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The intention was to clean the hallway wardrobe.
It started as one of those rare free weekends where the calendar was miraculously blank, no matches, no media, no events. Just the three of them, an overgrown to-do list, and a hallway closet stuffed with six years of “we’ll sort it later.”
Ferran’s half-buried in coats and cables when he finds it. A thick white photo album tucked behind an old Barça kit and a forgotten bag of Pedri’s teenage trophies. He pulls it out, dusts off the front, and sees the gold lettering.
“Amor,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’re gonna wanna see this.”
Pedri steps out of the kitchen a few seconds later, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “What?”
Ferran holds the album up. “Look what I found.”
Pedri blinks, then smiles softly. “No way.”
“Swear. The wedding one.”
Alora’s sitting on the rug, sorting old, mismatched buttons into little piles. She looks up curiously when Ferran brings the album over and sets it on the couch.
Ferran gestures to the seat beside him. “Come here, mi reina. Come look.”
They settle in, all three of them on the couch - Alora right in the middle, legs crossed, already leaning toward the album with wide eyes.
“What’s that?” she asks.
Pedri opens the cover. “Our wedding album.”
“You had a wedding?”
Ferran laughs. “You think we’ve just been roommates this whole time?”
Alora giggles. “Noooo.”
He ruffles her curls. “We got married in Tenerife, remember? That’s where Mami grew up and where we go for holidays sometimes.”
Alora leans closer. “Did I come to it?”
“Nope,” Pedri says, flipping to the first page. “You came later. You were the bonus prize.”
The first photo is a wide shot, them under the palms, a modest arch of white flowers, soft ocean light in the background.
Then the second: Ferran in black, Pedri in white, both grinning like they’d just won something.
Alora squints. “Wait. Mami wore white?”
Pedri groans. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just asking,” she teases, eyes big and innocent.
Ferran’s already laughing. “You wanna know the real story?”
“No,” Pedri mutters.
“Sí,” Alora says.
So Ferran tells it.
“How long did we argue over suit colors?”
“Too long,” Pedri says, flipping another page.
“I said I should wear black, obviously. It’s classy. Timeless. Sexy.”
“And I said we should wear white,” Ferran adds.
Alora giggles. “Ew.”
“But then your mamí,” Ferran nudges him with a smirk, “insisted he couldn’t wear white because he’d look ‘like a bride.’”
“I would have.”
“You looked stunning.”
Pedri rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.
Ferran leans back, arms behind his head. “So I begged him. For the aesthetic. For the photos. For my soul.”
“You said ‘pretty please,’” Pedri corrects, already smiling.
“I did say pretty please.”
“And I said ‘I’ll look ridiculous.’”
“And then you looked perfect,” Ferran says, without hesitation.
Pedri flips the next page a little too quickly.
They keep turning pages.
The ceremony was small. Just family and a handful of friends. No press. No extravagance. They’d danced barefoot in the garden and eaten cake on their laps and stayed up until nearly 3 AM laughing with their people.
One photo shows Pedri and Ferran at the altar, hands linked, both of them trying not to laugh at something the officiant said. Another is just after the kiss, when Ferran pulled Pedri in too hard and they nearly toppled over.
“Did you cry?” Alora asks suddenly.
Ferran answers first. “Mami cried.”
“I teared up.”
“He cried,” Ferran insists.
Alora points to one of the pictures. “You both look red in the face.”
“It was hot that day,” Pedri says.
“It was emotional that day,” Ferran corrects.
Pedri shrugs, but his smile lingers.
They reach the reception photos - sunset over the ocean, fairy lights strung above the tables. There’s a picture of Rosy with her arms around both of them, and another of Fernando Sr. giving a toast while Fer pretends to die of secondhand embarrassment in the background.
“Was Abuelita happy?” Alora asks.
“She was,” Pedri says, fingers brushing the edge of the photo. “She said we looked like a painting.”
“She said we looked like a painting,” Ferran says.
Alora glances between them. “Did I miss the cake?”
Pedri pokes her side. “You wouldn’t have liked it. Too much coffee flavor.”
“I would have licked it.”
“I believe you.”
They’re quiet for a while after that, flipping slowly through the final pages.
Pedri’s hand rests on Alora’s back now, his thumb tracing idle shapes. She’s settled between them, leaning slightly against Ferran’s side. Her usual energy has softened into curiosity - quiet, observant, soaking it all in.
Ferran flips to one of the final pages - a shot of the two of them under a tree, somewhere off to the side of the ceremony. The sun’s setting low behind them, Pedri’s white suit wrinkled, Ferran’s jacket unbuttoned, his tie gone. Pedri’s leaning into him, eyes soft, face scrunched like he’s trying not to laugh.
Alora stares at it.
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Was I in your tummy there?”
Pedri huffs a quiet laugh. “No, cariño. Not yet.”
“But I was coming?”
Ferran glances down at her and brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. “Eventually, yeah. We didn’t know when, but we already knew we wanted you.”
“You wanted me?”
“Specifically you,” Pedri says. “We didn’t know your name, or your face, or how much you were going to talk-”
“I talk normal,” she argues immediately.
“-but yeah,” Pedri says, smiling. “We wanted you.”
Alora frowns, clearly trying to work something out. “But how did I get in your tummy, though?”
Pedri raises an eyebrow, already smirking. “That’s a big question.”
“She’s four,” Ferran says under his breath, trying not to laugh. “Be careful.”
“We had help,” Pedri says gently. “We went to the doctors. There were a lot of appointments, paperwork, and people who helped us so I could carry you.”
“Did it hurt?”
Pedri pauses, thinking it through. “Some of it. The surgery at the end definitely did. But I don’t regret it.”
Alora leans into him, curious but calm. “Was I a good baby?”
Pedri snorts. “You were loud.”
“You never slept,” Ferran adds, not unkindly. “You had opinions about everything at four days old.”
“I still do.”
They both laugh.
“You were also perfect,” Pedri says. “But it wasn’t easy. Not at the start.”
And suddenly, he’s there again.
Not in a dreamy way, not wistful, but with the sharp, clear edges of exhaustion that never fully leave you once you’ve had a newborn in your arms.
It was two days after they brought her home. Late. The whole house was too quiet, but Pedri hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time anyway. He was sitting on the couch with his legs curled up, a pillow propped under one arm and Alora tucked against his chest, wrapped in one of those soft white swaddles that Ferran’s mother had sent from Valencia.
She’d just finished nursing. His shirt was still half unbuttoned. His scar throbbed, deep and hot, every time he moved, but he wasn’t going to wake Ferran just to pass her off.
She was finally asleep. For now.
He couldn’t even remember what time it was. The flat smelled faintly of warm bottles and the takeout they’d both forgotten to eat. His whole body ached, especially around his hips and shoulders, from hours of curled posture and guarding the incision.
But she was warm, and breathing against him, and she’d looked up at him earlier with those tiny eyes that didn’t focus yet, and he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.
Ferran had wandered out of the bedroom sometime around 4 AM, shirtless and bleary-eyed, rubbing his face. “Mi vida?”
Pedri looked up slowly. “She’s asleep.”
“Are you?”
“Not really.”
Ferran crossed the room and knelt beside the couch. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You’ve been doing the changing and rocking. It’s my turn.”
Ferran reached out and cupped the back of Pedri’s neck, brushing his thumb over the curve of it. “You’re literally stitched together.”
“She was hungry. She wanted me.”
“She always wants you.”
“Yeah,” Pedri whispered. “I know.”
He didn’t mean it smugly. It was just true.
Ferran rested his head on Pedri’s shoulder and they sat there like that for a minute, Alora asleep between them, Pedri aching and cracked open in ways he hadn’t expected, Ferran soft and quiet beside him.
“We’re really doing this,” Pedri said eventually.
Ferran nodded. “You’re doing all of it.”
“You’re keeping me upright.”
“That’s kind of the deal, no?”
Pedri hummed. “I’m scared she’s going to stop wanting me one day.”
“She won’t.”
Pedri looked down at her, one hand resting over her back, heartbeat slow and steady under his palm. “Okay.”
Back in the present, Alora is curled into Pedri’s side, thumb in her mouth, blinking at the wedding album like it’s a picture book.
She mumbles around her hand, “I think you’re a good mami.”
Pedri kisses her temple. “Thanks, bebé.”
“You were mine the whole time.”
He smiles, eyes soft. “Yeah. I think I was.”
Ferran slides an arm behind them on the couch. “Still are.”
Alora blinks at them both. “I’m not gonna get a surgery, though. That sounds really gross.”
Pedri snorts. “It’s not for everyone.”
She hums. “When I have a kid, you have to help me.”
“You’ll have a whole army,” Ferran says. “Including me and your mami.”
“Okay,” she says simply, flipping the album shut. “But I’m naming my baby after myself.”
Pedri raises an eyebrow. “So we’ll have two Aloras?”
She grins. “Obviously.”
And honestly, neither of them can argue with that.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.