the one who should’ve stayed home.

————

The garden is where people go to pretend they don’t care that they’re being watched.

Fairy lights are strung up like apologies, and everyone outside is either chain-smoking or fake-laughing too loudly. You grab a cigarette from a nearly-empty pack abandoned on the table. You don’t smoke. But tonight’s not about health. Tonight’s about optics.

You light it wrong. It sputters. You try again. Inhale like you know what you’re doing. Immediately choke.

The universe offers no relief. Only humiliation in soft lighting.

You lean against the wooden fence, vaguely dizzy, staring up at the string lights and thinking about all the times Leah said, “I hate parties, but you make them better.” Which is funny, now. Because you’re at a party, and she’s with someone else. So either she lied, or you just don’t make anything better anymore.

Footsteps. Gravel. That specific crunch that announces something important — or someone regrettable.

You don’t even turn. You already know it’s her.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Leah says, and there it is — the voice you’ve been trying not to hear every time a Nike ad comes on.

You take another drag. Almost competent, this time. “Funny. I didn’t think I’d still recognise your voice. Or your walk. But I guess old habits die as slowly as you did in our relationship.”

She winces, then smirks. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

“Thank you. I rehearsed.”

She leans against the fence next to you, too close for comfort, too far for clarity.

You glance at her. She looks stupidly good, in that effortless way that made you irrationally angry when you were dating. Like God designed her out of stubbornness. Or thirst trap.

Leah looks at you sideways. “You’re smoking now?”

“No. I’m accessorising.”

She huffs a laugh. “Still funny.”

“You should try it sometime.”

A beat.

The silence fills with everything unsaid. You picture it like a balloon — bloated with confessions, full of teeth.

She breaks it first.

“You look good.”

You scoff. “You still lie like it’s a love language.”

“I’m not lying.”

You face her. “Then don’t say that to me. Say it to your new girl. The one you picked out of the emotionally available catalogue.”

Leah’s jaw ticks. “She’s not—”

“I don’t care.”

“You do.”

You hate that she’s right. You hate that she knows it. You hate that you know it, and can’t even deny it with enough conviction to sound like a grown-up.

You inhale, hold it, let the smoke claw at your lungs before exhaling sideways. “Why’d you follow me out here?”

She shrugs, looking up at the lights like they might hand her a script. “Dunno. Just… saw you leave. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh, I’m perfect. Sober enough to remember why we broke up. Drunk enough to possibly act like it didn’t destroy me.”

“You think it didn’t destroy me too?”

You laugh. Ugly and sharp. “If it did, you’re very well-recovered. I should get the name of your therapist. Or your rebound.”

Leah flinches. She hides it quickly, but not quick enough. You watch the mask slip, even for a second.

“That’s not fair,” she says, quiet now.

You shrug. “Neither was the way you stopped showing up.”

She doesn’t argue. Because she can’t.

You finish the cigarette and toss it into someone’s potted basil. Hope it dies. Like your ability to be civil.

“I should go,” you say.

“You won’t.”

You look at her. “Wanna bet?”

She steps forward. Close. Her voice low and hard. “You came here to be seen. So see me.”

You want to scream. Or kiss her. Or throw her in the compost bin and cry into your own hair.

“I came here to prove I’m over it,” you say. “Over you.”

Leah’s expression shifts. Almost soft. Almost cruel. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

You don’t realise they are until she says it.

You step back.

“You’re not allowed to do this.”

“Do what?”

“This. Say all the right things. Sound like you still know me. Make me wish I hadn’t worn this outfit so you’d suffer more.”

Leah actually laughs — a sound you wish you didn’t miss so viscerally.

“I am suffering,” she says.

You look at her — really look — and for a second, it’s all still there. The hand on your thigh in cabs. The long drives to nowhere. The way she kissed you like she was afraid you’d disappear mid-breath.

You blink. It’s gone.

“I don’t care,” you whisper.

You do. God, you do.

Neither of you says anything.

The party rages behind the glass. Inside, everyone’s dancing. Drinking. Laughing.

Out here? You’re grieving.

And pretending not to.

————

The guest bathroom is a shrine to poor decisions.

There’s a neon-pink LED sign above the mirror that reads Bad Bitch Energy — flickering like it’s exhausted from trying. Someone left half a margarita on the sink. The floor’s sticky. The air smells like Zara perfume, panic, and lost dignity.

You lock the door behind you and stare at yourself in the mirror.

Mascara slightly smudged. Lipstick still lethal. Eyes like you just murdered someone emotionally and got away with it on a technicality.

You run cold water. Splash your face. Try to slow your breathing like your therapist taught you.

Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Forget your ex for—

The knock interrupts your downward spiral.

“Occupied,” you bark.

Another knock.

“Jesus, give me a second!”

The door handle rattles. You consider violence. Then —

“It’s me.”

You freeze.

Leah.

You open the door halfway. “Do you mind?”

“I do, actually.”

She slips in like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she once did — emotionally, metaphorically, carnally.

“I needed a minute,” you say, voice hard. “Alone.”

She shuts the door behind her. “You had one. I need mine.”

You cross your arms. “What is this? What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

You scoff. “Great. That’s comforting.”

Leah leans against the sink. Looks at you. You hate how familiar it is — the way she tilts her head, the way her hands stay in her pockets like she doesn’t trust them near you.

“You still do that thing with your hands,” she murmurs. “When you’re nervous.”

You shove them behind you.

“Don’t start,” you warn.

She smirks. “You always say that when you want me to.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glare at her. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I haven’t seen you in months and you’re standing in front of me looking like you invented heartbreak and turned it into fashion.”

You don’t know whether to slap her or kiss her or both in rapid succession.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say.

“Neither should you.”

Another silence. Heavy with history.

She moves toward you. It’s a small bathroom. There’s no room to dodge.

“You look good,” she says again. Softer this time. Less rehearsed.

“Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I said don’t.”

But your voice cracks on the second syllable. And Leah hears it. Feels it. You both do.

You look away. Try to summon sarcasm but come up short. All that comes out is honesty. Ugly, hot, trembling honesty.

“I hate that I still want you.”

Leah doesn’t answer. She just steps forward and touches your wrist — light, like a maybe.

“You think I don’t?”

“Then why did you leave?”

She swallows. “Because I didn’t know how to stay.”

There it is. The heartbreak wrapped in ribbon. The answer you always suspected but never got.

She’s close now. Too close.

“I still think about that night,” she says. “Your birthday. The hallway. All those coats. You kissed me first.”

“You kissed me back.”

“You tasted like cherries and trouble.”

You almost smile. Almost.

You don’t mean to reach for her. It just happens. Like muscle memory. Like divine punishment. Your fingers graze hers. She doesn’t pull away.

Then—

Bang bang bang.

“HELLO? SOMEONE DIED IN THERE?”

Some drunk girl. Slurring. Unbothered.

The moment pops like a bubble.

You jerk away. Leah does too.

You don’t say anything. You just unlock the door and slip out past her.

Not a word. Not a look.

You leave her in the mirror. Staring at herself. Probably wondering why she still can’t let go.

You don’t say goodbye. You just leave.

Past the hallway photo wall where you’re still smiling in the background of someone else’s memory. Past Alex, mid-shot, who calls after you with, “Wait—where are you—?”

You wave vaguely. “Bathroom emergency.”

And then you’re gone.

————

Heels on pavement. Pavement on fire. Heart in your throat. Pride bleeding out one ankle at a time.

This was never about winning. It was about surviving. And at some point between the fifth drink and the almost-kiss, you realised — Leah didn’t come to the party alone.

But worse: she didn’t come empty.

She came full of everything you used to be.

You make it halfway down the street before the voice calls out behind you.

“Y/N—wait.”

You keep walking. Because this is your Oscar moment. You’ve earned the final dramatic exit. The soft close. The full fade to black.

“Y/N,” she says again, catching up. “Please.”

You stop.

Only because she asked nicely.

You turn slowly. Let her see the mascara. The warpaint. The cracked gloss. You’re not a person — you’re a final scene.

“What?” you ask, voice flat as asphalt.

Leah’s breathing hard like she ran three blocks and not twenty seconds of her own consequences.

“I just… I didn’t want it to end like that.”

“You mean again?”

“No. I mean—tonight.”

You cross your arms. “You got what you wanted, Leah. I came, I broke, I left. Encore?”

She flinches. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” you scoff. “Then what was it like? A nostalgia project? A little emotional spelunking for old time’s sake?”

She looks down. Then up. Straight into you.

“I miss you.”

Silence.

Wind moves a plastic bag across the pavement like it’s choreographed. A car alarm coughs in the distance. You wait.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” you finally whisper. “You don’t get to miss me when you’re the one who made me something to miss.”

Leah’s jaw clenches. “I know.”

“No. You don’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be out here pretending this is salvageable. That we’re salvageable. You left. You stayed gone. You filled the hole with someone who doesn’t know you cry at perfume ads and get nosebleeds when you lie.”

She looks like she might cry. But you’re too tired to hope she does.

“I still love you,” she says.

It doesn’t land.

Not the way it used to.

You laugh. Once. Loud enough that it hurts your throat.

“You love the idea of me,” you say. “Not the maintenance.”

Her face twists. Pain, maybe. Or recognition.

“I loved you then,” she says. “I love you now.”

You shake your head. “You loved me when I was easy. When I didn’t need too much. When I was convenient. But the minute I needed you to stay through the ugly, through the unflattering, through the mess — you ran.”

“I was scared.”

“Yeah? So was I. But I still chose you.”

She doesn’t answer.

You look at her. Really look. Blonde hair pulled back. Eyes tired. Shoulders hunched like she’s still carrying your goodbye.

“Goodnight, Leah,” you say.

Not goodbye. Not again.

Just goodnight.

You turn. You walk. The pavement doesn’t crack beneath you. The sky doesn’t split open. You’re just a girl leaving a party that should’ve never happened.

Behind you, she stays.

For once, she doesn’t follow.

————————————————————————

A/N: Much love and peace ✌️.

[arabella-syntax]

in love with your fics esp between the lines xx

When I started out writing, I was not expecting much at all (still the same btw), it was just an outlet for me.

I have been reading a lot of fanfics on Tumblr, and I am simply in awe with the quality of the writing. I’ve written fanfics before, but it has been a long time. So with my current sabbatical from my career/work - it has been my personal way of just expressing all the months of repressed stories I have in my head.

Thank you for reading, and reaching out Anon!

[arabella-syntax]

Pa’ Qué Me Invitan?

Pairing: Leila Ouahabi x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: You never meant to get roped into Spain NT’s brand of chaos — brunch debates over “sexy potatoes,” van rides that feel like a reality show, rooftop bars where Salma yells “Leila’s in love!” at full volume.

Featuring: Patri Guijarro, Ona Battle, Salma Paralluelo, Jana Fernandez, Alexia Putellas

Word count: > 15k

————————————————————————

The café on Limmatquai was small and smug, like it knew it was cooler than everyone sitting in it. Y/N was nursing a flat white that was far too expensive and flipping through sketches on her iPad — half-work, half-doodling strangers around her. The Swiss have that efficient, neutral face, which makes them easier to draw. No drama in the jawlines.

Except, of course, for the table of chaos.

“¿Qué demonios es rösti?”

The voice carried across the café, sharp and amused. Y/N didn’t need to look up to know it came from someone with a face full of mischief.

“Potato… like, mashed but flat,” came a second voice. “Pero fried, I think?”

Y/N tried to mind her own business. She really did. But the noise level from that table made it impossible.

There were five of them — sporty types, definitely. The kind who wore tracksuits like they were formal attire. They were trying to decide between ordering rösti, pancakes, or crepes. It sounded like a war treaty negotiation.

“Team crepes or team pancakes,” the first voice announced loudly, as if the café was part of the vote. “Oye, Patri, ¿tú qué dices?”

“I say…” Patri paused dramatically. “We call Alexia. She decides.”

Y/N rolled her eyes into her cup. Alexia? Whoever that was, she wasn’t here to settle a brunch debate.

Then it happened. The voice of chaos cut through the café, aimed squarely at her:

“Eh, tú, guapa. Sí, tú con el café triste.”

Y/N froze, mid-sip. Slowly, she looked up. The culprit was leaning back in her chair like she owned Switzerland. Tall, sharp jaw, messy bun — Leila Ouahabi. Her grin was half dare, half flirtation.

“Team crepes or team pancakes?” Leila asked, as if this were the single most important question in Zurich.

Y/N arched a brow. “Neither. Rösti. Obviously.”

The table gasped collectively. “Traición,” one of them muttered.

Leila tilted her head, interested now. “You say that with too much confidence. You even know what rösti is?”

“Yes,” Y/N deadpanned. “It’s like a hash brown but, you know, Swiss. Unlike your Spanish chaos.”

The one called Patri burst out laughing. “Spanish chaos — ¡me gusta!”

Leila smirked, unfazed. “Hash brown is fast food. Rösti is… sexy potato.”

Y/N snorted into her cup. “Sexy potato?”

“Sí,” Leila said, leaning forward, elbow on the table like she was on a game show. “Like me.”

The table erupted. Even Y/N had to bite back a laugh.

————

Five minutes later, Y/N found herself somehow involved in the brunch debate, roped into choosing sides.

“Crepes are the superior brunch,” Jana argued, stabbing the menu with her finger. “They’re sophisticated. Paris vibes.”

“Pancakes are comfort,” Salma shot back. “You don’t eat crepes when you’re sad. You eat pancakes.”

Ona, sitting between them, sighed. “Tíos, this is not that deep.”

“It’s always that deep,” Leila said, eyes still on Y/N. “What about you, guapa? Crepes when you’re happy, pancakes when you’re sad… rösti when?”

Y/N shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Rösti when you’re done wasting time arguing with strangers.”

Patri clutched her chest. “Oof. Directo al corazón.”

Leila’s grin widened. “I like you. You have… cómo se dice… cara de no tomar mierda.”

“Resting face of not taking bullshit?” Y/N offered dryly.

“That,” Leila agreed, pointing at her like she’d just nailed a goal.

The server came by, looking mildly traumatized by the Spanish tornado at table four. Orders were placed — one rösti, two crepes, three pancakes, because apparently democracy was dead.

Leila leaned back in her chair, still watching Y/N. “So. Are you always this confident, or just when you defend potatoes?”

Y/N smirked, refusing to give her the satisfaction of blushing. “Are you always this loud, or just when you want attention?”

Ona made an ooooh noise. Salma whispered something about “Leila tiene competencia”.

Leila’s grin didn’t falter. “Maybe I like when someone calls me out. Keeps life… divertido.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t look away. She hated that grin. She hated how smug it was.

(And, okay, maybe she also liked it. A little.)

————

Half an hour later, Y/N was packing her iPad into her tote when Patri called after her: “Hey, chica de rösti! You should come watch our training later.”

Y/N blinked. “Your what?”

“Training,” Salma said, like it was obvious. “Spain NT. Euro 2025, ¿no sabías?”

Leila stood, casually slinging her jacket over her shoulder like an effortless movie star. “Come. We’ll prove rösti gives more power than pancakes.”

Y/N hesitated. She had work. She didn’t do random invites with footballers she just met.

But Leila’s smirk was already leaning her way, a soft, taunting hook. “Or are you scared, guapa?”

————

The Zurich tram station was, as usual, a clockwork ballet of quiet efficiency. Trams glided in and out with Swiss precision, passengers stepping on and off without fuss. Y/N stood by the ticket machine, trying to coax it into accepting her card, muttering under her breath.

“Of course it’s broken. Swiss efficiency, my ass,” she grumbled in English, stabbing the touchscreen.

“You talk to machines often?”

Y/N didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. That voice — smooth, amused, with a hint of teasing Madrid street-style sarcasm — belonged to none other than Leila Ouahabi.

She turned anyway, and there she was. Black joggers, Spain NT hoodie, hair scraped into a messy bun like she’d just rolled out of bed but somehow looked like she belonged in a Nike campaign.

“What are you doing here?” Y/N asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Zurich is not your city alone, guapa.” Leila grinned. “We’re on our way to training. Want a ride?”

Y/N blinked. “Ride? Like… with you?”

“Sí, conmigo,” Leila said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “And with a few… friends.”

Before Y/N could object, Leila jerked her chin toward the street where a black Mercedes van was parked. She could make out Ona Batlle waving like an idiot through the window, with Salma Paralluelo and Jana Fernández leaning over her shoulder.

“No, thanks,” Y/N said, turning back to the ticket machine. “I don’t make a habit of getting into vans with chaos gremlins.”

Leila stepped closer, so close Y/N could smell her cologne — warm, clean, with something faintly citrusy. Goddammit.

“Guapa, the tram is late. And you? You look like someone who hates waiting.”

Y/N sighed, staring at her reflection in the ticket machine. She really, really didn’t have time for this.

But when Leila cocked her head and said, “¿Qué pasa, tienes miedo?”

Y/N muttered, “Fine. One ride. But if you’re all insane, I’m walking.”

The van door slid open, and chaos hit her like a wall.

“¡Chica de rösti!” Salma yelled, leaning over Ona’s lap to wave. “Leila brought her!”

“Rösti girl? Seriously?” Y/N muttered.

Ona grinned, scooting over. “Welcome to hell on wheels.”

Leila climbed in last, deliberately brushing Y/N’s shoulder as she took the seat beside her. “Guapa, seatbelt. Safety first. I’d be sad if you died before I convinced you crepes are trash.”

Y/N glared, clicking the belt. “I’d be sad if you talked this much in the afterlife.”

————

Five minutes into the ride, Y/N realized she had underestimated the chaos.

Salma and Jana were in the back, arguing over the aux cord. Jana wanted Rosalía. Salma wanted Travis Scott.

Ona, stuck between them, kept yelling “¡Basta!” but in that way that meant she secretly loved the drama.

Laia Aleixandri, sitting shotgun, was the only calm one, scrolling her phone like she’d been through this too many times to care.

Patri, who had been quiet so far, turned around with a grin. “You survived brunch with Leila? Eres fuerte.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

The fight over the aux cord escalated.

“Give me that, Jana, or I swear—”

“Salma, tu música es basura.”

“Basura?! Tía, tienes cero gusto.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are they always like this?”

Leila smirked, leaning closer. “Always. Jana and Salma think they’re siblings, but really they’re just two gremlins who share one brain cell.”

Ona turned around and pointed at Y/N. “You! Rösti girl. Who should have the aux?”

“Uh—” Y/N started.

Before she could pick sides, Leila cut in smoothly, “She picks me. Obviously.”

“I didn’t—” Y/N began, but Leila had already plugged in her phone and queued up Bad Gyal.

“Rösti girl?” Y/N muttered under her breath.

“It’s a good nickname,” Leila said, leaning back with a smug grin. “You don’t like it?”

“Not really.”

Leila tilted her head. “Then tell me your real name.”

“Maybe I don’t give my name to loud strangers.”

“Ouch,” Leila said, hand over her heart. “Loud and stranger? Qué cruel.”

Y/N smirked. “If the shoe fits…”

A bump in the road jostled them closer. Leila didn’t move back.

“You don’t trust me yet, guapa,” she murmured, her voice lower now, just for Y/N. “But you will.”

Y/N swallowed. Hard.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” she said dryly.

“Claro,” Leila replied with a wink. “When you’re this good-looking, it’s not arrogance. It’s just fact.”

Patri, overhearing, groaned. “Leila, por favor, deja de flirtear con la pobre chica. She’s trapped next to you.”

“Trapped? Nah,” Leila said, her grin wolfish. “She could leave. But she doesn’t.”

————

The van screeched to a stop at a red light, throwing everyone forward. Salma yelled something unprintable. Jana’s elbow hit Ona’s side, and all hell broke loose again.

Y/N, trying to hide a laugh, muttered, “You all are insane.”

Leila turned to her, voice soft but amused. “Yet here you are. Sitting with us. Maybe you like insane.”

————

The training ground was buzzing, a mix of fans, journalists, and the occasional confused tourist who’d stumbled upon Spain’s open session. The Swiss sun was unusually generous that morning, glinting off the pristine pitch and the crisp red kits of the players warming up.

Y/N stood awkwardly at the edge of the designated spectator area, clutching the water bottle that Ona had shoved into her hand. “For hydration, amiga,” Ona had said, with a wink that implied ‘Good luck surviving Leila for another hour.’

“Over here, Rösti girl!”

Of course, it was Leila. She was jogging backward across the field, grinning like she had all the time in the world. With one smooth motion, she flicked a ball in the air, juggled it twice, and launched it in a perfect arc to Patri, who didn’t even look up.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Y/N called out, voice dry but loud enough for her to hear.

Leila cupped her hand around her ear. “What? You want me to show off more?”

Before Y/N could retort, Leila performed a dramatic rainbow flick over a nearby cone and struck a shot that smacked the crossbar with surgical precision. She turned to Y/N with a smirk. “For you, guapa. Only for you.”

“Wow,” Y/N said, deadpan. “Congratulations. You can kick a ball.”

From the other end of the pitch, Alexia Putellas strolled over, radiating the kind of captain energy that could silence a room.

“Leila,” Alexia called, voice sharp and even. “Stop trying to impress civilians.”

Leila shrugged, still smirking. “Maybe I like an audience.”

Alexia’s gaze drifted toward Y/N. For a second, Y/N felt like she was under a scanner. Then Alexia sighed, muttered something under her breath about “demasiado drama,” and walked back to join Patri and Laia.

“Is she always like that?” Y/N asked Ona, who had somehow appeared at her side with a protein bar and a smirk.

“Alexia? Always. Big sister energy. She’s the reason we don’t accidentally burn down hotels,” Ona said, peeling the wrapper. “But with Leila? She’s… how do you say… tired. Because Leila lives to be extra.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Y/N muttered.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“I—” Y/N stopped, glaring at Ona’s knowing grin. “I’m just… observing. That’s all.”

“Observing,” Ona repeated, her tone dripping with amusement. “Claro. Like scientists observing fire — but then oops, suddenly everything’s on fire.”

————

The next twenty minutes were a mix of drills and chaos:

Salma racing Jana and nearly taking out a coach with a rogue sprint.

Patri deliberately meg-ing Ona and yelling “¡Caño, tonta!” while Ona chased her like a furious little terrier.

Leila, of course, looking over every five minutes to check if Y/N was still watching.

At one point, she jogged over to grab a water bottle near the sidelines and deliberately stopped in front of Y/N.

“You see that crossbar hit earlier?” Leila asked, leaning on her knees, catching her breath.

“Hard to miss when you announce it like a street performer,” Y/N shot back.

Leila grinned. “Harsh. But you keep looking. So maybe I’m good entertainment.”

“Or maybe I’m just waiting for you to trip over your ego.”

“Ego?” Leila smirked, stepping closer — just enough to invade Y/N’s personal space. “No, guapa. That’s not ego. That’s just… confidence.”

“Leila!” Alexia’s voice amused from across the pitch. “Training. Now.”

Leila straightened, mock-saluting. “Sí, capitana,” she said, throwing Y/N one last grin before jogging back to drills.

As the session wrapped up, Patri wandered over, wiping sweat from her brow. “So, Rösti girl. How was the show?”

“Overrated,” Y/N said automatically.

Patri laughed. “Yeah, that’s what we all say. Until it’s not.” She winked and sauntered off, leaving Y/N vaguely unsettled.

When the players regrouped near the benches, Leila caught Y/N’s eye from across the field and mimed calling her. Then, with a sly grin, she held up her phone and mouthed, “Tonight?”

Before Y/N could roll her eyes, Ona popped up again, grinning like the devil. “You’re coming for coffee with us, right?”

“I—”

“Too late. It’s decided.” Ona patted her arm. “You’re part of Team Chaos now.”

————

Zurich’s streets were postcard-perfect in that annoyingly clean, chocolate-box way — cobblestones, pastel buildings, and the faint smell of freshly baked bread wafting out of every other café. Y/N didn’t plan on following the Spain NT squad after training, but somehow Patri and Salma had flanked her like tactical operatives, all cheerful smiles and zero room for refusal.

“C’mon, chica de rösti,” Salma said, walking backward and nearly colliding with a cyclist. “You can’t just escape us now. We’re going for coffee. It’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been in Zurich for, what, three days?”

Patri shrugged, smirking. “We make traditions fast. It’s a talent.”

————

The café they chose was another impossibly quaint spot, tucked beside a flower shop. Y/N hadn’t even sat down before Patri slid into the seat across from her with all the focus of a gossip columnist preparing an expose.

“So…” Patri drawled, leaning forward. “How’s it going with Leila?”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t act clueless.” Salma dropped into the seat next to Y/N, slinging an arm across the back of the chair. “Leila hasn’t shut up since brunch. ‘La chica de rösti esto, la chica de rösti aquello.’”

Y/N groaned. “Oh my god.”

Patri grinned. “She only gets like this when someone actually dares to talk back. Usually people just… melt under that smile of hers.”

Salma nodded. “Yeah, she’s a little too used to winning.”

Y/N folded her arms, feigning indifference. “What is she, some kind of serial flirt?”

“‘Some kind’ is an understatement,” Patri said. “Leila is… how do I put this nicely?”

“A walking disaster with good hair?” Salma offered.

Patri snapped her fingers. “Exactly. But she’s also… loyal. If she’s paying attention to you, it’s not just because you’re pretty. It’s because you interest her.”

Y/N tried not to squirm under their combined stares. “She doesn’t interest me.”

“Sure.” Patri’s tone was so dry it could cut glass.

Salma grinned. “Keep telling yourself that, Rösti girl.”

The doorbell above the café jingled and, as if on cue, Leila sauntered in — all casual swagger and that infuriatingly wolfish grin. She spotted their table instantly.

“Guapa,” she said, sliding into the seat opposite Y/N without asking. “Miss me?”

“No,” Y/N replied flatly.

“Liar,” Leila teased, leaning on her elbow. “Your face says yes.”

Patri and Salma exchanged so subtle it wasn’t subtle looks and bit back laughter.

The waiter arrived, and Leila, without even glancing at the menu, said, “Four cortados. And a slice of carrot cake. To share.”

“Who said I want cake?” Y/N asked.

Leila’s grin turned sly. “Everyone wants cake. Especially when I’m paying.”

Salma nudged Y/N under the table. “She’s pulling out the big guns now.”

————

The conversation veered into nonsense gossip that Y/N couldn’t follow but found herself amused by anyway.

Patri was complaining about Ona’s obsession with Swiss chocolate (“She’s eaten half our stash already, tía, it’s day three!”).

Salma was narrating a story about Jana getting lost in the team hotel’s parking garage.

Leila? Leila just kept finding excuses to drag Y/N into the conversation.

“You like Zurich?” she asked at one point, leaning so close Y/N could smell that faint citrus scent again.

“It’s fine,” Y/N said. “A bit too clean. Like it’s trying too hard to look perfect.”

Leila tilted her head, amused. “And you like messy better?”

“Maybe,” Y/N said, meeting her gaze. “Depends on the mess.”

Patri let out a low whistle. “Oof. Okay. Chemistry.”

Y/N shot her a glare. “Stop.”

————

By the time the cortados were finished and the carrot cake mysteriously disappeared (Y/N insisted she only had two bites, Leila swore it was four), the conversation had shifted to evening plans.

“Tonight, we go out,” Salma declared.

“Excuse me?” Y/N said.

“You heard me. Zurich nightlife. Leila knows the spots,” Salma said with an evil grin.

Leila leaned back, smug. “I know the best rooftop bar. View of the lake. Music. Drinks that taste like summer.”

“I’m not going clubbing with you,” Y/N said automatically.

“It’s not clubbing,” Leila replied, voice soft and tempting. “It’s just one drink. Maybe two. I promise… you’ll like it.”

“Don’t fall for it,” Patri muttered, smirking. “That’s how she got me to drink absinthe once.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Absinthe?”

“Long story,” Patri said, waving it off. “But seriously, you should come. It’ll be… entertaining.”

Salma grinned. “Leila doesn’t bring randoms to her night-outs. You’re special.”

“I’m not—” Y/N began.

“Tonight. Eight o’clock,” Leila said firmly, like it wasn’t up for debate. “I’ll text you the location.”

“I don’t have your number.”

Leila grinned wider. “You will.”

————

The rooftop bar sat above a boutique hotel in central Zurich, all glass railings and fairy lights strung overhead like stars that forgot to rise. Below, Lake Zurich stretched out in the night, catching the city lights in rippling streaks of gold. A live jazz band played somewhere near the corner, mellow saxophone blending with the hum of voices and the occasional clink of glasses.

Y/N arrived five minutes late, because punctuality felt too much like playing by someone else’s rules. She’d barely stepped out of the elevator before she heard her name — or rather, the nickname she didn’t ask for.

“¡Rösti girl!” Salma waved from the far end of the terrace, almost knocking over a waiter carrying two Aperol spritzes. “We saved you a seat!”

“Did you really?” Y/N muttered under her breath, weaving through the crowd.

Leila, of course, was there, dressed in a black button-down that looked criminally good on her — sleeves rolled, collar slightly undone, like she was allergic to trying too hard but still effortlessly magnetic. Patri and Ona were arguing about whether Swiss beer was “water with bubbles.” Jana, perched on a bar stool, was scrolling through her phone while Salma was already halfway through her second drink, clearly plotting something.

“Look who showed,” Patri said with a grin as Y/N approached. “And here we thought you’d run.”

“Still thinking about it,” Y/N quipped, sliding into the seat opposite Leila.

Leila smirked. “But you didn’t. Qué sorpresa.”

Leila ordered something on Y/N’s behalf without asking. “Gin and tonic,” she said, handing it to her like it was a peace treaty. “Classic. Like you.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” Leila replied with a sly tilt of her head. “You like things neat. No drama. Which is why you’re sitting with us, the loudest table in Zurich.”

Y/N sipped her drink, refusing to rise to the bait. “I didn’t say it was a good choice.”

Patri, who’d clearly been waiting for an opening, clapped her hands. “Alright. Bet time. Ten francs says Rösti girl is dancing by midnight.”

Y/N shook her head. “Not happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” Salma said with a wicked grin. “We just have to pick the right song.”

————

By the time the band switched to an upbeat set, Salma was dragging Jana onto the makeshift dance floor near the terrace railing. It started as a casual sway but quickly devolved into competitive chaos. Ona joined in, attempting some hybrid of salsa and reggaeton, while Patri filmed the entire thing for Instagram.

“Your friends are… something,” Y/N murmured, watching the mess unfold.

Leila leaned in, her voice low and teasing. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

“They’re just… very loud,” Y/N said, taking another sip.

“Loud is fun,” Leila replied. “You look like you could use some fun.”

Y/N shot her a look. “That your pitch? ‘Dance with me, you look boring?’”

Leila laughed, warm and unbothered. “No. My pitch is—” She stood, holding out a hand, palm up. “Trust me for one song.”

Y/N should have said no. She wanted to say no. But there was something in Leila’s grin — a quiet confidence that dared her to break her own rules. So she sighed, finishing her drink in one go, and placed her hand in Leila’s.

The crowd blurred as Leila guided her onto the floor. It wasn’t dancing, not really — just moving to the beat, close enough that Y/N could feel the warmth radiating off her. Leila was annoyingly good at this: leading without being pushy, reading every subtle shift in Y/N’s weight as if they’d done this a hundred times.

“See?” Leila murmured, leaning closer, her breath tickling Y/N’s ear. “You’re not bad at this.”

“Neither are you,” Y/N said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

“Hmm.” Leila’s lips curved into a half-smile. “Maybe I just have the right partner.”

“¡Uuuuh, mira esas dos!” Salma yelled from the sidelines, earning several shushes from nearby tables. “Leila’s in love!”

Y/N nearly tripped. “Oh my god.”

Leila just laughed, steadying her with one hand on her waist. “Ignore her. She’s young and thinks romance is TikTok dances and bad pickup lines.”

“Unlike you?” Y/N asked, eyebrow raised.

Leila’s grin turned wicked. “Oh, I’m much worse.”

————

The group eventually collapsed back into their seats, sweaty and breathless from dancing. Patri passed Y/N a fresh drink with a wink. “Welcome to the dark side.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I just danced. Relax.”

“Just danced?” Leila asked, leaning in, voice low and teasing. “So… you’d do it again?”

Y/N hesitated, just long enough for Leila’s smirk to widen.

————

Sometime around midnight, Y/N stepped away from the chaos to catch her breath on a quieter corner of the terrace. The city stretched below — still, glowing, impossibly pretty.

“Escaping already?” Leila’s voice came from behind her. She was leaning casually against the railing, a glass of water in hand, eyes glinting under the string lights.

“Just… air,” Y/N said. “You all are exhausting.”

Leila chuckled, stepping closer. “Exhausting? Or irresistible?”

Y/N shot her a look. “You really don’t stop, do you?”

“Not when I see someone worth the effort,” Leila replied simply.

And for a split second, Y/N’s wry comeback died on her tongue. Because it wasn’t just a line — the way Leila said it, soft and certain, felt disarmingly honest.

Before Y/N could respond, Salma’s voice shattered the moment.

“¡LEILA! Stop being romantic and come take a group picture!”

Leila groaned, but she didn’t take her eyes off Y/N. “One drink, one dance… next time, no interruptions. Deal?”

Y/N hesitated, then smirked. “We’ll see.”

The night in Zurich was the kind that made the city feel like a movie set — crisp air, lights shimmering over Lake Zurich, and just enough of a breeze to ruffle hair and coax you into believing something cinematic might happen.

The Spain NT squad had finally scattered after their rooftop bar invasion, Patri dragging Ona and Salma toward a late-night kebab stand, Jana declaring she needed “air” but really meaning “phone time with someone she’s texting.” Y/N should have gone home. She told herself she would… until Leila caught her by the wrist outside the hotel.

“Where do you think you’re going, guapa?” Leila’s tone was smooth, playful, but it held a note of insistence. She tilted her head, hair slightly damp from the night breeze, eyes sharp even under the hotel’s dim lights.

“Bed,” Y/N said, as dry as the gin still on her tongue. “Alone. Like normal people do after a night out.”

Leila smirked. “Normal is boring. And anyway…” She glanced up at the dark building, then back at Y/N, grin wolfish. “The rooftop’s open.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “You just can’t do anything like a normal human, can you?”

“No,” Leila said, grinning wider. “But that’s why you’re here. Admit it.”

It was quieter up there, the hotel rooftop a stark contrast to the lively terrace they’d left. No music, no chaos — just the muted hum of city life below and the lake catching every glint of moonlight.

Leila dropped onto a low concrete ledge, her posture casual, like she owned the skyline. She patted the spot beside her. “Come on, Rösti girl. Don’t just stand there like you’re scared.”

Y/N gave her a flat look. “I’m not scared. I just don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

“Because,” Leila said, leaning back on her hands, “you like trouble. Even if you don’t admit it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but sat beside her anyway, leaving a safe half-metre between them. Leila’s presence was like heat — steady and impossible to ignore.

“You always this…” Y/N searched for the word, eyes flicking to Leila’s grin. “Relentless?”

Leila chuckled. “Only when I find someone worth the effort.”

“That a line you use on everyone?” Y/N asked, voice wry.

“No,” Leila said simply, her gaze holding Y/N’s a beat too long. “Just you.”

Y/N’s laugh was small, almost nervous. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet,” Leila replied, smirk softening into something warmer. “But I’d like to.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. Y/N found herself watching Leila’s hands, the faint marks from training, the way her thumb tapped absently against the concrete like she needed to keep moving.

“You know what Patri said earlier?” Y/N asked, breaking the silence. “She said you’re a walking disaster with good hair.”

Leila laughed, a real, low laugh that made her shoulders shake. “She’s not wrong. I am a disaster. But—” She leaned slightly closer, her grin returning. “At least I’m your disaster tonight.”

“Cocky,” Y/N muttered, but she didn’t move away.

Leila tilted her head, studying Y/N with a mix of amusement and something sharper. “You’re interesting, guapa. Most people… they just melt when I smile. You? You fight back.”

“Maybe I don’t like being a cliché,” Y/N said.

Leila grinned. “Then don’t. Be… whatever you want to be. I like a challenge.”

“Challenge?” Y/N echoed, arching a brow. “You think I’m some kind of game?”

Leila’s smirk softened again, almost sincere. “No. But I think you’re fun to figure out.”

Something shifted — the air, maybe, or the way Leila’s gaze flicked briefly from Y/N’s eyes to her mouth and back again. It wasn’t smooth, like one of her teasing one-liners. It was slower, quieter, a question left hanging.

Y/N felt her pulse spike. “If you’re going to kiss me, at least don’t make it a performance.”

Leila’s grin turned into something softer, almost wicked but patient. “No cameras. No audience. Just you and me, guapa.”

She leaned in slowly, like she was giving Y/N all the time in the world to say no. Y/N didn’t. Their lips met — not dramatic, not rushed — but soft and drawn out, like both were testing the water. Leila tasted faintly of gin and orange peel.

A voice from below broke the spell.

“¡LEILA!”

It was Jana, leaning out of a lower balcony, phone in hand. “Stop being a drama queen! We can hear you flirting from here.”

Leila groaned, pulling back but keeping her forehead against Y/N’s. “Pa’ qué me invitan… if they don’t let me have nice things?”

Y/N laughed — she couldn’t help it. “Your friends are insane.”

“And you,” Leila said, pulling back just enough to look at her, “are still here.”

They stayed there for a while, neither talking much. Just sitting on the ledge, watching the lights reflect off the lake. Leila’s hand brushed against Y/N’s once, then stayed there, her fingers just barely grazing hers.

“You’re trouble,” Y/N murmured eventually, breaking the quiet.

Leila smiled, small but sure. “Yeah. But I think you like it.”

————

The hotel breakfast spread looked like something out of a Michelin-starred fever dream — warm croissants stacked like art, platters of smoked salmon, miniature jars of Swiss jam arranged by color gradient. Y/N would’ve been impressed if she wasn’t busy trying to figure out how to avoid eye contact with a certain someone.

Spoiler: She failed.

“¡Mira quién llegó!” Salma’s voice rang across the dining hall like a car alarm. “Rösti girl survived the night!”

Every head at the table turned. Including Leila’s. She was sitting in the corner, hair damp from a morning shower, wearing a black hoodie that looked both aggressively casual and unfairly good. Her smirk was immediate.

“Morning, guapa,” Leila said, her voice low enough that only Y/N caught it.

Y/N tried to look unaffected as she slid into the empty seat between Patri and Ona. “Morning,” she muttered, busying herself with a croissant she didn’t actually want.

It started with Patri elbowing her. “So… fun night?”

Y/N shot her a warning glare. “Don’t.”

Salma leaned across the table, hands cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. “Leila’s got a girlfriend!” she stage-whispered, earning an immediate groan from Jana.

“Salma, cállate,” Jana muttered. “It’s too early for your nonsense.”

“It’s never too early,” Salma argued, grinning at Y/N. “You look… refreshed.”

Y/N bit into the croissant just to avoid answering.

The door to the breakfast hall opened, and in walked Alexia Putellas — full captain mode despite wearing sweatpants and a ponytail. She carried herself like someone who could quiet a room just by thinking about it.

“What’s this noise?” Alexia asked, trying to hide the amusement in her voice .

“Leila and Rösti girl kissed on the rooftop,” Salma announced, utterly shameless.

Y/N nearly choked. “We— That’s—”

Alexia didn’t even flinch. She just looked at Leila, one eyebrow raised. “You’re supposed to be resting, not corrupting civilians.”

Leila leaned back in her chair, entirely unbothered. “¿Y qué? She kissed me, not the other way around.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “I did not! You—” She broke off when Leila shot her a sly grin, clearly enjoying the chaos.

“See?” Salma said, pointing between them. “This is chemistry.”

————

The next fifteen minutes were a disaster:

Salma made kissy noises every time Leila reached for the jam.

Ona started humming love songs under her breath.

Patri kept passing Y/N little notes like “Leila’s staring again.” (She was.)

Y/N tried to focus on her coffee, but Leila had a way of leaning just close enough to make her heart trip over itself.

At one point, Y/N muttered, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Leila grinned, dipping her croissant in honey. “Every second, guapa.”

Eventually, Alexia sighed, like a tired older sister (albeit younger than Leila) who’d seen too many soap operas.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she said, voice cutting through the table chatter. “You all act like children. Eat. We have a match to prep for.”

Salma slouched but obeyed. Patri just smirked.

Leila, however, didn’t look away from Y/N. “Don’t worry. Breakfast chaos isn’t every day. Just when someone new catches our attention.”

“Great,” Y/N said dryly. “I’ll make sure not to come back.”

Leila’s grin deepened. “Mentira. You’ll come back.”

————

As the team began filing out for morning meetings, Y/N’s phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown number:

Leila: Pa’ qué me invitan… if you don’t want round two?

Leila: 8pm. Same rooftop.

Y/N stared at the screen, trying very hard not to smile.

The city was quieter than usual that evening. Zurich had that twilight glow — buildings kissed with fading gold, the lake soft as glass, and the hum of trams cutting through the calm like clockwork. Y/N found herself standing outside the hotel, pretending she was waiting for the tram when, really, she was waiting for Leila.

Because of course she texted back.

————

Leila appeared as if conjured — hoodie and jeans, hair loosely tied, and that ever-present grin. “Guapa,” she said, voice warm with something that sounded almost softer than her usual teasing. “Trying to leave without a proper goodbye?”

“I’m not leaving,” Y/N said, feigning nonchalance. “Just… heading back to my place. Like normal people do.”

Leila slipped her hands into her hoodie pockets, tilting her head as they fell into step along the tramline. “Normal people are overrated.”

“You keep saying that like it’s your catchphrase.”

“It is,” Leila replied, grin widening. “You’ll remember it when I’m gone.”

————

They walked past a row of shops, the scent of warm bread drifting out of a nearby bakery. Leila nudged Y/N with her shoulder. “So. Was I right?”

“About what?”

“That you’d come back for round two.”

Y/N gave her a sidelong look. “This isn’t round two. It’s just a walk.”

Leila smirked. “Sure, guapa. Just a walk with someone who kissed me on a rooftop last night.”

Y/N stopped dead, her cheeks heating. “I didn’t— You—”

Leila burst out laughing, head thrown back. “Relax. I know you didn’t. I kissed you.” She stepped closer, her grin softening. “But you didn’t pull away.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

————

The tram stop was quiet, save for the occasional rumble of wheels on rails. Y/N stood by the glass shelter, watching Leila lean casually against the metal pole like she had all the time in the world.

“You’re going to forget me,” Y/N said suddenly, surprising herself. “Football girls… you have a different city every week, new faces, new—”

“No,” Leila cut in, her voice firm, almost serious for the first time. “Don’t put me in that box. I remember who makes me laugh. Who doesn’t let me win too easily.”

Y/N blinked. “That your way of saying I’m stubborn?”

Leila smirked. “Stubborn, sarcastic, infuriating…” She paused, leaning just close enough that Y/N’s breath caught. “Exactly my type.”

A tram bell rang in the distance, approaching fast. Y/N glanced down the tracks, then back at Leila — at the way her grin had softened into something almost vulnerable.

“You’re trouble,” Y/N said quietly.

“Yeah,” Leila replied, her tone playful but with an edge of truth. “But I think you like it.”

Before Y/N could argue, Leila reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn’t a kiss — not quite. Just that lingering, too-close moment that left Y/N’s pulse racing.

The tram screeched to a halt, doors sliding open with mechanical precision. Y/N took a step toward it, but Leila caught her wrist, “Don’t be a stranger, guapa. Call me. Text me.”

She looked up, heart thudding despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”

Leila winked. “Yeah. But I’m your kind of ridiculous, chica de rösti.”

Y/N found a seat by the window, through the glass, she caught one last glimpse of Leila standing there, hands shoved in her hoodie pockets, watching the tram go with that same easy grin — the kind that made you think she’d find you again, no matter the city.

————————————————————————

A/N: Hope you’ve enjoyed reading. Any feedback? All welcomed.

[arabella-syntax]

Tinder, Tapas & Tú

Pairing: (Alexia Putellas x Y/N)

Summary: Barcelona was supposed to be a quiet escape. Sun, sangria, and existential dread. But then your best friend hijacked your Tinder—and accidentally matched you with Alexia Putellas.

Word count: > 15k

__________________________________________

Barcelona smelled like grilled fish and cigarette smoke.

Y/N leaned against the chipped tile of the Airbnb balcony, watching the sun drop slowly behind the rooftops of El Born. The heat was different here—less aggressive, more languid. It crawled instead of scorched.

Below, a group of drunk Erasmus students were butchering "Wonderwall" on a Spanish guitar, which was objectively offensive to both cultures.

“Please tell me you’re not brooding,” Emma called from inside. “You promised you wouldn’t do your ‘tortured woman in linen’ thing this trip.”

Y/N turned just enough to see Emma sprawled across the bed, legs tangled in a white towel, her curls dripping onto the throw pillows. She was scrolling on Y/N’s phone like she paid rent on it.

“I’m not brooding. I’m… simmering.”

“You’re thirty,” Emma deadpanned. “No one simmers after thirty. We repress. And we download Tinder.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m not looking for a holiday hookup.”

Emma’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the best kind. No baggage. No emotional labour. Just abs and awkward small talk.”

“Sounds like a team-building exercise at my last job.”

“Exactly!” Emma tapped something with smug satisfaction. “Too late. I made your profile. You’re ‘emotionally intelligent, dry-humoured, and fluent in passive aggression.’”

Y/N stormed in. “You what?”

Emma rolled over, holding the phone just out of reach. “Relax. I used a cute photo of you from the wedding. The one where you don’t look like you’re mentally drafting an exit strategy.”

“I was drafting an exit strategy.”

“See? Authenticity. That’s hot now.”

Y/N made a grab for her phone, but Emma twisted away with the grace of a caffeinated cat. She was mid-swipe when she froze.

“Oh my God.”

Y/N paused. “What?”

Emma sat up, her mouth agape. “You just matched with Alexia Putellas.”

Y/N blinked. “Is that a brand of olive oil?”

Emma’s scream was immediate and ungodly. “She’s the captain of Barcelona. And Spain. And your new wife.”

Y/N grabbed the phone. There it was: the unmistakable Tinder profile of the Alexia Putellas. Tousled hair, serious expression, wearing a baseball cap like she was pretending not to be famous.

Y/N squinted. “Could be fake.”

A message pinged.

Alexia: “Hola. You are not fan of football? Good. I like a mystery.”

Y/N stared. Then turned to Emma. “This has to be a joke.”

Emma replied, “Oh, sweetheart. You are so not ready for this.”

Y/N had made a lot of questionable choices in her life.

Agreeing to try ayahuasca in Peru with a stranger named Cliff. Dating a guy who once referred to her as “low-maintenance but emotionally expensive.”

Letting Emma touch her phone definitely ranked high on the list.

“You’re not seriously texting her,” Y/N said, pacing the living room like it might change the outcome.

Emma was hunched over the couch like a gremlin, gleefully typing. “I’m just starting the convo. You can take over when you’ve emotionally processed this.”

“Processed what? That someone pretending to be Alexia Putellas is flirting with me on a dating app? I think I’ve processed it just fine.”

Emma turned the screen to her. A new message had come through.

Alexia: “You look very... sharp. Like a cat with a knife. That is compliment.”

Y/N blinked. “She thinks I look like a cat with a knife.”

Emma cackled. “It’s poetry.”

Y/N snatched the phone back. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. “What do I even say to that?”

“Something equally chaotic. Say ‘You look like you eat asteroids for breakfast.’ Or ‘Thanks, I file my claws with trauma.’”

She sighed, typed something anyway:

Y/N: “Thanks. I bite.”

A few seconds passed. Ping.

Alexia: “Good. I don’t like soft fruit.”

Y/N looked up. “What is this woman?”

Emma was now fully horizontal. “Your wife, probably.”

Y/N laughed despite herself. There was something undeniably ridiculous about it all—the Tinder match, the broken metaphors, the fact that Alexia Putellas either had a very specific brand of humour… or was actually terrible at flirting.

Another ping.

Alexia: “Do you want to meet? For coffee. Or vermut. Or churros. I don’t care. I will drink bleach if it is with you.”

Y/N reread it three times. “She wants to drink bleach… with me.”

“Again. Poetry.” She looked up at Y/N, suddenly serious. “Listen, I know you don’t do spontaneous. Or public feelings. Or girls who are objectively out of your league. But… maybe this is the one chaotic thing you don’t overthink?”

Y/N stared at the screen. Then at Emma. Then back at the screen.

Finally, she typed.

Y/N: “Coffee. Tomorrow. Somewhere bleach-free.”

Alexia: “Deal. I know place. No bleach. Very romantic.”

Followed by: ☕🐙🍅🔥🫠

Y/N stared at the series of emojis she received. “Why is she sending me an octopus?”

Emma, grinning, “Because she gets you.”

————

The café was tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore that only sold poetry and zines about emotional damage.

Y/N stood in front of it for a full minute, debating whether to walk in or fake a sudden allergy to espresso.

“This isn’t a date,” she muttered to herself. “This is cultural research. For science. And memes.”

The bell above the café door jingled as she stepped inside. It smelled like burnt cinnamon and someone’s failed attempt at frothing oat milk. She spotted her instantly—cap low, sunglasses on, hoodie up like she was trying to rob the place or get over a breakup.

Alexia looked up. Smiled.

“You came.”

Y/N arched a brow. “I like coffee. And I was promised no bleach.”

Alexia laughed—quiet but genuine. “I am woman of honour.”

They sat across from each other at a tiny corner table. Between them: a menu, two glasses of water, and a palpable silence that felt more curious than uncomfortable.

Alexia studied her for a second, then pointed at the menu. “You want… café con leche? Or something weird like milk with ice?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Do I look like someone who orders milk with ice?”

Alexia grinned. “You look like danger. But polite danger. Like… library knife.”

Y/N blinked. “Do you only flirt using weapon metaphors?”

Alexia shrugged. “I try poetry once. It was… how you say… a funeral.”

A waitress came by. Alexia ordered for both of them without asking. Bold move. Or just very Spanish.

“So,” Y/N said, folding her arms. “Do you do this often?”

Alexia sipped her water. “Coffee with strangers?”

“Tinder dates.”

Alexia leaned in. “You think I need Tinder?”

Y/N smirked. “You matched with me.”

Alexia held up a finger. “Your friend swiped. You? You look like you would have left me in the drafts.”

“Correct.”

They stared at each other. Then burst out laughing at the same time.

It was easy, in a weird way. Like bantering with a stranger on a train you’ll never see again—but knowing you’ll remember the conversation for years.

The drinks arrived.

Alexia lifted her cup. “To bleach-free coffee. And emotionally unavailable tourists.”

Y/N raised hers. “To metaphors involving cutlery. And whatever the hell this is.”

Their cups clinked. The silence between them grew warm.

This wasn’t a date.

But it also… kind of was.

————

“Where are we going again?” Y/N asked as she jogged a step to keep up with Alexia, who walked with the calm certainty of someone who’d already dated the city.

Alexia didn’t slow down. “Secret place.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You can’t just say ‘secret place’ like you’re not leading me to my murder.”

Alexia grinned. “If I was murderer, you would already be… chopped.”

“Comforting.”

They were walking through El Raval now, dodging tourists, pigeons, and that one guy playing “Despacito” on a recorder with no shame or talent.

“I want to show you this mural,” Alexia said, pointing down a side street. “Is my favorite. It says—” She paused. “Eh… wait.”

She pulled out her phone and typed furiously. Then turned the screen to Y/N.

“‘Every kiss is a revolution.’”

Y/N stared at the wall. A messy, beautiful sprawl of color. Lips, fists, eyes, flowers. It looked like a love letter and a protest.

Alexia watched her reaction, quiet now.

“You okay?”

Y/N blinked. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect political street art to hit me in the chest before lunch.”

Alexia smiled softly. “Barcelona is like this. You think it’s only sun and tapas… then boom. Existential graffiti.”

Y/N laughed. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

————

They wandered aimlessly after that.

Alexia made her try bomba croquetas that were “made with rage and potato.” She bought a pair of ridiculously ugly espadrilles and claimed they were lucky.

“These shoes are cursed,” Y/N said, examining them like they might bite.

“Perfect for you.”

They ducked into a secondhand record store where Alexia pretended to know who Patti Smith was and Y/N pretended not to care.

At one point, Alexia stopped in front of a bakery window and said, “That cake looks like it regrets its life.”

Y/N snorted. “It looks like me at sixteen.”

Alexia turned to her, smirking. “What happened at sixteen?”

“Bad bangs. Worse decisions. A girl named Sophie who said I was ‘too intense to be kissed properly.’”

Alexia gasped. “Que idiota. You are perfect to kiss. I think.”

There was a beat. A flicker of something warmer than sunlight.

Y/N cleared her throat. “You flirt like a malfunctioning romance novel.”

Alexia bowed dramatically. “Gracias.”

————

Later, they ended up near the beach. Sand in their shoes. Wind tangling their hair.

Alexia sat on a concrete ledge, legs stretched out, sunglasses back on. “So… tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“You come to Barcelona to find yourself?”

Y/N looked out at the water. “No. I came to run away from the version of me that kept choosing people who didn’t choose me back.”

Alexia was quiet. Then: “I think… maybe you needed to lose them. To find this you.”

Y/N turned to her. “You always speak in riddles?”

Alexia grinned. “Only when nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?”

Alexia didn’t answer. She just leaned back, eyes on the horizon. “Because maybe… I like you already. A little.”

Y/N blinked. “We’ve known each other for four hours.”

Alexia shrugged. “Barcelona moves fast.”

————

“You’re glowing,” Emma said flatly, the second Y/N walked through the door. “Like someone just got proposed to. Or lightly electrocuted.”

Y/N dropped onto the couch with a sigh. “You’re being dramatic.”

Emma sniffed the air. “You smell like sea salt and emotional risk.”

“I smell like sweat and street food.”

“Same thing.”

Y/N kicked off her shoes and pulled a stray churro wrapper from her pocket. She wasn’t even hungry. She just hadn’t wanted the day to end.

Emma stood over her now, arms crossed. “So? Spill. I gave birth to this match. I deserve visitation rights.”

Y/N looked up, deadpan. “You gave birth to chaos.”

“And chaos gave you a date with Alexia freaking Putellas. You’re welcome.”

Y/N rubbed her eyes. “It wasn’t a date. We just walked around and—”

“Touched souls?”

“Had croquetas.”

Emma sat beside her, serious now. “Okay, but like. Be real. How was it?”

Y/N hesitated. Then let it slip: “She’s… not what I expected.”

Emma’s eyes gleamed. “Do go on.”

“She’s kind of a menace,” Y/N said, smiling despite herself. “Says things like ‘You are sharp, like cat with knife.’ Makes terrible metaphors. Walks like she owns the city but gets distracted by bakery cakes. Also, possibly cursed a pair of espadrilles.”

Emma stared. “You’re in trouble.”

Y/N blinked. “No I’m not.”

“You are so in trouble. That’s the voice you use when you pretend not to care about someone but your entire body is writing poetry.”

“I’m not writing anything.”

Emma raised a brow. “Your eyebrow did a whole sonnet just now.”

Y/N flopped backward dramatically. “This was supposed to be a vacation. Not a queer awakening via celebrity Tinder chaos.”

Emma leaned in, whispering like she was revealing state secrets. “Are you catching feelings?”

Y/N paused. “I’m catching… confusion. And a tan.”

Emma pointed a finger. “That is the most gay denial I’ve heard since college.”

There was a long pause.

Then: “She said she likes me,” Y/N mumbled. “A little.”

Emma gasped. “Did you say it back?”

“I panicked and made fun of her metaphor.”

Emma high-fived her. “Classic. Now go shower. You smell like trauma bonding and fried dough.”

————

Later that night, alone in her room, Y/N opened her phone. A message from Alexia sat unread. Just one line:

Alexia: “I think maybe I see you again?”

Y/N stared at it for a long time. Then replied:

Y/N: “Only if you bring the cursed espadrilles.”

Alexia: “Always. I like to live dangerously.”

————

They met again two nights later.

Same city, different vibe. The sun had gone down and Barcelona glowed—low amber streetlamps, cafés murmuring, the distant sound of plates clinking and motorbikes purring past like bored cats.

Y/N stood at the base of Montjuïc Gardens, arms crossed, pretending not to check her phone every 14 seconds.

Alexia was late.

Not footballer late. Barcelona late. Which was to say: right on time by local standards.

“Hola,” came the voice behind her. She turned, and there she was—half smile, hoodie again, curls tucked into a cap like she was undercover in a teen Netflix show.

“You’re late,” Y/N said, deadpan.

“I am always late for things that are… not disasters.”

Y/N tilted her head. “That your way of saying I’m not a disaster?”

“No,” Alexia said, eyes playful. “You are. But you’re my favorite kind.”

————

They wandered the garden paths, shoes crunching against gravel, their shadows long and stretched across flower beds that probably had signs saying “do not touch” in Catalan.

Alexia led her up a narrow staircase toward a quiet overlook, where the whole of the city blinked back at them. Cranes. Rooftops. The sea like melted ink on the horizon.

No one else was there.

“You always bring strangers here?” Y/N asked.

Alexia shook her head. “Only tourists I maybe like.”

There it was again—that lopsided grin. The warmth behind her eyes. The way she stood close but not too close. Like she’d learned, somewhere along the way, how to leave space for someone else’s comfort.

Y/N hated how much she noticed that.

“I don’t really do this,” she said quietly.

Alexia turned toward her. “Do what?”

“Let people in. Date. Connect. Feel things. The usual emotionally constipated tourist story.”

Alexia smirked. “You are broken.”

“Deeply.”

“Me too,” she said. “But I am fixing.”

The silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… humming.

Then, just as Alexia leaned in—just as their shoulders brushed, her breath warm and full of question—

It started.

A loud, tinny Despacito. Played on a portable speaker.

From somewhere behind a hedge, a busker launched into the chorus with too much gusto and zero rhythm.

Alexia froze mid-lean, eyes wide. “No. No. No, this song is cursed.”

Y/N choked out a laugh. “I swear this song follows me.”

Alexia groaned dramatically. “Every wedding. Every party. Every time I try to be romantic.”

They both cracked up. Whatever tension had been there melted into something warmer.

Alexia sighed, leaned back against the stone railing. “Moment was good. Now ruined by cheap reggaeton.”

Y/N looked over at her. “It’s okay. I wasn’t ready.”

Alexia nodded, serious now. “I wait. You are… slow burn, I think.”

Y/N blinked. “You know what ‘slow burn’ means?”

Alexia smirked. “I read fanfiction once. For research.”

Y/N laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Alexia reached for her hand. Didn’t grab it. Just brushed against it.

“But maybe… I believe in you,” she said quietly. “Little by little.”

The photo wasn’t even that scandalous.

It was grainy. Half-shadowed. Alexia in her cap and hoodie, Y/N’s face barely visible, tilted toward her with the kind of smile that only exists in private.

The caption?

“¿Nueva chica para la Reina?”

(New girl for the queen?)

It showed up in the group chat first. Emma sent it with exactly five eye emojis and one screaming cat.

Y/N was mid-toast at the café downstairs when she saw it. Her phone buzzed again and again—Twitter pings, Instagram tags, one DM from an account named “PutellitasUnite69.”

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

Emma, across from her, narrowed her eyes. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I think I just got soft-launched by Spain’s national treasure.”

Emma blinked. Snatched the phone. “Oh my god. This is… this is iconic. You’re blurry. You’re mysterious. You’re practically folklore.”

“I’m not folklore. I’m a tourist in emotional witness protection.”

Emma tilted her head. “So what are you going to do?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

————

Later that day, Alexia texted.

Alexia: “You see photo? Is… not ideal. Sorry. I didn’t know pap was near.”

Alexia: “You okay?”

Alexia: “I can make joke if you want. Want to hear about my cursed shoes again?”

Y/N stared at the screen for too long.

Was she okay?

The answer was somewhere between mildly spiraling and mentally packing a suitcase full of unresolved intimacy issues.

She typed.

Y/N: “It’s fine.”

Y/N: “I just need some air.”

She didn’t send it.

Instead, she walked. Fast. Directionless. Ended up on a narrow street with too many tourists and not enough oxygen.

The feelings came in waves: panic, guilt, regret, fear, something warm and terrifying beneath it all.

Because this wasn’t casual anymore. It wasn’t just banter and cursed metaphors.

Alexia had seen through her sarcasm. And worse—she’d stayed.

And Y/N had no idea what to do with that kind of kindness.

————

That night, they met by the marina. Alexia had asked, gently, if they could talk.

Y/N came late. On purpose.

Alexia was sitting on a bench, feeding a pigeon a piece of croissant and muttering at it in Spanish.

When she saw Y/N, she stood. Soft smile. Cautious.

“You okay?” she asked.

Y/N didn’t sit. Just crossed her arms. “This is too much.”

Alexia frowned. “The photo?”

“All of it. The headlines. The messages. The feelings. I didn’t sign up for this.”

Alexia nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“You live in a world that I don’t belong in.”

“I never ask you to belong there. Only to stay a little… here. With me.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “But what happens when this isn’t fun anymore? When I’m just another blurry girl in a tabloid?”

Alexia stepped closer. “You think I don’t know fear? I know. I feel it every day. But I also know… I like you.”

Silence.

Then: “I’m not good at this,” Y/N said. “I leave. That’s what I do.”

Alexia looked at her, eyes steady. “Okay. Then go. But don’t lie and say it means nothing.”

Y/N couldn’t answer.

So she turned. And walked away.

And this time, Alexia didn’t follow.

————

Two days passed.

Barcelona kept glowing. Kept humming. Kept existing — with or without her in it.

Y/N sat on the edge of the Airbnb bed, the fan overhead clicking like it was counting down something. Emma was out, probably hunting for “closure” in a thrift store or flirting with the barista she swore hated her.

Y/N hadn’t left the apartment all day.

Her phone sat beside her, screen black. Still. Quiet. But not dead.

It vibrated once.

Then again.

Not a new message.

Just a reminder.

A single unopened voice note. From Alexia.

Sent the night after the photo dropped. The night Y/N ran.

She stared at it. Thumb hovering. Then tapped.

The recording started.

Static. A soft shuffle. Then:

“Hola… okay. I don’t know if this is dumb. Probably. But I don’t like silence. Not with you.”

Y/N blinked. Didn’t breathe.

“Maybe you are scared. Is okay. I am scared too. I have… this life. This spotlight. But when I am with you, I feel like… I can joke. I can mess up. I can say dumb things in English and you still laugh.”

“And maybe… I like that you are not trying to be impressed. You just see me.”

There was a pause. A quiet exhale.

“I don’t want to be a headline. I want to be… someone real to you.”

“But I also know… you have to choose that. I cannot make you stay. I will not chase. But I wait. Just a little. In case you… come back.”

Click.

Y/N didn’t move.

Just sat there, voice still echoing in her ears.

Not polished. Not performative. Just raw. Soft. Honest.

She grabbed the pillow beside her and screamed into it.

Because this — this was the part she hated most.

When someone meant it. And left space for her to mean it back.

————

That evening, Emma returned. She found Y/N in the living room, wearing jeans for the first time in 36 hours and looking like someone who’d just emerged from an emotional bunker.

“Oh,” Emma said, blinking. “We’re doing feelings again.”

Y/N stood up.

“I need to go to the match.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Wait—what match?”

“Barça vs Atlético. Tonight. She’s playing.”

Emma blinked again. “Who are you and what have you done with my emotionally unavailable best friend?”

“I’ll explain later,” Y/N said, grabbing her bag. “Right now, I need to go… sit in a stadium, question all my life choices, and maybe fall in love.”

Emma smirked. “Wear something tragic. That way she’ll know it’s real.”

————

Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys felt massive.

Not in the way of grandeur. But in the way of distance.

Y/N was in Row Z — the actual nosebleeds. Behind a pole. Next to a guy in a Barça jersey who smelled like beer and shouted “¡Vamos coño!” every six minutes.

It was perfect. She didn’t want to be seen. She just wanted to watch.

The pitch looked like a postcard. The players, tiny bursts of colour. But there was no mistaking her — #11, low ponytail, wrists wrapped, commanding space with the kind of quiet ferocity Y/N now understood wasn’t ego. It was… survival.

Alexia moved like water trapped in glass. Every pass deliberate. Every look calm. But not cold.

When she made an assist in the 32nd minute, she didn’t celebrate. Just turned toward the sideline and glanced—up.

Y/N didn’t wave. Didn’t stand. Just smiled, small and stupid, behind her sunglasses.

It wasn’t for show.

It wasn’t for anyone.

It was enough.

————

After the match, the crowd thinned out in waves.

Y/N waited.

Not near the exit. Not with a plan. Just stood beside the fence outside the players’ tunnel, surrounded by teenage fans with notebooks and shaky hands.

She didn’t know what she’d say. If she’d say anything at all.

Then: A familiar figure in a hoodie. Walking slow. No security. Just her.

Alexia spotted her before Y/N even realised she’d arrived.

She stopped. Just a few feet away. Breathless in a different way now.

“You are late,” she said.

Y/N exhaled. “I’m still here.”

Alexia nodded. Said nothing. Let the silence speak instead.

“I listened to the voice note,” Y/N said softly. “Twice.”

Alexia tilted her head. “Did it help?”

“It ruined me.”

Alexia’s smile was small. But present. “Good.”

They stood like that — two idiots in the dark, surrounded by floodlights and fading noise.

Finally, Y/N spoke.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“I don’t ask you to know,” Alexia said. “I ask you to try.”

And Y/N — who had perfected the art of leaving — stayed.

The morning after the match, Barcelona felt quieter.

Not asleep — just softer. Like it, too, was learning how to exhale.

They sat at a tiny table on a terrace tucked behind a florist’s shop. The menu was chalked on the wall. The waiter didn’t speak English. Alexia ordered without blinking.

“Pan con tomate. Café con leche. Maybe orange juice. You look like vitamin deficiency.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’re very charming in the morning.”

Alexia smirked. “I try.”

A beat of silence. Not heavy. Not tense. Just still.

Then Y/N sighed. “You know this isn’t a fairy tale, right?”

“I know.”

“No happy endings.”

Alexia stirred her coffee. “I don’t want ending. I want beginning.”

Y/N looked down at her hands. She hadn’t brought up her flight yet. She didn’t even know if she was still taking it.

Alexia slid a piece of toast across the table. “Eat. You think too much.”

“Do you ever think?”

Alexia paused. “I think… this is real. That’s enough thinking.”

Y/N bit into the toast. It tasted like garlic and hope.

And maybe — just maybe — like staying.

————

Later, as they stood outside the café, a cab rolled slowly past.

Alexia nodded toward it. “You can go. Or you can stay. But if you go, I still like you. And if you stay… maybe we see what happens.”

Y/N looked at her. The city. The sky.

Then simply said:

“I think I’ll need more pan con tomate.”

Alexia grinned. “Every day. With cursed shoes, if you want.”

They didn’t kiss. Not yet.

But Y/N reached for her hand.

And this time — she didn’t let go.

————

Three weeks later, Y/N was still in Barcelona.

Her return flight sat in her inbox, rescheduled twice, now ignored entirely. Emma had left with three tote bags full of vintage earrings and a wry smile that said “You’re the softest hard bitch I’ve ever known.”

Y/N agreed.

She still walked the city like a visitor, but it no longer felt like she was passing through.

Some mornings, she met Alexia at the same bleach-free café. Other mornings, they wandered markets, spoke in half-languages and crooked smiles, and once argued for an hour over the superiority of pickled anchovies vs. olives. (Neither won. The pigeon they fed the leftovers to probably did.)

Alexia still flirted like a poorly translated poem.

Y/N still replied like someone who knew exactly what not to say — but said it anyway.

One night, as they walked home from the beach, Y/N said it aloud. Quiet. Casual. Like naming a cat you were afraid would leave.

“I like you.”

Alexia looked over. “Mucho o poco?”

Y/N paused. Then: “Enough to stay. But not enough to say forever.”

Alexia nodded once. “Perfect. I don’t like forever. I like... poco a poco.”

A beat.

Then Alexia added: “Also I like your weird sarcasm and your face and the way you cut tomato like it insulted your family.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

Alexia smirked. “But bleach-free.”

And that — that was enough.

———————————————————————

A/N: Much love ❤️

[arabella-syntax]

Floor Eleven, Please (One-shot)

Pairing: Jana Fernandez x Y/N, Wingwomen Alexia

Summary:

You: jet-lagged, slightly underdressed, holding a kebab bag at 1:47 a.m.

Them: Jana Fernández and Alexia Putellas, still glittering from Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter concert.

The problem: the elevator stops. And Jana keeps looking at you like she’s trying not to.

Word count: > 10k

————————————————————————

The elevator smelled like expensive air freshener and regret.

Y/N stepped in barefoot inside hotel slippers, clutching a brown paper bag that had begun leaking garlic sauce through the bottom. Her hoodie was too big, her eyes smudged with whatever eyeliner hadn’t been washed off in the shower. It was nearly 2 a.m. and she had been halfway through inhaling a sad lamb kebab when she realized the vending machine on her floor didn’t carry bottled water.

So here she was. In a lift. In a hotel in West London. With sauce on her fingers and zero patience for the universe.

She looked up.

Two women were already in the lift. One was laughing — full-bodied, head thrown back — while the other stood beside her, slouched against the mirrored wall, chewing gum with a kind of idle grace that only athletes or actresses ever seemed to master. They looked like they’d been dipped in sequins and neon.

The blonde one, tall, striking, wore a cowboy hat that didn’t belong in any part of Europe. The younger one beside her — also in a cowboy hat, with dark hair styled loosely passed her shoulders, black eyeliner smudged just enough to seem intentional — glanced at Y/N as the doors slid shut.

The lift shuddered.

Floor 1.

Silence.

Y/N reached for the panel and pressed eleven. There was a beat of silence, and then the tall one — cowboy hat and all — grinned.

“You come from war,” she said in accented English, eyeing the kebab bag.

“Close. Edgware Road,” Y/N muttered. She didn’t bother returning the smile.

The younger one, still chewing her gum, murmured in Spanish, “Pobre mujer.”

“Sí,” the other replied. “Looks like she fought the kebab… and lost.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “I can understand Spanish, you know.”

Both women turned to look at her. The gum-chewer blinked. The tall one leaned forward, intrigued.

“That’s okay,” the younger one said after a beat, her accent sharp but rhythmic. “We were mostly talking about you. Not to you.”

Y/N cracked a smile despite herself. “Touché.”

The lift began to hum upward.

Floor 2.

————

Then, with the drama of a Greek tragedy and the timing of a bad joke, the elevator jerked once—

—flickered its lights—

—and stopped.

A long pause.

“Is this,” Y/N said slowly, staring at the unmoving panel, “part of the Beyoncé experience?”

The cowboy hat woman — now visibly Alexia Putellas — sighed. “Joder.”

The younger one just crossed her arms. “Elevator sleepover. Qué suerte.”

Y/N leaned back against the wall and wiped her garlic-covered fingers on a napkin. “Cool. Trapped in a box with two strangers and no phone signal. A dream.”

Alexia reached for the emergency button with the energy of someone who had done this before. “We are not strangers,” she said. “She’s Jana. I’m Alexia. You’re…?”

Y/N hesitated. “Annoyed.”

Alexia grinned. Jana just stared.

————

Somewhere far above them, the hotel kept sleeping. And three floors below, Y/N’s kebab slowly died in her hands.

Silence as thick. Not dramatic silence — just the kind that happens when no one knows what to say and there’s nothing worth pretending otherwise.

Alexia pressed the emergency button again, this time holding it longer.

Y/N stared at the red glow on the panel. “I don’t think holding it like a crosswalk button makes it go faster.”

Alexia turned her head. “Do you want to be helpful or just sarcastic?”

“I’m not dressed to be helpful,” Y/N replied, lifting her foot to show the hotel-issued slippers. “Best I can offer is comic relief.”

That made Jana laugh, just once — short, surprised, like she wasn’t expecting to. Y/N caught the sound, and her gaze flicked over, properly seeing her now. Not the glitter, not the fringe jacket, not the concert high — but the way Jana was watching her: cautious, curious, somewhere on the border of disapproval and interest.

Y/N met it with a look of her own. Not flirtation. Not challenge. Just… presence.

“I like your boots,” Y/N said, breaking the eye contact first.

“They are impractical and painful,” Jana replied, glancing down. “But I looked—guapa in them. So.”

“You did,” Alexia said through a yawn, sitting down on the floor like a seasoned festival-goer. “People kept stopping her for photos. Even Beyoncé’s security was like, who is that girl in suede?”

Y/N sat too, careful with the kebab. She hadn’t planned to be here long enough to need a floor strategy, but this was clearly not going to be resolved in five minutes.

“So,” she said slowly, unwrapping the last corner of her wrap. “What happens now? Do we ration snacks and form alliances?”

Jana blinked. “Are we in Survivor?”

“No,” Alexia murmured from the floor, already lying back against her folded jacket. “We’re in Stranger Things.”

Jana tilted her head. “Because the lights flickered?”

“Because you two have weird chemistry,” Alexia mumbled, eyes already closing. “Don’t mind me. I’m just the narrator.”

Y/N let out a short, surprised laugh. “This elevator’s got lore.”

Jana shook her head, though the corners of her mouth twitched. She remained standing, arms crossed, like sitting would mean giving into something she wasn’t quite ready for.

“You’re very… comfortable,” she said finally, nodding at Y/N.

“Comes from being constantly disappointed by machines and men.”

Another laugh. Jana didn’t mean to let it out, but she did.

“Y tú?” Y/N said, watching her now. “Why aren’t you sitting?”

Jana hesitated. Shrugged. “Maybe I don’t want to get stuck. Emotionally.”

Alexia snorted. Jana froze. Y/N just raised an eyebrow.

“Wow,” Y/N said. “That was deep. Do I offer you a cigarette now or an Instagram follow?”

Jana smiled at her shoes. “Neither. Yet.”

They were quiet after that.

Not a heavy silence. A listening one.

Time passed in weird ways.

————

The LED display above the elevator door still read 6. The emergency button glowed like it had something to prove. The air had gone from awkward to familiar, edged with the soft rustle of jackets and the occasional crinkle of Y/N’s rapidly dwindling kebab wrap.

Alexia was horizontal now, legs sprawled across one corner like she owned the building.

Jana stood until her knees started to ache. She finally sat — cross-legged and cautious — across from Y/N.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Joining us peasants, are you?”

Jana gestured toward the sad remnants of the kebab. “If this is your kingdom, I fear for your people.”

“Touché,” Y/N said, licking sauce off her thumb. “You’ve got jokes for someone who was emotionally bonded to her boots twenty minutes ago.”

Alexia mumbled something incoherent that might’ve been “She cried during ‘Texas Hold ‘Em’.”

Jana whipped her head toward her. “Ale.”

“She did,” Alexia continued, eyes closed. “I looked over and she was doing the thing where she pretends it’s sweat but—there were no tears during ‘Ya Ya.’ Only ‘Texas Hold ‘Em.’ Deeply telling.”

“I liked the lyrics,” Jana muttered.

Y/N blinked. “Which part?”

A pause. Jana didn’t look up.

Then:

“The part that goes, ‘This ain’t Texas / Ain’t no hold ’em.’”

She said it flatly, like it meant something and she didn’t want to explain what.

Y/N let it sit. Then offered gently, “You a lyrics girl?”

Jana shrugged one shoulder. “Only when they’re true.”

Alexia stirred. “Okay,” she groaned. “Let’s play a game before I die of subtle eye contact between you two.”

“I’m not twelve,” Jana said.

“I am,” Y/N said. “Let’s play.”

Alexia lifted one arm, dramatically. “Truth. No dares. I’m too tired and too pretty to be climbing elevator walls.”

Y/N sat up straighter. “Alright. I’ll start. Jana.”

Jana narrowed her eyes. “That was fast.”

“You cried to Beyoncé, so I feel we’ve reached that level.”

Jana rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Y/N leaned forward. “What’s something you’ve never admitted in an interview?”

Alexia grinned from the floor. “Juicy.”

Jana considered. Looked at the ceiling. Then back at Y/N.

“Sometimes I don’t want to be the strong one.”

It was quiet for a beat too long.

“Damn,” Y/N said. “I was expecting ‘I’m scared of pigeons’ or ‘I hate cardio.’”

“I am scared of pigeons,” Jana muttered. “But it’s not exclusive.”

Alexia, softer now: “She means it.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The mood shifted — not heavier, but clearer. Like fog lifting.

“Your turn,” Jana said, and her voice wasn’t teasing now. “Same question.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then: “I haven’t been able to write anything real in six months.”

Alexia’s brows rose.

Y/N shrugged. “Burnout. Heartbreak. Boredom. The holy trinity. I came to London to disappear, mostly.”

Jana tilted her head. “You think you’re the only one who disappears?”

“No,” Y/N replied. “I just think I’m better at it than most.”

Another silence. They were getting good at those.

Alexia yawned. “Okay, next truth: what would you be doing if the elevator worked like it’s supposed to?”

Y/N leaned back. “Probably brushing my teeth. Alone. With a murder documentary playing in the background.”

Jana nodded. “I would be pretending to fall asleep while scrolling through comments about our outfits.”

Alexia: “I would be Googling if I’m allowed to legally marry Beyoncé in Spain.”

They all smiled.

And for a moment, being stuck didn’t feel like a problem.

It felt like a pause. A held breath..

————

Somewhere around 3:20 a.m., the elevator forgot it was broken.

Not literally — the lights still glowed that eerie, blue-tinged nothingness — but the edges of everything had softened. The steel walls felt less like confinement, more like a womb. Warm with the hum of half-spoken stories and Beyoncé still echoing faintly from Alexia’s phone speaker, low and looping.

Alexia was fully out. One boot off, arm flung dramatically across her face like a Renaissance painting. Her phone pulsed dimly beside her, cycling through Cowboy Carter’s deep cuts.

Y/N sat against the mirrored wall, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. Jana sat across from her, legs stretched out, socked feet brushing the hem of Y/N’s sweatpants.

They hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not because they’d run out of things to say — just because quiet had become comfortable.

Jana was watching her. Not staring. Watching.

The slope of her jaw in the dim light. The way Y/N’s lips parted when she wasn’t paying attention. The rise and fall of her chest with each slow breath.

There was a tiny star — one of those flecks of cosmetic glitter — just below Jana’s right cheekbone. A stubborn leftover from some stranger’s Instagram Story. Y/N noticed it, glittering faintly under the lift’s emergency light.

She didn’t think.

She just leaned forward, slow. Reached out. And with the back of her index finger, brushed it gently away.

Jana froze.

Her skin was warm, a little damp with heat. The glitter came away, caught on Y/N’s finger.

Y/N looked at it. Then looked at her.

“…You had a star,” she said softly.

Jana blinked. “Did I?”

“Not anymore.”

The space between them was small. Barely two feet. But it felt like a held breath.

Jana’s voice, lower now: “You didn’t ask permission.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I didn’t.” A pause. “I don’t.”

Y/N let her hand fall, resting it between them. She didn’t move back. Jana didn’t either.

In the corner, Alexia mumbled something incoherent about horses, then rolled over.

Y/N smiled, barely. “Is she always like this?”

“Worse when sober,” Jana whispered.

They both laughed, soft and quiet, like the kind of laugh you try not to ruin by making it too loud.

And when it faded, the silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was electric.

Jana shifted forward just slightly — enough to close the distance if she wanted to.

But she didn’t.

Not yet.

Just said, “Thank you. For the star.”

Y/N’s mouth curled. “You make it sound romantic.”

Jana held her gaze. “Maybe it was.”

And for once, Y/N didn’t joke back.

She just… looked.

————

At 5:01 a.m., the elevator jolted once — like it had just remembered it was supposed to be useful — and then hummed quietly to life.

Jana sat up straighter. Y/N blinked, coming out of some dream-state that wasn’t quite sleep. On the floor, Alexia stirred.

“Oh,” she mumbled. “We’re back in the land of the functioning.”

The numbers on the panel glowed: 6… 7…

Alexia stood, somehow still graceful, and stretched like a cat. She looked at Jana. Then at Y/N. Smirked.

“Fun night,” she said, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “Text me when you stop pretending you don’t like each other.”

Jana didn’t reply. Just rolled her eyes. But there was colour in her cheeks.

8… 9…

They rose in silence, the kind that knows too much has happened for words to catch up.

Y/N stood, brushing glitter from her hoodie sleeve. Jana watched her — the same way she had watched her all night. Not possessive. Just present.

The elevator dinged.

Floor Eleven.

The doors opened with a soft mechanical sigh.

The hallway was dim. Carpeted in the kind of silence only luxury hotels know.

Alexia stepped out first, turning back to wave lazily. “Good luck,” she said, and disappeared down the corridor with the ease of someone who’d always known where she was going.

Jana didn’t move.

Neither did Y/N.

Y/N looked at her. “You going?”

Jana shrugged, suddenly unsure of her arms. “Should I?”

Y/N tilted her head. “You tell me.”

Pause. Then — like forcing a sentence through a very small, very honest space — Jana said:

“Do you want to maybe get coffee in, like… five hours?”

Y/N blinked.

“…Are you asking me on a date, or are you just trying to make sure I don’t write a weird poem about you later?”

Jana laughed — full, open. “Both.”

Y/N reached into her pocket, pulled out a pen, scribbled something on a paper napkin and handed it over.

Room number. A doodled five-point star.

No name. Just possibility.

Jana took it like it was fragile.

Y/N stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway. Turned, walking backwards, hoodie sleeve tugged over one hand.

“Bring croissants,” she called softly. “I don’t trust hotel breakfast.”

Then she was gone.

The doors slid shut.

Jana stood alone, napkin in hand, the star ink smudging beneath her thumb.

And for the first time all night, she smiled without thinking.

————————————————————————

Thank you for reading!

[arabella-syntax]

Let’s Play Pretend (One-shot)

Pairing (Alexia Putellas x Reader / BarcaFemeni x Reader)

Summary: When a FC Barcelona charity scavenger hunt pairs you with six of Barca Femeni’s players, you don’t expect the chaos. Or a bookstore moment. Or the way Alexia keeps catching your eye — and then not looking away.

Featuring: Caroline Graham Hansen, Irene Paredes, Jana Fernandez, Mapi Leon & Marta Torrejon.

Word count: > 15k

————————————————————————

Barcelona in spring was made for chaos.

Mild sun. Restless breeze. People on rollerblades. Dogs off leashes. Music from somewhere — always somewhere — bleeding into the hum of traffic and secondhand espresso breath.

You adjusted the hem of your volunteer-issued T-shirt — bright coral with FCB Fundació Scavenger Hunt 2025 printed across the chest — and tried not to sweat through your tote bag strap.

Your phone buzzed again.

Dani 🧍🏽‍♀️

don’t kill me

but I really can’t make it

flu + toddler = mutual destruction

pls don’t hate me

You stared at it. Blinked. Stared again.

Then sighed.

“Brutal,” you muttered under your breath, glancing up at the check-in booth. A volunteer with a clipboard smiled too brightly and gestured for the next person. You took a reluctant step forward.

It had seemed like a cute idea. A charity scavenger hunt hosted by FC Barcelona — proceeds to local schools, with mixed teams of fans, players, and community volunteers. Something wholesome. Team-building. Cultural immersion. You were new to Barcelona. You were a product manager with a flexible calendar. You were very much in your “say yes to things” expat era.

And now?

Now you were alone in a group-based citywide game show with no backup, no clue, and an aggressively cheerful shirt.

Perfect.

————

“Hi!” the clipboard girl beamed. “Team name?”

You paused. “Uh. I don’t really… have one. My teammate dropped out last minute.”

She blinked. Flipped through pages. “You registered as ‘Codependents in Catalonia.’”

You winced. “That sounds like Dani.”

“No worries! We’ll just pop you into a group that needs one more.” She scribbled something down, then looked up again. “Are you cool being grouped with, um, high-profile participants?”

You shrugged. “I guess?”

“Great! You’re Team FCB. Head to the blue tent over there and look for the clipboard with your team name on it. Good luck!”

You thanked her, already regretting every decision you’d made since agreeing to this.

————

The blue tent was more of a canopy, half-collapsed under the breeze, with a banner that read Team FCB in a marker-thick scrawl.

And there — huddled around a clue sheet — were six women in athletic gear, designer sunglasses, and various shades of amused detachment.

You recognized them instantly.

Alexia Putellas.

Irene Paredes.

Caroline Graham Hansen.

Marta Torrejón.

Mapi León.

Jana Fernández.

Every Barça Femeni highlight reel you’d ever seen came rushing back to you like a montage. And yet, here they were, standing in casual sweats and arguing about whether a particular street counted as “historically Gothic.”

“Oh no,” you whispered.

Alexia looked up.

Met your eyes.

Smiled — just faintly.

You froze.

Then walked forward like you weren’t having a small, contained identity crisis.

“Hi,” you said, too brightly. “Apparently I’ve been adopted into your team. Hope that’s alright.”

Jana was the first to speak. “Oh my god, we’re seven now! Lucky number.”

Mapi narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Are you… press?”

You blinked. “What? No. Product manager. Tech stuff.”

“Still sus,” she muttered.

“Ignore her,” Marta said with a smirk. “You speak Catalan?”

“Enough to order wine and fake confidence.”

Caroline laughed softly. “That’s all you need, really.”

Irene extended a hand. “I’m Irene. This is chaos, but you’re welcome to it.”

You shook her hand, heart thudding.

And then Alexia spoke.

“New to the city?” she asked, voice low, amused.

You nodded. “How’d you guess?”

“You’re wearing sunscreen.”

The team chuckled. You flushed.

Alexia held your gaze for just a beat longer than necessary. Then turned back to the clue sheet like it was nothing.

Like you hadn’t just melted slightly into your sneakers.

“Alright!” Jana clapped. “Clue one: Find the first mural by the artist who signs with a tiny eggplant emoji.”

Mapi groaned. “Not Eggplant Bansky. We’ll be here all day.”

Caroline snapped a photo of the clue and said, “Let’s move.”

As the group began walking, you found yourself next to Alexia.

She looked over, expression unreadable, and said, “You’re very brave.”

“For joining your team?”

“No.”

She smirked.

“For pretending you don’t know who we are.”

————

The map was upside down. Or maybe Barcelona was just showing off.

Irene swore they were supposed to take a left at Carrer de la Cera. Mapi insisted the mural had been painted over. Marta said nothing, but the look on her face screamed, We’re losing, aren’t we?

You, new and mildly sunburned, trailed a few paces behind the group, sipping from a reusable water bottle and watching the scene unfold like it was reality TV.

“This is absurd,” Caroline muttered beside you. “We’re professional athletes. How are we being outsmarted by a spray-painted emoji?”

“An emoji and a clue written by a teenager on Red Bull,” you corrected.

She snorted. “Touché.”

————

The hunt had barely been underway an hour, and you were already learning important things:

Mapi had the energy of a TikTok account no one over 30 should be allowed to follow.

Jana was way too good at making strangers pose for group selfies.

Caroline was the dry-witted sniper of the group, mostly quiet but lethal when she chose to speak.

Marta kept a running list of everyone’s most “inefficient decisions” on her Notes app.

Irene treated every detour like a Champions League match.

Alexia, despite doing very little to draw attention to herself, seemed to be quietly orbiting you.

She walked just close enough for your elbow to register her warmth. Asked you things no one else did — where you were from, how long you’d been in Barcelona, why you chose this city when you clearly weren’t Catalan.

You told her the truth.

You came here for a job. Stayed for the late dinners. The freedom. The way nobody knew who you were — and for once, that felt like peace.

Alexia nodded thoughtfully at that.

“I get it,” she’d said. “Sometimes it’s nice to feel like a blank page.”

You’d agreed. You didn’t tell her she made you feel more like a highlighted paragraph.

————

Eventually, you found the mural.

It was wedged between a bakery and a motorbike repair shop — a rough sketch of a moon with two legs and a tiny eggplant in the corner. Jana screamed. Mapi fist-pumped. Irene immediately scanned the next QR clue and began dictating it like it was a government memo.

You snapped the required team selfie. Caroline held the camera.

Alexia leaned in close, chin near your shoulder.

Click.

The photo came out blurry.

You all decided it was perfect.

————

Next stop was the Boqueria.

Clue #3: Find the vendor who makes the “Maradona of mango smoothies.” Bonus points if he remembers your name.

You were sent ahead with Alexia and Jana.

“Tag team,” Irene said, like you were off to steal national secrets.

Jana led the charge. Alexia walked beside you again, shoulders almost touching.

“She’s having fun,” you said, gesturing toward Jana up ahead.

“She always does,” Alexia replied. “But especially when she’s not the youngest in the group for once.”

You raised a brow. “Is that me?”

Alexia grinned. “You tell me.”

You paused. “I’m twenty-nine.”

She smirked. “Old enough to lie convincingly.”

“And you?”

“Old enough to know better,” she said smoothly.

You reached the smoothie stand.

The vendor recognized Alexia immediately and offered her a free drink.

She shook her head. “Only if you remember my name.”

He squinted dramatically. “Marta?”

She burst out laughing.

You nudged her with your elbow. “Brutal.”

She looked at you, eyes crinkling. “You remember my name, though.”

“Hard to forget.”

She blinked once. Held your gaze. Said nothing.

Then turned to order the drinks.

Your heart absolutely betrayed you.

————

Back at the group checkpoint, Mapi was yelling about losing rock-paper-scissors to a child and demanding a rematch.

Marta sighed. Caroline filmed it all.

You handed Irene the smoothie as proof. She nodded in approval. Jana offered you a conspiratorial thumbs-up.

Alexia didn’t say anything when she returned, but she handed you a second smoothie.

“You didn’t ask,” she said, “but I figured you’d want one.”

You blinked. “Why?”

She sipped her own. Shrugged.

“You don’t seem like someone who’d share easily.”

————

The next clue read like the beginning of a mystery novel:

Seek the oldest pages in the Born,

where stories live and time is worn.

Find the volume with no spine,

and trade a fact for your next sign.

“Library?” Jana guessed.

“Bookstore,” Irene corrected. “There’s an old one near Carrer dels Flassaders. Specializes in rare Catalan prints.”

“You just know that?” you asked.

“She’s like the human version of Google,” Mapi said flatly. “If Google had better abs.”

————

The shop didn’t even have a sign outside.

Just a dark wood door, propped slightly open, and the smell of paper so old it might’ve remembered Franco.

You offered to go with someone.

Alexia said, “I’ll come.”

No debate. No glances exchanged.

Just her voice. Sure and simple.

Inside, the shop was barely lit — thin skylight, amber desk lamp, dust hanging like punctuation in the air. Floor-to-ceiling shelves towered with mismatched books. Everything smelled like parchment and coffee-stained secrets.

“Wow,” you whispered.

Alexia didn’t say anything at first. Just looked around slowly, fingers trailing the edge of a shelf like she’d been here before — in another life, maybe.

You turned toward the clue.

“Find the volume with no spine,” you murmured.

“Over there,” she said, already walking.

Tucked into the poetry section, between a weathered Foix collection and an unlabeled red journal, was a stack of old papers bound with string — no spine. No cover. Just yellowed edges and a handwritten title.

You picked it up carefully.

Inside was a folded card.

Clue #5: Tell the bookseller your favorite line of poetry. If he approves, he’ll hand you your next location.

You glanced at Alexia. “You go first.”

She smiled. “Too predictable. You do it.”

“I’m not poetic.”

“That’s alright,” she said, tilting her head. “I like seeing what people reach for when no one’s watching.”

The bookseller listened patiently as you recited the only thing you could think of:

“You do not have to be good.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

He stared.

Then nodded.

Handed you a gold-embossed envelope without a word.

Alexia murmured, “Mary Oliver?”

You blushed. “Yeah.”

“That’s your favorite?”

“No. It’s just the only one I remembered in the moment.”

She nodded once, like she didn’t believe you — and like she did at the same time.

When you turned back toward the door, it was shut.

You reached for the handle.

It didn’t budge.

Alexia tried next. Nothing.

You exchanged a look.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whispered.

“Let me guess,” Alexia deadpanned. “You get locked in a lot of places with women you’re pretending not to be into?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She smiled faintly. “That wasn’t a denial.”

————

Ten minutes passed. You sat on the floor beside the travel section. She joined you, her shoulder just grazing yours.

Outside, muffled voices. Jana shouting something. Mapi laughing.

You pulled your knees in. “So. This is… surreal.”

“The bookstore, or the company?”

You smirked. “Both.”

A beat.

Then softer: “Why are you here?”

She tilted her head.

“I mean — this event. You’re not exactly low-profile.”

She exhaled. “Mapi made me sign up. Said I was being boring.”

“Were you?”

“Maybe.”

“Still are,” you said, nudging her.

She laughed under her breath. “And you? What’s a product manager doing in a city-wide obstacle course?”

“Honestly? I’m trying to unlearn spreadsheets.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow.

“I’m tired of being efficient,” you said. “I want to be surprised again.”

She was quiet.

Then: “And have you been?”

You looked at her. She was close. Closer than before. Not leaning in — not yet. But her eyes were on yours.

“Yes,” you said.

She didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then a loud bang from outside, followed by a cheer. The door clicked open.

Mapi burst in. “We knew it! You two have zero urgency!”

Jana peeked in behind her. “Did you kiss?!”

Alexia stood up like nothing happened.

You followed, heart in your throat.

“No kissing,” Alexia said evenly, walking past them.

“But plenty of urgency,” she added with a wink — just for you.

————

By the time the team stumbled into a shaded garden tucked behind Sant Antoni Market, the city had shifted into its slow, golden hour.

A row of food trucks flanked the gravel courtyard — empanadas, grilled artichokes, fancy jamón sandwiches. The kind of place where you ordered with your hands, paid with a smile, and were handed a glass of wine before you finished your sentence.

You collapsed onto a wooden bench, breathless.

“I would die for a tortilla right now,” Mapi announced, flopping beside you dramatically.

“Maybe don’t say that in front of the nutritionist,” Marta said, scanning the menu board.

Caroline had wandered off with her GoPro again, presumably to document local pigeons.

Jana was trying to teach Irene how to order “like a Gen Z” (Irene looked physically pained).

Alexia appeared behind you quietly.

“Hungry?”

You looked up. “Starving.”

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let me buy your very first tortilla in Barcelona.”

You smiled. “This isn’t my first.”

“I know,” she replied. “But it’ll be your favorite.”

————

You stood beside her in line, awkwardly aware of how your elbow brushed hers every time she shifted. She ordered in perfect Catalan — smooth, crisp vowels, no hesitation.

The vendor handed her two plates. She nodded a thanks, then turned to you.

“I wasn’t joking,” she said. “This one’s good.”

You took a bite.

It was.

But not as distracting as the way Alexia sat across from you at the picnic table and watched you eat like she was committing the moment to memory.

“So,” Mapi said loudly, rejoining you. “Tell me something.”

You blinked. “Uh-oh.”

“Do you actually not know who she is?” she asked, jerking a thumb toward Alexia.

“Mapi—” Alexia warned.

“What? It’s a fair question!”

You sipped your wine carefully. “Of course I know who she is.”

Jana gasped. “So you lied?”

“I didn’t lie,” you said calmly. “I just didn’t announce it.”

“That’s suspicious behavior,” Irene chimed in, stealing half of Mapi’s tortilla.

“She’s clearly a spy,” Caroline added from across the table. “Sent by Real to destabilize us.”

Alexia smirked. “She’s not that subtle.”

You locked eyes with her.

Something flickered there — amusement, yes. But something else, too.

Recognition.

————

Later, when the group had fanned out across the courtyard, you sat back with your drink and watched the city hum around you.

Alexia slid into the seat beside you, close enough to feel the heat of her thigh against yours.

“You’re handling this well,” she murmured.

“This?”

“My friends. Their curiosity.”

You glanced at her. “Are they always like this?”

“Only when they’re trying to figure out who I like.”

Your heart stumbled.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

She didn’t correct herself.

Didn’t fill the silence.

Just looked at you like she was waiting for you to decide what to do with that sentence.

You didn’t. Not yet.

————

Mapi returned moments later and dropped something onto the table between you.

A folded napkin. On it:

“Clue #6 – La Ciutadella calls. The mime awaits.”

You stared at it.

Alexia groaned.

Mapi grinned. “Time to bribe a mime.”

————

Parc de la Ciutadella was awash in honey light and chaos.

Skaters dodged toddlers. Street musicians played in three different keys. Couples lounged on the grass in half-buttoned shirts and tangled limbs. The air smelled like gelato and grass and warm pavement.

And in the center of it all, a mime stood completely still.

White face paint. Black suspenders. Deadpan stare. And in his gloved hands:

An envelope marked Team FCB.

You stood next to Mapi, arms crossed.

“So,” you said, “what’s your plan?”

Mapi cracked her knuckles. “Negotiation.”

Jana, filming on her phone, whispered, “This is either going to be genius or a war crime.”

Mapi walked up to the mime. Bowed dramatically. Offered a chocolate bar.

He didn’t move.

She tried a coin. A wink. A floss dance.

Nothing.

Then she held up a hand mirror and fixed her hair in front of him, loudly announcing, “I’d also be silent if I had those eyebrows.”

The mime blinked. Smiled. Handed her the envelope.

She turned and held it in the air like a trophy.

“Diplomacy,” she said proudly.

“Blackmail,” Irene corrected.

————

The clue was a bit more cryptic this time:

Find the rooftop that once housed pigeons,

now strung with bulbs and secret missions.

There, a lockbox waits with two keys —

one to open, and one to see.

“Sounds like the old art school,” Caroline guessed.

“You sure?” Alexia asked.

Caroline held up her phone. “I did a docuseries here last year. That terrace has string lights and a rep for after-hours events.”

“Convenient,” you muttered.

Alexia grinned. “Scared of heights?”

“Scared of metaphors.”

————

The rooftop was three flights up and only slightly structurally questionable.

Wooden slats. Hanging bulbs. A few deck chairs. An old mural half-faded on one wall. A view of the city that felt too generous for how casually it was shared.

Jana found the lockbox under a crate of succulents. Irene opened it with the first key inside.

But the second?

Was just a disposable camera.

Mapi groaned. “Seriously?”

Alexia picked it up. “The note says: Take the photo you’ll regret not taking later.”

Everyone looked around awkwardly.

Jana posed dramatically against the skyline. Caroline took a fake paparazzi shot of Marta. Mapi pretended to propose to Irene (who did not play along).

You leaned back against the railing, watching them laugh. Warm light everywhere.

Then you felt her beside you.

Alexia.

She held the camera up. “Can I?”

You blinked. “Of me?”

“No,” she said softly. “Of this.”

You didn’t move. Just nodded.

She took the photo.

Then hesitated.

Lowered the camera.

And looked at you — really looked at you — like maybe this was the part of the clue that mattered more.

“I’ve had fun today,” she said.

“Same.”

“But you’re hard to read.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s because I’m trying not to say something stupid.”

She tilted her head. “Like what?”

You turned toward her. “Like how this might be the best I’ve felt since I moved here.”

Alexia’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

“Not stupid,” she said quietly.

Then, just loud enough for you to hear:

“Take the photo you’ll regret not taking later.”

You blinked. “What?”

But she didn’t answer.

She just leaned in.

And this time — no clues.

No crowd.

Just the rooftop. The bulbs. The silence.

And her kiss.

———-

You didn’t talk about the kiss.

Not immediately.

Mapi burst through the rooftop exit moments later shouting, “LAST CLUE’S LIVE!” with all the subtlety of a stadium flare.

You and Alexia jumped apart — not guiltily, just instinctively — as if the city had returned too quickly and you weren’t ready to give it your attention.

Jana snatched the final clue from the envelope like a kid at Christmas.

Sunset waits at the arch of the park,

where iron meets sky and laughter lingers.

Bring your team. Bring your smiles.

Take one last photo — and make it count.

————

The walk to Arc de Triomf was warm and golden.

Caroline queued a playlist. Mapi tried to make everyone rank their “Top 3 Barça kit disasters.” Marta ignored her. Irene debated a child over who was faster. Jana skipped ahead, camera in hand, declaring every five steps, “This is giving cinematic climax!”

Alexia walked beside you quietly, your arms brushing.

She didn’t say anything about the kiss either.

But once — just once — she reached over and adjusted the edge of your sleeve where it had rolled, fingers slow and certain. Like she wasn’t asking permission. Like she already had it.

The arch was flooded with people.

Other scavenger teams. Tourists. Rollerbladers. Sunset photographers. The final check-in tent sat just beyond it — a small white booth framed by string lights and confetti cannons that had clearly gone off too early.

Your team lined up on the paved walkway for the last photo. A volunteer aimed the Polaroid camera.

Alexia stood next to you.

No stage directions. No cue.

She just reached for your hand.

You let her.

The camera clicked.

————

Afterward, while the others collected their goodie bags and shouted plans for post-hunt tapas, you slipped away from the crowd. Just a few paces — to the edge of the plaza, where the sky looked like orange rind and watercolor.

Alexia followed.

“Hola,” she said.

“Hola.”

You smiled. She did too.

Then, without ceremony, she pulled something from her pocket and handed it to you.

It was a folded clue card. One of the earlier ones — the bookstore one, now smudged and bent.

You turned it over.

On the back, in clean, looping script:

You were a surprisingly good teammate.

Want to try something harder?

Like a second date?

— A.

📱 +34 XXX XXX XXX

You laughed.

Then looked up.

Alexia was already watching you. Waiting.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pulled your phone from your bag, opened a new message, and typed:

Best clue of the day.

Then hit send.

Alexia’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

She didn’t need to check it.

She just smiled wider.

————

The afterparty wasn’t loud — not in the way parties usually were.

It was low tables and higher laughter, plastic cups filled with surprisingly decent wine, and a Spotify playlist that shifted between reggaeton and old Shakira deep cuts. Someone’s toddler was dancing near the snacks. Mapi tried to start a limbo contest. Marta politely declined all existence of games.

You sat on a bench under string lights, still wearing the coral T-shirt, sipping a red that tasted like cherries and maybe adrenaline. The ache in your calves from running all over the city hadn’t quite caught up to you yet. But something else had.

Alexia.

She appeared beside you without announcement. No dramatic entrance. No lingering tension. Just a quiet slide onto the bench like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve had worse Saturdays,” she said, nudging your knee with hers.

You smiled. “You’ve probably had better ones, too.”

“Maybe.” She took a sip from your cup without asking. “But none with mimes, bookstore lock-ins, and fake tourists who turned out to be very real.”

You chuckled. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not,” she said, looking at you. “I liked the pretending.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “People usually recognize me. And treat me like… an answer to a trivia question.”

You tilted your head. “And I didn’t?”

“You didn’t flinch,” she said. “Even when you did recognize me. You just… played along.”

“Is that why you kissed me?”

She smirked. “That, and you said something about wanting to be surprised again.”

You laughed into your wine.

————

The party started to wind down. Players drifted out. Irene offered a sleepy wave. Mapi yelled, “Text me when you’re famous!” to no one in particular. Caroline gave you a long, unreadable look and then a surprisingly sincere thumbs-up.

And then it was just you and Alexia, still sitting under the lights.

She glanced at you sideways.

“You’ll text me, right?” she asked.

You pulled out your phone and showed her the screen — her number already in your contacts, already starred.

She smiled.

And then — without the pressure of the game, the crowd, or the pretense — she leaned in and kissed you again.

It was slower this time. Certain.

No clues. No timer. No game.

Just her mouth on yours, and the feeling that maybe — just maybe — you had won something after all.

————————————————————————

[arabella-syntax]

Between the Lines

Pairing: Leah Williamson x Y/N

Last Part

Summary: She’s Ellis to the world, Y/N to the ones who matter. Leah is captain, but never in control of what she felt for her.

Word count: > 15k

Parts: Read the previous updates here.

A/N: Finally! This fanfic is completed. I enjoyed writing this so much, that I have written a somewhat AU of this “universe” fanfic.

————————————————————————

Leah, 25 December 2026, Milton Keynes

The Williamson family Christmas was always a little chaotic — in a way that felt like home.

There was the scent of her mum’s roast potatoes wafting from the kitchen, her dad humming the Spurs anthem under his breath to annoy Amanda, and Jacob arguing with the telly over a rerun of Love Actually. The paper crowns were askew before they even finished the crackers, and the dogs had stolen half the pigs in blankets when no one was looking.

It was familiar. Loud. Warm.

And Leah couldn’t shake the quiet in her chest.

She smiled and laughed when she should. Shared inside jokes. Clinked glasses of mulled wine. But every time her phone buzzed — and it had, twice — her heart leapt before her brain could catch up.

Not her.

Not yet.

Y/N had wrapped her final show in Paris a little over two weeks ago. The videos were everywhere. Clips of her in a sparkling black suit, confetti raining, voice raw and radiant on that final verse of Truth Behind the Lies. Leah had watched it on loop the night it dropped. Not because she didn’t believe it — but because some part of her needed proof that it meant something.

Since then, they’d texted. FaceTimed. Sent each other photos — sleepy dogs, bad coffee, the occasional lyric scribble. But never once did Y/N say the words Leah quietly feared.

That she was staying.

That she was done with the hiding.

That she had chosen them — not just now, but for real.

And Leah didn’t ask.

Because she was terrified of the answer.

————

That evening, the chaos quieted. The dishwasher hummed low in the background. The tree lights blinked like a soft heartbeat in the corner. Leah curled up on the armchair in her childhood bedroom — oversized hoodie, socks mismatched, the usual post-holiday fatigue.

Her phone lit up.

Incoming FaceTime: Y/N

Her thumb hovered for a moment, then slid right.

Y/N’s face appeared — makeup-free, hair tucked under a wool beanie, background faintly blurred. Probably hotel Wi-Fi. Her smile, though? That was crystal clear.

“Hey you.”

Leah leaned back into the chair. “Hey. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Y/N echoed, voice gentle. “How’s the family chaos?”

“Still surviving. I think my mum won the crown game. Dad sulked and switched the telly to football.”

“That sounds exactly like what I imagined,” Y/N chuckled. Then her expression softened. “And you?”

Leah hesitated. Then nodded. “Holding steady.”

There was a pause, not awkward but weighted.

“I wanted to call,” Y/N said finally, “because there’s something I need to ask.”

Leah met her gaze through the screen. “Okay.”

“Do you trust me?”

The words settled like snow.

Leah blinked slowly. Her pulse ticked up.

She thought about how much she’d wanted this. How many nights she imagined hearing those exact words, and how strange it was that now — faced with them — she didn’t feel immediate ease, only the sharp edge of memory.

“I do,” she said, quietly. “My heart does. My head’s… still trying to catch up.”

Y/N nodded. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t push.

“I get that,” she replied. “Truly. And you don’t owe me blind trust.”

Leah tilted her head. “Then why ask?”

“Because I need to do something,” Y/N said, her voice steady now. “Something I’ve been working toward for years. But I also know it only matters if you believe in what’s coming — even if it’s not here yet.”

She glanced away for a beat, then back.

“My contract ends next week.”

Leah’s breath hitched.

“I’ve said no,” Y/N added. “To the new one. I haven’t told many people. But I want you to know first. Because… what comes next is me. Just me. Not Ellis. Not someone curated. And if you’re still here… if you want to be…”

Leah swallowed. “I do.”

Y/N exhaled, smiling softly.

“Then stay tuned.”

Leah raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning?”

Y/N winked. “Not telling. Yet.”

“Tease.”

“Always.”

They sat in silence for a while after that, smiling without words, until Leah’s mum called her from downstairs.

Y/N tilted her head. “Go on. Go win another crown.”

“I already did,” Leah said, smiling at the screen. “You just called.”

——————

Y/N, December 2026, London

The borrowed loft in Shoreditch didn’t look like a place someone would run away to. But it was the first space in months that didn’t feel like a set.

There was no concierge in a lobby. No hotel towels folded in triangles. No scent of vanilla diffusers from a label-sponsored suite.

Just brick walls, an old upright piano, a record player that skipped on Billie Holiday, and a mattress on the floor.

Y/N called it a beginning.

Olivia called it a tactical retreat.

The truth probably lived somewhere in between.

Her last show in Paris had ended not with confetti, but a blackout. Just her silhouette on stage, hand over her heart, breath shaking before the final verse of “Truth Behind the Lies.” The crowd was still chanting her name when the lights dimmed and her mic went dead.

She remembered walking offstage, chest aching like she’d cracked something open that couldn’t be sealed again.

“You alright?” one of the crew had asked.

She’d only nodded.

But what she meant was: I’m free.

————

December 29th. Two days before the year ended. Olivia arrived at the loft just after noon with two coffees and a sealed envelope.

“No lawyers,” she said, handing it over. “No press. Just this.”

Y/N stared at the letter. Printed on embossed paper. The kind that felt heavier than it looked.

Inside: a termination confirmation. The final formality. It stated the obvious — that her contract would expire on the 31st, that she was not renewing, and that while she remained bound by a non-compete clause until the end of 2027, she was free to distribute and perform any independently-produced material.

A long way of saying: You can do your thing. But don’t expect backup.

Y/N signed it without hesitation.

“You’re sure?” Olivia asked.

Y/N nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

Olivia exhaled. “Alright. Then we begin again.”

————

She didn’t throw a party. Didn’t post a countdown. Didn’t fly to LA or stage a New Year’s Eve comeback.

Instead, she stayed up late with the piano in the loft, bare fingers skating over worn keys, writing lyrics that sounded more like prayers than hooks.

The song didn’t have a name at first. Just a line that wouldn’t leave her head:

You don’t have to say forever — just tonight with your whole heart.

It wasn’t a single. Not a chart-chaser. It didn’t even have a proper bridge.

But it was hers.

She called it “The Quiet Between Notes”.

When she played it for Olivia on the 30th, her manager blinked hard and said, “It’s not a hit. It’s a confession.”

“Then it’s perfect,” Y/N said.

————

On New Year’s Eve, she stood alone in the loft, a single lamp casting gold on the floorboards. She set up a phone on the old upright piano. Hit record.

No makeup. No editing. Just her.

A voice in the quiet. Fingers over keys. A song barely whispering through the static.

She uploaded it to Instagram at 11:47 p.m.

The caption read:

The real tour starts in 2027.

Happy new year. I’m home.

#BetweenTheLines

No tags. No links. No label watermark.

And she turned off her phone.

————

It wasn’t until 12:26 a.m. that she turned it back on again. The screen lit up like fireworks — texts, DMs, mentions, news alerts.

But only one message mattered:

Leah: I saw it. You’re brave.

She stared at it for a long moment. Her breath caught.

She replied:

Y/N: You were my first brave thing.

————

Outside, fireworks cracked over the Thames. But inside, she only heard silence — the kind that felt like space, not emptiness.

Not the end. Not yet a beginning.

Just a pause.

A moment between two truths.

A quiet between notes.

——————

Y/N, January 2027, London

It was cold again in London.

Not the Hollywood kind — performative and dry — but the sort of aching chill that soaked into her bones. Camden held its winter hush, all wet pavements and faded yellow lights. And in that quiet, Y/N felt something like clarity. Or the beginning of it.

The chapel Olivia found sat tucked behind a butcher’s shop and a record store — an old deconsecrated space with candles in glass jars and chairs arranged in imperfect rows.

No sound crew. No stylists. No stagehands.

Just her, a piano, and thirty-something guests who had said yes without needing to know what it was they were saying yes to.

That was the point.

This wasn’t a concert.

It was a confession.

————

The rehearsal earlier in the day had been quiet, almost reverent. Y/N walked the space slowly, fingers trailing the stone altar. She whispered her warmups. Olivia checked mic levels with her usual precision.

By 6:00 p.m., everything was still.

By 6:30, the first guests began to arrive.

By 6:57, Olivia stepped behind the curtain.

“She’s here,” Olivia said gently.

Y/N’s breath caught.

She didn’t need to ask who. Olivia would only ever say that about one person.

————

When Y/N walked on stage at 7:03, she kept her gaze low. A handful of familiar faces in the audience. Some from the start of her career. Some from its messiest middle. And in the third row, wearing a black coat and white jumper, eyes locked on her — Leah.

No smile. No invitation.

But presence.

Full, quiet presence.

“I don’t know what this is,” Y/N said softly into the mic. “But it’s real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

She sat at the piano.

She began.

Song One: Two Things

The keys felt like glass under her fingers, but the song spilled from her easily — the familiar melody of shared coffee cups, slow glances, the ache of “almost” in the hours between.

She didn’t look at Leah.

She didn’t have to.

Song Two: Camden

This one hurt. Not because it was raw — but because it had been real. The chords pulsed under her hands like a heartbeat. The lyrics, about streetlights and strangers, echoed down the chapel walls like a memory.

There was no applause. Just silence. Weighty. Present.

Song Three: Truth Behind the Lies

Y/N cleared her throat before beginning.

“This one… you’ve heard. But not like this.”

It was slower than the single version — stripped-down, almost acoustic. No layered production. Just the truth, raw and fragile.

When she hit the line “I said I’d be anything but honest, and still you knew”, her voice cracked, but she let it stand.

There was no fixing what had been real.

Song Four: The Quiet Between Notes

She looked up just before she played the first chord.

“This one is new. I teased it on New Year’s — called it The Quiet Between Notes. But tonight’s the first time I’m playing it in full.”

She closed her eyes.

The song wasn’t long. Barely three minutes. But it held every word she hadn’t known how to say — in Zurich, in Camden, in all the places between.

It was, finally, the truth.

The real one.

When the last note faded into the rafters, Y/N sat in silence, hands resting on the keys.

No applause. No movement.

Just that chapel stillness — heavy, knowing, kind.

She stood. Bowed once. And walked offstage.

————

Leah was waiting outside.

Not by the door, but against the brick wall of the alley, coat pulled tighter around her, eyes soft and unreadable.

Y/N stepped into the cold.

Neither of them spoke for a second.

Then Y/N whispered, “I didn’t know if you’d come.”

Leah’s smile was barely there. “I didn’t know if I’d survive it if I did.”

Y/N huffed a breath that turned to mist. “You always say the most devastating shit when I least expect it.”

“Practice.”

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But they stood in the dark, closer than they had in months, like the silence between songs had finally given way to something new.

Y/N reached for Leah’s hand, brushing it lightly. “Thank you for coming.”

Leah squeezed back. “Thank you for letting me in.”

——————

Leah, January 2027, London

The night air in Camden was cool but gentle, pressing against Leah’s skin like a secret not yet spoken. She walked beside Y/N down a quiet street just past the chapel’s modest doors, the hush between them wrapped in something softer than silence. The city murmured around them — taxis slicing through puddles, faint laughter spilling from pub windows — but here, in this moment, the world was pared down to two pairs of footsteps and a hundred things neither of them dared say.

Y/N’s hand didn’t touch hers. It didn’t need to.

They walked two blocks together, not for any practical reason but because parting too soon would feel too sharp. When they reached the junction, where Leah had parked discreetly, Y/N slowed.

“This was…” Y/N started, then paused. “Thank you for coming.”

Leah’s gaze flicked to her. “I meant what I said. I wouldn’t have missed it.”

Y/N’s smile was faint, but real. “Even after everything?”

Leah didn’t answer with words. She just offered that small, brave kind of nod — the kind that says, I’m still here, aren’t I?

Y/N dipped her head. “Sleep well, Leah.”

“You too.”

And that was it. No cinematic kiss in the streetlight. No grand declarations. Just the quiet, aching civility of two people trying again — carefully.

————

Back home later that night, Leah stood in the kitchen of her flat, kettle boiling and her coat still on. She felt hollowed out in the best way — like the weight of something heavy had shifted just enough for her to breathe.

She sipped tea that had gone lukewarm too fast and scrolled Instagram. The hashtag #ChapelSessions was already trending. Clips of Y/N — Ellis, to the world — flooded her feed. Acoustic, raw, unguarded.

She found herself watching a fan video of “The Quiet Between Notes.” It was a shaky recording, someone clearly crying while filming, but it captured the way Y/N looked when she performed: eyes closed, hands trembling slightly, like the music was the only scaffolding holding her up.

The comments were a flood of awe and speculation.

“Ellis has never looked more herself.”

“Can tell those songs meant something. Every lyric felt lived-in.”

Leah shut her phone off before she could read more.

————

The next morning, she met Keira for coffee after Arsenal training. The café was mostly empty, a sleepy Wednesday kind of slow. Keira had her hood up and sunglasses on, despite the grey sky.

“You look like you’re hiding from the press,” Leah teased.

“I am. Not the press — your fans.”

Leah raised a brow. “What?”

“You’re glowing,” Keira said, stirring her tea. “It’s suspicious.”

Leah rolled her eyes, but her smile was traitorous.

They talked about football first — always football. Arsenal’s mid-season form. England’s upcoming training camp for the World Cup. Keira’s annoying new physio. It wasn’t until the second round of drinks that the conversation shifted.

“So,” Keira said, not looking up from her mug. “You seeing her again?”

Leah hesitated. “We talked. She sang. I was there.”

Keira snorted. “Not what I asked.”

“I don’t know,” Leah said honestly. “It’s not simple.”

“No, it’s not,” Keira said, finally meeting her eyes. “But sometimes, it doesn’t have to be solved all at once. You just… decide to stay in it. Or not.”

Leah looked out the window. The street was wet with half-melted sleet. A cyclist passed, head down against the wind.

“I’m still in it,” she said quietly.

Keira reached across the table and tapped her fingers once on Leah’s knuckles. “You look lighter lately.”

————

That night, as Leah curled under her duvet, her phone buzzed once.

It was a message from Y/N.

“Thank you for staying until the last note.”

Leah stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Then she typed:

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

She pressed send. No hesitation.

She set the phone face-down on the nightstand and closed her eyes, hearing echoes of a voice she once kissed in the quiet.

It still lingered.

But now — maybe — it was beginning to stay.

——————

Y/N, February 2027, London

The flat in Shoreditch is all concrete angles and secondhand softness. It smells like fig candles and eucalyptus oil, things Olivia had left behind from her last visit. Outside, the February rain made no promises, streaking faint shadows across the windowpanes. Y/N sat cross-legged on the worn velvet couch, notebook on her lap, guitar untouched beside her.

She has been circling a melody for hours, fingers idle, thoughts anything but.

The Chapel Sessions had stayed with her like the hum after the final chord — not just the applause, but the stillness that followed. The way Leah stayed behind. The way they didn’t rush to label what the night meant, only that it had meant something.

They’ve texted since. Enough to feel it wasn’t a fluke. Not enough to make it real.

She scrolled up through their last exchange. A meme from Leah about the chaos of group chats. A voice note — a snort of laughter and a dry: “Imagine me, an Aries, in a room full of Geminis.”

Y/N had laughed. Alone, but it counted.

She opened her voice memos folder — the one she never names properly. Scrolled past “lyric_scribble_6” and “demo_alt.take” until she saw the one she saved from months ago. It’s Leah’s voice, low and a little sleepy, recorded during a late night when Y/N had asked her what she was thinking.

“I think…”

A pause. A yawn.

“I think you don’t realise how much of you stays, even after you leave the room.”

Y/N pressed stop.

Enough.

She closed the laptop, set aside her notebook. Breathed in. Then opened her phone.

No overthinking. No lyrics to shield her.

Just this:

Would you like to go on a date with me?

A real one.

Not just coffee in Camden or hiding backstage.

Just us.

She added a heart. Deleted it. Replaced it with a full stop. Then nothing. Finally, just the words — and she hits send.

She set the phone down and left the room.

—

By the time she returned, the light’s gone golden and the sky is already folding into dusk.

One new message.

I was hoping you’d ask.

She exhaled — long and quiet — and texted back:

Then let’s make it count.

——————

Leah’s POV · August 2027 · London

The plane ride home from Brazil was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet you don’t fill with noise, because everyone’s carrying something too heavy to set down just yet.

Leah sat by the window. Watched clouds crawl beneath the wings like they were in no hurry to be anywhere. And for once, she wasn’t either.

England had come close again. Finalists. Silver. One-nil to Spain. The same heartbreak, dressed in a different disguise. But this time, it didn’t feel like collapse. She had captained them with every fibre of her being. She had led, she had fought, and she had made peace.

She had left it all on that pitch in Rio.

And now she was coming home to something else. Something softer.

To someone.

————

The London summer was gentler than Brazil’s electric heat. The air cooler, the skies never quite certain of sun. But Leah didn’t mind. She wasn’t looking for spectacle.

She wanted the mundane. The real. The everyday that makes a life.

Her suitcase barely touched the floor before she heard the kettle click on in the kitchen.

“You drink peppermint now?” came the voice she had been missing in the quietest parts of herself.

Y/N — barefoot, hair damp, a mug in each hand.

“I’ve changed,” Leah said, walking over. “World Cup finals do that to a girl.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see how deep the change runs. I bet you still leave your phone in the fridge when you’re tired.”

Leah grinned and stole a sip from Y/N’s mug. “Only when I miss you.”

————

They weren’t in Camden anymore. Y/N’s temporary Airbnb had turned into a longer lease in Shoreditch — a top-floor flat that smelled of eucalyptus and the lingering echo of chords that hadn’t yet made it into songs.

They never made a public announcement. No hard launch. No coordinated Instagram post.

But everyone who mattered knew. Keira. Jess. Alex, of course. Olivia, who had stopped blinking twice whenever she saw Leah in the flat. Their families. Her mum had cried the first time she saw them on FaceTime together — not out of shock, just out of recognition.

Leah didn’t need the world to name it. She knew what she had.

And what they had — it didn’t want headlines. It wanted quiet.

The kind that lets two people find each other again without needing to perform the reunion.

————

One week after she landed, Leah found herself on the sofa, legs curled under her, still wearing the hoodie she’d taken from Y/N’s closet that morning. Not on purpose. Not entirely.

Y/N was sitting on the rug, tuning her guitar — back straight, eyes soft.

She had written three new songs since Leah returned. None of them had names yet. She played the third one now, the melody like a memory trying to remember itself.

“What’s it called?” Leah asked, voice barely above the hum of the strings.

Y/N shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Thought about calling it Postcards from the Edge, but that felt dramatic.”

“You are dramatic.”

“I write dramatic,” Y/N corrected. “I live quietly.”

Leah leaned her cheek against the couch arm. “Call it Coddled.”

Y/N turned, one brow lifted.

“You know,” Leah added, “for the way you always steal the duvet and kick me in your sleep.”

Y/N grinned. “Sounds more like a diss track than a love song.”

“Same thing sometimes,” Leah murmured, smiling.

————

They spent the next day doing nothing spectacular.

Y/N read through fan letters over toast. Leah answered emails from the FA. At one point, they went to the corner shop in mismatched shoes and matching sunglasses, and nobody batted an eye. Leah thought about how many years she’d wanted a life like this but never let herself picture it.

Not because she didn’t believe in love — she did. But because she wasn’t sure if someone like her was meant for a love that wasn’t complicated.

But Y/N made the complicated beautiful.

The morning coffees with half-sweet oat milk. The voice notes left mid-rehearsal. The way she always said Leah’s name like it was a line from a song.

The way they let the world exist around them without it having to define them.

————

Later that week, Keira came by. Brought biscuits and silence and eventually asked, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Leah said. “Better than alright, actually.”

Keira watched her for a second longer, then nodded.

“You look lighter lately.”

Leah didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to.

————

One evening, they sat on the rooftop, wrapped in an old blanket from the tour van. London lights blinking in the distance. Y/N played Leah the same song again — the one with no name.

She didn’t sing the lyrics this time. Just played.

When the last note faded, Leah said quietly, “I think it’s called Us.”

Y/N didn’t correct her.

She just reached over, laced their fingers together, and leaned her head on Leah’s shoulder.

And in that moment, with no spotlight, no crowd, no fear — it felt like the beginning of everything they never thought they’d get to have.

————————————————————————

THE END 🤍

A/N: Leah and Y/N deserved softness. So this story ends where it was always meant to — not in a hard launch, but in quiet commitment. A kind of love that doesn’t need to announce itself loudly to be real. One that trusts the other person will still be there when the lights fade, and the music stops.

Thank you to every single reader who followed their journey.

[arabella-syntax]

Something, Something

Pairing; Aggie Beever- Jones x Jana Fernandez

Summary: It’s the summer of 2025, and Switzerland is hot. Emotionally, at least.

Word Count: > 9k

A/N: Based on this request from Anon. Hope I’ve got the brief right. Anyways, try to enjoy this real-people fanfic, with a lot of mutual pining, and unserious long-distance Gen Z chaos.

————————————————————————

[Jana]

The bus ride from Zürich airport to the training base was mostly uneventful — except for Vicky López trying to show Alexia her TikTok drafts like they were legal evidence and not sparkle-filled, zoom-cut edits to a song by Rosalia.

“No entiendo nada,” Alexia said, squinting at the screen. “¿Por qué hay un sticker de una cabra?”

(I don’t get it. Why is there a goat sticker?)

“Because she’s the GOAT,” Vicky deadpanned. “Literalmente. Hello.”

Alexia sighed. “Estoy muy vieja para esto.”

(I’m too old for this.)

From behind, Ona poked her head over Jana’s seat. “Don’t check your phone, eh. Twitter está on fire.”

Jana raised an eyebrow. “¿Otra vez?”

“Hashtag Jaggie, trending. Te lo juro.”

(#Jaggie is trending again. I swear.)

Jana sighed, opened Twitter anyway, and immediately regretted her life choices.

There it was — a side-by-side of her IG story (croissants and iced matcha) and Aggie’s story from an hour later (same matcha, suspiciously identical croissant, but allegedly “different vibe”).

Caption:

“Jana and Aggie doing soft-launch long distance is the kind of relationship I want for myself tbh.”

She muttered, “Mátame ya.”

(Just kill me now.)

Ona cackled. “Tú te lo buscaste, eh.”

(You brought this on yourself.)

“You reposted that story!” Patri added from two rows up, turning around. “And you liked the edit of her scoring last week.”

“It was a good goal,” Jana muttered. “I’m allowed to appreciate football.”

Alexia twisted in her seat. “Y también su cara, ¿no?”

(And her face too, right?)

“¡Vale!” Jana hissed. “Can everyone shut up?”

“Too late,” Vicky said, flashing her phone. “Tumblr’s already built an entire love story around you and a vending machine.”

—————

[Aggie]

The England team group chat was unhinged. Niamh’s sent a collage of all the photos tagged under “Jaggie” with a very unhelpful caption:

“UR FAMOUS. Also I want royalties.”

Khiara added:

“Do you think Spain’s gonna try to break your ankles or just your heart?”

Aggie stared at her phone, sighs, and dropped it face-down on her hotel bed.

Grace walked in then, holding a hotel robe and a pair of slippers like she’s auditioning for Love Island: Midfielder Edition.

“I bring peace,” she declared. “And terry cloth.”

Aggie rolled over. “Do you ever feel like you’re in a situationship with someone who lives in another country, is criminally attractive, and whose national team might emotionally destroy you on live TV?”

Grace dropped the robe on her head.

“You’re either the problem or the main character, babes,” she said. “No in-between.”

Aggie sat up, hair sticking out like chaos incarnate. “It was supposed to be chill.”

“It’s never chill when it starts with a Spotify playlist and escalates into matching socks and inside jokes about vending machines.”

Aggie’s face flushed.

That was true. It had started on DM — Jana had responded to an Instagram post where Aggie did a magazine spread. (“You look peng. Did I used that correctly?,” she’d said. Aggie nearly passed out.)

From there, it became voice notes. Spotify links. A Google Doc named “Bread Club Logistics”, which technically started as a joke but now houses notes about what cities they might meet in post-season. (London, Barcelona, Zurich. If fate allows.)

Aggie flopped backward. “I think I might like her.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “Think?”

“Okay. I know. I like her.”

She paused. “And she likes me, right?”

Grace nodded. “Yeah. But you’re both stubborn and allergic to labels.”

Aggie closed her eyes. “God, we’re so Gen Z.”

————

[Jana]

Training with the Spanish squad had always been intense, but Euros camp was its own beast. Everyone was sharp. Focused. Tactical. But also, Spanish — which meant gossip travelled faster than high-press passes.

At lunch, Patri nudged her tray into Jana’s.

“¿Entonces, qué sois?” she asked with a smirk.

(So, what are you two?)

“People,” Jana deadpanned. “Who speak. Occasionally.”

Alexia leaned over from the other side. “¿People who speak con besos, o solo con memes?”

(With kisses or just with memes?)

Jana shoved a grape in her mouth. “Memes. Definitely memes.”

Leila cut in. “She said ‘good night’ in a voice note. That’s intimate. Es más íntimo que besar, I swear.”

(It’s more intimate than kissing.)

“Bro,” Ona said, scrolling through Instagram. “This fan account just spotted Aggie’s Spotify playlist titled “campeona del pan”. That’s literally you.”

“Cállate.”

(Shut up.)

“No, really. Look.” She flipped the phone toward Jana.

The tracklist included:

“Telepatía”

“Two of Us on the Run”

“So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings”

Patri leaned in. “Pff, you’re so cooked.”

————

[Aggie]

England’s first game was a blur. Aggie scored. She did not do the vending machine celebration, but she did glance at the camera.

The vending machine incident was an accident. Kind of.

They were in London, both there for media day obligations — separate sponsors, overlapping schedules. One rogue photo caught them walking back into the building from the vending machines outside. Aggie had her sunglasses pushed up in that too-cool-for-life way. Jana was laughing at something that wasn’t even funny. Their hands were touching. Barely. But touching.

Someone posted it on Tumblr and added the caption, “Spotted! Aggie and Jana - and vending machine.”

And now, well. TikTok theories. Instagram reels. One chaotic Twitter thread claiming that Aggie’s tattoo placement correlates with Jana’s birth chart.

“Was that for her?” Niamh asked post-match.

Aggie played innocent. “Was what?”

Khiara snorted. “Babe, you made direct eye contact with the broadcast feed. That’s basically sending a telegram.”

Back at the hotel, she finally had time to reply.

Aggie 🐝:

thinking abt ur grape-eating rage. was it seedless?

also: good luck. see u in the final? 👀

Jana 🍞:

i’ll see u in the tunnel. and i’ll tackle u. lovingly.

———

[Jana]

Spain beat Portugal.

She didn’t score. But she played well. She could feel it. Could feel herself wanting to play well — to stay sharp, to stay in it.

Later that night, she was lying on her bed when her phone lights up, she thinks it might be Aggie.

It usually is.

Aggie 🐝:

random thought. we have a shared google drive folder. we’re basically married.

Jana 🍞:

i’m not legally prepared for this level of commitment.

The group knows.

At dinner, Vicky gave her a look that says, so, when’s the girlfriend visiting?

Alexia gave her a look that says, do you want me to beat her up if she hurts you?

Ona gave her a look that says, I know everything, and I’m bored, so give me drama.

Leila and Patri just patted her head. With affection, Leila said, “You’re glowing.”

Later that night, she was lying on her bed, scrolling through her Explore page, when a fan edit shows up: Jana and Aggie, slow motion, to a Lana Del Rey track.

Caption:

“she wears blue, he’s in the red // no one talks but everything’s said”

Jana added it to her favourites.

———

[Aggie]

Quarter-finals.

They make it through. England vs. Netherlands. A messy, chaotic 3–2 win.

Grace Clinton called it “football carnage, but with lashes.”

Aggie called it “barely surviving.”

But all she really remembered was checking her phone in the locker room and seeing:

Jana 🍞:

if you make the final… we’re seeing each other, yeah?

She stares at the screen, heart in her throat.

Aggie 🐝:

yeah. promise.

———

[Jana]

Spain defeated Sweden in the semis.

And then, it’s official.

The final: Spain vs. England.

Alexia looked at her across the hotel breakfast buffet. “So. Your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Your girl.”

Jana exhaled. “She’s… something.”

Alexia smirked. “Something, something?”

Jana throws a grape at her.

———-

[Aggie]

The tunnel before the final is quiet.

The teams are lined up. National anthems playing. Sweat. Nerves. Stolen glances.

Aggie looked across.

Jana stood there.

Spain in red. England in white.

The world was watching. But for half a second, it’s just them.

Jana mouthed something.

Aggie narrows her eyes, trying to read her lips.

———

[Post-Final]

Spain won 1–0.

The locker room was chaos. Champagne. Glitter. Flags. Patri and Alexia dancing like they were back in Ibiza. Vicky recording everything. Leila is seen screaming in Vicky’s video:

“¡ESTOY LLORANDO, TÍAS!”

(I’M CRYING, GIRLS!)

And Jana?

Jana stepped away. Sat quietly. Checked her phone.

A message.

Aggie 🐝:

u looked good today. like annoyingly good.

i hate losing.

but not if it’s to you.

btw, what did you mouthed to me???

Jana typed. Then paused.

Then typed again.

something something…

i think i’m falling for you

The reply came a minute later.

something something

same x

———-

[Aggie]

The off-season was chaotic.

Chelsea emailed her twice a day. Her physio wanted to schedule recovery. Her agent asked about boots for a potential Nike collab. And her mum has texted, “When are you home and also do you eat olives now?”

But none of it matters.

Because Aggie was standing at Terminal 5, in a hoodie that said “Property of No One” and socks with tiny baguettes on them, waiting for a flight to Barcelona.

Her carry-on bag has two things:

- Her boots (just in case);

- A small packet of British biscuits Jana insists taste like cardboard, but secretly finishes every time.

Her phone buzzed.

Jana 🍞:

bring the shortbread or i’m locking you out xx

Aggie rolls her eyes and types:

i’m flying across europe for you

and you’re threatening me over biscuits??

Jana 🍞:

it’s not a threat it’s a boundary. x

Aggie boarded the flight smiling like an idiot.

———-

[Jana]

The Airbnb is in Gràcia. It’s not huge, but it’s got a rooftop and a tiny hammock Jana regretted testing during a windstorm.

Aggie arrived an hour late, hair messy from the plane and jumper falling off one shoulder like she’s in a coming-of-age movie.

They hugged in the hallway like it’s been years.

They fall asleep that night on the couch, half a movie in, legs tangled. Aggie’s Spotify is playing softly in the background — a playlist called “something, something” of course.

Jana stirred at 3am. Finds her face pressed against Aggie’s shoulder.

Aggie whispered, not quite asleep. “Do you think this counts as a hard launch?”

Jana laughed. “This? Nah. This is still soft. Maybe medium. We have not even kissed yet.”

“Medium launch,” Aggie repeated. “Sounds like a coffee order.” Then she leaned down, and muttered, “We need to rectify this then…with what you say — besos?”

A grin tugged on the corner of Jana’s lips. “Hmm, that’s right.”

Their lips met. It was soft. It was promising.

Aggie grinned in the dark. “Something, something exclusive?”

Jana kissed her shoulder.

“Something like that.”

————

[Later — Instagram]

@janafernandez3 posted to story:

📸 blurry photo of two iced coffees and two phones, one with a cracked screen

Caption:

bread club reunion ☕🥖🇬🇧🇪🇸

@aggiebjones posted to story:

📸 the back of Jana’s head, hair in a braid, rooftop view of Barcelona

Caption:

something, something 💌

———-

[Tumblr, hours later]

Anonymous:

GUYS JAGGIE ARE TOGETHER. HARD LAUNCH IMMINENT.

breadclubfan98:

We’re living in the golden era of real-life fanfic and no one can convince me otherwise.

————

A/N: Feedback always welcomed!

[arabella-syntax]

Between the Lines

Pairing: Leah Williamson x Y/N

Part 6

Summary: She’s Ellis to the world, Y/N to the ones who matter. Leah is captain, but never in control of what she felt for her.

Word count: > 15k

Parts: Read the previous updates here.

A/N: Almost to the end of the stretch. At this point, there’s so many directions I could have taken — winging it as I go along.

———————————————————————

Leah – London, Mid-January 2026

The reply came at 12:11 a.m. London time.

A single line, no emojis, no punctuation. Just her.

LA’s too bright…for someone who corners in the dark.

Leah read it once. Then again.

Then shut off her phone, placed it face-down, and just lay there.

Not crying. Not hurting.

Just feeling.

Like someone had finally pulled open a window after months of stale air.

She didn’t know how long she stared at the ceiling before her fingers moved again.

No thinking this time. No voice notes rehearsed and deleted.

Just the call button. FaceTime. Ringing.

Her heart was already halfway up her throat before Y/N answered.

The screen lit up in dim amber, warm tones and fuzzy textures.

Y/N’s hair was a tousled mess — fresh from sleep or something like it. Her shoulders were wrapped in a grey hoodie and her voice, when she spoke, was soft like seafoam.

“Hey.”

It was the first time Leah had heard it in months. Her real voice. Not recorded. Not cracked on lyrics.

She swallowed. “Hi.”

A beat.

Y/N tucked her hair behind one ear. “Didn’t think you’d call.”

Leah scratched the back of her neck. “Didn’t think you’d answer.”

Another breath, this one gentler.

There were so many things Leah wanted to say — to ask, to scream, to confess. But now that they were here, the words felt fragile. Unripe.

So instead, she… pivoted.

“You know,” she started, voice dry, “I got tackled by a sixteen-year-old last week. During a grassroots coaching session. Took me out like a human cannonball.”

Y/N blinked, then burst out laughing.

“Did you at least pretend it didn’t hurt?”

“I limped for three days. But yes. I said I was ‘stretching creatively.’”

She smiled then — that old sideways grin — and saw the exact second Y/N’s shoulders dropped an inch in relief.

————

They didn’t talk about the album. Not directly.

They didn’t talk about Switzerland or Sam or truths that arrived too late.

They talked about the things that orbit hurt without touching it.

Leah told her about Christmas with Amanda, David and Jacob — the vegan roast disaster, her mum’s attempts at TikTok, her brother’s new obsession with crypto.

Y/N talked about the ocean outside her window, the slow return of music in her chest, the weird café in Silver Lake that served “emotional support scones.”

Every now and then, they paused. Just… to look. To remember what the other’s face looked like, live and moving.

Leah could feel the ache somewhere beneath her ribs.

Not painful.

Just… known.

At some point, Y/N’s screen dimmed slightly — the hotel’s auto-lighting kicking in. She didn’t bother turning it back up.

Her eyes were half-lidded now. Not out of boredom — just the comfort of it all.

“You still play that stupid game with your cereal?” Y/N asked suddenly.

“What game?”

“The one where you pretend the Cheerios are players and you rotate the bowl depending on which side scores more milk coverage.”

Leah blinked. “I do not—”

“You did. Back in March.”

She smiled again. Quietly.

“Yeah,” Leah admitted. “I still do.”

Y/N let out a slow breath that sounded like something soft melting.

It wasn’t closure. Not yet.

Not forgiveness with bows or finality.

But it was a conversation.

A real one.

And for now, it was enough.

As the minutes crept into hours, neither said goodbye.

Eventually, Y/N just said:

“I should sleep.”

Leah nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

They stayed on the call another five minutes in silence before one of them finally pressed end.

————

Leah didn’t sleep for a while.

She just lay back in the dark, phone on her chest, heart lighter.

Maybe for the first time in months, she didn’t feel like she was spinning.

Just… floating.

Somewhere between the wreckage and the rebuild.

Between what was lost and what might still be possible.

Between the lines.

————

Y/N – London, November 2026

London held a strange kind of gravity.

Every city on the tour had its pulse — Tokyo was neon and reverent, Sydney was sun-drenched and loud, Paris folded into itself like a silk scarf. But London?

London was personal.

A little haunted.

A little holy.

Y/N stood alone at center stage of the Eventim Apollo, her in-ears still hissing with static as the techs adjusted the feed.

“Camden,” she whispered into the mic.

A pause.

“Second chorus.”

The track queued. Her voice — or the version of her voice recorded months ago — spilled through the speakers. She sang along softly, mouth half-formed around words that still clung to her ribs.

I said I’d be fine with silence,

But you stayed in my lungs instead…

————

The rehearsal rolled on — light cues, mic transitions, acoustic guitar handoffs. Her team was efficient, professional. Olivia stood at the edge of the darkened seats, arms crossed, giving quiet thumbs-ups between notes.

But Y/N wasn’t really in the room.

Not fully.

She hadn’t seen Leah in person since Zurich.

But they’d spoken.

Casually. Softly. Slowly.

A month after her album dropped, she received a message that gutted her more than any review:

I heard it. That’s all. I heard it.

That was all Leah wrote. But it was enough.

Over the next few months, a rhythm formed. Not daily, not planned.

But real.

Sometimes just a text:

Did you see the moon tonight? It’s smug as hell.

Are you sleeping alright on tour buses or nah?

Random: do you still put your phone in the fridge when you’re mad at it?

Sometimes a voice note. One night, Y/N sent her a rough demo from Melbourne — a lyric half-finished and a laugh at the end when she messed up the bridge. Leah replied with a short “That’s beautiful. Don’t fix it too much.”

They didn’t talk about the past. Not directly.

But every message felt like stitching. Slowly, gently.

Now, standing in London again — her boots planted where so much once unraveled — Y/N couldn’t help but feel the tight coil of something inevitable.

————

Backstage was buzzing by mid-afternoon.

Hair and makeup. Lanyards. Pre-show rituals.

Y/N sat in the tall chair, her knees tucked up slightly, eyes half-closed as the stylist worked blush into her cheeks. Olivia appeared beside her, voice low but edged with warmth.

“Hey.”

Y/N opened one eye. “Tell me the ticket sales haven’t crashed.”

“No. Sold out. You’re fine.” Olivia smirked. “But we have company.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Who?”

“Alex and Jess. They’re here. Wanted to say hi.”

A jolt of something soft flared in her chest. “Of course.”

Alex Scott and Jess Glynne still looked disgustingly in love.

Jess hugged her first — a whirlwind of compliments and dry jokes. Alex was more subdued, but her hug lingered. Like maybe she remembered March too.

“You look tired,” Alex noted.

“Yeah,” Y/N laughed. “World tours do that.”

Small talk circled. Setlist chatter. Visual cues. Jess asked if Camden was always going to be the second song or if Y/N might one day lead with it.

Then Alex shifted.

Her voice softened. Her eyes turned serious.

“There’s someone else,” she said, almost too gently.

Y/N froze.

Alex continued, “She’s in a car. Just outside. Has been for twenty minutes.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“She’s wanted to ask to see you for weeks. Since the tour started. But…” Alex shrugged. “She didn’t know how. So she asked me.”

Silence sat heavy between them.

Jess placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “We don’t want to push. You can say no.”

Y/N stared down at the palms of her hands.

They weren’t trembling.

For the first time in months, they weren’t trembling.

She looked up. Met Alex’s gaze.

And said:

“Yes.”

————

Leah – Eventim Apollo, London – November 2026

She’d been sitting in the car for twenty-four minutes.

Leah counted.

Not that she meant to — she wasn’t trying to be dramatic. But the digital clock on the dash had turned into something cruel. A countdown. A standoff. A question that hadn’t been answered yet.

Twenty-four minutes. And she still didn’t know if Y/N would come out.

Her hands were resting in her lap, fingers curled into themselves, her coat zipped halfway up even though the heater was on. She could hear the thump of distant bass through the brick walls. The crew moved in flashes outside the loading dock. Jess had texted a thumbs up. Alex, nothing since she went in.

Leah exhaled through her nose and whispered to herself,

“Don’t do this if you’re not ready.”

Only… she was.

Or maybe not. Maybe she was just tired of not being ready.

She glanced down at her phone again.

Still no message.

Still no update.

Still—

The side door opened.

Leah’s breath caught before she even looked up.

Y/N stood there. No glam, no lights, just her — hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbow, makeup still half-done. Hair a little messy from the pre-show rush. Her gaze was unreadable.

But she got in.

Quietly. Wordlessly. She slid into the passenger seat and closed the door behind her like she’d done it a thousand times. Like this was normal. Like it hadn’t been nearly a year since the last time they’d been this close.

Leah swallowed. “Hey.”

Y/N nodded. “Hey.”

Silence. Like the kind that happens after the shouting’s done. Like ash after fire.

Leah’s hand itched on the gear shift.

“You, uh…” she started. “You look tired.”

Y/N gave a small laugh. “World tour’ll do that.”

Leah turned to face her. “I listened to Camden last night.”

“I know.”

“It’s good.”

“Thanks.”

A beat.

Another.

Leah stared at the empty road in front of them. “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“Neither did I,” Y/N murmured. “But Alex said you were outside, and…”

“And?”

“And I didn’t want to be a coward again.”

That made Leah look at her properly. Really look.

The months had changed her — sharpened her jaw, softened something in her eyes. Still the same voice. Still the same girl who once left a voicemail about moonlight and apologised for it five seconds later.

Leah let the moment breathe.

“I wanted to ask for months,” she said finally. “But I figured… maybe I was part of the thing you were trying to outrun.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Leah continued, quieter now. “That night. In Zurich. I know you lied.”

Y/N’s lips pressed together.

“I knew then. I know now.”

“I had to,” Y/N said, voice steady but low. “I didn’t want to hurt you more than I already had.”

“You still hurt me,” Leah said, a little sharper than she meant to.

“I know.”

“I would’ve kept the secret, you know. I never asked you to come out. I never—”

“I know,” Y/N cut in, finally meeting her eyes. “You never asked. But I knew what it meant for you. Being with me, in secret, again. That wouldn’t have been fair.”

Leah felt her throat tighten.

They sat in that shared grief for a while — of what was, what wasn’t, and what might’ve been.

Then, softly, Y/N added, “I’m not with Sam.”

“I figured.”

“We ended the PR arrangement months ago.”

“And the songs?”

Y/N inhaled through her nose. “All real.”

Leah blinked away whatever threatened to rise. “I heard them. I just… didn’t know if they were for me.”

“They were.”

Silence again — but this time not sharp. This time, it held possibility.

Outside, a gust of wind rolled leaves across the pavement. A guitar line echoed through the bricks. Leah turned off the engine.

“I missed you,” she said.

Y/N’s voice was almost a whisper. “Me too.”

They looked at each other. Eyes unguarded. Hands not quite touching.

Finally, Leah spoke, voice cracking just slightly:

“I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.”

And Y/N, blinking slowly, replied,

“Then don’t. Not tonight.”

————

Y/N — Eventim Apollo, London – November 2026

She closed the door quietly behind them.

No security detail. No stylists. No assistant calling out time stamps.

Just the soft click of the latch and the quiet hum of the old radiator in the corner.

Leah stood by the makeup table, eyes scanning the room like it held answers. It didn’t.

But it held a kind of calm.

Y/N turned, slowly. She didn’t know how to begin. The dressing room was warm but felt too big. Her hands rubbed the hem of her sweatshirt like it might anchor her.

Leah looked at her, patient, but not passive. There was something behind her eyes — not judgment, not anger, but something closer to sorrow.

Y/N started, her voice rough. “I didn’t know how much I needed to see you until I did.”

Leah didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.

Y/N let out a breath and sat down on the worn velvet sofa.

“I should’ve done a lot of things differently,” she said. “Zurich. Everything after. But I panicked. Not because of you — but because of everything that came with… being with you. Or being seen.”

She glanced up.

Leah hadn’t moved, but her arms were folded across her chest now, as if holding herself together.

“I signed a brand image and morality clauses,” Y/N continued. “When I was twenty-five. I’m bound not to do anything that contradicts the identity they built around me. You know, the polished, mysterious, ‘straight’ pop darling with heartbreaks that are just vague enough.”

A bitter smile tugged at her lips.

“I signed it because I thought I needed it. That I needed the machine. The reach. The illusion of control.”

Y/N looked up, throat dry. “But I’ve been drowning in it ever since.”

Silence.

Then she added, softly, “My contract ends next month.”

That made Leah blink. Her posture shifted, shoulders pulling back slightly.

“After the final show,” Y/N clarified. “After that, I’ll be free. And I know that’s unfair — asking you to wait. You shouldn’t have to.”

Leah’s voice was soft, but firm. “You think that’s what I care about?”

“No. But I care,” Y/N said. “You deserve more than someone who comes in and out of your life with smoke and music and excuses.”

She inhaled, slower this time.

“I’m not asking for forever. I’m just asking…” her voice faltered, “…if you can wait. A little longer. If you can bear that I’m still scared, but trying.”

Leah crossed the room. She didn’t speak right away. She just sat beside her, not touching, but close enough that Y/N could feel the warmth of her shoulder.

“It wasn’t about waiting,” Leah said eventually. “It was about not knowing if you ever wanted me to be part of your real life.”

Y/N met her eyes. “I always did.”

Leah’s lips curved, just slightly. “Even when you deleted my number?”

A soft laugh escaped Y/N’s chest. “Even then.”

Leah reached for her hand. Not forcefully — gently, like a quiet offer. Y/N took it.

It felt like breathing for the first time in months.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” Leah whispered. “I just need you to be real.”

“I’m trying,” Y/N said. “I’m really trying.”

And then the space between them folded. Leah leaned in, just enough, eyes flickering to Y/N’s lips, her breath. Waiting for permission.

Y/N closed the gap.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that set the world on fire. It was the kind that felt like home — like turning the key to a door you thought would always be locked. Slow. Unrushed. Honest.

When they pulled back, Leah rested her forehead against Y/N’s.

“No promises,” Y/N whispered.

“No need,” Leah replied. “We’re here. That’s enough.”

And it was.

For now.

————

Leah, November 2026, Camden, London

She hadn’t planned on staying.

Not after the show. Not after the kiss. But when Y/N looked at her backstage, lips parted in the shape of something that wasn’t quite a question but wasn’t quite silence either, Leah had simply nodded.

And stayed.

Y/N didn’t make a big deal of it. No dramatic ushering. No giddy declarations. Just a hand brushing Leah’s as she turned to head back out under the lights.

“Stay close,” she murmured, like a secret.

So Leah found herself behind the curtain, near a quiet cluster of cables and soundboards, the world just beyond the velvet. A place between light and dark — fitting, she thought.

She watched as the music came alive again. Y/N — Ellis, as the crowd knew her — was in full command, and yet somehow softer around the edges tonight. Her body moved the same way it always did, with deliberate grace and a hint of danger, but her voice… it carried a warmth Leah hadn’t heard before. Something rooted. Something real.

When the opening notes of “Truth Behind the Lies” played, Leah didn’t expect the sting behind her eyes. But it came anyway. She looked down, hands in the pockets of her coat, head bowed as if the lyrics might go easier on her that way.

They didn’t.

But she stayed.

————

Later that night, they took a car back to Camden. The Airbnb Olivia had arranged was tucked above a corner florist, its windows just fogged enough to blur out the world.

Leah sat at the kitchen island while Y/N moved around barefoot, hair tied up, hoodie two sizes too big — maybe Leah’s. There was no makeup. No curated image. Just the hush of late night and the sound of eggs cracking into a pan.

“Didn’t peg you for the breakfast-after-the-concert type,” Leah teased.

Y/N snorted. “Well, we burned too many dinners. Might as well try something I can manage.”

They ate on mismatched plates, with mugs that still smelled faintly of cinnamon tea. There wasn’t much talking — not at first. Just glances, small smiles, the kind of silence that isn’t heavy but whole.

Eventually, Y/N spoke.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured. “About my contract. It ends after this tour. I’ve got five more shows. And then I’m free.”

Leah looked at her. “Free… to do what?”

Y/N shrugged, eyes fixed on her toast. “To start again. With the truth. Without hiding.”

She paused.

“I’m not asking you to wait. I know how unfair that is. I just… I needed you to know that what I did back then — the lie, the silence — it wasn’t because I didn’t care.”

“I know,” Leah said softly.

“I thought I was protecting what I built. But really, I was just keeping myself from living any of it.”

She looked up.

“I wanted to be Ellis, the artist. But I forgot how to be Y/N, the person.”

Leah reached for her hand.

“You never forgot. You just got a bit… lost in the middle.”

Y/N smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “If it’s too much. If it’s not what you want anymore.”

Leah took a breath. “I wanted you then. I want you now. That’s not the problem.”

Y/N’s voice dipped. “Then what is?”

“I’m just afraid,” Leah admitted. “That we’ll always be looking over our shoulders. That something will break again.”

Y/N nodded.

She exhaled slowly, then added, “Me too. But I’m tired of letting fear run the show.”

There was a quiet between them, neither heavy nor empty — just a pause long enough to feel like something shifted.

Leah stood and reached for her coat.

Y/N walked her to the door, fingers brushing against Leah’s wrist as they stopped just shy of goodbye.

“Thank you,” Y/N whispered.

“For what?”

“For staying.”

Leah leaned in, forehead resting against hers.

“You asked,” she murmured. “And I finally heard you.”

They didn’t kiss again. Not tonight.

But something passed between them — something warmer, firmer than promises. A beginning.

And as Leah stepped out into the quiet Camden street, the air brisk against her skin, she realised breakfast had never tasted more like home.

————

A/N: I swear, next update will be the last for Between the Lines. I think Leah and Y/N has suffered through a lot of emotional roller coasters. Feedback much appreciated. 

[arabella-syntax]

you’re back!!! :))

I can’t get away from Tumblr.