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lettucing · 11 hours ago

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look of love, rush of blood | chapter two

words: ~4.1k | pairing: jschlatt x she/her, afab reader

summary: Thanks to a not-so-subtle push from your roommate, Joelle, you find yourself crossing paths with Schlatt once again.

notes: ITS FINALLY HERE!! my apologies for taking 5ever, this chapter was originally going to be WAY longer but i wasn't getting it done as fast as i expected to so i decided to split it up into two parts and post them separately. chapter three is gonna go up super soon!!!! <33 (p.s. my apologies for any typos/mistakes, i proofread this thing so many times they probably started going over my head towards the end)

⭑

You’re pulled from sleep by a knock on your door, muffled but persistent.

Before you have a chance to roll over and pretend you didn’t hear it, Joelle’s voice filters through, cheerful and impossible to ignore. You groan, glancing at the alarm clock reading 10:54 AM, before dragging yourself from the tangle of your sheets, last night's drinks still lingering in your head. “Shit.” You think, mentally kicking yourself for sleeping in so late. You’re still half-dreaming when you finally turn the handle and open the door, squinting against the sunlight streaming in from the hallway.

Joelle stands there beaming, a small box of donuts held up like a prize, her eyes sparkling with energy— a vivid contrast to your groggy state. “Ta-daaa!” she says, flipping open the box. “And there’s iced coffee waiting in the kitchen. Don’t say I never spoil you.” Despite the haze of sleep, you smile, following her to the kitchen. “Donuts and coffee? I love you so much.”

You settle in at your small dining table as she nudges a donut, frosted in your favorite color and covered with sprinkles, toward you. “This one’s yours.” she says, watching as you take a bite. You chuckle, mouth half-full. “What’s with the royal treatment? Are you buttering me up to tell me you’re moving out?” Joelle laughs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “No, but... I did make a little move of sorts last night. You might have a couple missed texts from a certain someone awaiting a response.”

Thoroughly suspicious now, you head back to your room, reaching for your phone to scroll through notifications that piled up during Do Not Disturb mode. Emails, Instagram updates, messages… Among the usual chaos and random alerts, one stack of notifications stands out—three texts from a number you don’t recognize.

(2h ago) xxx-xxx-xxxx: hey, y/n xxx-xxx-xxxx: it’s schlatt xxx-xxx-xxxx: i got your number from ted from joelle, hope that’s okay

Your stomach flips.

Oh. Oh my god.

You walk back into the kitchen to face Joelle, who smiles sheepishly. "Ted mentioned he thought Schlatt might regret not getting your number. I just… gave him a little nudge to make it happen."

You blink, still processing what she just said. Joelle’s expression shifts to looking genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry if that was too much, but from what I saw and what I heard from Ted, you two were totally hitting it off at the bar last night. It seemed like a missed opportunity if I didn’t.” You’re torn between being mildly annoyed and unexpectedly flattered. “All i did was spill a drink in his lap.” you mutter, still staring at the texts from Schlatt.

Joelle leans forward in her chair. “Well, clearly it was something more than that to him. And now you’ve got a chance to find out what. So… are you going to reply, or are you just going to leave him hanging?”

You glance back at the messages on your phone, the words “hope that’s okay” echoing in your mind. The temptation to text him back was strong, but your heart races at the thought of it.

“Do you really think I should?” you ask, unsure whether to be thrilled or terrified. “Oh absolutely.” Joelle says with an enthusiastic nod. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

You take a deep breath, the phone in your hand suddenly feeling heavier than it should. The last thing you need is to come off as too eager or weird, but at the same time, there’s a part of you that’s excited over the idea of picking up where the night left off with Schlatt.

After composing yourself, you type out a response and save his number.

you: oh hey! yeah, that’s totally okay, no worries :)

You hit send, your heart still racing as you set the phone down. For a moment there’s only silence, the sound of your and Joelle’s breathing along with the distant buzz of the city outside your window providing a strange comfort. You can’t help but recall your interactions with Schlatt from the bar last night– he was charismatic and funny, with just the right amount of playful arrogance that made it clear he was teasing in good fun. Not to mention he was absolutely gorgeous— those broad shoulders, those warm brown eyes…

What was he feeling right now? Is he nervous? Is he as intrigued by you as you are by him?

Just then, your phone buzzes again, jolting you from your thoughts. Joelle cheers. “Aaah! See, he already texted you back!”

Schlatt: awesome. Schlatt: how are you? Schlatt: hungover?

You smile, shifting in your chair as you glance at Joelle, who beams at you in return. The conversation with Schlatt picks up effortlessly, flowing just like it had the night before.

You: i’m good! hangover’s looming a bit, but it’s not enough to keep me in bed, LOL You: joelle woke me up with donuts You: you?

Schlatt: damn. some house guests i have, i didn’t wake up to donuts. Schlatt: i’m good though, i don’t really get hungover

You: oh. lucky you, i guess 😒

Schlatt: yeah, guess so 🫅

You: 🙄 You: anyways…

Schlatt: anyways... what? got anything fun planned for today?

You: honestly, not really. might go for a walk, maybe catch up on some work stuff. nothing exciting.

Schlatt: sounds like a solid plan. i’m doin the same, stayin out of trouble for once.

You: yeah, right. I think we both know that’s not true

Schlatt: fair point. i’ll probably end up in brooklyn robbing a bodega at gunpoint for youtube content

You: oh wow. willing to die for your craft, i respect it

Schlatt: you know it

You: well, enjoy your trouble then. i’ll be over here trying to be a responsible adult

Schlatt: responsible adult? sounds boring

You: yeah. definitely boring.

Schlatt: well maybe we gotta find you a new hobby then. you have an office job, that shit’s depressing

You: hey, it’s not thaaaaat bad

The use of "we" in his message sends a strange flutter through your chest. It feels casual, but there’s something about it that makes your heart beat a little faster.

You set your phone down, glancing over at Joelle, who’s barely holding back her grin. "What?" you ask again, half-laughing. She leans back in her chair, clearly enjoying the moment. "Just enjoying the show. It’s cute, you know, how you’re trying to play it cool." You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away. “Don’t give me that look,” she teases. “It’s obvious you’re into him. No need to pretend otherwise.” You take a deep breath, leaning against the table as you glance back at your phone. The message from Schlatt still lingers on the screen, his playful challenge hanging in the air. You're not sure why, but something about this feels different, more than just a random flirtation or passing interest.

"Okay, fine," you say, breaking the silence. "Maybe I am a little into him. But I’m not jumping into anything, alright?" Joelle raises her hands. "I'm not entirely suggesting any jumping. But, just so you know, I think he’s got potential." You sigh, trying not to smile at her overzealous enthusiasm. "You’re terrible, you know that?" She shrugs innocently, shit eating grin plastered on her face. "If by terrible you mean ‘helping you get with the potential man of your dreams’, then yes, I do know that."

Your phone buzzes again, snapping you back to the conversation at hand. You glance down at the screen, and a small grin tugs at your lips.

Schlatt: yeah. “that” bad. Schlatt: i’m taking this as a challenge. I could totally make responsible adulthood a little more interesting

Your heart skips a beat. You glance at Joelle, who’s already reading from the seat next to you, waiting for your reaction. Without thinking, you type a response and hit send before you can second-guess yourself.

You: yeah i bet. let’s see what you’ve got

Joelle lets out a small cheer, clearly thrilled by your response. "Look at you, taking the plunge." she says, a teasing tone in her voice.

You glance at your phone one more time, wondering if you just made a huge mistake—or if, maybe, it would be the start of something amazing.

⭑

The rest of your weekend flew by all too fast. The texts from Schlatt come more often now, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of your daily life. At first, you felt a little nervous, wondering if you were reading too much into it. But soon, you realized he wasn’t just texting you for the sake of it— he genuinely seemed interested, and you couldn’t help but feel the same. It’s not a constant barrage of texts, but there’s a steady stream; lighthearted banter, jokes about your attempts to be a ‘responsible adult,’ and more than a few playful digs at each other’s habits. The conversations flow easily, like you’ve known each other much longer than just a few days. The pressure to impress fades, replaced by something more natural— talking for the sake of talking, sharing small moments and mundane details. The kind of banter you’d have with a friend, but with a hint of something more beneath the surface. The casualness of it all makes you feel a little lighter, more at ease. There’s no pressure, no rush, just two people chatting about whatever comes to mind. You realize, somewhere between the light teasing and the late-night message exchanges, that you’ve gotten used to his presence in your day— his humor, his attention, the way he manages to make you laugh without even trying. It felt… right.

By Wednesday, the texting had become a part of your routine.

Your work day drags on until, finally, it’s time to clock out. You walk home through crisp autumn air, the fading sunlight casting a warm orange glow over the city, wrapping you in its familiar hum. The city you loved was alive, but in this moment, it felt peaceful— like you were in your own little world.

You had been home for about an hour when you heard the front door open. You turn to see Joelle, eyes wide with excitement, stepping in from work. "Y/N! Oh my god! I have news!" She kicks the door shut behind her, tosses her purse and jacket onto a dining chair, and plops down on the couch next to you. "Hi, first of all." she says, pulling you into a quick hug. "I hope you had a good day. Second of all, look!” She flips her phone around to show you a text she received from Ted.

TED<33: Hey! A bunch of work friends are here in NYC for a Twitch event and we thought it would be fun to throw a lil get-together for everyone at Schlatt’s place on Friday. We’d love it if you and Y/N came as well :)

You blink, surprised. "Oh wow.” Joelle nods, her excitement palpable. “I know, right?”

Your heart flutters in your chest thinking about seeing Schlatt again, and you knew Joelle had been dying to spend more time with Ted. How could you refuse? You take a deep breath, trying to mask the sudden rush of excitement that floods your chest. "Sure, why not?" you say, a smile beginning to form on your face.

Joelle grins, practically bouncing in her seat. "Yes! I knew you’d say yes!" She leans in, volume dropping. "At least I was hoping you would, ‘cuz I may have already started mentally picking out an outfit. No pressure, but I’m ready to turn heads. And by heads, I mean Ted’s head."

You chuckle, shaking your head. "I’ll try to keep up with you."

As Joelle practically skips off to her room to sift through her closet, you find yourself glancing at your phone. All of your messages with Schlatt are still fresh in your mind, and the idea of seeing him again makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t quite explain. It’ll be fine– It’s just a party, right?

You let out a breath, shaking off the nerves as you pick up your phone and type out a message to him.

You: so You: a party, huh?

You get a reply within minutes.

Schlatt: stupid fuckin ted doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, i was gonna invite you myself Schlatt: but yeah. I figured it would be nice to invite all my buddies over while they’re all in ny Schlatt: you comin’?

You: oh yeah, i’ll be there You: joelle wouldn’t go without me, and how could i deny her the chance to see ted again?

Schlatt: god dude he never shuts up about her

You: yeah she never shuts up about him either You: it’s cute tho

Schlatt: yeah. “cute” Schlatt: more like makes me wanna rip my skin off

You: jealous?

Schlatt: hardly.

You: uh huh, sure You: just admit it, you’re secretly a softie

Schlatt: no chance in hell

You: if you say so! You: anyway. what’s the predicted vibe for this party

Schlatt: probably just a bunch of youtubers getting drunk and being loud, you know the usual Schlatt: but i’m sure it’ll be fun

You: oh wow, sounds like a blast You: honestly i’m a little nervous to be around so many ppl i don’t know, but at least i’ll have a good excuse to drink, LMAO

Schlatt: that’s the spirit.

You: what time should we be there?

Schlatt: official time 8 but u can show up whenever, ted will probably text you guys 20 times before then asking when you’re coming though, lol

You: he’s funny. You: well, guess i’ll see you friday at 8?

Schlatt: hell yeah.

Setting your phone down, you smile. You’ll be seeing him again, in person, and that thought has you feeling unexpectedly giddy. You wonder what it’ll be like—if the easy banter you have over text will translate to the real thing. On top of that, there’s the thought of being around so many new people you’ve never met, adding a layer of nerves you can’t quite shake. But maybe it’s better not to overthink it. It’s just a party, and it’s just Schlatt.

"Just Schlatt." you think, the words echoing in your mind. If you’re honest, it’s starting to feel like so much more than just Schlatt.

The two days leading up to the party felt like an eternity, anticipation building up in your stomach like a ticking time bomb of nerves. By Friday afternoon, you were practically buzzing in your seat at work, waiting for the time you could finally leave and start getting ready for the party. You’ve already checked your phone more times than you’d like to admit, hoping for another text from Schlatt that might ease the suspense, or at least give you something to laugh about— but you were met with radio silence. You assume he’s busy preparing to host, but that doesn’t stop your nerves from creeping in. To distract yourself, you turn to outfit options, sifting through your closet until you find something that feels just right—casual, but still nice, adaptable to whatever vibe the other guests might bring.

You’re in the bathroom just starting on your makeup when you hear the front door swing open and Joelle’s excited footsteps coming down the hall. “Hey, Jelly!” you call out, peeking through the cracked bathroom door. Joelle appears in the doorway, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Heyyy, love the outfit! You ready for tonight?” You smile, a tinge of nervousness peaking through. “I mean… I guess? Not like I really have a choice, right?” She grins. “Nope!”

⭑

Forty-five minutes later, you and Joelle are stepping out onto the sidewalk, feeling a rush of nerves as you take in the towering building in front of you– Schlatt’s apartment complex. “Damn, this place is faaaan-cy,” Joelle comments. She looks over at you, and you both share a nervous, excited glance. “Well,” she says with a shrug, already making her way toward the entrance. “Only one way to go from here!”

As you step into the elevator, Joelle glances down at her phone, re-reading a message from Ted. “Top floor, Penthouse 2B,” she reads aloud, eyebrows raised. “Seriously, how rich is this guy?” She nudges you playfully. “Guess you’ve hit the jackpot.” You roll your eyes, nudging her with a laugh. “Stop it.”

The elevator dings, and soon you’re stepping out onto the top floor. The hallway is quiet, softly lit and lined with plush, deep blue carpet. You turn right, leading to a sleek door marked with a plaque that reads:

PENTHOUSE SUITE | 2B

Joelle types out a quick text to Ted as you both approach the door. You take a steadying breath, exchanging a glance with her. “You ready?” She gives you a confident nod. “Hell yeah.”

You raise your hand to knock, but before you can make contact, the door swings open to reveal Ted himself, grinning wide.

"Heyyy, look who finally made it!" Ted booms. Behind him, the room hums with laughter, music, and lively conversation. Ted pulls Joelle in for a quick hug, telling her she looks great, and it’s great to see her again. When he turns to you, his face lights up with a playful smirk. "Well hey, Y/N.” he says, arms already open. You laugh, stepping in for a hug. "Hi, Ted." His enthusiasm is infectious, and thinking back to the bar, you can’t help but realize that this seemed to be typical Ted—friendly, warm, and definitely a hugger.

He steps back, still grinning, and gestures toward the lively scene behind him. “Come on in! I can take your jackets and bags if you want, we’re just tossing them in the closet down the hall.” Ted takes your things as you step inside and heads toward the hallway, leaving you and Joelle alone. You turn to her, shaking your head with a smile. "He’s such a goofball." Joelle leans in close, grinning. "Oh, I know. I need him. Bad." You roll your eyes. "You’re ridiculous." As you look away from Joelle and begin scanning the room, your eyes land on a familiar face.

Schlatt.

He’s completely absorbed in an intense game of beer pong, set up on a plastic folding table in the center of the living room. Dressed in black jeans and a pale green crewneck, his messy brown curls brushed against his forehead. For a moment, you’re frozen, watching him in the midst of the lively chaos around him. Looking at the lack of cups left on the table, you could tell the game was close. His focus is intense as he lines up to throw the ping-pong ball, eyebrows furrowed.

God, he was handsome. Intensely focused and entirely in his element, you feel yourself drawn to him, your stomach tightening with a mix of nerves and excitement just from being near him.

The moment is broken when the other person on his team, a guy in a black tank top with short light brown hair and an eyebrow slit, claps him on the back. “Let’s go big guy, sink it!” Schlatt rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Dude, i was trying to lock in and focus, and you totally fucked me up.”

You stifle a chuckle as the two of them start bickering, and after a moment, Schlatt takes the shot. The ball sinks into the cup, and he pumps his fist in victory. His teammate raises his hand for a high-five as the two guys on the other side of the table drink from the cup– Schlatt leaves him hanging. Then, his gaze shifts, and for a moment, your eyes lock. Flustered, you raise a hand, giving an awkward wave. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he gives you a subtle wave in return.

Before you even realize it, Ted reappears, pulling your focus from Schlatt’s game. “Alright, guess I'm playin’ host while Schlatt is preocuppied, drinks anyone? We’ve got a ridiculous selection in the kitchen. Beer, tequila, whiskey, vodka, seltzers, literally whatever you want. I’ll be your bartender.” Joelle glances at you, then back to Ted. “Lead the way!”

You follow Ted through the crowded room, weaving past groups of people chatting and laughing, and head into the kitchen. He gestured grandly at the lineup of bottles and mixers on the counter. You scan the options, almost overwhelmed by the sheer variety. “What’ll it be?” Ted asks, leaning against the counter with a playful grin. You glance at Joelle, who’s already eyeing the tequila. “Shots?” she suggests, a mischievous glint in her eye. You laugh, nodding. “Why not?” Ted grins, grabbing three shot glasses and pouring generously. “These are gonna be strong. No complaints after.” You raise an eyebrow playfully as he hands it to you. “I think we can handle a little bit of tequila.”

The three of you clink your glasses together, and you down the shot. The liquor burns on the way down, but the warmth that follows is pleasant. You cough, laughing at Joelle’s exaggerated grimace as she shakes her head. “Smooth.” Ted says with a smirk. “You guys wanna do another?”

“Saving any of that for the rest of us?”

Your breath catches in your throat as you turn around to see Schlatt, running a hand through his hair as he enters the kitchen. He nods at the bottle in Ted’s hand. “Didn’t know we were going hard so early, not that i’m one to talk.” He raises the solo cup in his hand and shakes it, signalling that it was empty.

Ted shrugs, pouring another shot and handing it to Schlatt. “You and Lud win beer pong?”

“Of course we fucking won.” Schlatt shoots back, taking the glass from Ted. “Will and Hasan talk a big game, but they’re pretty dogshit.” He glances at you with a slight smile before turning to Joelle. “You’re Joelle, right? We haven’t officially met—I’m Schlatt.” She grins, nodding. “Yeah, nice to finally meet you!” “Hell yeah.” He raises his glass, and the four of you clink glasses. “Cheers.” he says before downing the shot, face immidiately scrunching up in disgust. “God, I always forget how much I fucking hate tequila.”

Ted and Joelle dissolve into their own conversation– something about a meme they had been texting about earlier, leaving you standing next to Schlatt in silence. You steal a glance at him, unsure of what to say, but he beats you to it. “So, you made it.” he says, folding his arms as he looks you up and down, playful confidence in his gaze. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” “Of course I did,” you reply, matching his smile. “I’m a responsible adult, remember? I follow through with my plans.”

“Right, responsible,” he says, shaking his head with a smirk. “That definitely explains why you’re here, at a party, which you specifically told me you were using as an excuse to drink since you didn’’t know anyone other than me, Ted, and your roommate.”

You feel a flush creep up your cheeks as he calls you out. "Okay, fair," you laugh, raising your hands in surrender. "But hey, technically, I am being responsible— I showed up with Joelle, I’m not drinking alone, and I know I’ll get home safe. That counts, right?" He leans one arm against the counter, smirk still in place. “Yeah, yeah, if you say so. Sounds like a fancy way to justify a night of poor decisions.” “Poor decisions?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. “We’re just getting started. Who says any of them will be poor?”

“Oh, now you’re making me curious.” His voice drops slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But really,” he shifts his weight, his eyes darting to the floor, then back up at yours. “It's nice to see you. In person, I mean. Good to know you weren’t just some drunken hallucination and I’ve actually been texting a real person all week.”

You smile, feeling the warmth in your cheeks deepen. “Yeah, it’s nice to see you too.” The two of you hold eye contact, and for a moment, the tension between you lingers, thick and unspoken. Unable to handle it any longer, you break the silence with a light laugh. “But who knows? Maybe I have been a drunken hallucination this whole time. You’re actually just talking to yourself in your kitchen right now.” He lets out a soft laugh, and you continue. “Oh I'm serious, everyone is staring– it’s super weird.”

He rolls his eyes with a grin. “Alright, alright. Now you’re pushin’ it.”

You both chuckle, the moment settling comfortably between you. Then Ted leans in, breaking the pause. “So, what’s next?” he asks, glancing between you, Schlatt, and Joelle. A cheer erupts from down the hall, likely from the latest beer pong game. Schlatt shrugs, nodding toward the noise.

“Wanna play the next round?”

← last chapter

#jschlatt #jschlatt x reader #jschlatt x y/n #jschlatt x you #jschlatt fanfic #chuckle sandwich fanfic #chuckle sandwich x reader #ted nivison fanfic #look of love rush of blood #:3

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onlyhereforthestories · 2 hours ago

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Chica Medica - Part 6 (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

Okay, so the end of this has taken on a world of its own so I've split it into more parts so you get more frequent updates. We are very near the end now so buckle in for the final few parts. Also this outfit on Ale gets me everytime 😍

The first session back after the Christmas break felt different. The usual energy in the training facility was there; players catching up, coaches making rounds, but the tension between you and Alexia was undeniable. She had been avoiding you ever since the team returned from their respective holidays. You’d noticed the way her eyes barely met yours, the clipped tone in her voice when she answered your questions, and the way she seemed to disappear the moment the session ended.

It was driving you mad. After everything that had happened, the gift, the Instagram post, Alexia’s coldness towards you stung. You had thought the necklace meant something to her, but now you weren’t so sure. Maybe you had misread the entire situation. Maybe she had decided to push you away, after all.

After another training session where she barely acknowledged you, you decided you couldn’t let this go on any longer. If she was upset, if something had changed, you needed to know and you needed to know why. You had to understand what had happened between the two of you.

As the players filtered out of the gym, you approached her carefully, trying to mask the anxiety bubbling inside you. "Ale, can I talk to you for a minute? I need to go over some review forms with you for your progress this season. We can do it now if you have time."

Alexia’s body stiffened at the sound of your voice, and for a moment, you thought she was going to walk away. But instead, she turned around, her face cold and unreadable. "Fine," she said shortly. "Let’s get this over with."

You led her into the office, your heart racing in your chest. She sat down across from you, her arms crossed, her posture defensive. You could feel the distance between you, the walls she had put up since Dubai, and it was suffocating. How had you got to this point.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep things professional. "I just need to get your feedback on how you're feeling physically. Have you got any lingering injuries, anything we should keep an eye on for the rest of the season."

Alexia didn’t respond immediately. She just stared at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowed. The silence stretched on for too long, and the tension in the room became unbearable.

Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp and laced with frustration. "Are we really going to do this? Pretend like nothing happened?"

You blinked, caught off guard by her tone. "What do you mean?"

Alexia slammed her hand down on the table, her eyes blazing. "Don’t play dumb, Y/N. You know exactly what I’m talking about. All the messages, the gift, the way you made me feel... And then I see you with Leah. After everything, you go back to her."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. "Alexia, it’s not what you think—"

"Not what I think?" She cut you off, her voice rising. "I trusted you! I let you in, more than I’ve let anyone in for years. I told you things I haven’t told anyone since my dad died. I opened up to you because I thought we had something. And then I see you with her, like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter."

Her words hung heavy in the air, and you could see the pain in her eyes, the vulnerability that she was trying so hard to mask with anger.

"Alexia," you started, your voice soft, "Leah and I aren’t getting back together. That night, we were just talking. We needed to clear the air, to get some closure. I would never go back to her, not after everything we’ve been through."

Alexia stood up abruptly, pacing the small office. "Then why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to see it through someone’s Instagram story? Why did you let me believe..." She trailed off, her hands trembling slightly as she turned to face you again.

You swallowed hard, standing as well, trying to close the distance between you. "I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you understood what the gift meant, what I was trying to say."

"The gift?" Alexia’s laugh was bitter, her eyes flashing with emotion. "Yeah, I thought I understood. I thought it was your way of saying that you felt the same. But now... I don’t know what to believe. I feel like I’ve been led on, like I was just someone you could toy with until something better came along."

Her voice cracked on the last words, and your heart broke seeing her like this, so guarded, so hurt.

"I didn’t lead you on," you said quietly, stepping closer to her. "I care about you, Ale. More than I’ve been able to put into words. I didn’t think... I didn’t realize how much this was affecting you. I should have told you everything sooner."

Alexia shook her head, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I haven’t felt this way about anyone, I don’t think ever. I haven’t let anyone in this much, and now I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had just kept my distance, because this... this hurts more than anything I’ve felt in a long time."

Her words hung in the air, raw and full of pain. You could see the regret in her eyes, the regret of trusting, of opening herself up to you, only to feel like she had been left behind.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "I’m sorry, Alexia. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel like I didn’t care, because I do. I care about you more than you know."

For a moment, the room was silent, the tension between you thick and heavy. Alexia turned away from you, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"I don’t know if I can do this anymore," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don’t know if I can let you in again."

You felt a lump in your throat, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to fix what had been broken between you. But you knew one thing, you weren’t ready to give up, not yet.

"I’m not asking you to make a decision right now," you said softly, taking a step closer to her. "But please, just... don’t shut me out. Not like this."

Alexia stayed silent, her back still turned to you, the weight of everything she had said hanging heavily in the room. You could feel the distance between you, a chasm that had opened up, but you weren’t ready to let her go. Definitely not without a fight.

Months had passed since that tense confrontation in the office. The coldness between you and Alexia had grown into something you had never experienced before. Every interaction was brief, detached, and painfully professional. You felt the weight of her unspoken emotions in every glance she avoided and the way she seemed to slip away before you could even say goodbye after training.

Despite the distance, your feelings for Alexia hadn't faded. If anything, they had only continued to grow, but the space between you both felt greater with each passing day. The tension was thick, but you didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

Training sessions continued as usual, but you noticed Alexia had been pushing herself even harder as the season wore on. And then came the first leg of the Champions League quarterfinal against Wolfsburg.

The game had been brutal. Wolfsburg came out strong, overwhelming Barça with their physicality and relentless pressure. By the time the final whistle blew, Barcelona had lost 2-0. The entire team looked defeated, their heads hung low as they left the pitch. It wasn’t just the scoreline, it was the sense of being outplayed, of the fight slipping away. And with the second leg looming, the pressure was immense.

Alexia was one of the last to leave the field, her frustration clear. You watched her, torn between wanting to reach out and the fear of being pushed away yet again.

Later that evening, as the team had mostly dispersed and the changing room quieted down, you were preparing to leave when you heard familiar footsteps approaching from behind.

You turned, surprised to see Alexia standing in the doorway, her posture tense, her expression unreadable. She looked exhausted, both emotionally and physically drained.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked, her voice low and hesitant, as if the words were difficult to get out. You noted as well that she spoke without looking at you.

You blinked in surprise. After months of icy silence, this was the last thing you expected, but you nodded, your voice gentle. "Of course." You thought twice about adding the you can always talk to me, you didn’t want to push it.

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, and stood there for a moment, struggling to find the right words. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating, and you could tell something was weighing heavily on her.

"It’s all too much," Alexia finally said, her voice quiet but strained. "This... everything. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this."

You stayed silent, waiting for her to continue, giving her the space she needed to open up.

"The game today..." She shook her head in frustration, pacing the room. "It’s not just the loss. It’s everything that’s been building up. The pressure, the expectations, the weight of everyone thinking I should be carrying this team. And now, we’re down 2-0, and I don’t know how we’re going to turn it around. It feels like it’s all my fault."

Her voice cracked slightly, and you could see the vulnerability behind her words, the weight of the captaincy, the pressure of being the one everyone looked to when things went wrong. The public perception of her being the one that needs to do it all, even though there are 11 players playing each game.

She stopped pacing and looked at you, her eyes filled with frustration and something deeper. "And you..." she continued, her tone softening but still filled with hurt. "I’ve been avoiding you for months because I didn’t know how to handle everything I felt. After what I told you, I regretted opening up. I felt like you led me on, like I let myself get too close, only to see you with Leah and feel like it was all for nothing. Like we were nothing."

Your heart ached as you listened to her. You had known she was upset, but hearing her admit just how much she had been hurting hit harder than you expected.

"Alexia, I—"

"I haven’t let anyone in like that since my dad died," she interrupted, her voice breaking. "And when I finally did, you made me feel like I made a mistake. I haven’t felt that vulnerable in years, and I hate that I let myself care so much about someone who was still hung up on her ex."

You stepped closer, your heart heavy with guilt and concern. "I wasn’t leading you on, Ale. Leah and I were never getting back together, are never getting back together. We just needed to clear the air. I should have told you sooner, but I never want you to think I don’t care about you."

Alexia’s gaze flickered, the anger and frustration slowly giving way to the exhaustion that had been building inside her. "I miss talking to you. I miss... us. But I don’t know how to fix this. Theres this massive gap between us now and I don’t know how we close it."

You stepped even closer, your hand hovering near hers, unsure if she would accept your touch after months of distance. “There’s no gap that can’t be closed, Ale,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. “But we have to want to close it. I want to fix this with you.”

Alexia’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, her guard still up. “How?” she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. “How do we go back to... before?”

You took a deep breath, searching her face, seeing the exhaustion in the lines etched into her brow, the pain in her eyes. “We don’t go back,” you said, shaking your head. “We can’t. Too much has happened. But we can move forward. We can try again, take things one step at a time.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw clenching as she wrestled with the emotions that had been bottled up for so long. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I can let my guard down like that again. Not after...”

“You can,” you interrupted gently. “You already did once, Ale. I know it’s terrifying, but you don’t have to do it alone this time. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out together.”

Her eyes finally met yours again, and you could see the cracks beginning to show in her hardened exterior. “But what if I do?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What if I push you away again?”

“You won’t,” you replied, your tone steady. “And even if you try, I’m not going to let you. Not this time.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of the months of silence and hurt hung heavy in the air, but there was something different now, a fragile thread of hope, pulling you both together. Alexia’s defences were crumbling, bit by bit, and she was letting herself feel again, even if it scared her.

“You meant more to me than I let myself admit,” Alexia finally whispered, her voice barely audible. “And when I thought you were moving on, I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to be anything other than... angry.”

You could feel the vulnerability in her words, and it broke your heart to know how much she had been hurting, how deeply she had internalised everything. “I was never moving on,” you said, shaking your head. “Not from you. I was just... figuring things out. Trying to make sure I could leave my past in the past before starting my future. But not having you to talk to... that hurt me too.”

Alexia nodded, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She let out a shaky breath, her hands fidgeting slightly at her sides. “I’ve been holding onto this anger because it was easier than admitting I was scared. Scared of what it meant to care so much, to let someone in.”

You took a small step forward, closing the final distance between you, and cautiously reached out, gently taking her hand. To your relief, she didn’t pull away this time. Her fingers curled around yours, the touch hesitant but real.

“It’s okay to be scared,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing gesture. “I’m scared too. But that’s part of this, right? Taking the leap, even when it’s terrifying.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she squeezed your hand tightly, as if grounding herself in the moment. Her voice was a whisper, full of uncertainty and emotion. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice steady and full of conviction. “I’m here, Ale. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She let out a shaky breath, her body relaxing slightly as she allowed herself to trust in your words. “I haven’t felt this close to anyone since my dad died,” she admitted softly. “And it scared me how much I needed you.”

Her words broke the last piece of tension between you, and you stepped even closer, gently pulling her into your arms. She hesitated for only a second before she leaned into you, her body melting against yours as if finally allowing herself to feel the comfort she had been denying for so long.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into your shoulder, her voice thick with emotion. “For shutting you out. For everything.”

You held her tightly, your hand gently rubbing her back in slow circles. “I’m sorry too. We’ll work through it,” you whispered, your voice soft but full of promise. “We’ll get through this together.”

For the first time in months, the tension between you eased, and Alexia’s walls came down completely. She rested her forehead against your shoulder, her breath steadying as she let herself be vulnerable with you.

After what felt like an eternity, Alexia pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. Her expression was softer now, the anger and frustration replaced with something else, something deeper. “I miss us,” she whispered, her eyes searching yours. “I miss... this.”

You smiled gently, your hand brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “So do I.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Alexia smiled, it was small, hesitant, but real. The gap between you wasn’t gone, but you were starting to build the bridge. Slowly, carefully, but surely and together.

The atmosphere inside Camp Nou was electric. The roar of the fans echoed throughout the stadium as you sat on the bench, your eyes fixed on the pitch. This was it, the second leg of the Champions League quarterfinal against Wolfsburg. After a 2-0 loss in the first leg, the pressure was on, but there was a quiet determination in the air. The team knew what was at stake, and you could feel it in every passing glance, every focused expression. Tonight felt different to the last match against Wolfsburg, it felt like the girls had all taken the loss personally and were out for redemption.

From your position on the bench, you watched as the girls took their places dotted around the field. Aitana, Caro, Jenni, and Alexia stood at the ready, their eyes locked on the opposition, the tension almost palpable. Your heart raced in sync with the crowd’s chants, well until your heartbeat grew so loud in your ears that you could barely here the girls on the bench next to you. Tonight wasn’t just about advancing to the semifinals; it was about proving to the world that loss was a small blip.

The whistle blew and within minutes, the tension began to ease. Aitana, always so composed on and off the ball, burst forward and connected perfectly with the ball. In just three minutes, she had found the back of the net. The stadium erupted, and the weight of the first-leg defeat seemed to lift, even if only slightly.

You smiled, feeling some of the tension in your own chest loosen. It was the perfect start, exactly what the team needed. You glanced toward the pitch, where Alexia stood with her teammates, a fire in her eyes that hadn’t dimmed despite everything she had been through.

Ten minutes later, Caro added to the tally with a brilliant finish, sending the crowd into another wave of celebration. The momentum was shifting, and you could see the belief growing stronger with each pass.

As the game neared the half-hour mark, Barcelona were relentless. They pressed higher and higher, refusing to give Wolfsburg a moment to breathe. Then, in the 33rd minute, Jenni Hermoso received a perfect cross into the box and, with her trademark composure, slotted it home.

3-0.

The roar of the crowd was deafening. You could feel the surge of energy coursing through the team, and yet, your focus kept drifting to Alexia. She was commanding the midfield with a quiet intensity, orchestrating every movement, every attack. And she looked really good doing it, although you would not ever share that thought with anyone except maybe her.

And then, just five minutes later, in the 38th minute, it happened. A sharp pass from Aitana found Alexia on the edge of the box. With a quick touch to control, she unleashed a precise strike that soared into the top corner of the net.

4-0.

The stadium erupted in a frenzy, but in that moment, everything around you seemed to blur. Alexia, breathless and triumphant, turned toward the bench, her eyes finding yours. The relief was clear, the weight of months of tension visibly lifting from her shoulders. In that brief second, you shared a silent exchange, a connection that had been buried under layers of misunderstanding and distance. Her eyes said it all without any words needing to be uttered. Thank you, I needed this.

You smiled, your heart swelling with pride for her. This was the Alexia you knew, the one who carried the weight of the team but had finally found a way to let go of some of that burden. To find the joy in the game that she really loved to play.

The game pressed on, Barcelona in full control. Wolfsburg tried to push back and did get a goal, but the momentum had shifted irreversibly. As the clock ticked down, Barça kept up the pressure, refusing to let Wolfsburg find any momentum after the goal.

Then, with just minutes left on the clock, Barcelona were awarded a penalty. The crowd held its breath as Alexia stepped up to take it, the ball resting at her feet. The stadium fell into a tense silence, the kind that only a moment like this can create.

You watched closely, your heart in your throat. Alexia stood over the ball, calm and collected. Then, with the same precision you had seen from her countless times, she sent the keeper the wrong way and buried the penalty in the bottom corner.

5-1 on the night. 5-3 on aggregate.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of relief and celebration sweeping through the stadium. Barcelona had done it. They had pulled off the comeback, securing their place in the Champions League semifinals. The players on the bench jumped to their feet, cheering, hugging, and celebrating the incredible turnaround.

But your eyes were still on Alexia. As she celebrated with her teammates, a weight seemed to lift from her entirely. The game had been a battle, both on the field and inside her heart, but tonight, she had won on both fronts.

As the final whistle blew, confirming Barca’s 5-1 victory on the night, you stood from the bench, your heart pounding with pride, relief, and something deeper. The crowd was in full voice, chanting Alexia’s name, and you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by everything she had accomplished, not just with the team, but for herself.

Alexia glanced back at you one last time before the celebrations truly kicked off on the pitch. This time, there was no hesitation, no doubt in her eyes. Just relief, pride, and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something hopeful.

The celebrations were in full swing. The team had gathered at a private club, the sounds of laughter, music, and excitement filling the space. After the dramatic 5-1 win over Wolfsburg, it was time to celebrate not just the victory, but the resilience and unity that had brought the team back from the brink.

Everyone was buzzing, adrenaline still high from the match. Drinks were flowing, and the room was alive with the chatter of teammates recounting the goals, the tension, and the triumph of the night. You sat in a booth toward the back of the room, watching the team’s joy unfold around you. It was one of those rare moments when everything just felt right, well at least when it came to the team.

But there was another reason your heart raced tonight, and it had nothing to do with the match. It had everything to do with Alexia.

You had caught glimpses of her throughout the night, her laughter mingling with the music, her smile wide and free as she embraced her teammates. But every now and then, her eyes would find yours across the room. There was a warmth in her gaze that hadn’t been there for months, and every time it happened, you felt the invisible thread pulling the two of you closer.

As you took another sip of your drink, trying to shake off the nerves bubbling in your chest, you noticed Alexia making her way across the room. She moved through the crowd with that calm confidence she always carried, but this time, her destination was clear, she was headed straight for you.

Your heart thudded in your chest as she approached, her eyes never leaving yours. When she reached the booth you were in, she paused for just a moment, glancing at the player sitting next to you, Claudia, who had been laughing at something Patri had said.

"Mind if I sit here?" Alexia asked, her voice soft but firm making it very clear what she wanted even if she had phrased it as a question.

Claudia glanced up a bit surprised, but not one to argue with her team captain. She smiled at Alexia and nodded, quickly sliding out of the booth to make room and grabbing Patri’s hand as she did dragging the woman with her. "All yours, Capitana."

You could barely suppress the smile tugging at your lips as Alexia slid into the booth beside you, close enough that her thigh brushed against yours. The warmth of her body sent a jolt through you, but you tried to play it cool, glancing at her with a casual smile.

"How are you feeling after that performance?" you asked, trying to mask the nervous energy that had crept in.

Alexia smiled, that familiar spark in her eyes that you hadn’t seen in so long. "Relieved," she admitted, her voice low so only you could hear. "And exhausted."

You chuckled, nodding. "You deserve to relax after tonight. You were incredible out there."

Her eyes softened at your words, and for a moment, the noise of the party seemed to fade into the background. It was just the two of you, sitting close, sharing the relief of the night’s victory, and happy that the months of tension between you was slowly melting away.

Alexia shifted slightly, her leg pressing more firmly against yours as she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. "I missed this."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you managed to keep your voice steady. "I missed it, too."

She looked at you, her eyes searching yours, as if she was trying to find the right words. The playful, teasing glances from earlier had been replaced with something more genuine, more vulnerable.

"I’ve been thinking," she began, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the edge of her glass. "About everything that’s happened. About us."

You held your breath, not wanting to interrupt her train of thought.

Alexia took a deep breath before continuing, her voice quieter now. "I didn’t know how to face you after everything. It was easier to avoid it, to push you away. But... that just made everything worse."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words hanging between you. "You don’t have to apologize, Ale. I know it’s been difficult. I should’ve been clearer with everything. I should have been more upfront about Leah, about how I feel."

Her eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place. "How do you feel?"

You hesitated for just a moment, then met her gaze, deciding it was time to be honest. "I care about you, Alexia. A lot. And it wasn’t just about the work, or the physio sessions, or even the football. I care about you."

Her breath caught, and for a moment, you saw the same vulnerability in her eyes that she had shown after the loss to Wolfsburg. The walls she had built between you were slowly crumbling, and now, sitting so close, the months of distance between you felt like they were finally closing.

Alexia smiled softly, her hand finding yours under the table. She didn’t say anything at first and she didn’t need to. The simple act of reaching out, of closing that physical gap, spoke volumes.

The room around you buzzed with the energy of celebration, but for you and Alexia, the noise had become background static. All that mattered was the connection between you, the understanding that despite everything, you were still here, still close. That there was still something there to explore.

"Thank you," Alexia finally whispered, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "For being there. Even when I pushed you away."

You squeezed her hand gently. "I’m not going anywhere."

Her eyes met yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no doubt. Just the quiet promise of something that had been waiting to be said for months, now slowly beginning to surface.

The celebration carried on around you, but you and Alexia remained in your little bubble at the booth. Her leg was pressed against yours, and her hand occasionally found yours under the table, both of you taking comfort in the quiet connection that had begun to rebuild.

It was only a matter of time before someone noticed. And, unsurprisingly, that someone was Mapi.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her making her way toward you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Leila followed close behind, a grin already forming as they approached your booth. The second Mapi spotted the two of you sitting close together, she raised an eyebrow, her teasing smirk unmistakable.

"Well, well, well," Mapi drawled, crossing her arms as she came to stand beside the table. "What do we have here? Cozying up after a big win, huh? Looks like more than just the game turned around tonight."

Alexia shot Mapi a warning look, but her lips twitched with amusement. You felt a flush creep up your neck as you glanced between them, unsure whether to laugh or feel embarrassed.

"Mapi," Alexia warned lightly, though there was a smile threatening to break through.

But Mapi wasn’t done. She wiggled her eyebrows, clearly enjoying herself. "I knew something was up when Claudia said you asked for some time in the booth without others. Didn’t think you’d be making moves this fast, though Ale. Capitana’s got game on and off the pitch, huh?"

Before you could respond, Leila, having been quietly observing, stepped in. She gave Mapi a pointed look before swatting her on the back of the head. "Cut it out, idiot. Now’s not the time."

Mapi yelped, rubbing the back of her head in mock outrage. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For being a pain," Leila deadpanned, her eyes darting between you and Alexia, clearly sensing that this wasn’t just light-hearted fun. "Come on, leave them alone."

Mapi looked between you and Alexia again, her expression softening as she realized Leila was right. "Fine, fine," she muttered, though the teasing smile never quite left her face. "But just remember, Ale, I’m watching you." She pointed her fingers at her own eyes, then back at Alexia’s, as if to say she was keeping an eye on things.

Leila rolled her eyes and dragged Mapi away by the arm, pulling her back toward the dance floor where the rest of the team was letting loose. Mapi threw one last cheeky grin over her shoulder as she let herself be pulled into the chaos of the celebration.

Alexia shook her head, chuckling under her breath. "She never lets up, does she?"

You smiled, the tension from the teasing already dissipating. "Not even for a second."

But as Mapi and Leila disappeared into the crowd, the quietness returned between you and Alexia. It was as if, for a moment, nothing had changed. The warmth of her presence, the way she leaned into you, it was all still there, unspoken yet undeniable.

Alexia glanced over at you, her eyes soft with affection and amusement. "I should have known Mapi would notice."

You laughed softly, leaning in just slightly. "I think the whole team’s going to notice eventually."

Alexia smiled at that, the corner of her mouth lifting in that way that made your heart flutter. "Let them. I’m not hiding anything." Alexia’s hand slipped into yours under the table once again, her touch gentle but steady, like the wave that had always connected you.

The tension that had once defined your relationship with Alexia was beginning to melt away. After the celebration following the comeback win against Wolfsburg, something had shifted between you. The stolen glances, the shared smiles, the quiet conversations. They were all part of the rhythm you and Alexia had started to fall into, like finding your way back to something that had always been there, that was just waiting for the right moment.

A few days after the match, with the team preparing for the final of the Champions League, Alexia had sent you a text. Simple, to the point, but it had made your heart skip a beat all the same.

Coffee after training tomorrow?

It wasn’t exactly a grand gesture, but it was the kind of thing you had been hoping for, something normal, something easy, something for just the two of you.

The next afternoon, training wrapped up, and the usual buzz of the team filled the air as everyone began to drift toward their cars. You spotted Alexia across the car park, pulling her bag over her shoulder and heading in your direction. She gave you a small smile, one that made your stomach do a little flip, and you smiled back, trying to hide the nerves fluttering inside you.

A short walk from the training grounds, tucked away in a quieter part of the city, was a small café Alexia had mentioned a few times before. It was one of her favourites because she found it charming and cozy. It was a small whole in the wall shop with a few tables lining the windows and a barista who already knew her order by heart.

When the two of you walked inside, Alexia nodded to the barista, exchanging a familiar smile. "Dos cafés, por favor."

You found a table by the window, the late afternoon sunlight spilling in and casting a warm glow over the café. It felt easy, sitting there with Alexia, even with the unspoken weight of everything that had happened in the past months. Somehow, that weight seemed lighter now.

As you both sat down with your coffees, you couldn’t help but smile. "So, is this the famous café you’ve been talking about all season?"

Alexia chuckled, her eyes bright as she took a sip of her coffee. "This is the one. Best coffee in Barcelona, in my opinion."

You raised an eyebrow, taking a sip from your own cup. "I have to admit, it’s good. I can see why you’re a regular."

The conversation flowed easily, both of you falling into a natural rhythm. You talked about the upcoming matches, about the team, about the Champions League final that seemed to be looming on the horizon. But every now and then, the conversation would drift to lighter things like your favourite places in Barcelona, stories from when you first started working with the team, and little tales about the players that made you both laugh.

At one point, Alexia leaned back in her chair, her gaze soft as she looked at you. "It’s nice, this. Just being here with you."

Her words made your heart flutter, and you could feel a warmth creeping into your cheeks. "Yeah," you agreed softly. "It is."

There was a quiet between you for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that comes when everything feels right, like you don’t need to fill the space with words.

Alexia’s fingers gently brushed against yours on the table, a subtle but meaningful gesture. You smiled at her, feeling the connection between you strengthen with every shared glance, every light touch. It was simple, but it felt important.

As you finished your coffees, Alexia glanced at her phone, checking the time. "We should probably head back soon," she said with a small sigh, though there was a playful glint in her eyes. "Can’t be late to the next team meeting."

You nodded, not wanting the moment to end but knowing that the world of football never truly stopped. "True, but this was nice. We should do it again sometime."

Alexia smiled, standing up and offering you her hand. "How about dinner next time?"

You felt your heart swell at her words but kept your voice steady. "Sounds perfect."

Over the next few weeks, as the games piled up and the pressure built toward the Champions League final, you and Alexia carved out little moments like that coffee date. There were lunches after training, quiet dinners at out-of-the-way restaurants, and even the occasional late-night walk when the city was quiet and still.

Each date felt like another step forward, a chance to know each other outside the pressure of the pitch and the weight of expectations. It wasn’t rushed, it was comfortable, like two people rediscovering something that had always been there, but they hadn’t taken time to fully realise it.

One evening, just a few days before the final, you and Alexia found yourselves at a small tapas restaurant, tucked away in one of Barcelona’s quieter neighbourhoods. The evening air was warm, there was a soft murmur of the city around you as you shared a meal, laughing and talking like you had known each other for years.

At one point, Alexia reached across the table, her hand covering yours. "You’ve been amazing these past few months," she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. "I know I wasn’t easy to be around, but... I’m really glad we’re here now."

You squeezed her hand gently, your heart swelling with affection. "I’m glad too."

It was in these quiet moments, between games and team obligations, that the relationship between you and Alexia grew. It was no longer weighed down by misunderstandings or hesitation, now it was just two people, finally allowing themselves to enjoy the moments they shared.

As the final approached, the nerves and excitement would soon return, but for now, in the warmth of the evening, everything felt right.

#woso x reader #woso imagines #woso imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas imagines

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batmanlovesnirvana · 1 day ago

Text

Chapter nine | in plain sight.

masterlist

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +3k

A/N : This chapter is a bit shorter than usual since it was originally part of Chapter Eight. A special thank you to @faeryki for your amazing support—it really keeps me motivated to keep updating this fic. I hope you enjoy it and like this chapter! 😊

cw : Bruce being obsessed at this point, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

IT WAS HIM.

No, it wasn’t.

Yes, it fucking was.

Her mind screamed in a frantic battle, two voices tearing her apart.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, and her pulse surged, each beat a frantic drum as the truth unraveled in her mind—a shattered, tangled mess slowly coming together.

His eyes—those grey-blue eyes, the same ones that had haunted her thoughts more than once—stared back at her, and the recognition hit like a tidal wave.

It wasn't just the eyes, though. It was also his jawline.

That sharp, angular line, the one she could pick out from anywhere, no matter how dark the room.

But there was more.

The little cut beneath his jaw—the scar she'd left him when they were chasing each other, when she had let him get too close that night.

She hadn’t meant to, not really, but she caught him right as he was about to turn, in that split second when everything seemed to slow down. She left a small mark on him, something only she would ever notice. In that moment, he didn’t feel like a stranger.

As she walked through the crowd, her hand instinctively pressed against her red lips, her mind still in shock. It all made sense now, she thought.

The way he had looked at her, the way he had moved, everything about him screamed familiarity.

But the truth had been concealed behind the mask of a man she had never fully understood—Bruce Thomas Wayne. Billionaire heir. Tragic orphan. Vengeance. The Bat… Zorro.

Her footsteps faltered, her breath shallow, as the weight of the revelation pressed down on her, too heavy to carry. People hurried past her, heading toward the main hall, brushing against her shoulders, murmuring quick apologies she didn’t respond to.

The scene back at the entrance of City Hall was nothing short of chaotic—the crowd pushing, the tension between the men—still fresh in her mind, vivid and overwhelming.

But now, everything had shifted.

The man who had captivated her without her even realizing it, the one who kept his distance yet left an indelible mark on her, had been standing right in front of her the entire time.

And somehow, she had never connected the dots, never seen the truth through the fog of lies she had wrapped herself in.

She continued walking, her feet moving of their own accord, though her mind raced to catch up. She wasn't sure if she should be angry, surprised, or relieved.

Maybe a little bit of all three. And yet, the thought that kept swirling in her mind, like a persistent whisper, was the same: How could he have been so close, and yet, so far away?

She needed to regain herself.

Standing at the threshold of City Hall, the weight of the revelation—of seeing him again, of everything she had just discovered—crashed over her, but she couldn't afford to let it consume her.

Not now.

She had a purpose, a responsibility that was far more pressing than her own chaotic emotions. There were people waiting, people who needed her strength, and there was George.

She didn't like his father—had never trusted the man—and she barely knew his widowed mother.

But George was still a child who had just lost a parent. A child who needed someone who understood. She had been there herself, had known that hollow ache, the unbearable weight of loss. She understood what it was like to feel invisible in the face of grief, to be caught in the middle of a world that seemed to keep moving while your heart was frozen in time.

With a steadying breath, she opened her small clutch and took out the figurine.

It was delicate, simple, a small knight in polished metal, its stance strong but humble.

Maryam had bought it at a little shop while grocery shopping the day before, drawn to it for reasons she couldn't quite explain.

It was reminiscent of the one Bruce had left years ago in the subway, the one she had never forgotten, though this one was less ornate, far less expensive, and more... ordinary. Yet something about it felt right.

Maybe it was the symbolism of it—the idea of a knight, standing tall, in the face of all odds. She couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, in some way, it would bring George comfort.

She ran her fingers along the smooth surface, a small smile tugging at her lips as she thought about him again.

Gosh, why were they always linked? she thought, frustration threading through the question.

She and Bruce—always drawn to each other by some strange, unspoken pull.

Maybe it was fate, or perhaps something far more insidious, but every time she thought she was escaping him, every time she thought she had let him go, some new twist would bring him back into her orbit.

She pushed the thought away.

There would be time for that later.

Now, she needed to focus.

As Bruce scans the crowd, the solemn hum of the mourning event fills the hall. Mourners continue to flood in, their somber expressions a blur as he searches, his eyes darting over every face, every moving figure.

Where is she?

His gaze flicks between the tight knots of conversation, desperate for a glimpse of Maryam, his pulse quickening.

Above, he spots a handful of officers, their keen eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble, the tension palpable. Bruce's focus sharpens, but the crush of people is like a living, breathing wall. Faces blur together—some tear-streaked, some stony, all wrapped in the weight of loss.

She's here, he thinks, she has to be.

The PA announcer's voice cuts through the noise.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming to today's memorial for our beloved mayor, Don Mitchell, Jr. Our program will begin shortly. As a reminder, the family asks that those wishing to honor the mayor's memory consider a donation to the cause most dear to his heart, the Gotham Renewal Fund, our city's safety net."

Bruce barely registers the words.

His attention is elsewhere, weaving through the sea of mourners, his heart pounding as his search intensifies. He pushes forward, his eyes scanning, never pausing, never faltering.

Then, a movement catches his eye.

Two uniformed cops are stopping a man who looks out of place—a scruffy, bitter figure, his hood pulled low, eyes filled with rage.

The man's jaw tightens, muttering to himself, his anger almost palpable.

"What good's a safety net if it doesn't catch anybody?" The words slice through the air, harsh and accusatory. He spits the words out, clearly disgusted. "Didn't help my daughter when she needed it. I can tell you that. That guy—" He points toward the VIPs filing past, his voice filled with venom—"just another rich scumsucker. He got what he deserved."

Bruce studies the man, his brow furrowing. But as his gaze holds steady, the bitter man's eyes shift, catching his.

"Yeah, I said it," the man mutters, locking eyes with Bruce, a dark smirk curling his lips.

Bruce's eyes flick to the man's acne-scarred face. The bitterness is familiar, the kind that seeps from the forgotten corners of society. He nods once, acknowledging the man's presence, but his thoughts stay elsewhere.

Then, the expression shifts. The man's eyes narrow as he studies Bruce, confusion flashing over his face as if he's trying to place him. Before Bruce can turn away, another voice pierces through the tension.

"Bruce Wayne."

Startled, Bruce turns. A familiar face—one that he had been saying more and more on TV.

Bella Real.

She approaches with the kind of unwavering confidence that commands attention, her stride purposeful, her expression an enigmatic blend of determination and restraint.

"I'm Bella Real," she begins, her voice cutting cleanly through the noise around them. "I'm running for mayor." She pauses, just long enough to let her words settle, then adds with a flicker of irritation, "I wouldn't be here, interrupting like this, but your people keep telling me you're 'unavailable.' Or at least that's the story my PR team keeps feeding me."

She gestures subtly toward a woman standing amidst the sea of onlookers—a polished figure with a sleek bun, tailored black trousers, a long coat, and heels that seem to challenge the ground beneath her. Rania. Another of Maryam’s sisters.

Beside her is the pregnant woman from earlier, her husband standing protectively close, and flanking them are Maryam’s other sisters—Sherine, the sharp-eyed journalist, and Alma, the soon-to-be lawyer with a poised demeanor.

Yet the one person he’s searching for, the one he’s desperate to see, remains nowhere in sight.

Bella’s gaze sharpens as she turns back to him, her words cutting through his distracted thoughts. "Will you walk with me?"

Bruce hesitates, the weight of the situation pressing in.

Walk with her? He’s here for Maryam—though, initially, it was the Riddler who brought him here.

His thoughts waver, scattered like leaves in the wind. But as the moment stretches longer, he steels himself, forcing his composure to hold firm.

He can't afford distractions, but Bella is persistent, and something about her energy—something in her voice—stops him.

A flicker of annoyance crosses his face as he glances over her shoulder, the crowd of mourners pressing in tighter, the path to Maryam growing narrower by the second.

But there's no turning back now.

Bruce's mind spins as Bella leads him through the sea of mourners, her arm tucked firmly under his.

He's scanning the crowd, eyes darting from face to face, searching for any sign of Maryam. The city's chaos, the event, the memory of the Riddler's cryptic clues, and his need to track down his old friend, and the woman who's been lingering at the back of his mind for far too long, all converge in his thoughts.

He barely registers Bella's words about Gotham, the Renewal Fund, and her political campaign.

"You know, you really could be doing more for the city," she says, her voice insistent. "Your family has a history of philanthropy, but as far as I can tell, you're not doing anything. If I'm elected, I want to change that." She smiles at him, disarmingly, as they approach the front where the choir's soft voices swell into the haunting strains of Schubert's "Ave Maria."

Bruce's eyes scan the crowd with mounting urgency.

Where the hell is she?

The hum of voices around him dulls, retreating into the background like static. Every sound—Bella's steady voice beside him, the faint rustle of clothing, the shuffling of mourners—becomes meaningless noise as his focus sharpens.

Maryam. She's somewhere here. She has to be.

His thoughts churn restlessly, consumed by her. The weight of the mayor's memorial, the riddler, the tragedy unfolding in the city, even Bella's pointed comments—all of it fades under the single, gnawing question: Where is she?

Bruce catches himself glancing toward Commissioner Gordon, standing a few rows back with a group of officers. The commissioner's stance is familiar—steadfast, commanding attention even in a room filled with grief. It's then that Bruce sees her.

Maryam.

She's standing with Gordon and several other officers. The sight of her feels like a gut punch—unexpected, leaving him momentarily breathless. Her body language is composed, steady, a quiet confidence radiating from her even in the chaos surrounding them.

He leans forward almost instinctively, the world narrowing to her. Bella's voice beside him is an indistinct murmur, her words about Gotham and its future dissipating like smoke. He knows she's talking, but he can't bring himself to care. Not now.

Maryam's voice carries faintly across the room as she speaks to Gordon, her words too low for him to hear. He can't make out the conversation, but the cadence of her tone is calm, deliberate. His gaze is riveted on her, heart pounding as a dozen questions flood his mind. What is she saying? Why is she here?

His chest tightens.

"I'll be right back," Bella says, her clipped tone cutting through the haze. "I'm going to pay my respects to the family—my God, what a mess. His poor wife and son..." She gives Bruce a tight smile before stepping away, her presence swallowed by the crowd.

Bruce doesn't respond. He simply just can't.

His gaze stays fixed on Maryam as her posture shifts slightly. Then her head turns, as if sensing his pointed stare, and for a brief, electric moment, their eyes meet again.

But just as quickly, her gaze shifts away.

It's subtle—an almost imperceptible flicker—but Bruce catches it. The way her shoulders tense, the slight stiffness in her movements as she excuses herself from Gordon's side. Her grace remains intact, but her steps quicken, purposeful as she weaves into the sea of mourners. Her eyes never meet his again.

Damn it.

A knot tightens in Bruce's chest, frustration simmering just beneath his composed exterior. He doesn't move, doesn't follow. Instead, he watches—watches as she retreats toward the mayor's family, where her own relatives, draped in mourning veils, are already offering their condolences.

Bruce's gaze sharpens, narrowing in on Maryam as she approaches Mayor Mitchell's widow. She shakes the woman's hand, her expression one of measured compassion. The two veiled women beside her—familiar figures—draw her attention briefly. Aunts, Bruce realizes. He remembers them from fragments of the life he's pieced together about her, though they remain enigmatic, like so much else about Maryam.

The mayor's son, sitting nearby, draws her focus next. The boy is small, his posture hunched, his eyes wide with confusion and sorrow as he glances at the crowd around him. His presence pulls at something deep within Bruce—his own memories of being that child, lost and surrounded by adults who didn't understand the weight he carried.

And then, Maryam kneels.

The movement is fluid, gentle, as if lowering herself to the boy's level is the most natural thing in the world. Her face softens, her gaze meeting his with a warmth that Bruce has rarely seen in her. She reaches into her small clutch and withdraws something—a figurine. It's a knight, unassuming yet deliberate, its presence more meaningful than its simplicity suggests.

Maryam presses it into the boy's hands, her fingers folding his small ones around it. She leans in, whispering something inaudible, her voice undoubtedly soft and soothing. Bruce can't hear her words, but he sees the boy's expression shift—hesitation giving way to a tentative smile as he clutches the figurine tightly to his chest.

Then, with a touch so gentle it nearly unravels him, Maryam cups the boy's cheek. Her thumb brushes across his skin, a gesture of quiet reassurance, maternal and heartbreakingly tender. The boy leans into her touch, his grief momentarily eclipsed by the comfort she offers.

Bruce's breath catches. He's transfixed, unable to reconcile this Maryam—the one kneeling before a grieving child, radiating care and warmth—with the guarded woman he's come to know. This side of her is foreign yet achingly familiar, stirring something he can't quite place.

The haunting strains of Ave Maria swell around them, the choir's mournful melody filling the air with a weight that presses on Bruce's chest. The music mirrors the scene before him, amplifying the emotions he tries so hard to suppress.

His trance is broken by a familiar voice, low and urgent. "Gil Colson is missing."

Bruce's focus snaps back, his head turning sharply. Gordon stands nearby, speaking in hushed tones to Mackenzie, the Chief of Police. Bruce's mind stirs, the name registering like a cold gust of wind.

"'Scuse me, Chief? Can I talk to you for a moment?" Gordon's voice is measured, his tone low as he adjusts the rims of his glasses.

The Chief of Police, Mackenzie, looks up with a gravelly whisper of a voice, as if his vocal cords have been worn thin. "What?"

"Gil Colson is missing," Gordon replies, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

The Chief exhales heavily, his tired demeanor speaking volumes. "Jesus, not again."

The phrase lingers like a shadow, and Bruce feels the significance of it. The District Attorney's name slices through his thoughts, momentarily grounding him in the reality of the situation.

"He hasn't been heard from since last night," Gordon continues, his voice steady but grim.

Bruce's mind starts turning, the implications of Colson's disappearance settling into place. But before he can focus, a voice—loud and jarringly cheerful—breaks through the somber atmosphere.

"Hey! Bruce Wayne!"

It's Martinez, one of the officers standing nearby.

He's grinning broadly, his enthusiasm so out of place it draws several curious looks. As if to cement the awkwardness, he raises his hand in an overly eager wave.

The billionaire heir remains motionless, his expression an impenetrable mask. He doesn’t respond to the greeting, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Instead, his gaze shifts, drawn inevitably back to Maryam, who now lingers on the outskirts of the mayor's grieving family, her presence both distant and watchful.

It’s a subtle shift, but Bruce notices.

Something about her stance, the tension in her frame, feels different—like a thread pulled taut, on the verge of snapping.

The way her posture stiffens, her sharp glance toward him at Martinez's outburst, and that fleeting flicker of recognition in her eyes before she looks away.

It's deliberate, calculated—she's retreating, pulling herself into an impenetrable shell.

But before he can dwell on it, a distant noise cuts through the air—a low hum, like tires screeching against asphalt, followed by muffled screams. The sound grows louder, reverberating through City Hall, and a ripple of unease spreads through the room. Heads turn, people standing, craning to see where the commotion is coming from.

Bruce instinctively scans the crowd, his eyes locking on the mayor's young son. The boy has moved into the aisle, drawn by curiosity, and Bruce's heart lurches. Maryam is there too, close behind, her brows furrowed in concern. She places a firm hand on the boy's arm to keep him from venturing too far. Her protectiveness is palpable.

The noise swells, screams rising alongside it—an awful crescendo of chaos.

Then—BAM!

A sickening explosion of sound as the main entrance bursts apart in a storm of shattered glass and concrete. The crowd screams as an SUV rockets through the doors, its grill tangled with flowers from the vigil outside.

Pandemonium erupts.

People scatter, some thrown into the air as the vehicle careens past guardrails and barrels toward the seated area. The air is a cacophony of panic, footsteps, and cries.

Bruce spins, his gaze zeroing in on the boy—standing frozen in shock amid the chaos. Maryam reacts instantly, grabbing him and pushing him toward his mother, who is screaming and clawing her way through the crowd to reach her son.

But Maryam doesn't make it far. Someone shoves past her in their desperate flight, and she stumbles, falling directly into the SUV's path.

Bruce doesn't hesitate. He lunges toward her, his body moving before his mind can catch up. He tackles her, the force sending them both sprawling just as the vehicle roars past, its weight and momentum tossing chairs and debris into the air.

They hit the ground hard, Bruce shielding Maryam as the SUV slams into the central staircase with a deafening crunch. The engine sputters, grinding in protest, before finally going silent.

For a moment, everything is still.

Bruce lifts himself slightly, his arms still bracing Maryam. She's breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling against his. Her hands clutch his biceps tightly, as if grounding herself.

"Maryam," he whispers, his voice low, urgent. One hand moves to her neck, tilting her face toward him. Her hazel eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused. His sharp, grey eyes meet hers, scanning her face for injuries. He spots a thin trail of blood on her forehead, likely from flying glass.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, concern etched into every word.

She doesn't respond immediately, still catching her breath.

But then—the surreal silence is shattered by screams and cries. The chaos hasn't abated; if anything, it's worse.

Bruce's head snaps up, his gaze darting to the wreckage.

He helps Maryam sit upright, though he keeps a steadying hand on her arm. His attention shifts to the second-floor landing, where people are panicking, pointing to something—or someone. But the figure he saw earlier is gone.

The SUV below is now surrounded by Gordon and a squad of officers, their guns drawn and aimed. The vehicle is smeared with a grotesque pattern of crossword-like scrawls, and in bold letters across the hood, the chilling message: "D.A. — D.O.A.?"

Bruce pulls Maryam to her feet, his arm steadying her as the chaos swirls around them.

Her breathing evens out, and she seems to recover, though she's still pale.

Before he can speak, a red-haired woman pushes through the crowd, her resemblance to Maryam striking. Her sister, Bruce assumes.

She rushes to Maryam, worry etched deeply into her face, pulling her away from him as though he were the cause of her distress.

Questions spill from her lips one after another, but Maryam doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look at her sister—instead, her gaze remains fixed on him, her lips forming a silent thank you.

Bruce gives a tight nod, his jaw clenched as he lets her go.

He watches as she steps back into the embrace of her family, their presence closing around her like a shield.

But his mind remains sharp, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders. His gaze shifts to the wreckage once more, the grim message burning into his thoughts.

He snaps his attention back to the SUV, his instincts flaring. He moves closer, slipping through the panicked crowd as mourners scatter in every direction. His focus sharpens, each step deliberate, his heart pounding in time with the chaos around him.

Then, with a metallic creak, the dented driver-side door begins to crack open.

The hall falls into a tense, electric silence, broken only by the metallic clicks and clatters of dozens of weapons chambering simultaneously.

"Get out of the car! Hands up!" Gordon shouts, his gun unwavering, his voice cutting through the mounting dread.

The door swings wide, groaning under its weight.

A figure emerges—unsteady, hands trembling in the air. Blood streaks the man's face, his mouth taped shut. Scrawled across the tape in bold, jagged letters are the words: NO MORE LIES.

The sight freezes the room.

Even Bruce's breath catches for a split second.

"Holy Christ..." Gordon breathes, his voice low, filled with disbelief. "It's Colson."

The district attorney stumbles forward, his eyes wide with terror.

Around his neck, a crude metal collar clamps tight, its grotesque machinery catching the flickering lights. A faint glow pulses ominously—a countdown device.

A horrified voice cuts through the tension.

"There's a bomb around his neck!"

The words send a shockwave through the hall. A piercing, mechanical beep-beep-beep rings out, sharp and relentless.

People scream, dropping to the floor or shoving toward the exits. Police scramble, some shielding others, their shouts blending with the chaos.

But Bruce remains rooted in place, his gaze locked on Colson.

The D.A. doesn't explode. Not yet. The incessant beeping continues, but the device stays dormant. The confusion in the air is palpable, suffocating.

Colson, his movements awkward and sheepish, raises his hand slowly. Taped to his palm is a cell phone, its screen flashing. The relentless beep-beep-beep is nothing more than an incoming call.

Bruce's eyes narrow as the sound echoes through the cavernous space.

"Let's get this place cleared! Now!" Gordon barks, waving officers toward the panicked crowd.

Police start ushering people toward the exits, their movements hurried, their voices commanding.

But Bruce doesn't move.

Something pulls at him—an invisible thread of dread, tightening.

He notices it then, taped crudely to Colson's chest. A folded card, the edges weathered, but the lettering meticulously printed.

The billionaire steps closer, his focus narrowing, his heart heavy with grim certainty.

The card's bold address reads: To The Batman.

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