Gray light filtered through the curtains, soft and muted, the kind of morning that felt like a secret. Hannah blinked awake slowly, her body heavy with sleep, her ankle a dull throb beneath the sheets. The first thing she registered was the warmth against her side — Emily, curled into her, one hand splayed across Hannah's chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns along the edge of her collarbone.
Hannah didn't move. Didn't want to. She just lay there, watching the dust motes drift through the pale gold rectangle of light, feeling Emily's breath against her shoulder. The city hummed somewhere beyond the window — traffic, a distant siren, the morning sounds of Barcelona waking up — but in this bed, everything was still.
Emily's fingers found the hollow at the base of Hannah's throat and pressed there for a moment, a small, unconscious gesture. Hannah turned her head, pressing her lips to Emily's hair. Ginger curls tickled her chin.
"You're awake," Hannah murmured.
Emily's hand stilled. "I've been awake for a while." Her voice was rough with sleep, a little hoarse. "Just... watching you."
"Creepy."
"Romantic." Emily lifted her head, and those sea-glass eyes found hers. Her freckles stood out against her pale skin in the morning light, her curls a wild mess across the pillow. She looked soft. Unarmored. Something flickered behind her gaze — a small, held thing Hannah couldn't quite name. "You talk in your sleep, you know."
Hannah's stomach dropped. "I do not."
"You do. You said —" Emily paused, her smile deepening. "You said my name. Twice."
Heat crept up Hannah's neck. She buried her face in the pillow. "That's not — I don't —"
"And then you said 'pass the ball.'" Emily laughed, the sound bright and easy, and Hannah felt the vibration through her ribs. "Really romantic stuff, Voss."
Hannah groaned into the pillow, but she was smiling. She could feel it pulling at her mouth, impossible to hide. She lifted her head and found Emily watching her with that crooked grin, and something in her chest cracked open, warm and full.
"I love you," Hannah said. It came out simple, unguarded, like breathing.
Emily's smile softened. She reached up and brushed a strand of dark hair from Hannah's forehead, her thumb trailing down Hannah's cheek. "I love you too."
The words hung between them, new and still fragile, but Hannah was starting to get used to the weight of them. They felt like a promise she could carry.
Emily's phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Twice. Then a third time, insistent, rattling against the wood.
Emily's hand dropped from Hannah's face. She reached across, her fingers brushing the screen, and the display lit up. Aitana. Two missed calls and a WhatsApp message that had already previewed itself across the top of the lock screen: Is she good for tomorrow? The club needs to know.
Emily's thumb hovered over the screen. She didn't unlock it. She just stared at it for a moment, her jaw tightening, then set the phone facedown on the nightstand.
Hannah frowned. "Everything okay?"
Emily didn't answer. She pulled her hand back, settled it on Hannah's chest again, her thumb pressing over Hannah's heartbeat. The light caught the side of her face, and Hannah saw it then — something careful in her eyes. Something held back since last night, since the fan edits, since the evening had turned soft and full.
"Emily." Hannah said her name gently. "What is it?"
Emily's thumb traced the edge of Hannah's collarbone, slow and deliberate. Her gaze stayed on her own fingers, watching them move, as if she was gathering something she'd been carrying for a long time.
"Before you tell the world," Emily said, her voice quiet, measured, "I need to tell you something about Ireland."
Hannah's chest went still beneath Emily's hand. The air in the room shifted, the morning light suddenly too bright.
"About why I really left."
Emily's hand stopped moving, pressed flat over Hannah's heart. She still wasn't looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on the space between them, on the sheets, on the dust motes floating in the light.
Hannah waited. She didn't push. She let the silence breathe.
"I told you about Ryan." Emily's voice was flat, careful, like she was reading words off a page. "I told you he was bad. That it was bad enough I had to leave."
Hannah nodded, even though Emily wasn't looking. "You did."
"I didn't tell you everything." Emily's thumb pressed harder, a small, unconscious pressure. "Because I didn't want you to see me differently. Because I didn't want you to think I was —" She stopped. Swallowed. "I didn't want you to think I was broken."
Hannah's hand found Emily's, still pressed to her chest. She wrapped her fingers around Emily's, held her there. "I don't think you're broken."
Emily's laugh was small, hollow, nothing like the bright sound from moments before. "You don't know what I'm about to say."
"I don't need to. I know you."
Emily finally looked up, and her eyes were wet. The tears hadn't fallen yet, but they were there, swimming in the sea-glass green, making the light catch differently. "He didn't just hit me, Hannah."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread through Hannah's chest, cold and sharp.
"He would —" Emily's voice cracked. She took a breath, steadied it. "He would lock me in the bathroom. For hours. Sometimes overnight. He'd take my phone, take my keys, and just — leave me there."
Hannah could feel her own pulse beneath Emily's hand, steady and wrong. She didn't speak. She just held Emily's hand, held her gaze, let her find the words.
"The first time, I thought it was a joke. A sick joke. But then he did it again. And again." Emily's thumb was moving again, tracing slow circles on Hannah's skin. "I started keeping a hairpin in my bra. To pick the lock. Because I knew, eventually, he'd forget to check."
Hannah's throat tightened. She thought of Emily — small, bright, full of laughter — locked in a bathroom in the dark. The image made something cold settle in her stomach.
"The last time, I got out. I picked the lock, grabbed my bag, and ran. I didn't have a plan. I just knew I couldn't do it anymore." Emily's voice had gone quiet, almost distant. "I got on a bus to Dublin, called my mother from a payphone, and she wired me enough for a flight to Barcelona. I was on a plane six hours later."
Emily's hand trembled against Hannah's chest. A single tear slipped down her cheek, caught in the morning light, and dropped onto the sheet.
"I never told anyone the full story. Not even my mother." Emily's laugh shook. "She thinks I left because he was mean. Because he yelled too much. Because I was unhappy."
"But you were scared," Hannah said. Her voice came out rough, low.
Emily's eyes met hers. She nodded. "I was terrified. I'm still terrified. Because he doesn't know where I am, but he has friends. He has a badge. And I don't know if he'd come looking."
The word landed before Hannah could stop it. "Ryan is a cop."
Emily's jaw tightened. "Was. He was a cop in a small town. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him. When I tried to file a report, they laughed me out of the station."
Hannah's hand tightened around Emily's, hard enough to hurt. She loosened her grip immediately, but Emily's fingers pressed back, telling her it was okay.
"I'm not telling you this because I need you to fix it," Emily said. "I'm telling you because if we go public, if my face ends up in the news, he might see. And I need you to know that. I need you to know what could come with it."
Hannah wanted to say something. Wanted to find the right words, the ones that would make this easier, lighter. But there was nothing light about this. There was only the truth, sitting between them on the rumpled sheets, heavy and real.
"I'm sorry." Hannah's voice cracked. She didn't know why she said it. It wasn't her fault. But it came out anyway, a reflex, a wound shared.
Emily's hand found her face, cupped her jaw, turned her head until they were looking at each other. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."
"I know. But I am. I'm sorry you went through that alone."
Emily's thumb traced the line of Hannah's cheekbone. Her eyes were still wet, but her voice was steadier now. "I'm not alone anymore."
Hannah turned her head and pressed her lips to Emily's palm, held them there. The skin tasted of salt and sleep. She closed her eyes and breathed.
They lay there for a long moment, the silence different now — not heavy, but shared. The city continued to hum outside, indifferent to the weight of what had just been said.
"Thank you," Hannah finally said.
Emily's fingers stilled. "For what?"
"For trusting me with this." Hannah opened her eyes, found Emily watching her. "I know that wasn't easy."
Emily's smile was small, fragile, but real. "It was easier than I thought. With you."
Hannah shifted, carefully, mindful of her ankle, and turned onto her side so they were facing each other, inches apart. She reached out and tucked a strand of ginger hair behind Emily's ear, her fingers lingering on the shell of it, feeling the warmth of her skin.
"The fans," Hannah said, quiet. "The press. The public. They'll be curious for a week, maybe two. Then they'll move on." She held Emily's gaze. "But if he comes looking — if anyone from that life tries to hurt you — I need you to know something."
Emily's breath caught, held.
"I will tear the world apart before I let anyone touch you again." Hannah's voice was low, steady, the voice she used in the huddle before the second half, when the game was on the line. "I mean that."
Emily let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. "That's very dramatic for a woman who can't walk to the bathroom without crutches."
Hannah cracked a smile. "I'll figure it out."
Emily laughed, and the sound broke through the weight in the room. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Hannah's, their noses brushing, their breath warm and shared.
"I love you," Emily whispered. "And I don't want this — any of this — to make you change your mind about going public. I just needed you to know."
"It doesn't change my mind," Hannah said. "It makes me want to do it more. So everyone knows you're taken. So he knows."
Emily pulled back, her eyes searching Hannah's. "You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
Emily's phone buzzed again. Aitana again, probably — or maybe Mapi this time, or Patri, the whole team checking in. Emily ignored it. She reached down and took Hannah's hand, laced their fingers together, and held them between their chests.
"Then we'll do it together," Emily said. "When your ankle's healed. When you're ready. When it feels right."
"I'm ready now," Hannah said. "But I'll wait for the ankle. For the timing." She squeezed Emily's hand. "For you."
Emily's smile widened, the familiar crooked thing that made Hannah's chest ache. "You're very patient for a woman who once headbutted a defender for stepping on her foot."
"I got a yellow card for that."
"And a goal in stoppage time."
Hannah grinned. "I hit my head harder than I thought."
Emily laughed, full and bright, and the sound filled the room, pushed the shadows back into the corners. She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist, and looked down at Hannah with those sea-glass eyes, clear now, the tears gone.
"I'm going to make you breakfast," Emily said. "And then I'm going to call Aitana back and tell her you're fine, which she'll already know because she's been texting me since six in the morning."
"She's worried."
"She's nosy."
Emily swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching, her back arching, her curls falling wild. She was wearing one of Hannah's old Barcelona training shirts, the sleeves too long, the hem reaching her thighs. She looked like she belonged in it.
She turned at the bedroom door, her hand on the frame. "Hannah."
Hannah looked up from the pillow.
Emily held her gaze. "Thank you. For staying."
"I'm not going anywhere," Hannah said. And she meant it. Every word.
Emily smiled and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, Hannah heard the click of the stove, the clatter of a pan, the familiar sounds of someone making breakfast in a space they had made their own.
Hannah lay back, staring at the ceiling, her ankle throbbing, her heart full. The morning light had shifted, warmer now, and the dust motes still floated in the air. She reached for her phone on the nightstand. Aitana's messages were waiting: eleven of them, ranging from How's the ankle? to I'm calling Ingrid to drive me over if you don't answer to a single I'm making patatas bravas for you. Don't make me eat them alone.
Hannah smiled. She typed back: I'm fine. Ankle's fine. Emily's making me breakfast. I'll call you later.
She hit send and set the phone aside. From the kitchen, the smell of eggs and olive oil drifted in, warm and familiar. She heard Emily humming, a tune Hannah didn't recognize, something soft and Irish.
Outside, the city kept turning. The fans were waiting. The world was waiting. But in this apartment, in this bed, with the smell of breakfast and the sound of Emily's humming filling the air, Hannah had found what she'd been looking for her whole life.
Home.