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It was rare for the house to feel this still.
No Alora bursting in through the front door, cleats smacking the hardwood, yelling about some refereeing injustice. No Mateo spinning pirouettes through the kitchen, narrating his dramatic new Nutcracker fantasy for the fifth time. No background buzz of cartoons, or ballet warmups, or teenage girl music leaking through headphones at full volume.
Just quiet.
Pedri clicked the stovetop off and gave the saucepan one final stir. “Dinner’s ready,” he called.
Ferran padded in barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding two glasses of sparkling water like they were fancy. “What are we calling this?”
“Pasta with stuff.”
“Ah. A classic.”
Pedri smirked. “I added spinach so it’s technically healthy.”
“Our nutritionist would cry with pride.”
They ate together at the kitchen island, shoulders brushing, Ferran stealing bites from Pedri’s plate every time he thought he wasn’t looking. Pedri didn’t stop him, even when he did notice. Just rolled his eyes and kept eating.
The conversation was light - updates on training, gossip about a teammate’s ridiculous new tattoo, Alora’s goal last weekend, Mateo’s upcoming solo in the recital. But underneath it all was something warmer. A quiet kind of comfort.
When the food was gone, Ferran leaned over and bumped his head gently against Pedri’s. “Bed?”
“With ice cream?”
“Obviously.”
They cleaned up quickly, Ferran flicking water at Pedri like a child until Pedri threatened to exile him to the guest room. Then they grabbed two small tubs of nutritionist-approved ice cream, Ferran’s was chocolate peanut butter, Pedri’s was that weird mango thing he liked, and climbed into bed like they were teenagers again.
The bedroom was dim, just the soft golden glow from the bedside lamp. A romcom was already queued up on the TV, something dumb and charming with subtitles and a happy ending guaranteed.
Pedri settled against the pillows, propped up with Ferran beside him, their knees touching under the blanket. He popped the lid off his ice cream and gave Ferran a look. “If you eat half of mine, I’m divorcing you.”
Ferran grinned and dug his spoon into Pedri’s anyway. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Pedri kicked him lightly under the covers.
They watched in easy silence for a while, the kind that only happens when you’ve known someone forever and don’t need to fill the gaps. Ferran curled into Pedri more with every minute, until his head was resting on Pedri’s shoulder, spoon dangling in his hand.
“This is nice,” Ferran murmured.
“It’s perfect.”
“I miss this. Just us.”
Pedri nodded, letting his fingers brush lightly through Ferran’s hair. “Me too.”
They didn’t get nights like this often. Usually one of them was gone, or tired, or elbows deep in helping Alora with tactics or Mateo with choreography. Most nights they passed like ships, shared glances in the hallway, kisses between doorframes, quiet conversations in the dark.
But tonight was slow. Tonight was soft.
“I forgot what it feels like to just breathe,” Ferran said.
Pedri kissed the top of his head. “You can breathe every night, you know. We just have to remember to let ourselves.”
“Easier said than done. You’ve seen Mateo’s nightly routine.”
Pedri laughed. “That kid needs a full production team just to fall asleep.”
Ferran smiled. “He gets it from you.”
“Alora’s the real drama queen.”
“Alora’s going to own this house within the next five years. I give it two if she scores for Barça Femení.”
Pedri nodded. “We’ll be kicked out and replaced with three girlfriends and an indoor goal net.”
They dissolved into laughter, low and warm, until Ferran leaned up and kissed Pedri softly. Just one of those sweet, quiet husband kisses that said I love you and I’m really glad we’re here.
Pedri set his ice cream down and shifted under the blanket, pulling Ferran close, chest to chest now.
They lay there for a while, movie forgotten, ice cream melting on the nightstand, nothing but the steady heartbeat of their years together thrumming in the quiet space between them.
Ferran’s voice broke the silence again. “You still happy?”
Pedri blinked. “With you?”
“Yeah. With all of it. Us. The kids. Life.”
Pedri smiled, eyes soft. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Ferran’s fingers brushed along his arm. “Not even the days where they both cry at the same time and we haven’t had five minutes alone in a week?”
“Not even then.”
Ferran leaned in, kissed him again, and this time it lingered. Slow, sure, the kind that reminded both of them they were more than teammates, more than parents - they were still each other’s person.
Still Pedri and Ferran.
Still home.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.