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The first thing Mapi noticed when she woke up was the light.
Bright and golden, it slipped through the sheer curtains like soft fingers brushing over the bed, the floor, the half-unpacked laundry bag from last weekend’s away match. The room smelled faintly of Ingrid’s shampoo and their favorite fig candle, and from somewhere down the street, the city was already alive – footsteps, laughter, the occasional bark of a dog. The kind of morning that made you breathe a little slower.
It was April 23rd. Sant Jordi Day.
Catalonia’s version of Valentine’s, only better – more poetic, more alive, full of roses and books instead of chocolates and overpriced teddy bears. The kind of day that Mapi secretly loved, even though she always rolled her eyes when she said so.
She turned over in bed, squinting at the empty space beside her.
“Ingrid?” she mumbled, voice still heavy with sleep.
No answer.
She stretched, her arm reaching out across rumpled sheets and cold air. Then, from the kitchen, she heard the quiet clink of a mug. The low hum of a song being hummed off-key.
Ah. She’s up early. Dangerous.
When she finally opened her eyes, the first thing her eyes landed on was a rose carefully placed on Ingrid’s pillow.
Not a red one – no, that would be too obvious –, but a pale, buttery salmon, soft and quiet, with just a hint of blush near the center. It rested against crisp linen sheets, a ribbon tucked around the stem with a handwriting only Ingrid could’ve penned so neatly.
To the ones who leave crumbs of chaos but kisses like stillness. Feliç Sant Jordi, elskling.
She was already smiling before she even finished reading.
After that, Mapi got out of bed faster, tugging on one of Ingrid’s shirts and following the smell of fresh coffee. She stopped at the hallway mirror to smooth down her wild hair and wiped sleep from her eyes, then padded barefoot into the kitchen.
Ingrid was there – back to the door, hair tied up in a low, messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she leaned over a cutting board and sliced strawberries.
Mapi leaned on the doorframe, watching.
“I knew it,” she said. “You are trying to seduce me with breakfast.”
Ingrid turned with a start, then laughed.
“You scared me.”
“Feliç Sant Jordi,” the Spaniard said, crossing the room and wrapping her arms around Ingrid from behind, chin on her shoulder. “Even though you disappeared before I could seduce you first.”
“Feliç Sant Jordi, kjære,” she smiled, pressing a quick kiss to Mapi’s cheek.
“You’re up early.”
“So were you,” Ingrid argued back. “You snuck out yesterday to buy something. I heard you at the door.”
“You were asleep!”
“I’m Norwegian. I sleep with one eye open.”
“That’s a weird national trait,” Mapi snorted.
“I didn’t say it was cultural. I just mean I’m a light sleeper and I know when you’re being sneaky.”
They stayed quiet for a second. Mapi snuggled closer into Ingrid’s body while the Norwegian finished making breakfast.
Ingrid moved with gentle precision, her hands slicing through strawberries with the confidence of someone who had done this exact task a thousand times before, and she seemed to be really good at not folding as Mapi kept pressing small, soft kisses to every inch of skin she could reach, paying extra attention to where she knew the Norwegian was more sensitive.
She didn’t react much, which only spurred Mapi on. A twitch of a smile here, a small roll of her eyes there – it was infuriatingly composed, and so very Ingrid. Still, Mapi could feel the warmth under her lips, the tiniest hitch in Ingrid’s breath every time her mouth brushed over the nape of her neck, the spot just beneath her ear.
"You're impossible," she muttered fondly.
“I know,” Ingrid replied easily, plating the fruit with a few slices of sourdough and setting everything down on the small kitchen table. “Sit.”
Mapi obeyed, crossing her legs and letting her body fold comfortably into the chair, as she always claimed. Her eyes followed Ingrid as she moved around the kitchen with that graceful ease she somehow managed to carry both on and off the pitch. She had always been struck by that – how someone could be so naturally composed in a world that constantly demanded more.
She watched Ingrid pour their coffee, her fingers careful as she stirred in the tiniest bit of milk into Mapi’s mug without asking. Because of course she remembered. Because that was the kind of love they had – small, precise, carved slowly over years of remembering the things that mattered to each other.
“So,” Mapi began, lifting the coffee to her lips. “A salmon rose?”
“Don’t start with your flower theories,” Ingrid arched an eyebrow as she sat across from her.
“I’m just saying. It means excitement, you know.”
“And a touch of desire.”
“What?” Mapi blinked.
“That’s what the blush in the middle is for. I asked.” Ingrid’s voice was even, a little smug. “It’s a complicated rose. Seemed fitting.”
“You’re such a menace,” Mapi narrowed her eyes, but she couldn’t hide her grin.
“I know.” Ingrid took a sip from her own cup, completely unfazed. “Now where’s mine?”
“Impatient, aren’t we?”
“I watched you smuggle something under your jacket yesterday, María Pilar. You were trying to act normal, but you had that face.”
“What face?”
“The one that means you're being sneaky but think you're charming enough to get away with it.”
“I am charming enough to get away with it.”
“Sure you are,” Ingrid teased, leaning back with her arms crossed.
Mapi rolled her eyes, but her heart was too full, too soft for real defiance. She padded over to the living room and retrieved the things she’d carefully hidden behind the armchair: a small, slender package wrapped in thick kraft paper and twine, and a single rose the color of lavender, like fire and rust and sunsets all tangled into one bloom.
She placed them on the table without a word.
Ingrid looked at them for a long moment. Then she touched the rose, turning it between her fingers. She didn’t say anything – just examined it quietly, then lifted it to her nose. The smell was subtle, earthy, and warm.
“Lavender means love at first sight, but also enchantment,” Mapi said, sitting back down. “It means... This thing we have, it still surprises me. Still excites me. Every single day.”
Ingrid was quiet.
“And the book,” Mapi added, a little more hesitant now. “Is one I’ve read at least five times. But I picked a special edition because it has the illustrations I love. The ones I used to stare at when I was a kid. It was the first book I ever finished on my own. I thought you’d like it too.”
Ingrid still hadn’t opened it.
She just stared at Mapi, and for a second, the Spaniard couldn’t read the look in her eyes. It wasn’t tears exactly, but it was something close. Not sadness. Something heavier. Something good.
“You okay?” She asked softly.
“Yeah. I just,” Ingrid nodded. “God, you’re so much.”
“Is that... A compliment?”
“Yes. And a threat to my emotional stability.”
Mapi laughed then, the kind of laugh that bubbled up from her chest and made Ingrid smile just by sound alone. She reached across the table and curled her fingers around Ingrid’s.
“I love you,” she said, simple and true.
“I love you, too,” Ingrid whispered.
They ate slowly after that, feeding each other strawberries, occasionally flipping through the first pages of the gifted book, smiling at old stories made new by inked notes in the margins.
The world outside kept spinning – couples on balconies exchanging roses, bookstalls growing crowded, children pointing at dragons on street murals – but in the kitchen of their small Barcelona apartment, time felt like it had folded in on itself. Just them, soft morning light, Bagheera’s purring in the background, and love told in flowers and pages.
By the time breakfast was cleared and their mugs sat empty, they curled on the couch, Ingrid’s feet tucked under Mapi’s thighs, both roses sitting in a glass of water on the coffee table.
They had already agreed on having a lazy day, as the universe had somehow aligned, and they didn’t have practice. No calls, no promoting campaigns to pose for. Just a very comfortable couch they made sure to buy when they went shopping together for their new apartment and each other.
For the first few minutes, Mapi drifted on and off sleep on Ingrid’s chest, mumbling something random every other minute she was awake before falling back asleep with Ingrid’s heartbeat under her ear and her fingers running through honey brown hair.
Ingrid didn’t mind. She kept one hand working on autopilot in Mapi’s hair, the other flipping lazily through the book the Spaniard had gifted her. The pages were stiff and new, but the story already felt like something worn and cherished, like a scarf you forgot you loved until winter came again. She paused every so often, brushing her thumb over Mapi’s shoulder blade, half-lost in the rhythm of breathing that wasn’t hers but felt like home anyway.
“You know,” Mapi mumbled eventually, eyes still closed. “I had this whole plan to surprise you.”
“Oh?” Ingrid smiled, voice low. “And what happened to that plan?”
“You woke up first and ruined it.”
“You’ll survive,” she laughed softly, the sound vibrating through her chest and echoing in Mapi’s head.
“I was going to do one of those dramatic things,” the defender continued, now clearly in that state where sleep and drama blur together. “Like hide roses all over the apartment. Leave a book in every room. Read you a poem in the bathroom or something ridiculous like that.”
“I would’ve cried.”
“You always cry,” Mapi yawned.
“I’m Norwegian. We don’t express emotions, so we leak them out of our eyes when no one expects it,” that earned a chuckle, muffled into Ingrid’s t-shirt.
“You’d still kiss me even if I read a terrible poem?”
“I’d kiss you harder if it were terrible.”
Mapi shifted, lifting her head to look at her. Her eyes were still half-lidded with sleep, her hair a mess, but there was something soft and fond behind her grin.
“Good. Because I was definitely going to rhyme your name with something that definitely doesn’t rhyme with your name.”
“Jesus.”
“I panicked.”
“You don’t need poetry. You already do the thing,” Ingrid reached up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing over the arch of Mapi’s cheekbone.
“What thing?”
“You look at me like this.”
“Like what?” Mapi blinked.
“Like I’m your favorite part of every story.”
Mapi was very still for a moment. Her gaze never left Ingrid. But, eventually, she shifted just enough to adjust herself on top of the Norwegian, her head right next to hers.
“Okay, but if you start crying now…”
“I’m not,” Ingrid leaned in. “Yet.”
They kissed then, slow and warm and a little sleepy, like the morning hadn’t fully worn off them yet. It wasn’t the kind of kiss they’d have in front of anyone else – it didn’t need to be hot or prove anything. It just needed to say yes. Still yes. Always yes.
Bagheera stretched out lazily on the windowsill, opening her little paws like she was unimpressed with the sentiment.
Eventually, they pulled apart.
“I kinda want to go out and look at books,” Mapi said, resting her forehead against Ingrid’s.
“I kinda want to stay in and look at you.”
“You’re worse than me today,” she mumbled, hiding her face in the crook of Ingrid’s neck.
“I warned you when you moved in,” she teased, standing and stretching with a soft yawn. “I’m insufferable when I’m in love.”
Mapi let herself fall back on the couch, arms flopped over her face.
“You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“You say that like I don’t already know,” the Norwegian called over her shoulder as she wandered to the kitchen for more coffee.
Mapi didn’t move for a moment. Then she peeked from under her arm and looked at the roses – hers and Ingrid’s – sharing space in a chipped glass on the table. Salmon and rust. Untraditional. Perfect.
She knew Ingrid would be going back to the couch eventually, so Mapi didn’t mind the wait.
She sat up and stretched her arms over her head, bones popping lightly as she let the morning settle into her body properly for the first time. Her eyes followed Ingrid’s figure in the kitchen – bare feet on cool tiles, hair caught in a messy bun, one sleeve of her oversized t-shirt slipping off a shoulder. The sight made something in Mapi’s chest ache a little. In a good way. In a this-is-my-home kind of way.
She grabbed the blanket from the armrest and threw it across the couch, rearranging the cushions like it made any difference at all – just something to do with her hands while her brain caught up to how much she loved that girl humming out of tune as she poured coffee.
When Ingrid came back, two steaming mugs in hand, Mapi was already curled into the corner of the couch, one knee tucked under her, the blanket folded in her lap. She didn’t say anything, just opened her arms, and Ingrid slid in effortlessly, like she had been made for that space. Their space.
They sipped in silence for a while, the kind of silence that feels warm, filled with the scent of coffee and ink and a cat that had decided their knees were acceptable furniture.
“Do you remember our first Sant Jordi?” Ingrid asked eventually, voice muffled by Mapi’s hair. “Back when we were just… Dancing around each other.”
“You mean when you pretended you didn’t know what it was so I’d explain it to you like a romantic idiot?” Mapi smirked.
“You are a romantic idiot.”
“And you’re a liar,” she laughed, poking Ingrid’s thigh. “You definitely knew. You asked like three different people on the team and then still made me go through the whole story of the knight and the rose and the book.”
“I wanted to hear you tell it,” Ingrid took a sip. “Your version’s always better.”
“I said something dumb that day, didn’t I?” Mapi leaned her head back against the cushions, eyes closed, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.
“You said, ‘If I ever get to give you a book, you’ll know I’m serious.’”
“And then ran away before you could say anything back.”
“I chased you down the hall.”
“And I nearly tripped over Patri’s boots.”
They laughed. Bagheera let out a sleepy protest and switched laps without ceremony.
“I guess I was serious, then,” Mapi decided, voice a little softer now, thumb tracing the curve of Ingrid’s knee.
“You brought a book and a rose this morning,” Ingrid murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched again. “So what does that mean?”
Mapi looked at her for a long, quiet beat, her hand slipping under Ingrid’s shirt to find the warm skin of the small of her back, thumb brushing lightly over it.
“That I’m doomed.”
“Oh no,” Ingrid whispered dramatically, cupping Mapi’s face. “Not doomed.”
“Doomed to love you forever,” Mapi confirmed, lips twitching upward even as her eyes went gentle.
They kissed again, because of course they did – nothing urgent, just a way to say I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Ingrid was the one to break the kiss first, earning a groan from the Spaniard as soon as she pecked at Mapi’s lips one last time, before whispering a quiet “Stay here” and walking down the hall to their bedroom.
She came back with a wrapped rectangular package with a navy blue wooden strand around keeping everything in place. She handed it to Mapi without much ceremony as she slipped back under the thin blanket, leaning slightly into Mapi’s space.
“What’s this?” She asked, turning the package around. “You’re giving me a rose, breakfast, and a book?”
“Mhm. Just open it.”
Mapi took her time unwrapping it. Ingrid seemed to have put too much effort into making sure it was perfect, and as much as Mapi loved to rip wrappers, she wanted to be careful.
As soon as she got rid of the brown paper, she stared at the dark green cover. The title was engraved in gold, and as much as Mapi wanted to, she couldn’t quite pronounce that yet.
“You gave me a book in Norwegian?” Mapi asked, opening the book to the first page.
“You mentioned you wanted to start learning it for real,” Ingrid murmured, adjusting her head on Mapi’s shoulder. “Thought I could give you some homework to work on.”
“Ingrid, amor, I barely understand your parents. How am I supposed to understand this?”
“I translated the first two chapters for you. And I wrote notes in the margins on the others.”
Mapi stared at the pages, flipping through slowly like the book might suddenly change into Spanish if she gave it long enough. Her thumb brushed over one of Ingrid’s neat little handwritten notes, tucked in the corner next to a particularly long paragraph. The translation was scrawled in pencil, just a bit messier than her usual penmanship, like maybe she’d been curled up in bed doing this late at night without her glasses on.
There was a drawing, too – of a tiny dragon wearing glasses and holding a book in its claws. It had a speech bubble saying “Lykke til, Mapi!” at the beginning of chapter three, the point at which the loose sheets of paper with the translations ended, and Mapi was supposed to be on her own.
“Oh my god,” Mapi breathed, trying not to smile too hard. “You drew me a dragon.”
“You like dragons,” Ingrid mumbled, suddenly pretending she wasn’t watching Mapi’s every reaction out of the corner of her eye. “And I didn’t want it to be boring.”
Mapi closed the book gently, fingers still resting on the dragon. She looked at Ingrid with something dangerously close to awe.
“You’re such a nerd,” she said, but the words were tangled with affection so raw it nearly made Ingrid blush.
“And you’re doomed,” Ingrid replied smugly, echoing Mapi’s earlier words as she nudged their shoulders together. “Forever, remember?”
Mapi didn’t respond at first. She just set the book down gently on the coffee table, like it was something precious. Bagheera, now wedged in the warm spot between them, didn’t even flinch when Mapi leaned in, one hand finding the side of Ingrid’s neck, thumb brushing lightly over her pulse.
“I’m so gone for you,” she admitted, the kind of honesty that came out quiet and unguarded. “Like… Hopelessly.”
“Good,” she said softly. Her fingers curled into the hem of Mapi’s shirt, grounding herself. “Because I love you. I think I have since you said dragons were just misunderstood lizards and made a whole speech about it at that awful café.”
“Oh my god, that café was terrible,” she groaned, forehead dropping dramatically against Ingrid’s shoulder. “I still don’t know what I ordered. I think it was soup. It had raisins.”
“It was definitely not soup,” the Norwegian laughed, kissing the top of her head. “But I was already falling for you. Raisin mystery food and all.”
“You really are doomed,” Mapi lifted her head, smirking now.
“I am,” Ingrid agreed, smiling. “But at least I’m doomed with someone who thinks dragons deserve a second chance.”
They stayed like that for a long moment – book on the table, Bagheera purring softly between them, blanket tangled around their legs. Outside, the sunlight shifted, golden and warm through the windows, the kind of light that made you feel like time had slowed down just a little.
Mapi reached for the book again, opening it to the first page before she pushed Ingrid to lie down on the couch and set herself on the small space between Ingrid and the cushions, her head carefully placed on Ingrid’s collarbone.
“Okay,” she said, voice mock-serious. “Teach me Norwegian, my nerd.”