Could You Do A Part 3 Of The Gavi X Tennis Player Fic? That Would Be Soo Cool.

why is the cause of my sufferings a literal cat. this thing is a curse.

hector fort with a sassy/bossy girlfriend who is actually a sweetheart🥹 like yes she will make something out of nothing- but she also give the softest praise when she wants to?

❦ - my favourite player.

summary:: you’re hector’s sassy girlfriend (with kindness 😛)

warnings:: it’s like not a proper fic yk? it’s just a ton of scenarios but too long for headcannons idek atp

writers note:: IM SO INCONSISTENT W POSTING I NEED TO START POSTING THESE AS SSON AS IM DONE WRITING OMDS THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR HOURS.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if u wanna be added or removed

hector fort never really knew what hit him when he started dating you. you walked into his life like a storm, sharp tongue, quick comebacks, and a look that could cut through steel, but underneath that bossy, sassy exterior, you were the biggest softie he’d ever met.

he learned that early on. like the first time you two went out and he showed up three minutes late. three.

‘oh, so you thought i didn’t deserve punctuality?’ you’d said, arms crossed, hip cocked to the side. ‘is that what we’re doing now, fort?’

he scrambled with apologies, cheeks red, swearing traffic was worse than usual. you just sighed, looped your arm through his, and murmured, ‘relax, i’m messing with you. but you are paying for dessert. non-negotiable.’

he never minded paying, especially when you’d grin at him over your ice cream, that spark in your eyes softening just a bit. and god, when you’d say things like, ‘you’re lucky you’re cute,’ it did things to him he didn’t know how to explain.

but it wasn’t just the teasing. it was how you supported him, how you believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself. after that match he’d been kicking himself over for days, missed shots, sloppy passes, you cornered him in his apartment, hands on your hips.

‘hector fort, if you don’t stop beating yourself up, i swear—’ you cut yourself off, softened. stepped closer and cupped his face, fingers warm against his skin. ‘baby, you played so well. everyone has off days. i’m proud of you.’

he melted. every damn time.

sometimes, you’d get worked up over the smallest things, like when your coffee order was wrong. ‘how hard is it to do two pumps of vanilla, not three? i’m not asking for rocket science.’ you’d huff, glance at him, and when you caught him grinning, you’d roll your eyes. ‘...whatever. wanna sip?’

he loved that you’d fight anyone and anything, but when it came to him? you handled him with care. your bossiness wasn’t mean, it was protective. you demanded respect for yourself, for him, for the people you cared about. you were fire and warmth all at once.

and hector? he’d never been happier to stand in the middle of that fire.

it was in the little things, too. the texts before his matches, ‘score a goal for me, baby. or don’t. you’re still my favorite.’ the way you’d pull him aside after a rough day and say, ‘c’mere, let me fix your hair. you look like you fought a tornado,’ fingers gentle as you smoothed back his curls.

but nothing compared to the quiet moments. like when you thought he was asleep, and you’d whisper, ‘love you, y’know? so much it’s stupid.’ like he didn’t hear you. like he didn’t tuck those words away, holding them close on the nights he missed you the most.

hector fort knew you were a lot. sassy, bossy, dramatic. but god, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. because beneath all that, you were his soft place to land. his person.

and if you wanted to make something out of nothing, throw a fit over a late pizza delivery or a movie starting five minutes past the showtime? fine. he’d let you. hell, he’d stand right beside you and complain too.

as long as, at the end of the day, he still got to be the one you smiled at like that. the one you whispered those soft, precious things to when you thought no one was listening.

because you, with all your fire and sass and sweetness, you were everything.

❦ - is this a curse..?

summary:: you and your boyfriend sneak into the abandoned end of winter wonderland and you come across this alleged fortune teller who ends up making you two do side quests.

warnings:: none?

writers note:: this concept was honestly really old bc it was originally made in bangladesh when i visited an abandoned theme park so can’t lie bc i found the draft version in my notes app so i just fixed it up fast asf but yea hope yall like it bc i found it funny. joao is giving cave diver in this so i wouldn’t be surprised if he willingly went into the nutty putty cave by choice?

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if u wanna be added!

‘are you sure this place isn’t haunted?' you asked, eyeing the flickering carnival sign overhead.

'only one way to find out,' joão grinned, pulling you forward. the fairgrounds were technically closed, but a gate left half open practically invited mischief. and you, against better judgment, followed him in.

'if a clown jumps out, i’m drop kicking it,' you muttered.

'noted,' he laughed, leading you past rusted rides and empty food stalls. the air smelled faintly of popcorn and nostalgia, tinged with just enough creepiness to keep you on edge.

then you saw it: an old fortune-telling booth with faded gold lettering; madame lulu sees all.

'nope,' you said immediately.

'oh, yes,’ joão countered, already slipping inside. 'come on, where’s your sense of adventure?'

'buried under common sense,' you grumbled but followed anyway.

inside, it was dark, save for a single flickering bulb overhead. a mechanical fortune teller doll stared blankly from behind the glass. joão inserted a coin, and the machine whirred to life, spitting out a card.

he read it aloud: 'seek what’s lost, find what’s true. beneath the dragon’s gaze, waits a clue.’

you stared. '...is this a scavenger hunt?'

'looks like it,' he beamed. 'let’s go!'

'joão..’

but he was already out the door, dragging you along. beneath the dragon’s gaze turned out to be an old carousel with a dragon-shaped ride. underneath it? a tiny tin box with another clue.

'who set this up?’ you whispered.

'ghosts with a sense of humor,' he shrugged.

the hunt led you across the fairgrounds, through funhouse mirrors that distorted joão’s grin into something terrifying (‘nightmare fuel,’ you’d said, laughing), past a cotton candy stand where he tried to steal an old, hardened puff ('that’s a fossil, not food’), and finally, to the ferris wheel.

'this has final boss vibes,' you said, eyeing the rusted structure.

'only one way up,' he smirked. 'race you.'

'you cheat..’ but he was already climbing into a cart, pulling you in after him.

at the top, the city stretched out beneath you, lights twinkling in the distance. joão pulled out the final clue card, reading it quietly. 'sometimes, what you seek isn’t hidden; it’s been beside you all along.’

'corny,' you teased, though your heart did a weird little flip.

he looked at you, smile softer now. 'yeah... but kind of true.'

you glanced away, the view suddenly not as distracting as the warmth of his gaze. 'so, what was the treasure?'

'guess we found it,' he murmured.

and maybe you had. maybe it was the laughter, the chase, the stolen glances. or maybe, just maybe, it was him.

'next time,' you said, breaking the moment with a grin, 'we’re doing something less dramatic.'

'no promises,' he winked.

Hey I love your work can you please do a fic with Gavi were the reader is a professional tennis player and they are trying to get to watch each others matches but it's like really difficult. That would be soo cool. And maybe the reader is like Pedris sister or something. And he wants to see every match of her even if it's in halftime and their like dating since their 15 . Thank you

❦ - love && war.

summary:: you’re both supportive of each others careers but obviously there’s obstacles. matches, opens, you name it. that’ll never let it stop gavi though.

warnings:: no

writers note:: i feel bad for spam posting but in my defense they’ve been marinating in my drafts for honestly a while and i still have loads to write so bare w me! i keep on forgetting to post but @cherryloveshs & sometimes @barcapix has to keep me humble 💔.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs @universefcb

dating pablo gavi was a constant battle, not because he made things difficult (well, maybe sometimes), but because trying to align your schedules was practically impossible.

you were both professional athletes, both constantly traveling, both juggling training, matches, and media responsibilities. it was hard enough keeping up with your own career, let alone finding time to see each other.

but somehow, against all odds, you’d been making it work since you were fifteen.

‘where are you watching from?’

the text came through as you were tying your shoelaces, preparing for your next match in a wta tournament in madrid. you barely had time to check your phone before your coach called you over, but when you saw gavi’s name, you quickly typed back.

you: i thought you had a game?

gavi: i do. but halftime is soon. i’ll find a way.

you shook your head, smiling. of course he would. gavi had a champions league match tonight, yet here he was, making sure he didn’t miss your game.

true to his word, at halftime, when the rest of the team was getting their tactics from hansi, gavi was on his phone, sitting at the very edge of the bench so no one could block his signal.

‘bro, seriously?’ ferran torres raised a brow, watching as gavi adjusted the brightness.

‘shut up,’ gavi muttered, completely focused.

pedri, sitting beside him, leaned over to glance at the screen. ‘what’s the score?’

‘first set just started.’

pedri smirked. ‘you realize you have a game to play, right?’

‘yeah, yeah,’ gavi waved him off, barely paying attention.

this was normal by now. every chance he got, whether it was in a hotel room after a champions league away match, or during team flights, or, apparently, at halftime, he was watching your matches.

because if he couldn’t be there in person, this was the next best thing.

but when he could be there?

gavi would move mountains to make it happen.

which was exactly how he ended up flying straight from a la liga match in barcelona to paris, just to watch you play in the french open.

he landed at the very last minute, wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face as he slid into the stands, next to pedri, who had made the trip as well.

‘you’re insane,’ pedri muttered, watching as gavi exhaled, still catching his breath from sprinting through the airport.

‘does she know you’re here?’

gavi shook his head. ‘not yet.’

he wanted it to be a surprise. and when you finally looked up after winning a crucial point, your eyes scanning the crowd, the second they landed on him, he knew you’d seen him.

your expression flickered between shock and something softer, something that made the entire exhausting trip worth it.

gavi didn’t care that he was running on barely any sleep. didn’t care that hansi was definitely going to have words with him when he got back.

all that mattered was this.

seeing you. supporting you. the same way you always supported him.

when the match ended, when you won, you barely had time to process it before you were running toward him.

pedri sighed. ‘madre mia, she’s coming.’

‘shut up,’ gavi said, already standing.

and then you were in front of him, sweaty, exhausted, but so fucking happy.

‘what the hell are you doing here?’ you demanded, out of breath.

‘watching you win,’ he grinned, his voice filled with pride.

you shook your head, laughing. ‘you’re crazy.’

‘for you? always.’

and then, despite the cameras, despite the entire stadium watching, you threw your arms around him, hugging him so tight it knocked the breath from his lungs.

but he didn’t mind.

because this, this chaotic, impossible, beautiful life you had together, was worth everything.

ღ - m a s t e r l i s t

who i write for

alejandro balde

lights, camera, golazo - part one

lights, camera, golazo - part two

bound 2

pablo gavi

stadium lights, casablancan nights

ivy

a quiet kind of love.

valentines surprise.

yours to hold.

el mar, el sol y mi corazón.

love && war.

love && war 2.

jamal musiala

for better or for best

the alchemy

boyfriend headcannons

london days.

joao felix

girl dad head cannons

joao felix x non famous girl headcannons

joao felix x sassy girl headcannons

it’s still intact, right?

la rainha de cobham

hell n back

lottery

one wrong digit.

one wrong digit. part 2.

one wrong digit. part 3.

amore a milan.

is this a curse..?

yours for the day.

retail therapy… or not?

lost && found.

priorities.

delicate.

my girls curls.

hector fort

boyfriend headcannons

moonlight

my favourite player.

unexpected but never a problem.

jude bellingham

all eyes on us

kiss of life

madrid, maybe.

not enough for you.

kenan yildiz

i knew you were trouble

cut my hair

in your arms, always.

table for 2.

‘who’s jeans..?’

silent devotion.

first date dilemmas.

match made in turin.

the love of italia.

‘and we created you in pairs.’

hidden in plain sight.

guille fernandez

back to you.

sneaking around.

toni fernandez

playing for keeps.

marc bernal

the best kind of trip.

pau cubarsi

attached by the arms.

kieran tierney

moving on.

taa (trent)

headlines.

charles leclerc

maman et papa.

Charles Leclerc Masterlist

Written Fics

Achilles Come Down

A Crime Against Fashion

All Locked Up

Bet on It

Black Magic

Blackmail Material

Blow Out the Candles

Boop!

Borrowed Time

Brake Balance

Break In, Breakdown

Breaking Point

Changing Lanes

Danger Noodles

Daydream

Eurovisionaries

Fairytale

Family Feud

Fit for a Queen

Gilded Cage

Going Once, Going Twice

Head Over Heels

Hydrate or Diedrate

Inked

La Regina

Lessons in Anatomy

Live Like We Want To

Lover

Made with Love

Make Them Proud

Man’s World

Mesaytara

My Brother’s Father

Never Have I Ever

Newsflash

Oscar Jack Piastri-Leclerc

Ours to Protect

Prince of Monaco

Prove Them Wrong

Puppy Love

Roll the Dice

Ruin You

Sink or Swim

Sleepyhead

So Good to Her

So Good to Me

Something Sweet

That’s That Me, Espresso

The Center Cannot Hold

Theories of Relativity

Ties That Bind

Time to Kill

Under the Influence

Use Your Words

What’s the Worst That Can Happen?

Your Friend Steve

Social Media AUs

In My Blood (series with Senna!Reader)

architect!Reader

author!Reader

black!Reader

Brazilian!Reader

celebrity crush!Reader

CEO!Reader

college student!Reader

crazy rich!Reader

endurance driver!Reader

fashion designer!Reader

fan!Reader

Ferrari driver!Reader

Ferrari engineer!Reader

Ferrari team principal!Reader

footballer!Reader

girlfriend!Reader

Horner!Reader

Måneskin!Reader

model!Reader

nepo baby!Reader

Newey!Reader

newlywed!Reader Part I

newlywed!Reader Part II

New Year’s Edition

pop star!Reader

pop star!Reader II

PowerPointless Part II

Princess of Monaco!Reader

pr manager!Reader

protective!Reader

revenge era!Reader

royal!Reader

Sainz!Reader

scandalous!Reader

shameless!Reader

single mother!Reader

socialite!Reader

Vettel!Reader

widow!Reader

wife!Reader

Wolff!Reader

Wolff!Reader II

Wolff!Reader x Max Verstappen

guys i’m having heart palpitations wtf gavi goal w balde assist?? it’s like i predicted it by making a balde fic after my gavi one 😈😈

stay delusional girls 🤍

JOAO FELIX TO BARCA??? guys trust im manifesting it

hmmm so i lowk want sleepy franco, bc i had a dream abt him last night no joke. let's see. okay. we're on a plane, his like travel director guy? idk what he's called, but he books the wrong ticket so franco has to sit in economy class (horror) and he's all grumpy and tired and his curls are peeking thru his hoodie (HEHE) idk if you wanna make us a fan of him or not, i truly don't care ill read it anyway, and then drumroll please, TURBULENCE, and we hold hands and end up talking and then fall in love mwah

❦ - ‘la concha de mi madre’.

warnings:: cussing.

writers notes:: IM SORRY IF YOU SPEAK SPANISH AND UNDERSTAND THE TITLE 🥀. if you get the reference then you get it but if u don’t then it’s bc he said it on team radio 😔.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs ; lmk if u wanna be added

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you’re already exhausted when you get to the gate. the kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and makes everything feel just a little bit blurry. it’s a late flight, barely-full, and you’re silently thanking the universe for that as you scan your boarding pass.

economy. window seat. quiet.

until he walks in.

it’s subtle at first. just a little wave of tension that passes through the gate area like a ripple, the way it always does when someone vaguely famous walks into a space not meant for them. people don’t scream or swarm, but you hear the hushed whispers, the occasional, poorly-hidden phone snap. and then you see him.

franco.

hood up. head down. dragging a carry-on with one hand and a coffee in the other like it might be the only thing keeping him awake.

he looks like he was just pulled out of sleep and shoved into an airport. grey hoodie. black joggers. a duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. and his curls, god, his curls, are peeking out from under the fabric like they’re trying to escape. messy and soft and unfairly pretty.

you try not to stare.

he looks grumpy. not mean, not rude, just tired in the way only someone who was promised comfort but got chaos instead can be. he stops by the flight attendant, glances down at his phone, then mutters something in spanish you don’t catch but feel in your soul. it’s giving: ‘how did i end up here?’

you turn back to your book, pretending you’re not watching him weave down the aisle, scanning seat numbers, getting closer and closer until

he stops. right beside you.

your row.

he double checks his pass. stares at the seat. stares at you. then groans, barely audible, and sinks down into the seat next to yours like it personally offended him.

‘la concha de mi madre… wasn’t supposed to be here,’ he mumbles, more to himself than you.

you don’t say anything at first. you just glance sideways, taking in the way his knees hit the seat in front of him. he’s clearly too tall for this. he exhales sharply through his nose and tilts his head back, letting it thud softly against the wall.

‘rough night?’ you ask gently.

he peeks one eye open.

‘travel guy booked the wrong class. s’posed to be business.’ he sounds like he’s explaining a grave injustice. and honestly, to him, maybe it is.

you bite back a laugh. ‘and now you’re slumming it with the rest of us.’

he looks at you properly now. eyes sharp despite how sleepy he is. ‘you make it sound like i’m gonna die in here.’

‘you might,’ you tease. ‘depends how dramatic you get.’

he cracks a smile, small, sleepy, but real, and pulls his hoodie tighter around him. then it’s quiet again. the kind of quiet that fills a plane before takeoff: muted announcements, seatbelt clicks, the soft shuffle of passengers settling in.

you go back to your book. or try to. it’s hard to focus when an f1 driver is breathing softly beside you, head tilted toward the window, lashes brushing his cheekbones, hands folded loosely over his stomach.

he looks peaceful like that. tired, yes, but soft in a way you didn’t expect. like he’s finally stopped fighting the chaos and just let himself be still.

you’re almost asleep yourself when it happens.

the plane jerks. a sudden lurch. not violent, but sharp enough to pull you from the edge of sleep and snap your heart into alert.

your hand flinches toward the armrest, gripping it tight.

and then another bump, this one stronger. someone across the aisle lets out a small yelp.

your stomach twists.

and then

warm fingers slip over yours.

it’s so casual, so easy, like he’s done this before. his hand is big, firm, grounding. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even open his eyes, but the pressure of his palm against yours is enough to slow your breath just a little.

‘just turbulence,’ he murmurs, voice low, raspy with sleep. ‘happens all the time.’

you don’t know why you believe him. maybe because he sounds so calm. maybe because your hand fits stupidly well in his. or maybe because, deep down, part of you likes that this stranger, this famous, hoodie-wearing, grumpy stranger, is the one keeping you steady.

when the turbulence fades, you think he’ll pull away.

he doesn’t.

you glance over. his eyes are open now, just barely, looking at your joined hands with an unreadable expression.

‘you don’t have to keep holding it,’ you say quietly.

he shrugs, thumb brushing against your skin. ‘you looked scared.’

you don’t answer. just look away, heart thudding a little too loud in your chest.

after a beat, he shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward you.

‘i’m franco, by the way.’

you blink. not because you didn’t know. but because it feels strange, intimate, for him to offer it like that.

‘y/n,’ you say back, voice softer than before.

he nods once. ‘pretty name.’

you smile, small and a little shy. and for the first time, you notice how close you are. how your knees almost touch. how your fingers are still tangled like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

somewhere over the clouds, in a cramped economy seat beside a boy who was never supposed to be here, something starts.

it’s quiet. unexpected. but it’s there.

and neither of you let go.

you land just after sunrise.

the light filters through the little oval window in soft streaks of gold and peach, brushing over franco’s curls as he stretches beside you with a sleepy groan. his hoodie’s slipped a little down his shoulder, revealing a white t-shirt and a glimpse of collarbone, and you don’t mean to stare, but also, maybe you do.

‘how’d you sleep?’ he asks, voice gravelly and barely awake.

you smile. ‘not much.’

‘same.’

you both sit there for a second, still tangled in the strange bubble that formed somewhere midair. he shifts, glancing down at your hands, still close, not quite touching anymore, but close enough to feel the leftover warmth. his fingers twitch like maybe he wants to reach back.

you beat him to it, brushing your pinky against his.

he looks over, and he’s smiling.

‘you hungry?’ he asks, suddenly casual. like you didn’t just hold hands for three hours in silence. like you didn’t fall asleep with your shoulder brushing his in the middle of the sky.

you blink. ‘what?’

he rubs the back of his neck, curls wild now, sticking out in soft little tufts. ‘there’s this café i always go to when i fly through here. their croissants are insane. i can… show you?’

your heart does something stupid.

‘yeah,’ you say, voice softer than you mean it to be. ‘sure. croissants sound good.’

you gather your things. he waits for you. and as you walk off the plane, into the cool, early morning quiet of the airport, something about it feels like a movie. the way your suitcases roll in sync. the way his hoodie sleeve brushes your arm every few steps. the way people glance over, eyes widening slightly, not because of you, but because of him.

he doesn’t seem to notice. or care. he’s too busy walking beside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

‘so,’ you say, just to fill the silence, ‘did your travel guy get fired yet?’

he snorts. ‘he’s on very thin ice.’

you laugh, and he grins, bright and sleepy and a little crooked.

the café is tucked in a quiet corner of the terminal. tiny tables. warm lights. the smell of espresso thick in the air.

he orders two croissants and two coffees like he’s done it a hundred times before.

‘you bring all your turbulence buddies here?’ you tease as you settle into a table by the window.

he smirks. ‘nah. just the brave ones who hold my hand mid-air.’

you roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm.

the coffee is good. the croissant is better. and the company, well, that’s the best part.

you talk. about little things. stupid things. favorite movies. airport horror stories. he tells you about the time his luggage got sent to a completely different continent. you tell him about the time you missed a flight because you fell asleep at the gate. he laughs, really laughs, and you catch yourself watching the way his face lights up, the way his eyes crinkle, the soft edges of his tired smile.

you’re both halfway through your second coffee when his phone buzzes. he glances at it, then groans.

‘my ride’s here.’

you nod, trying not to look disappointed.

he stands slowly, stretching again, hoodie riding up just a little, and then looks at you like he’s not quite sure what to do.

you break the silence first.

‘it was nice flying with you.’

he huffs a laugh. ‘yeah. it was.’

you expect him to walk away. just wave, say bye, disappear into the crowd.

instead, he hesitates. looks at you like he’s debating something.

then

‘can i see you again?’

you blink. ‘what?’

he runs a hand through his curls. ‘i mean… if you want. i know it was just a weird flight and some turbulence and coffee, but…’ he shrugs, like he can’t quite explain it. ‘i liked this. i liked you.’

your heart stumbles.

‘yeah,’ you say, quiet but sure. ‘i’d like that too.’

he grins. pulls out his phone. you exchange numbers, fingers brushing as he hands it back.

‘don’t ghost me,’ he says, teasing.

you smirk. ‘only if your travel guy doesn’t mess it up again.’

he laughs again, starts to walk backward toward the exit, still facing you.

‘see you soon, turbulence girl.’

and then he’s gone.

but your phone buzzes thirty seconds later.

franco: next time i’m booking us both business class. just saying.

you grin.

yeah. you’ll see him again.

it starts with texts.

a few here and there. late at night. early morning. sleepy updates and little inside jokes. a photo of his breakfast one day. a screenshot of your playlist the next. nothing dramatic. nothing loud.

just a slow, easy kind of beginning.

and then one day, he sends you a message that says:

‘are you free this friday? i owe you dinner. and business class. but we’ll start with dinner.’

you say yes.

and that’s how you end up outside a small restaurant tucked between quiet streets, heart thudding in your chest as you spot him leaning against the wall, hoodie up, curls peeking out just like that first night.

but this time, he looks up and smiles as soon as he sees you.

‘you came,’ he says, stepping forward, pulling the hood down.

‘you asked,’ you reply.

he holds the door open for you, and it’s something about the way he looks at you, like he’s been waiting to see you again since the second you left, that makes your stomach do something ridiculous.

the restaurant is small. warm. dim lighting and quiet music. you sit across from him, nervous at first, picking at the edge of your napkin.

but he’s soft. all soft.

asking how your week was. telling you how training’s been. joking about how he’s still haunted by the flight. and you both laugh, really laugh, like it’s been forever since something felt this easy.

somewhere between dinner and dessert, the conversation shifts.

you’re talking about the places you want to visit. the little corners of the world that live on your bucket list. he’s leaning in, chin resting in his hand, eyes never leaving you.

‘so what you’re saying,’ he murmurs, ‘is that you’d need a travel buddy.’

you raise a brow. ‘you offering?’

he smiles slow. ‘i already know how you handle turbulence.’

you toss a sugar packet at him. he catches it.

and when the night ends, and you’re outside again in the cool air, he walks you to your car without saying much.

just before you open the door, he stops.

‘can i—’ he rubs the back of his neck, like he’s nervous now. ‘i wanna see you again.’

you tilt your head. ‘another flight?’

he chuckles. ‘hopefully without economy class.’

you step closer. your hands graze.

‘i’d like that,’ you say.

and this time, this time when he leans in, it’s not your hands that touch first. it’s his forehead resting lightly against yours. soft, sweet. the kind of almost-kiss that says everything without rushing it.

his voice is barely a whisper.

‘goodnight, y/n.’

and you smile, feeling weightless.

‘goodnight, franco.’

you fall asleep on facetime the first time it happens.

you’re both in bed, screens glowing in the dark, him in a hoodie again, hood up, hair a little messy from running his hand through it too much. you’re curled beneath a blanket, barely lit by your lamp, yawning as he tells you something dumb one of his teammates said in the locker room.

you’re not sure when you drift off, only that when you open your eyes again, the call is still going.

his camera is angled up now, like he fell asleep too. his face half-buried in a pillow, breathing slow. the little rectangle on your screen shows the soft rise and fall of his chest, a peek of his collarbone, the edge of his hoodie slipping down one shoulder.

you watch him for a moment.

just… watch.

something tugs at your heart. soft and sure.

you end the call before your screen dies, and sleep comes easier after that.

the next morning, he texts you:

‘slept better than i have in weeks. you?’

you type:

‘same. weird.’

he sends a photo. his pillow, a bit messy. the corner of his hoodie in the frame.

‘blaming you. don’t leave next time.’

and you want to tell him you won’t. that you’ll stay on the line until the sun rises if that’s what he wants. but you just reply:

‘no promises.’

he calls you that night too.

and the one after that.

the first kiss comes later.

not during a date. not at dinner. not even with music or city lights or anything remotely romantic.

it’s raining.

you weren’t supposed to see him. just dropped by his place to return something, a hoodie you stole without realizing. but he opens the door and grins like he hasn’t seen you in weeks instead of days.

‘you’re wet,’ he says, brushing a hand over your shoulder.

‘yeah, well, the weather’s rude.’

you’re about to hand him the hoodie when he steps back and says, ‘come in. or you’ll catch something.’

and you do.

you sit on the edge of his couch, water dripping from your sleeves. he disappears for a second, returns with a towel and a mug of something warm. tea. maybe. you’re not sure. you’re too busy watching the way his lashes stick together from the rain. the way his hoodie is half-zipped, revealing the curve of his throat.

he crouches in front of you, drying your hands first.

‘you didn’t have to,’ you murmur.

he shrugs. but his hands linger.

‘you’re kind of important,’ he says, soft. like it’s not a big deal.

you look at him. really look.

his curls are damp. his eyes are tired but bright. his thumb is brushing along the back of your hand like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.

and you lean in first.

not much. just a little. but enough.

his breath catches, and he moves with you. quiet. slow. no rush.

his lips find yours like they’ve been waiting.

just the softest pressure. the rain still pattering outside. his hand resting against your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek like you might disappear if he doesn’t hold you right.

when you pull back, he stays close.

forehead to yours.

‘finally,’ he whispers.

and you smile.

epilogue::

he’s already seated when you get there.

hood up. headphones around his neck. hoodie sleeves bunched up on his forearms. curls peeking out messily. the most him he’s ever looked.

you stop in the aisle for a second, grinning.

‘you’re in the window seat?’ you tease.

he peeks up at you with that sleepy half-smile, eyes already warm.

‘wanted to watch the clouds. but i’ll trade if you want it.’

you shake your head and slide into the seat beside him. ‘nah. wanna lean on you.’

he makes a soft sound, half a chuckle, half a breath, and reaches for your hand almost immediately. it’s instinct, at this point. the way his fingers find yours without looking. the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles like he needs to remind himself you’re here. his.

you tuck your bag away, get comfortable, rest your head on his shoulder as the plane starts taxiing.

‘remember our first flight?’ you mumble.

he hums. ‘economy class. tragic.’

you laugh, sleepily. ‘you were grumpy.’

‘you held my hand during turbulence.’

‘you fell in love.’

he turns his head a little, presses his lips to your hair.

‘yeah,’ he says softly. ‘i did.’

you close your eyes, smile against his hoodie.

there’s no rush. no uncertainty. no almosts anymore. just his hand in yours, the hum of the engine, and the quiet thud of your hearts keeping time.

somewhere in the sky, between time zones and cloudlines, he whispers:

‘i’d sit in economy again if it meant meeting you.’

you don’t open your eyes. you just squeeze his hand and whisper back:

‘good thing you don’t have to.’

and he smiles, forehead resting against yours, while the plane lifts into the sky.

i know who you pretend i am

pairing: gavi x ofc

summary: catalan author aroa ferrer is about to be translated into spanish. to promote her book, her publisher has the worst idea possible: a pr relationship with a heartthrob footballer.

masterlist // series masterlist // i do not take requests

"Uhm, where is the bathroom?" Asked Gavi. His hands were sweating and he wanted to fix his hair before the meeting. He was nervous, more than he was when he had play in front of millions of people.

This was different. This made him vulnerable.

"That corridor to the left has the gender neutral bathrooms," explained the woman at the reception counter. Gavi thanked her quietly and walked toward the corridor she had pointed to.

The bathroom was empty, except for a girl in the farthest sink away, who was covering her face with her hands and quietly sniffling.

"I'm sorry," he stumbled, taking a step back. Maybe he could come back later.

"No, it's okay." The girl didn't look at him, scurrying pass him, almost running away from the place. It left Gavi with a bitter taste in his mouth. What had that girl so upset?

He didn't think too much about it, though. He had his own things to worry about.

💙❤️

Iván put a hand on his shoulder when they were finally called up.

The offer had reached Gavi as a passing comment. Iván had heard that Roses Editorial was searching for a guy to be in a PR relationship with one of their more successful writers. The agent was offering the opportunity to his other clients, who were footballers of a smaller caliber than Gavi, when media attention was concerned.

Gavi would have usually not even considered an arrangement like that. His dating life was his business and his business only, but after a rough break up he needed to do something drastic.

"Hombre, I didn't think you'd be interested," admitted Iván. "You never want to do stuff like this..."

Gavi had shrugged.

"Just let me look a bit into this before I fully accept," asked Gavi. "Do you have the girl's name?"

"Aroa Ferrer," said Iván. "There are no pictures of her on the Internet, but you can check her book if you want."

Gavi frowned. He wondered if Iván noticed it was a bit strange that agirl with no public photos on the Internet was ready to go on a PR stunt like this, but he said nothing.

Gavi had bought the book, which was in Catalan, and actually read it. Going though the pages was quite different than completing his high school assignments. In school, he had loathed the language. Teachers were strict, the grammatical and orthographic rules made no sense, and he was in a clear disadvantage against his native speaking classmates. But Aroa's book was entertaining, the plot, the characters. It made him forget he was actually reading in a second language.

Aroa's second book was in Spanish. It had been published a few days earlier and was flying off the shelves in all the bookstores of the country. The publishing house wanted to take advantage of the rush, and use the publicity of a PR stunt to drive people's eyes towards the first book's Spanish translation.

Gavi walked to the office awkwardly. By the desk, Ferrer's agent and Roses' marketing manager were waiting for them. On the other side of the room, by the corner, arms crossed and jaw set, was the girl from the bathroom.

It took Gavi less than a second to figure out he had walked into a war zone, and that the room was divided. Iván, who either didn't notice, or ignored it, walked to the men in suits by the desk.

The men seemed to be delighted to see him. Gavi was sure that when they started asking around for an interested party, they never thought they could bag someone of Gavi's prophile. He could see the Euro signs in their eyes.

Gavi looked back at Aroa. Her jaw was set and he gaze was averted. Having the freedom to map out her face, Gavi was stunned with how pretty she was. Short brown hair curled to down to her chin, pink lips, curled in a pissed off expression, green eyes guarded and harsh.

She looked like she wanted to kill everyone in the room.

"Hi," he greeted shyly, when he caught her gaze. She replied with a short head gesture.

"C'mon, c'mon, sit, sit, Gavi." The men there were adamant in having him be as comfortable as possible. They really wanted to sway his will towards whatever they wanted to do. "Meet Aroa, she will be your partner in this operation. Excuse her behavior, she's not done throwing her tantrum yet."

Aroa clenched her jaw.

She definitely looked too pissed off for it be "just a tantrum". Suddenly, Gavi didn't think this was the best idea. Something about the men and the way they talked about their author, the fact that she was clearly distressed and nobady seemed to care.

"Aroa, sit next to him, I want to see you two together," demanded the agent. She obeyed, walking briskly and dropping next to him on the couch. Gavi could feel the tension in her muscles.

"Are you okay?" He asked, worriedly. It took Aroa a few seconds to figure out he was talking to her.

"Could be worse," she said, her face softening a little. Her eyes were prettier up close, he noticed.

"Alright, so, the idea is to have you two appear to be a couple in public, so that Aroa's book sells in the rest of Spain," said the agent.

"We also wanted something from this relationship," announced Iván.

"Of course." Both men seemed to find that completely reasonable. "What do you need?"

"Gavi broke up with his girlfriend a month ago. She's still posting indirect statements that reflect badly on him. Once the break up is announced, we would benefit of Aroa speaking kindly of him, at least a couple of times," explained Iván. Gavi flinched. The issues with Alicia had been many, specially after the break up. When she started posting, he and Iván had agreed to ignore the situation completely, but now that Gavi had been open to this scheme, it was logical that his agent wanted to take advantage of it.

Aroa rised her eyebrow, tension returning to her body.

"You're not like, abusive, right?" She asked bluntly. "I won't go against a victim just to clean you image.”

"I can promise you it's nothing like that," reassured Iván. "Alicia is just a little bit immature."

Gavi shook his head. That argument was doing nothing to quench Aroa's doubts.

"We fought during the break up," he explained. "Alicia wanted us to spend more time together, but I ignored her, sometimes even on purpose, to focus on football. If anything, all her complaints about me are about how I'm too immature and childish for a woman like her. That sort of thing."

Aroa seemed to find his explanation more plausible.

"If I learn that you did something bad to her..."

"I promise you I didn't," insisted Gavi. She finally nodded.

"Well, the relationship should be announced slowly, we don't want to overwhelm the public," continued the manager. Gavi had not caught his name, and he realised he did not want to.

"Yes, maybe Aroa should go to a couple of games, and you should be seen with the book somewhere..." agreed the agent, looking at Gavi.

"But how are we going to tie her face to her name? There are no pictures of you available on the Internet," interrupted Gavi.

"That's because my face should not be necessary to sell a fucking book," replied Aroa. Gavi tensed. During the whole time, Aroa had seemed tense, pissed off. But he now was starting so see the reason.

"Well, you refused to do tik toks, so this is your next option, young lady," reminded her the manager. Something churned on Gavi's stomach.

"My target audience is not on booktok," she complained.

"It will be if we say so," insisted the manager. "You wrote a roamce book, you can't be picky about your public."

"Wait, you don't want to be doing this?" Asked Gavi, fully tuning his body to watch her. By the corner of the eye, he saw Iván's expression souring.

"No. Not really. I want my books to sell because they are good, not because I'm some dude's girlfriend." Aroa explained. Gavi recognised the glint of ambition and pride on her eyes. He had the same feeling surrounding his career. He was liked and valued because he was a good footballer, not because he was pretty.

"Then why are you here?" Asked Iván, concerned.

"I don't have a choice."

"Her contact stipulates that marketing decisions lay on the Editoral. We were already kind enough to listen to her when she rejected booktok, we won't do that again," explained the manager. Gavi felt like throttling him.

"Well, Gavi and I need to reconsider the offer..." Iván stood up, and gestured Gavi to do the same. "This information changes a lot of things for us..."

Gavi spared one last worried glance to Aroa before slipping out of the room, following Iván.

"That was..."

"Defiently unethical," finished Iván. "I can't believe they think they have the right..."

Aroa rushed through the corridors catching them before they reached the elevators. She grabbed Gavi by the arm, desperation obvious on her eyes.

"Wait, please." There were tears streaming down her pink cheeks. "I... please. Stay. They will carry on with this plan with or without you, and I... I would rather have to do it with you, knowing that you care, and are kind, that to do it with whoever new they find, someone that agrees with their thinking." She explained.

Gavi did not doubt on wrapping jus arms around her, pressing her to his chest. Aroa buried her face on his shoulder, her tears wetting the fabric of his shirt.

"Alright," Gavi looked at Iván over her shoulder. His face was troubled, but Gavi could see that he agreed with him. They would take the offer, even if it was just to protect Aroa Ferrer.

💙❤️

"I'm so sorry for getting you into this mess," said Aroa when she let Gavi in on her apartment. She had kicked out Inés, her best friend, so they could talk peacefully.

"It's okay, though. I kind of want to do it, you know?" Gavi put his hands on his pockets. Now that she's allowing herself to look at him, Aroa could admit that he was pretty handsome. "I'd rather help you, that see you in a fake relationship with some scumbag in a few months and wonder if you're okay every day."

"Still. You shouldn't be worrying about it."

Gavi shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. Aroa couldn't fathom how he found the whole ordeal so... irrelevant, to the course of his life, but he was not putting his ambition at risk so that was that.

She led him to her kitchen, were she had prepared two bowls of simple tomato pasta.

"I wasn't sure what you could or could not eat..." she explained. "So I played it safe."

"Smells so good," he complimented. "I love pasta, specially before a match."

Aroa smiled, pleased.

💙❤️

"So this thing... we can have it be quiet, right?" Asked Gavi, helping Aroa do the dishes.

"I'm not sure they want it to be quiet..." she told him. Edgar and Toni were like dogs with a bone, and Gavi was a very succulent bone.

"But I can demand that it is." He replied, confidently. "They need it to be me, no one is going to give them any more clout than I do," Aroa flinched. "I have power here."

"Alright," she said. "What do you have in mind?"

"Like Iván said, you come to a few of my matches, we get someone to spot you. I carry your books around a couple of times. Then we get caught kissing somewhere, maybe a restaurant or a park, something romantic. A couple of insta stories on the same place at the same time and done. We stop following each other on social media, don't interact in public and everyone will figure out we've broken up. Easy."

"Easy." Aroa repeated, finishing drying a dish.

"Yeah, easy." Gavi seemed proud of his plan."

"There is only one problem," she said. "I've never kissed anyone."

"Oh."

It was obvious Gavi did not expect that.

"Never?" He croaked. Aroa shook her head, a little bit embarrassed. She was about to turn twenty one, and no one had ever deemed her pretty enough for a kiss. "You didn't want to or..."

It was cute that Gavi thought she had chosen that. Aroa shrugged.

"Just never happened for me."

There was a heavy silence, in which Aroa avoided eye contact, turning her face away from Gavi, until she felt his hands gently cupping her cheeks.

"I could... we could kiss now," he offered. "So your first kiss isn't everywhere on the Internet. And so we know what to do when the moment comes or in an emergency."

Aroa took a shaky breath, lifting her gaze to look at him. Gavi's big eyes were dark, his lips parted as he studied her face. He wanted to do it, she realised, startled. Whether it was a stupid bout of desire or wanting to be kind she was not sure.

But she nodded, accepting the offer.

His lips met hers softly at first. Small kisses to help her figure out what was going on. But as Aroa grew in confidence, her arms lifting to grip his shoulders, her lips moving against his, the kiss deepened. Gavi gripped her waist, their hips colliding as he squished her against the sink. Aroa rised a hand to the back of his head as his tongue went inside her mouth.

"I thought it was supposed to be fake?" Inés' voice startled them into separating.

"We're just rehearsing," came out of Aroa's mouth, as she touched her tingling lips with the tip of her fingers. Kissing was nice, she decided.

Inés snorted leaving her purse by the couch.

"Sure, at least he's the hot one," she commented, before disappearing into her room. Gavi blushed, to Aroa's delight.

💙❤️

Gavi went back home excitedly. His lips were still tingling from the kiss, his heart still beating hard from all the adrenaline. They were doing this. They were so fucking doing this.

But there was one thing he needed to do first. He found his family gathered in the living room, but they tackled the issue before he could open his mouth.

"Since when do you read?" Asked Aurora. She was holding Aroa's book. "And since when do you speak Catalan?"

"I wouldn't have a high school diploma if I didn't speak Catalan," he replied taking his coat off. His cheeks are already pink. "I've lived here for almost a decade, I'm not that stupid."

"But reading a romance book?" Insisted Aurora.

"Stop annoying your brother," reprimanded their mother. "God knows I've tried to get him to read for years..."

His dad, though, had a knowing smile on his face.

"Where were you, boy?"

"I, eh... that is what u wanted to talk about with all of you. I was... eh, I was on a date." He blurted.

Aurora's mouth dropped.

"So soon after Alicia?"

"Yeah. I know it seems precipitated, but I have a great feeling about this..."

"Gavi, dear, it's better if you wait a little. At least as a curtesy. Alicia deserves better..."

"Well, for as long as Alicia doesn't hear..." decided Aurora. "We can pretend like they started dating six months after the break up or something..."

"She's coming to my game next week." Said Gavi, squashing their planning. "And I asked her to wear my jersey." He had not actually, but he was sure it would be the easiest way to link her to him, if she was spotted alone in the stands with the rest of the families.

"That's a bit soon. It took you quite a while to go public with Alicia..."

"I'm sure of what I'm doing," replied Gavi, squaring his shoulders. "I like Aroa a lot. I want her—"

"We don't even know this girl," protested his mother. "How do you know that she isn't after your fame?"

'Because I caught her having a panic attack at the thought of using me for my fame,' he thought, but said nothing.

"Why is it so hard to trust my judgement?" He asked. He felt like he was setting Aroa up to be hated by his family, once they broke of the arrangement.

"If you feel lonely, I'm sure Alicia..."

"I don't want Alicia, Aurora," he snapped. "I want Aroa." As he spoke, Gavi realised he was saying the truth. "I really want to try this with her. She's sweet and smart and accomplished. She wrote that fucking book!" He pointed at the book that was still in Aurora's hands. "And I liked it! And I hate reading, and I struggle with Catalan! That is how good she is."

"We're gonna have to meet this girl," spoke his father then. "Before the match. Ask her when she can come for dinner."

Shit.

💙❤️

"You didn't tell your parents it was a PR deal?" Said Aroa and Iván almost at the same time.

Gavi covered his face with his hands.

"They've been worried about the break up with Alicia. They liked her a lot, always asked if we are going to get back together. Aurora actually still meets with her, I'm sure." He explained. "I thought that maybe... I could use this to make them forget about my thing with Alicia, I don't know."

Iván sighed. He was used to Gavi's impulsive decision making, but Aroa was looking at him totally puzzled.

"Alright," she said. "I'm free every night next week."

"You're actually accepting?"

"You're making me a huge favour, not letting me do this with some random reggetón singer. How bad can a family dinner be?"

"If my sister suspects you're after my money, it can be quite awful," he warned.

"Then let's think of it as warm up, for when this thing hits the news."

At that moment, Gavi could have kissed her.

"Okay, you two need to fix that stuff alone," decided Iván standing up from the kitchen table of Aroa's apartment, taking the folder with him. After a second meeting with her publishers, the three of them had gone to her house to discuss the details form their more ethical point of view. "I'll give this to my friends. They will call you by the end of the week," he told Aroa.

Iván had offered to send the manuscript of her third book to some agents he knew, who specialised on publishing. They also had good ties with foreign publishing houses, and could get her translated to other languages apart from Spanish or Catalan, like English, French or German.

💙❤️

"Do they really hate me?" Asked Aroa once they reached his home. She was squeezing a box of homemade cookies against her chest, nerves finally kicking in.

"They... liked Alicia a lot. And they distrust any girl that attempts anything with me. So this is more like an exam..."

"Great." Gavi almost snorted at her ironic remark. She had come out of her shell slowly, but it was fun to banter with her now.

Inside, they were greeted by his father first. He looked soft, like a teddy bear. He took the cookies from Aroa with a smile on his face, as he led them to the kitchen, as if this wasn't Gavi's house too.

There, they found his mother, who was a little bit more cautious around Aroa. She still smiled and was very polite, but Aroa could tell she was being watched.

Aurora would clearly he the hardest one to win over. She smiled curtly, but kept the interactions at the minimum. Aroa took a step closer to Gavi instinctively. He put his hand on her hip as he talked to his dad, something about the cookies being 100% acceptable by Barça's nutritionist standards.

"You made them?"

"Yeah!" His mother nodded appreciatively. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard.

💙❤️

"They definitively hate me," whispered Aroa once they were alone in his room. She picked her pyjamas from the bag she had prepared to spend the night.

"Okay, it could have gone better," admitted Gavi, sitting in bed.

Even if his father seemed to welcome her, his mother and Aurora were not as inclined. They were still untrusting, and Aroa had spent enough time studying human behaviour to know they were comparing her to Alicia the whole time.

"I don't think it's worth it to try to make them like me," she told him. "I'll be gone in a month an a half anyway." Aroa went to the bathroom to change her white stamped t-shirt and blue jeans—that Gavi had helped her pick, for the pyjamas shirt and shorts. "You could tell them they were right about me and call it day," she offered when she exited.

"I don't like that, though," he shook his head. "I don't want them to think badly of you. You're wonderful, I wish they could see it. And what do you mean you will be gone, we can still be friends, no?"

"I thought you would want me gone," she admitted, sitting in bed next to him. Gavi shook his head. "Not at all. I want to be friends with you, I want to able to laugh about it in a few years."

Aroa rested her head on his shoulder, in silence. Gavi had to keep himself from dragging her to his lap and crushing her in a hug.

💙❤️

Aroa watched herself in the mirror. The show started today. She would go to the match, wearing the black jersey with Gavi's name on her back, and do the part.

"You'll slay this, I promise," encouraged Inés with a tight hug before she left.

At the stadium, Iván greeted her and sat with her to watch the match. She was grateful for his presence, it was a friendly face in the sea of unknown people.

"I presume the dinner with his family did not go well," muttered Iván.

"No," admitted Aroa. "Did he tell you?"

Iván shook his head and pointed to a few rows in front of them. Gavi's sister had arrived, and with her a pretty girl with beautiful clothes and beautiful hair.

"Why would Aurora bring Alicia if she approves of you?"

"Shit."

"Shit indeed. I told that boy he should have told his family the truth."

💙❤️

Gavi noticed immediately, and cursed under his breath. Shit was going to hit the fan faster than he thought. As they warmed up, he searched for a reason to rush to the stands.

"I need to talk to Iván for a sec," he told his teammates, who looked at him puzzled. Gavi rushed up the stairs, ignoring his sister trying to get his attention, and making it to Iván and Aroa in record time.

"We have some drama here," warned him Iván. Gavi ignored him too.

"How are you doing?" He asked Aroa, who shrugged a little bit. She looked terrified. "I'm going to go off script right now," he warned. lifting his hands to cup her cheeks. He felt them heat under his fingers, as Aroa realised what he was planning.

The kiss was longer than it should have been. Gavi wanted to make sure one of those fans who recorded everything got the clip, wanted everyone to see.

Gavi wanted everyone to know he was Aroa's so badly, he forgot he actually wasn't.

💙❤️

"Anything you want to say about this?"

Of course his teammates would get a hold of the video sooner than the day was over. Gavi was changing into his jeans when Lamine slid on the bench next to him, holding his phone with the viral tik tok.

"That's my girlfriend," he said. "Her name is Aroa Ferrer, she's a—"

"The writer?" interrupted Cubarsí. "No way you're dating her, hermano. She's too cool for you, way out of your league."

"Oh, yeah?" Snarked Gavi, watching how Cuba asked Lamine to show him the video again.

"I only saw her face for the first time last week, when the new book dropped and she included an author photo. Finally!"

Cuba being an Aroa fan boy wasn't on Gavi's plan, but it made him proud.

"But is she hot?" Asked someone else, trying to see the video too. Gavi put on his shirt, amidst patting on his shoulders, hair ruffles and congratulatory comments.

The smile on his face was genuine.

💙❤️

"I'm sorry about what my sister did."

Gavi held her hand. His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips pouted. He truly cared about her well-being. Aroa smiled.

"It's okay. At least my publishers are loving the drama," he snorted, but she could tell he noticed the saddened tone on her voice. "I'm sorry I'm making things hard with your family..."

"No you're not. Alicia is, trying to get us to get back together." Gavi stopped in front of his car. "You might have helped me cut this once and for all."

Aroa squeezed his hand, and he lifted hers to his lips, kissing it gently.

"Also, my teammates want to meet you too."

Aroa rolled her eyes.

"You didn't tell them this was fake either?"

"Pau is your fan boy. I would look like a loser if I hadn't actually seduced you!"

Aroa snorted, and suddenly they were laughing loudly, putting their weight on each other, until some other families started to trickle by and look at them funny.

💙❤️

It was quiet at home. Gavi was dozzing off with his head on Aroa's shoulder as she typed her soul away. Her fourth book was halfway done, this time in Catalan. At the other side of the couch, his mother was reading a magazine, and his father was doing a puzzle in the coffee table.

Aurora made it home then. She left her keys and took her coat in silence, watching the new couple warily.

"You didn't need to do that," she told her brother. Gavi woke up fully.

"Actually, I did. You didn't need to do that."

"Alicia's feelings are hurt."

"She hurt them herself," he stated, curling further onto Aroa's shoulder, who had not noticed Aurora's presence due to her headphones.

"You're hell bent on her, huh?"

"Yes, actually."

Aurora rolled her eyes and went to her room.

💙❤️

"Are you sure you do not want to come?" Gavia sked again. He did not expect Aroa to say yes, she was admant to keep their public interactions to a minimum.

"No, have fun," she smiled softly, looking up from her laptop. That book was writing itself fast.

Gavi had a boy's night out, and even if some of the guys brought their girlfriends, Aroa had argued that she would be a girlfriend for too little to actually go there. He has wanted to argue, but there was no point.

Gavi bent to drop a short peck on her lips, before leaving, whistling some old fashioned song.

"You're not... going to ask him to text you every twenty minutes?" Asled Aurora, from her side of the couch. Even if the relationship was tense, Gavi insisted they should act like nothing happened.

"Why would I do that?" frowned Aroa.

"To make sure he doesn't cheat?"

"If I have to put that much effort to make sure he doesn't cheat, why would a I date him?" Questioned Aroa. "Seems stupid."

His father snorted.

"She's got a point," he said, smiling. He was the one that seemed to accept Aroa the fastest.

Aurora shrugged.

"Alicia did not like it when he went out without her."

"And they broke up," reminded her Aroa. "So it was useless in the end, all that work."

Aroa wasn't sure why she was pushing so hard. Her idea was to be as quiet as possible, bother the family as little as she could. But she also wanted to defend herself a little. Aurora nodded.

"I guess you've got a point, nena," she said.

💙❤️

An hour and a half later, Gavi came back with some sweets he had picked at the 24h bakery, just to find his sister and his fake girlfriend cuddling and laughing over the stupid movie on the TV.

His chest fluttered.

💙❤️

"Iván's friends picked up my book. They will publish me without stupid marketing deals," she announced one day Gavi went to her apartment straight from training.

"That's great!" Gavi picked Aroa up and spun her around.

"And they told me they didn't mind that I wanted to use a pseudonym, so no one would link my new books to you and this PR deal," she finished once her feet touched the ground.

Gavi knew what that meant for her.

"So whats left with your old publisher?" He asked.

"Once we break up, we're done." She said. "They just need to forward the royalties from the sales and that's it."

Gavi nodded quietly, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

"There is something I wanted to ask," he said then, changing his weight from one foot to the other. "What would happen if we never broke up?"

"Huh?"

"If instead of breaking up, we kept dating. Could your publishers say anything?"

"I don't think so, we never stipulated in paper..."

"Then let's stay dating." He blurted.

"What?"

"Be my girlfriend. My real girlfriend. Please." Gavi's hands cupped her neck. "I've thought about this too often since this started. Please—"

Aroa rised to her tip toes, and shut him up with a kiss. The first kiss that had nothing to do with the arrangement, and everything to do with them. The first of many.

Doña Maria (João Félix.)

Summary: You and João Félix stagger out of a bar, both drunk and leaning on each other. João challenges you to a dance-off on the sidewalk, leading to a hilarious, clumsy performance. He then belts out "Doña Maria" off-key, using bushes as backup singers. After laughing and enjoying the chaos, João suggests karaoke might be better for his singing. As you head home, he jokes about sticking to one drink next time, knowing future outings will be just as wild.

You stumble out of the dimly lit bar, your vision swirling with the neon lights that line the street. João Félix, the famous footballer with a well-known penchant for parties, is beside you.

Neither of you should be out at this hour, but here you are, both equally inebriated and clinging to each other for support.

"Okay, I’m not saying you can’t dance, but… I’m also not saying you can,” João slurs, struggling to balance as he takes a swig from a bottle of something indistinguishable in his hand.

You laugh, your laughter a bit too loud for the quiet night.

“João, we’re literally swaying in the middle of the sidewalk. We’re not even at a party anymore!”

He turns to you with a dramatic gasp.

“You wound me! I’m a world-class dancer, you know. Just ask my moves!”

You almost fall over trying to mimic an over-the-top dance move.

"World-class, huh? I’d call it a world-class disaster."

João grabs your hand, dragging you towards a nearby street lamp.

“Let’s have a dance-off. Right here. Right now.”

You both attempt to dance under the streetlight, each move more exaggerated than the last. You try to bust out your best moves, but instead, you find yourself tangled up in a mess of limbs. João, with his signature flair, tries to spin but ends up almost knocking over a nearby trash can.

“Okay, fine,” you admit between fits of giggles.

“Maybe your moves are… unique.”

João, taking a theatrical bow, wipes his brow.

“It’s a skill, really. But enough about me. Tell me, how do you feel about public serenades?”

Before you can respond, João starts belting out a rendition of "Dona Maria," the popular Brazilian hit.

“...um não pra casa.. dona maria, deixa eu namorar a sua filha” he’s singing with so much gusto that he’s practically shouting the lyrics, his off-key notes echoing down the street. (press the link 😉)

You can’t help but laugh hysterically.

“Oh my Gosh, João, you sound like a cat trying to start a fight with a foghorn! Dona Maria would probably be running the other way right now.”

João, completely unfazed by your mocking, continues to sing with all his might. He even tries to throw in some dramatic hand gestures, which only make him sway even more precariously.

At one point, he decides the nearby bushes are the perfect backup singers. He shushes them and then gets really into it, waving his arms and directing the “choir.”

You, meanwhile, can’t stop laughing as you try to keep your balance.

Eventually, João collapses on a nearby bench, breathless and triumphant. You sit down next to him, still laughing.

“You know, João, if you ever get tired of football, you might have a future as a comedic performer.”

He grins, catching his breath.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. But next time, we’re going to a karaoke bar where people are prepared for my... unique talent.”

You both sit there for a while, trying to regain your composure.

As you stand up to head home, João throws an arm around you and, in a surprisingly sober moment, says, “Next time, let’s stick to just one drink. Or maybe none at all.”

You laugh and nod, knowing full well that the next time you find yourselves in this situation, it’ll be just as chaotic, just as fun.

And probably, just as drunken.