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randombush3 · 3 days ago

Text

Soz babe

Next time I will warn you 🙈

busco lo de antes

alexia putellas x reader

prologue, que te quiero

summary: you wake up but you're not sure where

words: 5200

content warnings: brief mention of alcoholism

notes: i realised halfway through this that everyone's name (bar eli) begins with an 'a'. bit stupid of me tbh

The day you leave the hospital begins with the man in the bed beside you dying. Bodies surround him, first to save his life, then to remove him from the ward, and, after that, you are no longer dreading the thought of returning home.

Home. That might not be the word for it.

Alexia picks you up, all tentative questions and awkward smiles, and walks you to a shining Cupra that looks just as futuristic as the iPhone she takes out to show the nurses something or other. You want to ask about it but figure it’ll make her turn that pale shade she goes whenever she remembers you’re not quite you.

“Where’s Amaia?” you ask to distract yourself from the ache of your ribs where the cracks haven’t healed. The seatbelt of the car presses against the bruises on your chest, a stark reminder of what happened the last time you sat in a vehicle like this, but you can’t recall any of it and therefore it is almost like it never happened.

“School,” Alexia replies quietly, as though she is afraid to speak louder and scare you away. You feel a bit like an idiot at her response, because of course she is. It’s a weekday and that’s what children do. “I thought it best that she stayed somewhere else tonight, so you’ll see her tomorrow. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

A sense of protection befalls you. Even if you don’t remember her, she is your daughter. Yours. “Where is she staying?”

Alexia focuses on the road for a moment. Whether she is being cautious because of the accident or because she needs to stare broodily at something to fight off her tears, you’re not sure. She is turning into somewhere quiet: tree-lined streets and quiet curiosity. “Amaia,” Alexia takes a deep breath, “is staying with my mother, Eli. She used to look after her when you first moved to Barcelona.”

“Five years ago,” you tell her, hating how hopeful she looks at the tidbit of information. It has been learnt along with other important things, such as Amaia’s birthday and the details of your job. They provide brilliant health insurance, it turns out. “From… London?”

She nods. “Yeah. You told me once that you missed the sunshine of Spain as though you were from the south.” You can’t help the build up of guilt in your stomach as she smiles at the memory, choosing to watch as she parks the car in an underground garage. “Your firm has an office here.”

You unbuckle the seatbelt slowly, the strap peeling away from your bruised chest like a second skin. The pressure of it lingers, a phantom ache that settles alongside the sharpness in your ribs that make you crave the satisfaction of painkillers. Alexia is already outside the car, standing by the open door on your side, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. Her eyes flicker over you, the way they always do; cautious, worried, and like she’s afraid you might fall to pieces if she makes one wrong move.

Having stiffened over the course of the drive, you clamber rather elegantly out of the car. She doesn’t offer to help – doesn’t say a word – but her presence hums with restraint. The lift is an even quieter affair, save for the faint whir of machinery and the tap of Alexia’s thumb against her phone screen. There is a pause as she twists a key in the lock of the lift’s control panel, but then she goes back to her text messages. Without looking, she presses the button for the top floor, and up you go.

“It’s a penthouse,” she explains when the doors slide open into a spacious hallway. Her hesitation causes her to hang back, so you boldly take the first step towards a place you cannot recall. It smells faintly of lavender and freshly polished wood, and, despite not knowing much about Alexia, you fail to be surprised by the immaculacy of the place. The scent, however, stirs nothing in you.

It’s warm, bathed in late afternoon sunlight that spills through large windows. You take another step, pushing yourself to move further inside, but a rack of shoes – sizes varying – catches your attention and you slip your own off. There is a gap between two pairs of Nike trainers, but you elect to place them to the side, just in case that’s not where they go.

There are photos lining the walls, and the occasional piece of art (either child-drawn or watercolour paintings of various destinations you don’t remember visiting). And it’s nice. The kind of space you can tell someone loves because of the small things; plants thriving in mismatched pots, books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, pens scattered on the floor in front of the TV.

It feels like someone else’s life. That same imposterous sense you get when you walk through a showroom, wondering about the imaginary people who could live there.

Alexia locks something behind you (you’re not entirely sure of the security system of this place) and seems to hover until you turn around to face her. “We bought it together,” she says, her tone careful and deliberate, like she’s meticulously placing each word into existence. “A little over a year ago.”

Your stomach knots. “Together?”

Her nod does not hide how her smile falters. “Yes, we–” She swallows. “I was pretty much staying over at yours every night, but you said you wanted something that was ours. We spent months searching for somewhere and this felt… perfect. Amaia was sold the moment the agent mentioned the pool. She spent most of the summer out there.”

You pretend not to notice the cracks in her voice. You’re not sure for whose sake.

“Do you… do you remember it?” she asks, and her voice is so small, so terrified, that you feel like a monster when you shake your head.

Alexia’s smile doesn’t fall all at once. It wobbles, withering in stages; a dam straining under its weight before it gives way. She nods too quickly, eyes too wide, face frozen in painfully forced understanding. “That’s okay,” she says, too brightly, voice contorting, twisting like a knife inside of her. “It’s fine. You’re still healing. That’s what matters.”

It’s brittle and raw, the way her words hang in the air. Her mustered conviction makes it seem like saying them out loud will make them true, and you want to say something, anything, to take the sting away, but the sentences tumble down your throat like loose pebbles on an unclimbable mountain. Your ribs ache as you shift your weight, and the pain feels almost deserved. Alexia clears her throat and gestures vaguely towards the leather three-seater in the middle of the living space. “Sit.” It’s not a question. “I’ll make us some coffee. Or–” She catches herself, her voice weakening. “Do you want a coffee?”

And you hide your surprise at the question, because if Alexia and you have this life, this home together, she’d know you will always want a coffee. Maybe you are just as much a stranger to her as she is to you. From now on, at least.

“That was stupid, wasn’t it?” She laughs with a coarse hack, as though her throat is sore. “You will never say no to that. I started switching it out with decaf because you’d be vibrating by lunchtime.”

You offer her a smile although it feels like a betrayal to accept her kindness when your presence is clearly killing her.

She disappears into the kitchen and you lower yourself carefully onto the sofa. It’s soft, comfortable, but frustratingly unfamiliar. Your gaze drifts to the photos hanging on the wall. A picture of a smiling child in Alexia’s arms, holding up a World Cup trophy (2010 is more recent in your memory than most people’s). You’re there too, one hand on Alexia’s shoulder, grinning with teary eyes. You exuberate pride, and Alexia does too, beaming at the photographer as she holds on tightly to the little girl.

Amaia.

You glance away quickly, clawed by a guilty terror. The books on the coffee table are a haphazard mix: novels, colouring books, one thick volume of the history of Catalunya. A pair of sunglasses rests atop them – chic but not gaudily luxurious. You wonder if they’re yours.

“We loved this place.” You look up as Alexia sets a mug down on the coffee table in front of you, holding another in trembling hands as she perches on the edge of the armchair opposite. “You said it felt like a dream being here. We hadn’t expected to… get on so well.” Her gaze fixes just over your shoulder, eyes just as anguished as the breath she draws in. “And we used to sit here every night, when you could no longer be called by clients and Amaia was asleep. We’d plan. It could be anything, what we were doing that weekend, what we were doing in ten years. But I like planning and you knew that, so we’d talk about everything we wanted to do. You wanted to take Amaia to Bilbao. She hasn’t been there since she was a baby.”

You don’t know what to say, so you settle for an absent nod that lights a flare of agony.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, setting her mug down. Her voice breaks with the apology. “I didn’t mean to…” She swallows, the sound thick with tears she is trying to hold back. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to look at you and not see the person who–”

She cuts herself off, pressing a hand over her mouth as her shoulders shake.

Your heart lurches. “Alexia,” you murmur, her name foreign on your tongue. It’s the only thing you can think to offer, although it is woefully insufficient.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, swiping at her tears. “I told myself I was going to be strong for you, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to hold everything together when I feel like I’ve already lost you.” Her voice cracks and her hands clench into fists on her lap. “You’re here, but you’re not here. Do you know how–” She chokes on the words, her head dropping forwards. “Do you know how much that hurts?”

“Everyone I thought I loved is gone.” It’s the first time you have said it aloud. “Everything I knew is no longer true, or it is outdated with painful hilarity. And I have a daughter whose name I couldn’t even remember.”

“She’s named after your–”

“My mother.” Alexia looks at you, curiosity dulling the strength of her sobs. “They told me.” You pause. “I tried to call my father the second day I was awake.” She winces at the incoming story, aware of it because of the doctors and unsuspecting that you would mention it. “No one had thought to let me know that he died.”

“He–”

“He was an alcoholic, I found out.”

Palms rub her cheeks to clear the tears, and she sits up straighter. “You weren’t in contact by the time we met. You didn’t even go to his funeral.”

“And yet my fiancée neglected to bring it up.” Standing, you ignore the ache of a battered body. “If you don’t mind, I need to rest.” You hesitate, the sight of her tear-glossed eyes rooting you to the spot for one agonising moment. You force yourself to snap out of it. “I’m sure I’ll find the bedroom.”

…

Amaia prides herself on being deemed a ‘clever girl’. The teachers at school search for her hand in the air when no one else can find the answer, and all the grown-ups in her life include her in places most girls wouldn’t belong. Like the changing room at the Joan Gamper, where people say words she is not allowed to repeat (where Alexia sometimes joins in, and asks that she be a superspy and not let it slip to you that she has engaged in such incivility).

After training, when the mood is lighter and the air is heavy with laughter, the girls will ask why she hasn’t got her boots on, or chastise her for slacking on training when everyone else is muddy and tired. She always giggles at that, because it is a ridiculous notion that she’d be out there with them! But Amaia understands, even at her age, that this is special – sacred, even. She knows to be patient and wait for Alexia to finish leading, to switch back into Mamá Alexia, and to get on with her homework until she is given a reason to be distracted.

The last time she was there, Mapi had joked about teaching her to take long, bendy freekicks. Amaia had scrunched her nose and declared, self-assured and stubborn, that she will continue to prefer goalkeeping. Alexia always needs someone to practise against, and she is determined to prove herself a worthy opponent.

Alexia had laughed at that, a laugh so pure and proud that Amaia felt like the funniest girl in the world.

But tonight, Amaia isn’t at the training ground. She’s perched at the dining table in Yaya Eli's kitchen, her knees tucked under her chin, staring at a photograph stuck onto the fridge: herself, Alexia, and you. The picture is sunny and bright, taken on the beach last summer, but now, as she looks at her family, her stomach hurts.

“Are you going to eat that, petita?” Eli’s voice breaks her train of thought. The older woman gestures at the plate of tortilla and salad in front of Amaia, her face tired but kind.

She shakes her head. “Not hungry.”

Eli hums softly, wiping her hands on a tea towel as she walks over. A chair scrapes on the tiled floor as she makes room for herself to sit down, and then she is resting her hands gently on Amaia’s knees, a silent request for her to sit properly. “You’ve hardly eaten all day, Maieta. Què passa en aquest cervellet teu?”

Frowning, Amaia replies, “Do you think Alexia is sad?”

A beat passes, Eli caught between the truth and the comfort a white lie could bring. “I think,” she begins carefully, “that Alexia is feeling a lot of things right now. Just as I know you are.” She brushes a hand down Amaia’s back, willing the solemn tension in her spine to dissipate.

Amaia stares at the photo on the fridge. “Ama is so different.” Your smile is familiar. Yours. And she can’t remember the last time she saw it. “It’s like she’s not even there.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and two hearts ache because of just how much Amaia understands.

Quietly, Amaia asks her second question. “Does she still love me?”

Eli swallows her in a hug and cannot bring herself to ever let go.

…

A fortnight passes.

You sleep in your bedroom, Alexia in the spare. Amaia seems busy but, with no calendar on the fridge to tell you when things are, you have little idea as to what she is doing. You try to ask her about her day, making an effort to get to know her, but the conversation always turns stale, buckling under the weight of your guilt for its need and her discomfort at talking to someone so familiar like they are a stranger.

With no work and strict instructions to rest, there is not much to do between the declining doctor’s appointments and episodes of wallowing.

The penthouse is large and luxurious, but the walls soon grow tiresome.

Alexia bought you a new phone when you had been cleared to look at screens again. She had come back with something else in the bag too, something lost in the accident, but held off on gifting it. It sits in the corner of the room, its presence almost accusatory. You’re not an idiot, you know what it is. You suppose Alexia wants to choose when to open Pandora’s box. You allow her that control, that comfort. The phone, at least, has proven to be a necessary tether, though you’ve hesitated to use it for much more than practicalities (like looking up who the current Prime Minister is, embarrassingly). Today, though, alone and finished with the idea of sitting in a silent home like a guest overstaying their welcome, you muster the nerve to call one of the few numbers you’d bothered to save.

It takes three attempts to connect. The first time, you freeze when you hear the ring. The second, your trembling thumb threatens to cancel the call just as it begins. But on the third, a gruff voice answers.

“Kaixo?”

He sounds the same, you think, if not a bit older. He’s your brother and he is familiar, which is refreshing.

You clear your throat. “It’s me.”

A pause stretches, heavy and uncertain. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, disbelief blended with relief. “Is it really you? They said you– I mean, we weren’t sure…” His voice breaks off.

“It’s me,” you repeat, softer now, guilt pulling at each syllable. “How are you, Asi?”

The laugh you get is mean, because it does not hide the ridiculousness of the question. Asier is the eldest and he is the wisest, too, although you’d be loath to admit it. Beneath him are two other brothers, Ander and Adrian. The latter was who you last remember speaking to: a shouting match in your father’s house, both sides hysterical. You had walked out, then.

“The last thing you should remember about me is how I asked you to get an abortion.” His voice is distant, emotions running through it no longer raw and real. For him, that was a decade ago. “You could’ve called sooner,” he then says.

“I didn’t know what to say,” you admit. Anger bubbles inside at the thought of the three of them in Bilbao, residue from how things were left. Asier isn’t wrong about what he asked you to do. Even now, he refuses to lie.

“Say you’re okay.”

A lump forms in your throat. You almost choke on it trying to get the words out. “Ez, ez nago ondo.”

“How can I fix this?” he asks, but for a while, the only thing you can hear in his voice is fear.

He speaks for what feels like hours, attempting to cover everything that happened between then and now. He’s married. His twins turned six last month. They visited you and Amaia in Barcelona a year ago, and he gave Alexia enough shovel talk for her to become positively terrified of him. He skirts around the death of your father, a mystery he clearly doesn’t want to help you solve, and he similarly avoids the argument you had. “We’re… on good terms. All of us,” is the most you get.

Finally, he exhales sharply, like he’s trying to let go of something heavy. “I don’t know how to help you forgive us again. It was hard enough the first time. But I do know one thing: you are not going through this alone. You’re never alone, not anymore.”

You haven’t heard him be so gentle, so caring for a long time. The Asier you remember was strict, stubborn, and destined to be just as great a man as your father.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your fingers tightening around the phone, a desperate yearning rising in you. Something needs to change. You need it to.

The air feels thick – too thick – and Barcelona is suddenly too far away.

“I– Asier, I…” The words almost refuse to come out. Something rustles on the other end, his clothes maybe, and it’s like he has leant forwards. You clear your throat, steadying yourself. “Can I… can I visit you? Can I come home?”

There’s a pause, and you regret asking. It makes no sense. Your home is here, according to the doctors and Alexia and the roots you have dug into the ground. But then Asier speaks again, his voice quiet but not unkind.

“Are you sure?” His tone isn’t harsh but there is an air of caution in the way he proceeds.

“I’m not really sure of anything.” And it is set. You know what you are going to do. This is the family you remember.

That evening, you wait patiently for Alexia to have enough of talking at you about her day and her life and how ‘the girls’ – whose names you can’t seem to grasp – were wondering if you’d like to watch their next home match. (She detaches herself from the request. You’ve noticed that she’s stopped trying to ask things of you, focusing mainly on educating you about Amaia. Her selflessness is impressive.) When she leaves you with a wish for you to sleep well and an awkward space of time that you assume would once have been filled with a kiss, you open your phone onto Google and purchase a ticket for the first flight to Bilbao. Living in Sarrià and sending Amaia to an international school are clear signs that the ticket will make no dent in your bank account, and Alexia has already set up your cards for you on your phone, so all you have to do is double click and stare at the camera that can apparently recognise your face.

It’s raining in Bilbao when your flight touches down. Alexia had left twenty minutes before your taxi to the airport arrived. It was a relatively seamless journey.

Asier is grinning in the arrivals section of the airport. “Do you have a coat?” is his greeting. You match his expression, holding up one you’d bought en route. “The boys have taken the day off. We’re going for drinks.” You’re about to decline the alcoholic implication, but he beats you to it. “You can have lemonade.”

He drives a nice car and his hair is clipped in a way that reminds you of your father. Military men.

“You’re not in uniform,” you state as he reverses the car out of its spot, staring straight ahead in order to shake the feel of his eyes flickering over to you every now and then.

“I’m on leave.”

“Because of me?”

He sucks in a breath. “My commanding officer wouldn’t let me argue with him. I’ll go back tomorrow. I’ve been posted here permanently.”

“Like Aita,” you say proudly, because look at the man he has become. He was always on this path, but it is nice to see his hard work come to fruition.

Asier’s nose, however, scrunches at the comparison. “That is something we need to talk about, actually. But I thought it was best to do it with the two nutters present. And alcohol.” He quickly adds, “For us.”

After that, he doesn’t speak much. He’s still the same, quiet, authoritative figure you used to lean on, except now there’s a softness to him, an almost apologetic quality when he catches your eye. You try not to prickle every time you remember the last thing he had said to you, because it’s not a true telling of the past. It’s an uneasy feeling, not being able to trust yourself.

His intrinsic wariness continues to exist; the same kind he bore a decade ago, only heavier, more experience. You don’t know why, and you’re not sure you care to. You’re still angry at them, at the way everything was left, and it begins to build the closer you get to the house you grew up in.

The streets of Bilbao are slick, puddles splashing at curbs, the air growing fresher as you move through neighbourhoods you recognise for once. The city here has a pulse that Barcelona’s neat. Sunny streets can never match, and that pulse settles something in you, even as you silently brace for what’s to come.

Asier pulls into your road. The houses are still large, still intimidating and orderly, with gates that hint at important secrets being kept within the walls. He must have inherited your childhood home, but only the colour of the brick echoes what it once was. There’s a swing on the front lawn, tall enough for the top bar to be seen above the wrought iron gates, and when the gates open, you can tell a happy family lives here. You get the sense that your mother’s absence was more obvious than it felt.

The gravel crunches under the tires of his car as he parks. “We moved in three years ago, had the whole place redone. We tried to rip out that sense of regime and… severity.” He hesitates. “And the stench of alcohol.” Your interest is piqued by that, taking the bait like a stupid fish. He’s amused by it. “Come on.” And he gets out.

You smile faintly and follow him onto the porch, stepping over the deflated basketball discarded on the tiled stairs.

The inside has colour now, no longer so uniform and stark. As much as you love – loved – your father, the man struggled to design a home. It’s nice. Really, you like what he’s done with the place.

Asier gestures for you to follow him into the living room, electric blue and full of pictures. Your two other brothers, Ander and Adrian, are seated on the sofas, both sprawled out and lazily watching a recap of the football as though this were a normal visit. Hesitantly, you make your presence known.

Adrian is the first to notice, his face lighting up at the sight of you. You don’t know what you expected to see, but this isn’t it. His expression softens immediately, and for a split second, you see a glimpse of the little boy he once was, sheepish and guilty of crimes he hasn’t yet committed.

“You’re not too banged up,” he says after a beat, his voice gentle and impressed. The rest of the room goes quiet and you can feel the tension rise, but it’s not as sharp as you thought it would be. Maybe it’s because time has passed for them. You can’t say the same.

Then Ander leans forwards, far less subtle. “You forgave me. So before you shout at me again, make sure you keep that in mind.” He doesn’t seem irritated or put off, just a bit inconvenienced and… bored. It takes you by surprise and kills the fight in your throat momentarily. He pounces on your silence: “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft.”

You shake your head, both to disagree and snap yourself out of the blip of absolution because that is something you don’t remember yet. You don’t feel soft. Not at all. You feel sharp, like the ache in your chest won’t ever leave, like you’ve been carrying something for a long time and it needs to be addressed. You look away.

“I kept the baby.” It’s an obvious statement. Asier already said he’s visited you and Amaia. “I moved away and I had a child, and what did you three do?”

“You told us you were leaving. You asked us not to follow, not to reach out.” Adrian is referencing something you can’t recall. “And you nearly didn’t keep her. Asi was coming from a place of reason.”

“It doesn’t need justification,” Asier says calmly. You’re not sure whose side he’s on. “Adrian is right. You asked us not to interfere. It’s not that we didn’t care, but you made it clear you didn’t want us to. We respected that.”

The room feels colder with the weight of his words, but there’s no bite to them, no condemnation. It’s just the truth. And the truth stings more than you anticipated. “I was a child.”

“You insisted you weren’t. That was your main point, actually,” says Ander.

Adrian fidgets in his seat, his gaze darting between you and Asier. “We were stupid and we regretted it. Dad regretted it too, though he never admitted that.” The boys grow more pained at the mention of him. “I don’t know how we could’ve helped, even if we’d tried. None of us were ready to hear that our baby sister was… not a baby anymore.”

It doesn’t reach you in the way they should. Your mind spins, but it’s not in anger anymore. It’s a sort of blankness, a weariness that comes from unnecessary strife and grief and rupture of a network so strong. “I never asked you to leave me alone,” you say quietly, and the boys hear your voice from six years ago layered on top of it, a mirror of the past. This took place over the phone, then, stemming from an argument about your absence from a funeral. “I asked you not to judge me for my choices, but that was never the same thing. And yet, all of you let me go without a word.”

Asier shifts uncomfortably, the glug of a bottle breaking the silence that follows you statement. He hands you a glass. “Lemonade,” he says.

“I’m sorry. For everything. I don’t know how else to say it,” blurts Adrian, who has always been impatient and far too close to you to drag these things out.

Your legs tremble but Asier is there to steady you. “Sit down, txurru. Let’s talk.”

Over drinks, they recount it all. Fight by fight, death by death. No one cries as Asier carefully details your father’s descent into alcoholism; how he lost his footing, how he left his life’s work with no apparent reason, killing himself slowly until one day, there was nothing he could do but actually die. Unflinching, they tell you about the late-night arguments, the doors slamming, the silence that followed. Your father’s temper had fractured the family over the years, though you’d been too blind to see until the day you left, and it did not subside in the years you spent estranged.

They talk about how much they missed you, how they’d send texts to a number you no longer used, or tried to find you on social media. Pride fills the room when Ander talks about finding you on your firm’s website.

For the first time since the accident, you feel tethered to something, something that feels like it could belong to you. These boys – men, really – share your face and they share your past, and, as the lump in your throat falls away, you realise that this is what home feels like.

But that tether is violently yanked away when your phone buzzes.

“Where the fuck are you?!” Alexia’s voice is sharp, teetering on the edge of fury and desperation.

You squint, confused at why she is so upset, then remembering that Alexia isn’t some random woman who reminds you to take your pain medication and drives you to your appointments.

“Bilbao.”

The seconds tick on before Alexia musters the restraint to reply without blowing up your ears from six hundred kilometres away. “You should’ve told me.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound it,” she replies bitterly. For a moment, Alexia seems like she hates your guts. And then she takes a deep breath, leaving the silence to fill the gap between you.

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randombush3 · 4 days ago

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man...really feeling it hard. imagine being alexia and seeing r basically disappear without a word like that. id be incandescent w anger and worry tbh. but at the same time, r has amnesia and she's stuck in an everchanging world, married and with a freaking child. crazy.

Agreed

R is mentally at a point where she was on her own so it’s understandable for her to forget that she has other responsibilities now

But if I were Alexia I’d be SCREAMING

#randombush3 asks #rm universe

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randombush3 · 4 days ago

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recuérdame is so so so beautifully written that the pain hit me hard

Sorry.

But thank you 🤧🤧

#randombush3 asks #rm universe

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randombush3 · 4 days ago

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the last few paragraphs *chuckles nervously* oh we’re really in it aren’t we *sweating*

Just you wait for the next part x

#randombush3 asks #rm universe

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randombush3 · 4 days ago

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i think this series might be my favorite of yours. it’s so incredible (and very sad)

Thank you so much! I’m glad it’s living up to the standard 🙈

#randombush3 asks #rm universe

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randombush3 · 4 days ago

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ooohhh this wasn’t how I expected remember me to go

I love it🥰🥰🥰

I didn’t expect it either 😅

Thank you!!!!