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It was one of those rare weekends where neither had matches, training, or club or Nationals obligation – just two days carved out in the quiet corners of their busy schedules. Ingrid had flown into Barcelona back from her last international break late Friday night, grinning sleepily as Mapi scooped her up at the airport and wrapped her in a hug that felt warmer than the humid city air.
Now it was Saturday morning, and they’d decided to do absolutely nothing. The sliding door to Mapi’s tiny balcony was open, letting in the lazy hum of the city while they sprawled on the couch surrounded by half-finished breakfasts and abandoned books. Ingrid was lying on her stomach, her dark hair mussed, flipping through one of Mapi's photography books, while Mapi sat on the other end of the sofa, legs tucked under her, nursing a headache in silence.
Ingrid didn’t notice at first, too absorbed in the moody black-and-white portraits on the page in front of her. But when she looked up to ask a question, she froze mid-sentence, blinking twice to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.
Mapi was wearing glasses.
They were simple, black-framed – almost delicate, which made them stand out all the more against her usual aesthetic of bold tattoos and sharp edges. She looked different. Not unrecognizable, but softer somehow, like the harsh lines of her had been blurred out in favor of something more intimate.
Ingrid stared shamelessly.
“What?” Mapi asked, frowning slightly as she rubbed at her temple, then adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose like she was used to them being a nuisance more than a necessity.
“We’ve been together for almost a year now,” Ingrid said, pushing up on her elbows and sitting cross-legged now, eyes gleaming with something that looked dangerously close to amusement. “And you never told me you wore glasses.”
Mapi made a face, squinting at her as if deciding whether to play this cool or brush it off entirely.
“I don’t, usually. Only when my head hurts,” she shrugged like it was no big deal, but her fingers lingered on the frames, adjusting them again out of nervous habit.
“You look adorable,” Ingrid tilted her head, studying her for another long beat.
That made Mapi scoff, cheeks flushing faintly as she dropped her hand.
“No, I don’t.”
“You do,” her voice was firmer now, more certain, like she was ready to argue this to the death. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mapi shrugged again and leaned her head back against the sofa.
“Because I’m supposed to wear them more often. But I don’t. I forget… Or I don’t like them.”
“They don’t suit your tough persona?” Ingrid teased, crawling closer across the couch until she was right next to Mapi, nudging her bare knee against Mapi’s thigh.
“Exactly,” she cracked a smile despite herself, sighing dramatically.
The Norwegian grinned and reached out, gently tugging the glasses down to the tip of Mapi’s nose, studying her over the top of them.
“They make you look very serious.”
“That’s because I am very serious,” Mapi shot back, deadpan.
“You’re really not,” she laughed, soft and easy, before leaning in to press a kiss against the corner of Mapi’s mouth.
The Spaniard hummed, catching Ingrid’s chin before she could pull away and deepening the kiss for a moment. When they parted, Ingrid leaned her forehead against Mapi’s, her voice quieter now.
“Does your head hurt a lot?”
“When I don’t wear them for a while,” she hesitated, then nodded. “It’s… Stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Ingrid sat back and ran a hand through her own hair, then glanced at the coffee table. “Where do you keep them? Just lying around?”
Mapi chuckled, finally relaxing, the tension in her shoulders easing.
“In my bag. Or sometimes in a drawer. I forget.”
“They’re nice. Not what I expected,” the dark-haired woman smiled softly, then plucked the glasses off Mapi’s face and studied them.
“Why?”
“I thought you’d have something more… Dramatic.”
“Nah,” Mapi laughed, leaning her head against the back of the sofa again and closing her eyes for a moment. “Simple works.”
Ingrid glanced at her, at the way the late morning sunlight was catching in the tips of Mapi’s bleached hair, how her face looked softer without the perpetual scowl or teasing smirk. She slipped the glasses back onto Mapi’s face, careful and deliberate.
“I like them,” she decided.
“Yeah?” The Spaniard opened one eye, giving her a skeptical look.
“Yeah,” Ingrid nodded, settling against her side, head resting on Mapi’s shoulder now. “You should wear them more.”
“Don’t start,” Mapi groaned dramatically, tipping her head back.
“I’m serious,” the Norwegian grinned, poking her in the ribs. “Adorable.”
Mapi muttered something under her breath in Spanish, but her arm came around Ingrid’s shoulder, pulling her in tighter. They stayed like that for a while, the sounds of the city filling the silence, the headache dulling slowly in Mapi’s temples.
Later, when Ingrid was dozing against her and the apartment had grown even quieter, Mapi thought about how easy it felt to let someone see her like this – unguarded, glasses and all. And she smiled to herself, barely moving, letting Ingrid sleep as long as she wanted.
Maybe she would wear them more often, after all.
~
It didn’t happen all at once. Mapi didn’t make some grand declaration that she’d start wearing her glasses more, didn’t suddenly become the kind of person who remembered to keep them in her bag or wore them diligently from morning until night.
But after that weekend – after Ingrid sat there grinning like an idiot, calling her adorable over and over until Mapi had to threaten to kick her off the sofa – something shifted.
The next time Ingrid spent the weekend at Mapi’s, she was already wearing them when she opened the door to her apartment. No headache, no excuse. She’d just put them on that morning while answering emails and had forgotten to take them off. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. But when Ingrid froze in the doorway and her whole face lit up with that unmistakable glint of amusement and affection, Mapi knew exactly why she hadn’t remembered.
“You’re wearing them,” Ingrid said, stepping inside and dropping her bag by the door.
Mapi shrugged, casual, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“No headache?”
“No.”
Ingrid’s eyes softened, but she didn’t tease this time. Instead, she reached up, gently brushing her fingers against the frame, as if it were something fragile. Something rare. Then she leaned in and kissed Mapi, slow and deliberate, right there in the doorway with her shoes still on.
It became a quiet kind of thing after that. Mapi never mentioned it aloud, but whenever Ingrid was around – whether it was for a weekend or just one evening after practice, whether they were staying at Mapi’s or Ingrid’s – she’d slip her glasses on almost without thinking.
Ingrid always noticed, though.
Sometimes she’d grin and say something obnoxious, like, “there’s my favorite nerd,” earning herself a shove and a muttered insult in Spanish. Other times, she’d just smile to herself, quietly pleased, like it was their secret.
Once, after Ingrid had a few hours after one promotional photoshoot that happened to be taken in a place just a few blocks away from Mapi’s place, she simply decided to go up. Ingrid walked in to find Mapi sitting on the kitchen counter, glasses perched on her nose, reading something on her phone while eating cereal straight from the box.
“God,” Ingrid groaned dramatically, setting her bag down and crossing the kitchen. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“What?” Mapi looked up, confused, a mouthful of cereal.
“That,” she said, gesturing vaguely to all of the Spaniard. “The glasses. The tattoos. The cereal box. You’re, like… All of my weaknesses.”
Mapi rolled her eyes and went back to eating, but her ears burned bright red and Ingrid didn’t miss it.
~
One night, months later, when Ingrid stayed for an entire week, they were both sprawled in bed after a long day, Mapi flipping through a book with her glasses on, Ingrid watching her from the other pillow.
“You really wear them all the time now,” Ingrid said softly, almost like she couldn’t quite believe it.
“Not all the time,” Mapi didn’t look up.
But still, the Norwegian reached over and hooked a finger under the frame, pulling them down slightly so she could see Mapi’s eyes fully.
“You never used to.”
“I guess…” She closed the book, setting it aside.
“What?”
“Guess I like how you look at me when I wear them,” Mapi shrugged, her voice quieter now.
Ingrid blinked, stunned for a second, her chest tightening in that way it always did when Mapi dropped her defenses just enough for something honest to slip through.
“You mean like you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen?” She asked, only half-joking.
“You’re so annoying,” the defender groaned and turned away, burying her face in the pillow.
“You love it,” Ingrid laughed and curled up closer behind her, draping an arm around Mapi’s waist and pressing a kiss between her shoulder blades.
Mapi didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either.
From then on, it became something she didn’t even try to hide. The glasses sat on the nightstand next to her phone and keys, tossed into her bag when she traveled, slipped on casually in the mornings as they made coffee in the kitchen or sat on the balcony watching the city wake up.
And every time she caught Ingrid staring at her, biting her lip to hide a smile, Mapi would roll her eyes and mutter something sarcastic – but she never took them off.
Not when Ingrid was around.
It wasn’t until months later that Ingrid realized it.
At first, she didn’t think much of it – the way Mapi always seemed to wear her glasses when they were tucked away in the privacy of one of their apartments, or curled up in bed after a long day, or sprawled across the couch watching some ridiculous series they could never agree on. It had become such a normal part of their shared space that Ingrid almost forgot there was a version of Mapi that existed without them.
But then there were the times they went out together – on the rare afternoons when they’d walk through the winding streets of Gràcia for coffee, or meet up with teammates for drinks after training, or sit through long family dinners at Mapi’s parents’ place when they visited Zaragoza or Ingrid’s back at Norway – and the glasses never made an appearance.
At first, Ingrid assumed maybe Mapi’s headaches had gotten better. Or maybe she didn’t need them as much anymore. But then one night, after a late training session, they met up with some of the girls from the team for tapas. Ingrid arrived first and watched as Mapi walked in – her usual swagger in place, tattoos on display beneath a loose t-shirt, hair pulled back in that messy half-knot she always wore after practice.
No glasses.
Mapi sat next to her, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Ingrid’s temple like it was the most natural thing in the world – because it was –, then immediately launched into some story for Patri, hands moving animatedly as she talked. Ingrid listened, smiling faintly, but a strange little knot twisted in her chest.
Later that night, when they got back to Mapi’s apartment, Ingrid wandered into the bathroom to wash her face, and when she returned, Mapi was sitting on the bed, pulling her glasses out from the drawer of her nightstand like she always did.
Sliding them on without a second thought.
Ingrid watched her for a moment from the doorway, her reflection faint in the glass of the window behind Mapi’s head. And it hit her.
Mapi only ever wore them when they were alone.
She crossed the room, settling beside her on the bed, leaning her head against Mapi’s shoulder.
“You know…” Ingrid started carefully, watching as Mapi flipped through something on her phone. “You never wear those when we’re with other people.”
The Spaniard paused, thumb hovering mid-scroll. She glanced at Ingrid out of the corner of her eye, then shrugged like it wasn’t anything.
“Yeah. So?”
“So…” She shifted, turning her body slightly to face her. “Why?”
Mapi sighed, dropping her phone onto the nightstand and pushing her glasses up to rub at her eyes.
“I don’t know.”
Ingrid waited, quiet, patient in the way she knew Mapi needed her to be.
Finally, the Spaniard pulled the glasses off and held them loosely in her hands, staring down at them like they were something foreign.
“I just… I don’t like how I look in them.”
“Mapi…” Ingrid blinked.
“It’s stupid,” she added quickly, defensive now, her tone sharp like it always got when she was trying to cover something softer. “I know. I just… It’s not me.”
“It is you,” she shook her head, reaching out and gently plucking the glasses from her hands before setting them carefully back on her face.
Mapi scoffed, leaning back against the headboard, her arms crossed over her chest.
“It’s not what everyone expects,” she muttered. “You know? I’m supposed to be… I don’t know. The tattooed one. The tough one. Not…” She waved vaguely at herself. “This.”
Ingrid felt something ache deep in her chest at that. The way Mapi said it – not with her usual bravado, but with something smaller. Quieter.
“You think wearing glasses makes you less tough?” She asked, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, but her voice was soft, careful.
Mapi didn’t answer right away. She stared out the window instead, watching the Barcelona skyline glitter faintly against the night.
“I think it makes me… Look like someone else,” she said finally. “Someone I don’t know how to be around other people.”
The Norwegian exhaled, scooting closer, looping her arm through Mapi’s and resting their joined hands in her lap.
“You don’t have to be anything else around me,” she said gently. “You know that, right?”
Mapi glanced at her, eyes darting away almost immediately like the words were too much.
“I know.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city drifting faintly through the cracked window – the distant hum of scooters, the occasional bark of a dog.
“You always wear them when it’s just us,” Ingrid said after a while, her thumb tracing small circles over the back of Mapi’s hand. “That means something.”
The Spaniard huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
“What?”
“You’re such a sap.”
Ingrid laughed too, leaning in to press her lips to Mapi’s cheek, then her temple, lingering there for a moment before whispering, “I love that I get to see this version of you.”
Mapi swallowed hard, her hand tightening slightly around Ingrid’s.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to wear them… You know, out there,” she admitted quietly, nodding toward the window, toward the city and the people and the teammates and the family who knew her as something else entirely.
Ingrid pulled back just enough to look at her, really look at her.
“That’s okay,” she said simply. “You don’t have to.”
Mapi let out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding, her shoulders easing as she let her head drop onto Ingrid’s.
They stayed like that for a long time, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around them, the glasses still perched on Mapi’s nose, right where they belonged.
And Ingrid realized, in that moment, that this – this small, private version of Mapi – was hers alone. Not the persona, not the reputation, not the tough exterior that everyone else got.
Just Mapi.
And it was more than enough.
~
She didn’t mean it, but it started that night.
After the quiet conversation, after Mapi’s words and Ingrid’s sappyness, something between them shifted – barely perceptible from the outside, but deeply felt in the small, private soft spaces they shared.
The next morning, Mapi was standing at the kitchen counter, glasses on, squinting down at the moka pot as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. Her hair was a mess, falling into her face, and she kept absently tucking it behind her ear only for it to fall right back into her eyes.
Ingrid wandered in, still wearing one of Mapi’s oversized t-shirts that swallowed her frame. She stopped in the doorway, leaned against the frame, and just watched her for a moment.
Then, with a grin pulling slowly at her lips, she said, “Morning, nerd.”
Mapi turned around, eyebrows furrowed, blinking like she wasn’t quite awake yet.
“What?”
Ingrid just shrugged, walked up behind her, and wrapped her arms around Mapi’s waist, pressing her face to the back of her neck.
“You heard me,” she said, voice muffled by fabric and warm skin.
“You’re such an idiot,” Mapi snorted, reaching up to adjust her glasses, her mouth quirking despite herself and a hand coming to rest on top of Ingrid’s.
“Maybe,” she replied easily, swaying them both slightly side to side. “But at least I’m not a secret glasses-wearing nerd.”
That earned her an elbow to the ribs, but Mapi didn’t push her away. She just let Ingrid stay there, arms looped around her, as the coffee hissed and steamed behind them.
From then on, it became a thing.
Whenever Mapi was in her glasses – whether they were sitting on the sofa together, or tangled up in bed with their legs knotted and a lazy Sunday stretching out before them, or even just standing by the window watering the plants she always forgot about – Ingrid would grin and call her “nerd.”
Always with that infuriating mix of affection and teasing.
Once, they were halfway through watching some indie Norwegian film Ingrid insisted on, subtitles flickering on the screen, when Mapi reached over to the coffee table, sliding her glasses on so she could actually read them without squinting.
The moment the glasses were in place, Ingrid didn’t even try to hide it.
“There she is,” Ingrid said, nudging her with an elbow. “My favorite nerd.”
Mapi glared at her, shoving a handful of popcorn directly into Ingrid’s mouth to shut her up, but she didn’t take the glasses off.
It kept happening.
At Ingrid’s place, when the Norwegian would beg Mapi to help her clean her bookshelf, and Mapi would eventually sigh, pulling her glasses out so she could skim the back of whatever book Ingrid was shoving at her.
“God, you’re such a nerd,” Ingrid would whisper, leaning close, her breath warm against Mapi’s ear.
During breakfast, when Mapi would push her glasses up on top of her head while they shared a croissant, only to slide them back down when she pulled out her phone to check something.
At whatever Airbnb they rented to spend a weekend, sprawled on a blanket, when Mapi pulled them out to help Ingrid finish the crossword she was struggling with – only for Ingrid to snatch the pen from her hand and say, “Of course the nerd knows this one.”
Mapi would roll her eyes every time, mutter something like, “You’re insufferable,” or, “One day you’re going to regret that,” but she never actually stopped wearing them.
Never stopped letting Ingrid see her like that.
One evening, after a long day of training, they were both at Ingrid’s place – Mapi stretched out on the floor, rolling out her back, while Ingrid sat cross-legged on the rug, scrolling through something on her phone.
When Mapi finally sat up, groaning dramatically, she reached over to grab her glasses from the coffee table.
Ingrid looked up, grinned instinctively.
“Nerd.”
“Seriously?” Mapi sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face.
The Norwegian crawled across the rug, settling herself in Mapi’s lap without asking. She reached up and gently adjusted the frames on Mapi’s face, tilting them just slightly so they sat straight.
“You love it.”
“You’re the worst,” Mapi huffed, tipping her head back to look up at the ceiling like she was asking the universe for strength.
But her hands settled naturally around Ingrid’s waist, anchoring her there.
And Ingrid, smirking now, leaned in just close enough to brush their noses together, her voice dropping to something softer.
“You love me.”
Mapi didn’t answer right away – just slid her hands a little higher, settling them at the small of Ingrid’s back, letting the moment stretch between them.
Then, finally, her mouth quirked into the smallest, softest smile.
“Yeah,” she said quietly, glasses still perched on her nose, Ingrid still warm and close in her lap. “Yeah, I do.”
The dark-haired just grinned wider, content to let Mapi hold her there, both of them tangled up in the quiet hum of the apartment.
And even though Mapi would never wear the glasses out with their teammates, never sit through post-match dinners with them perched on her face, never let anyone else see that side of her – the side that let Ingrid call her “nerd” over and over again without ever really meaning it as an insult – it didn’t matter.
Because this version of her, the one who let herself be soft and a little vulnerable and even occasionally a bit shy, existed entirely in the spaces they shared.
And Ingrid never once took that for granted.