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Ferran never used to notice babies. Not on planes, not in restaurants, not in the stands when the match ended and players carried their toddlers around in mini kits. He didn’t coo or stop walking or nudge whoever was next to him and say, look at that one. But lately… lately, something had shifted.
It started innocently. A teammate brought his daughter to training one afternoon, waddling around the pitch in a little dress and clutching a juice box with both hands. Ferran barely glanced at her. Until she turned, smiled up at him, and shouted, “Hola!”
His heart didn’t stand a chance.
That night, he found himself scrolling through Instagram reels of babies mispronouncing words or hugging puppies. The algorithm caught on fast. The next day, Ferran caught himself lingering too long outside a baby clothing store, eyeing a set of tiny shoes that looked exactly like the ones Pedri wore sometimes.
He told himself it was nothing. Just a phase. A hormonal episode. Maybe he needed more sleep.
But then Pedri walked into their apartment wearing one of Ferran’s hoodies, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp and curling, and Ferran couldn’t stop staring. His brain short-circuited.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Pedri asked, tugging the sleeves over his hands and flopping on the couch.
“Nothing,” Ferran said quickly, tossing his phone aside. “Just thinking.”
Pedri narrowed his eyes. “About what?”
Ferran opened his mouth, shut it again, then stood. “Do you want coffee? I’m making coffee.”
“You’re deflecting,” Pedri called after him. “And you never drink coffee.”
Ferran boiled the water anyway. His hands were shaking slightly.
The next time they kissed, Ferran pulled back halfway through, stared at Pedri’s mouth, and blurted, “Would you want kids?”
Pedri froze. “What?”
“Not now,” Ferran said, panicking. “Not like, tomorrow. Just someday.”
Pedri sat up, rubbing a hand through his hair. “That’s random.”
“I know,” Ferran said. “I just… I saw this video earlier. There was this dad feeding his baby, and the baby kept spitting the food back out and laughing, and the dad just looked so… happy. Like it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
Pedri blinked slowly. “You cried at a baby video, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t cry,” Ferran mumbled. “I teared up. Slightly.”
Pedri was silent for a beat, then said softly, “You want to be a dad.”
Ferran groaned and buried his face in Pedri’s chest. “I don’t know. I think I do. I think I’m freaking out.”
Pedri curled a hand behind Ferran’s neck. “Why would that freak you out?”
“Because I don’t even know if that’s something I can have,” Ferran said, voice muffled. “With the job. The pressure. And you. I don’t know if it’s something you’d ever want. Or if I’m selfish for wanting it with you.”
Pedri didn’t speak for a long time. Just ran his hand slowly down Ferran’s back, drawing patterns with his fingertips.
“I’ve thought about it,” he said eventually. “But it’s not something I let myself think about often. You know. Because of the same reasons.”
Ferran lifted his head. “But have you thought about it with me?”
Pedri’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah. I have.”
Ferran’s throat closed. “You’re sure?”
Pedri gave him a small smile, brushing a curl away from his forehead. “You’d be a really good papá, Ferri.”
“I’d lose my mind,” Ferran said immediately. “I’d be that parent who keeps every drawing. I’d film everything too.”
Pedri laughed. “You already do that with my interviews.”
“You’re cute when you talk about football,” Ferran said defensively.
“You’re worse when I talk about you in them.”
Ferran sat back, grinning. “I take pride in that.”
They didn’t talk about it much after that. At least not directly. But the shift was there. Ferran watched Pedri hold a teammate’s baby after a match and felt his whole chest bloom. Pedri looked a little nervous at first, but then the baby giggled and tugged at his collar, and he smiled wide, easy, warm.
That night, Ferran saved the clip someone had posted of it. Watched it three times in bed.
“You’re obsessed,” Pedri said, crawling in beside him.
“Can you blame me?” Ferran replied, showing him the screen. “Look at you. That smile.”
Pedri rolled his eyes and slid under the covers. “You’re unbearable.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” Pedri said without hesitation.
Ferran turned off the phone. His chest felt full again, but not in the scary way. Just full.
It wasn’t until a month later, during an interview, that Ferran saw it written on Pedri’s face too.
They were being asked about life outside football, and Pedri said something about being happy, about feeling grounded. The interviewer joked about family, and Ferran watched Pedri glance sideways, eyes flicking to where Ferran was sitting off camera. It was half a second.
But Ferran knew him. He saw it.
Afterward, as they walked back to the car, Ferran took Pedri’s hand without a word.
“Was it obvious?” Pedri asked.
“Only to me,” Ferran said.
Pedri looked relieved. “Good.”
“You still want to wait, right?” Ferran asked quietly. “For all of it. The talking. The planning. The figuring it out.”
“Yeah,” Pedri said. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t want it.”
Ferran squeezed his hand. “Same.”
They were still young. Still playing at the highest level. Still figuring out who they were and what they wanted in the quiet moments between matches and training sessions and the noise of the world.
But sometimes, in the morning, Ferran would wake up and find Pedri curled into his side, face soft, arms wrapped around Ferran’s waist, and all he could think about was what it would feel like to wake up to this ten years from now, with a small human kicking both of them in the ribs.
And sometimes, when Ferran pressed a kiss to Pedri’s temple and whispered goodnight, Pedri would open one eye and say, “I wonder if our kids would be like you or me.”
Ferran would kiss him again, smiling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Pedri would grin. “Not bad. Just dangerous.”
And Ferran… Ferran would fall asleep feeling like maybe, just maybe, the future wasn’t as far away as it seemed.