Thirty seconds. Hannah counts them, watching the screen like it might shatter under her stare. The three dots don't appear. The message sits there, delivered, read, and then nothing. Just the empty silence of a conversation that has suddenly gone very quiet.
Her thumb hovers over the call button. Her heart is a fist in her chest, pounding against her ribs. The evening light catches her sleeve — the coffee stain, faded now, a faint brown map of the moment that started all of this.
She presses call before she can think about what she's doing.
The dial tone hums in her ear. Once. Twice. She almost hangs up. Her finger finds the edge of the screen, ready to end this before it begins, before she has to hear the warmth in Emily's voice turn cold with the weight of a truth Hannah has been carrying since that first collision.
Then the line clicks.
"Hey — everything okay?" Emily's voice is warm, a little breathless, like she was mid-step when she grabbed the phone. There's a smile in it, the same smile Hannah has been replaying since that coffee shop.
Hannah opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.
She leans against the lamppost. The metal is cool against her back, grounding her, keeping her upright. The city hums around her — cars, footsteps, a distant siren. None of it matters. There's only this: Emily's voice in her ear, and the truth pressing against her teeth like a second heartbeat.
"Hannah?" Softer now. Concern creeping in. "You there?"
"Yeah." The word comes out rough, scraped. She clears her throat. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to just — call out of nowhere."
"You didn't. I was just... I saw your message. About there being something to tell me." A pause. "You're scaring me a little, not gonna lie."
Hannah's chest tightens. "No. No, don't be scared. It's not — it's not bad. It's just... big." She laughs, a short, nervous sound. "Really big. And I couldn't figure out how to put it in a text. And I thought maybe if I said it, you could hear my voice, and you'd know I'm not trying to — I don't know — trick you."
Emily exhales on the other end. Hannah can picture her — standing in her small apartment, probably in that colorful cardigan, her hair escaping its attempt at order, a hand pressed to her chest. "Okay. So tell me. I'm listening."
Hannah closes her eyes. The lamppost is solid at her back. She can do this. She has to do this. "I need to tell you in person. I need you to see my face when I say it. But I also need to tell you now, because I can't show up tonight and have you not know." She hears Emily's breath catch — a small, sharp sound that makes Hannah's chest ache. "I'm not just a local player, Emily. I play for Barcelona. Professionally. I'm — I'm on the billboard two blocks from the café."
The silence that follows is not like the one after her text. This one is deeper, heavier, a held breath that stretches so long Hannah pulls the phone away from her ear to check if the call dropped.
It hasn't. The timer is still ticking.
"Emily?"
Nothing.
"Are you —"
"The one with the Nike ad?"
The question comes so quietly that Hannah almost misses it. Soft. Dazed. Like Emily is talking to herself, trying to fit a new piece into a puzzle that didn't have that shape before.
"Yeah," Hannah says. "That one."
Another pause. Then, very faintly: "Oh."
Hannah's throat closes. She presses her free hand against her stomach, trying to steady the tremble that has taken up residence there. "I know it's a lot. I know it changes things. I should have told you at the start, I know that now, but you didn't recognize me and it — it felt so good, Emily. To just be Hannah. Not the captain, not the striker, not the one on the billboard. Just someone who spilled coffee on her jacket and didn't know what to do about it."
She stops. Breathes. The words are coming too fast now, tumbling out of her like a confession she's been holding for years instead of days.
"And then you gave me your number, and we talked, and every time your name came up on my screen I felt like I was going to float off the ground. And I kept thinking, I'll tell her later. I'll tell her when we meet. But later kept coming and I kept not saying it, because I was scared you'd look at me different. That you'd see the famous footballer and not the girl who bumped into you and forgot how to breathe."
She stops again. The city is still moving around her, a river of people who don't know that her whole world is balanced on the next thing Emily says.
"Hannah." Emily's voice is still quiet, but the daze is fading, replaced by something softer. "You're an idiot."
Hannah blinks. "What?"
"A complete idiot." A shaky laugh escapes Emily's lips. "You stood there in that café, in that gorgeous jacket with the coffee stain drying on your sleeve, and you looked at me like I was the one who mattered. Like you didn't have a million people who would kill to be in my shoes right now. And then you texted me about it. And then you sent me a voice message that made me feel like I was the only person in the world."
Another pause. Hannah can hear Emily's breathing, unsteady, like she's been running.
"And now you're telling me you're on a billboard." Emily laughs again, a little more solid this time. "I don't even watch football, you absolute disaster. I don't know what that means. Is that a big deal? Is it like — you're famous-famous, or just kind of famous?"
Hannah lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The laugh that follows is half relief, half disbelief. "I'm... both. I think. The billboard's the Nike one, so—"
"Oh god." Emily's voice pitches higher. "The Nike one. That big one. With the woman in the red shirt and the crazy eyes?"
"That's me."
"The one I walk past every day on my way to school?"
"That's me."
Silence. Then, very quietly: "I thought you looked familiar."
Hannah leans her head back against the lamppost, a smile tugging at her mouth despite the knot still tight in her chest. "You did?"
"I mean, not enough to place you. But I remember thinking, there's something about this woman. And I figured it was the coffee stain."
The laugh that escapes Hannah is loud enough that a passing woman glances over her shoulder. Hannah doesn't care. She's standing in the middle of Barcelona, her heart in her throat, talking to a woman who just found out she's on a Nike billboard and the biggest reaction is a half-joke about the coffee stain.
"So." Emily's voice turns serious, though the warmth is still there, banked like embers. "This thing you had to tell me. You've told me. And I'm still here."
"Yeah." Hannah swallows. "You are."
"Does that mean dinner's still on?"
Hannah's heart leaps. "If you want it to be."
"I want it to be." A pause. "But I think I need a second. To process. I'm standing in my kitchen, and I was just going to make pasta, and now I find out I've been flirting with one of the most famous women in Spain, apparently, and I don't even know what to do with my hands."
"You could hold the phone."
"Shut up." But Emily's laughing. "Okay. Okay. So we're still on for tonight. But now I have to figure out what to wear to dinner with a woman who models for Nike."
"I don't model for them. I just — kick a ball in their kit."
"Kick a ball well enough to be on a billboard."
Hannah feels the heat creep up her neck. "It's just a job."
"Right. A job that puts your face on buildings." Emily's voice softens. "Hannah. I'm glad you told me. That couldn't have been easy."
"It wasn't." The admission comes out quieter than she meant it to. "I was scared you'd see me different."
"I do see you different." The words land like a stone in still water. Hannah's chest goes tight. But Emily keeps going. "I see you braver. I see someone who could have let me find out on my own, or not tell me at all, and instead you called me and you told me the truth. That's not nothing."
Hannah's eyes sting. She blinks hard, staring up at the darkening sky. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. I might have a hundred questions at dinner."
"I'll answer every single one."
"Good." A rustling sound, like Emily shifting the phone to her other ear. "What time did you say dinner was?"
"Eight. At that little place on Carrer de la Mercè. The one with the terrace."
"I know it. I've walked past it a dozen times and always wanted to go inside."
"Now you have a reason."
Emily hums, the sound warm and low. "I do, don't I?"
The air between them shifts. The confession is out, and the world hasn't ended. Hannah feels lighter than she has since that first text, since the moment she realized she was in over her head with a woman who didn't know her name.
"I should let you go," Hannah says, though she doesn't want to. "Get ready. Process the whole billboard thing."
"Probably smart." A pause. "Hannah?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you called. Even if you are an idiot for waiting."
Hannah laughs, a real one this time, full-bodied and warm. "I'll see you at eight."
"See you at eight. And Hannah?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't wear the jacket with the stain. I want to see the real you tonight."
The line clicks dead before Hannah can respond. She stands there, phone pressed to her ear, the dial tone humming in her ear, a smile so wide it aches spreading across her face.
She lowers the phone, stares at the screen. Emily's name. The call duration — seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Seven minutes that changed everything.
The evening has deepened around her, the pink fading into a bruised purple, the first stars appearing over the rooftops. She pushes off from the lamppost, her legs steadier than they were ten minutes ago, and starts walking toward home. Toward a shower, a change of clothes, a dinner that suddenly means more than she thought it could.
Her phone buzzes in her hand. A message.
Emily — coffee disaster: I just looked you up. You're really good at football.
Hannah laughs out loud, drawing another glance from a passerby. She types back:
Hannah — coffee disaster: Thanks. I have a good team.
The response comes almost immediately:
Emily — coffee disaster: Also you have a lot of ink. I didn't notice that in the café.
Hannah — coffee disaster: I have a lot of ink. You can see all of it tonight if you're curious.
Emily — coffee disaster: I'm curious.
Hannah pockets her phone, her fingers tingling. The night is warm, the city alive around her, and she has two hours to get ready for the most important dinner of her life.
She picks up her pace, a grin she can't wipe off her face, and lets herself imagine what Emily will look like sitting across from her on that terrace, knowing exactly who she is now — and still wanting to be there.
Her apartment is quiet when she steps through the door. She kicks off her trainers, leaves them by the mat, and stands in the middle of the living room for a long moment, letting the silence settle around her. The place is clean — not because she's tidy, but because she's barely been home in weeks. Training, travel, press obligations. The kind of life that leaves a fridge full of takeaway containers and a bed that feels too big for one person.
She walks to the bedroom, pulls open her wardrobe, and stares at the rows of clothes. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like armor — the designer pieces the club's sponsors send, the sleek black outfits that make her look like someone who belongs on a billboard. She pushes hangers aside until she finds it: a simple white button-down, soft from years of washing, the collar slightly frayed. She bought it at a market stall three years ago, before the Ballon d'Or, before the Nike campaign, before her face became something people recognized.
She holds it up. It's just a shirt. But it feels like the right choice — the one that says I'm still me.
Her phone buzzes on the bed. She picks it up, expecting another message from Emily, but it's the group chat. Aitana has sent a photo of herself making an exaggerated pout, captioned: captain's been ignoring us all day. we're staging an intervention.
Hannah smiles, types back: Busy. Will explain tomorrow.
The response is immediate: Busy doing what? Don't say training. You left training two hours ago.
Hannah hesitates. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard. She could lie. She could deflect. But these are her people — the ones who have seen her at her worst, who held her together after losses, who celebrated every goal like it was their own. She types: I have a date.
The chat explodes. A cascade of emojis, exclamation points, and a voice message from Aitana that she doesn't dare play in public. Hannah laughs, pockets the phone, and heads for the shower.
The hot water pounds against her shoulders, washing away the tension of the afternoon. She stands there longer than she needs to, letting the steam fill the small bathroom, her mind drifting to Emily's voice on the phone. The way she said I do see you different. The way she laughed when she called Hannah an idiot. The way she didn't hang up.
By the time she steps out, the mirror is fogged and her skin is pink from the heat. She towels off, pulls on the white shirt and a pair of dark jeans, and stands in front of the mirror. The sleeves of her tattoos peek out from under the cuffs, the ink dark against her skin. She rolls the sleeves up to her elbows, deliberately, letting the patterns show. Emily asked to see them. Emily said she was curious.
Her phone buzzes again as she's lacing up her boots.
Emily — coffee disaster: I'm leaving now. I'm nervous. Don't laugh.
Hannah smiles, types back: I'm nervous too. See you soon.
She grabs her keys, her wallet, and a jacket that doesn't have a coffee stain on it — a soft denim one, worn at the elbows, the kind of jacket that says nothing about who she is except that she's comfortable in her own skin. She pauses at the door, looks back at the apartment. The life she's built here — the trophies on the shelf, the framed jerseys, the photos of her teammates — it all feels like it belongs to someone else tonight. Tonight, she's just Hannah. The girl who spilled coffee. The girl who called.
She locks the door behind her and steps out into the Barcelona evening.
The restaurant is a fifteen-minute walk away, tucked into a narrow street off Carrer de la Mercè, its terrace spilling onto the cobblestones. Hannah arrives early, as she always does, and takes a seat at a corner table where she can see the entrance. The waiter brings her a glass of water, and she sips it slowly, watching the street fill with the golden light of the setting sun.
She checks her phone. No new messages. She sets it face-down on the table, takes a breath, and waits.
And then Emily appears.
She's wearing a simple sundress — pale blue, the color of a summer sky — and her hair is a riot of curls that catch the evening light like copper wire. She stops at the entrance to the terrace, her eyes scanning the tables, and when they land on Hannah, her face breaks into a smile that makes Hannah's chest ache.
Emily walks toward her, and Hannah stands, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. She shoves them in her pockets, pulls them out again, and by the time Emily reaches the table, she's a mess of nerves and wanting.
"Hi," Emily says. Soft. Warm. Her eyes travel over Hannah's face, then down to her arms, where the tattoos curl visible past the rolled sleeves. "You wore the ink."
"You said you were curious."
"I am." Emily's smile widens. "But I'm also starving. Can we sit?"
Hannah pulls out her chair. Emily slides into the seat across from her, and the evening settles around them like something precious — something neither of them wants to break.
Hannah's hand moves before she thinks about it — across the small table, past the candle flickering between them, until her thumb finds the inside of Emily's wrist. The freckles there are dense, a constellation of pale brown against skin still warm from the evening air. She brushes across them once, featherlight, and feels Emily's pulse jump under her touch.
Emily's breath catches. A small sound, barely audible over the hum of the terrace. She doesn't pull away. Her eyes drop to where Hannah's thumb is resting now, a still point of contact, and then lift back up to meet Hannah's gaze.
"That's —" Emily starts, then stops. Swallows. "That's the first time you've touched me. On purpose."
Hannah's throat tightens. She hadn't realized it until Emily said it. The bump in the café. The accidental brush when they reached for napkins. But nothing deliberate. Nothing chosen. Her thumb presses a little firmer, feeling the delicate bones beneath the skin, the warmth of a woman who knows who she is now and is still sitting across from her.
"Is that okay?" Hannah asks, her voice lower than she meant it to be.
Emily nods, a quick, almost shy motion. "Yeah. It's — it's nice. Your hands are warm."
They sit like that for a long moment, the rest of the world receding to a distant hum. A waiter approaches, catches the look on their faces, and retreats without a word. The candle flickers. A breeze carries the scent of grilled herbs and sea salt.
"You have a lot of freckles," Hannah says, because she doesn't know what else to say, because she's suddenly aware that she's been staring.
Emily laughs, a breathless sound. "I'm aware. They threw a party on my skin and invited everyone."
"I like them." Hannah's thumb traces a slow arc across Emily's wrist, following a cluster that forms something like a small bear. "This one looks like a teddy bear."
Emily glances down. "I've never noticed that."
"You haven't looked." Hannah's voice is quiet. "Not the way I'm looking now."
The words hang between them, heavier than she intended. Emily's eyes widen, just a fraction, and the pulse under Hannah's thumb quickens. But she doesn't pull away. She turns her hand over, palm up, an invitation. Hannah's fingers slide into place, lacing with Emily's, and the contact is sudden and electric — palm against palm, fingers intertwined, the whole weight of the evening condensed into this single point of heat.
"Okay," Emily says softly. "That's — that's really nice."
"Yeah." Hannah's thumb traces the inside of Emily's wrist again, finding the same cluster of freckles, the same steady beat. "It is."
The waiter reappears, this time with a small cough. "Can I start you with something to drink?"
Hannah looks up, her hand still wrapped around Emily's. She doesn't let go. "A bottle of the Albariño. The one from Rías Baixas."
The waiter nods and vanishes, and Hannah turns back to Emily, who is looking at her with an expression she can't quite read — curiosity, yes, but something softer underneath. Something that makes Hannah's chest ache in a way she's starting to recognize.
"You know wine," Emily says.
"I know that one. It's from near where I grew up. Well — near enough. The same coastline."
"Where did you grow up?"
Hannah hesitates. The question is simple, the kind of thing you ask someone on a first date. But the answer comes with weight, with a past she doesn't always know how to carry. She takes a breath. "Norway. A small town on the coast. I lived there until I was thirteen."
Emily's thumb presses against the side of Hannah's hand, a small, grounding pressure. "That's far from here."
"It is." Hannah looks down at their joined hands, at the contrast of her ink against Emily's pale skin. "I don't talk about it much. It's not — it wasn't easy."
"You don't have to talk about it now." Emily's voice is gentle, no pressure, just an offering. "We can talk about something else. We can sit here and hold hands and watch the candles burn down if you want."
Hannah's eyes sting again. She blinks hard. "How are you real?"
Emily's smile is crooked, warm. "I ask myself that every day. Usually when I'm grading spelling tests. Seven-year-olds have a very loose relationship with the letter 'e'."
The laugh that escapes Hannah is startled, genuine, loud enough that a couple at the next table glances over. She doesn't care. She's holding hands with Emily Shaw on a Barcelona terrace, and the world has narrowed to the width of this table.
"Tell me about them," Hannah says. "Your students. The ones who can't spell."
Emily's face lights up, and she launches into a story about a boy named Javier who once wrote an entire paragraph about his pet turtle without using a single vowel. Hannah listens, her thumb tracing absent patterns on Emily's knuckles, the words washing over her in a warm tide. She doesn't need to be the captain here. She doesn't need to be the star. She just needs to be the person holding Emily's hand while Emily tells her about the turtle that escaped its tank and was found three days later in the laundry basket.
The wine arrives. Hannah releases Emily's hand reluctantly to let the waiter pour, and when she picks it up again, Emily's fingers find hers under the table, hidden from view. A secret. Theirs.
"So," Emily says, taking a sip of her wine. "Now that I know you're famous, I have questions."
Hannah's stomach tightens, but she keeps her voice steady. "Ask me anything."
"How many people know who you are?"
"In Barcelona? Most of them. In Spain? A lot. In the rest of the world? Football fans, mostly. It's not like I'm a movie star."
Emily considers this. "So when we walked here — did anyone recognize you?"
"Probably." Hannah shrugs. "People are usually polite about it. They'll stare, maybe whisper, but they won't interrupt a meal. Unless they're drunk or it's a kid. Kids don't have boundaries."
"That's true." Emily's smile turns thoughtful. "One of my students brought a hamster to show-and-tell last week. It escaped. We found it in the supply closet, eating a glue stick."
Hannah laughs again, the sound surprising her. She's laughing more tonight than she has in months. "Did it survive the glue stick?"
"Remarkably, yes. Hamsters are resilient." Emily's eyes are bright, catching the candlelight. "So are you allowed to do this? Go on a date with a random woman who doesn't know anything about football?"
"I'm allowed to do whatever I want." Hannah says it simply, and she means it. "I'm the captain. No one tells me who I can and can't see."
"That must be nice."
"It is. But it also means there's no one to blame but myself when I make bad decisions."
Emily tilts her head, a curl falling across her forehead. "Is this a bad decision?"
"No." The word comes out too fast, too earnest, but Hannah doesn't take it back. "This is the best decision I've made in a long time. Maybe ever."
Emily's cheeks flush, visible even in the low light. She ducks her head, hiding a smile behind her wine glass. "You're going to give me a big head."
"Good. You deserve it."
They order food — something simple, shared plates, because neither of them wants to break the rhythm of this conversation. The waiter brings patatas bravas, a plate of jamón, a bowl of olives. They eat with their free hands, the other still intertwined under the table, a tether that neither is willing to sever.
"Tell me something about yourself," Emily says, popping an olive into her mouth. "Something that isn't on the internet."
Hannah chews a piece of bread, thinking. "I'm scared of heights."
"Really? Even on the pitch?"
"Especially on the pitch. There's a stadium in Germany where the stands are so steep I can't look up during corners. I just stare at the grass and hope no one scores."
Emily laughs. "That's adorable."
"It's not adorable. It's a tactical weakness."
"It's adorable. You're a big, tough footballer who's scared of being tall. I love it."
Hannah feels the heat climb up her neck. She focuses on an olive, spearing it with unnecessary precision. "That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"You saying things like that. Things that make me want to —" She stops. Bites her lip.
"Want to what?"
Hannah looks up. The candlelight is in Emily's eyes, flickering, golden. "Kiss you."
The words land like a stone in still water. Emily's breath catches, and for a moment the terrace is silent except for the distant clatter of cutlery and the murmur of other conversations. Hannah watches the pulse in Emily's throat, the way her hand tightens around Hannah's under the table.
"Then do it," Emily says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hannah's heart hammers against her ribs. She looks around the terrace — other diners, the waiter clearing a table nearby, a couple laughing at the bar. The risk of being seen, of being photographed, of this moment becoming something that isn't theirs — it flickers through her mind and fades. None of it matters. Not when Emily is looking at her like that, open and waiting and unafraid.
She leans across the table. The candle is between them, a small flame that catches the light in Emily's hair, and Hannah curves around it, her free hand coming up to cup Emily's jaw. Her thumb traces the freckles on Emily's cheekbone, the soft skin beneath her eye, and then she closes the distance.
The kiss is soft. Barely there — a brush of lips, a shared breath, the taste of wine and salt and something sweet. Hannah pulls back just enough to see Emily's face, to read the expression there. Emily's eyes are still closed, her lips parted, a flush spreading across her freckled cheeks.
"Okay," Emily breathes. "That was —"
"Not enough," Hannah finishes, and kisses her again.
This one is deeper, a firmer press, the tilt of heads finding the right angle. Emily makes a small sound against her mouth, and Hannah feels it travel through her like a current, lighting every nerve. Her fingers slide into the loose curls at Emily's temple, gentle, reverent. The world narrows to the shape of Emily's lips, the warmth of her breath, the way her hand grips Hannah's under the table like she's afraid to let go.
When they break apart, the candle has guttered and the wine sits forgotten. The terrace hums around them, but it's distant, muffled, like sound through water.
"I think," Emily says, her voice rough, "we should get the check."
Hannah's pulse stutters. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Emily's eyes meet hers, steady and bright. "I want to see the rest of those tattoos. And I don't want to do it on a terrace with people watching."
Hannah signals for the check without looking away from Emily. Her hand is still wrapped around Emily's under the table, and she doesn't loosen her grip when the waiter appears, doesn't let go even as she fumbles for her wallet with her free hand. The waiter sets down the small leather folio, and Hannah slides a card inside without checking the amount, her eyes never leaving the woman across from her.
"You're not even going to look at the bill?" Emily asks, a smile tugging at her mouth.
"I trust them."
"You don't know what we ordered."
"I know what we ordered." Hannah's thumb traces the inside of Emily's wrist again, finding that same cluster of freckles, the teddy bear. "Patatas bravas. Jamón. Olives. The Albariño."
Emily's smile softens. "You were paying attention."
"To all of it." Hannah's voice drops. "Every detail."
The waiter returns with the card and receipt. Hannah scrawls her signature — illegible, rushed — and stands, still holding Emily's hand. Emily rises with her, and for a moment they stand there, caught in the space between the table and the rest of the night, the candle flickering between them.
"Your place or mine?" Emily asks, and the directness of it makes Hannah's breath catch.
"Yours," Hannah says. "I want to see where you live. I want to see the books on your shelves and the mug you use in the morning and the spot where you stand when you're on the phone with your mother."
Emily's eyes go wide, then soft. "That's — that's really specific."
"I've been thinking about it." Hannah shrugs, a little embarrassed. "Since you gave me your number. I've been imagining your apartment."
"What did you imagine?"
They're walking now, out of the terrace and onto the cobblestone street, the night air cool against Hannah's flushed skin. She keeps Emily's hand in hers, their fingers laced, swinging slightly between them.
"Plants," Hannah says. "A lot of them. Maybe a monstera in the corner that you're keeping alive out of sheer stubbornness. Books stacked on the floor because you ran out of shelf space. A throw blanket on the couch that's seen better days but you can't bring yourself to replace it."
Emily stops walking. Hannah turns to face her, suddenly nervous. "Too much?"
"No." Emily's voice is quiet. "That's — that's exactly right. Down to the monstera." She shakes her head, a disbelieving laugh escaping her. "How do you know me like this? We've known each other for three days."
"I don't know." Hannah squeezes her hand. "I just — I see you. I've been seeing you since you bumped into me in that café."
Emily steps closer. The space between them narrows until Hannah can smell her — something floral, something warm, the faint salt of the evening air caught in her curls. "I see you too," Emily says. "The real you. Not the one on the billboard."
Hannah leans in, her forehead resting against Emily's. They stand like that for a long moment, breathing the same air, the city moving around them in a blur of headlights and distant music.
"Which way?" Hannah asks.
"Left. Then two blocks. Then a building with a broken buzzer."
"Romantic."
"I told you, I just moved here. The buzzer's been broken since I arrived. The landlord says he'll fix it next week. That was two months ago."
They walk, their shoulders brushing, their hands still linked. The streets narrow as they leave the restaurant district, the buildings growing older, the lights dimmer. Emily stops in front of a door with a faded number painted above it, the paint chipped and peeling.
"Home sweet home," she says, fitting a key into the lock. The door swings open, and she gestures Hannah inside.
The staircase is narrow, the walls painted a shade of beige that must have been chosen decades ago. They climb to the third floor, and Emily unlocks another door, pushes it open, and steps aside.
Hannah walks in and stops.
The apartment is small but warm. A monstera sits in the corner, exactly as she imagined, its leaves reaching toward the window. Books are stacked on the floor in neat towers, organized by color — a system that makes no practical sense but looks beautiful. A throw blanket, faded blue, drapes over the back of a couch that has definitely seen better days. And on the kitchen counter, a single mug, the one Emily uses in the morning.
Hannah turns to face Emily, who is watching her with a nervous smile. "Well?"
"You have a monstera."
"I told you I did."
"You let me describe it first. You could have said anything."
Emily's smile widens. "I wanted to see if you were paying attention."
"I was." Hannah steps closer. "I am."
The door clicks shut behind Emily. The sound is soft, final, and the space between them narrows again. Emily's hands come up to rest on Hannah's chest, her fingers finding the fabric of the white button-down, the steady beat of Hannah's heart beneath.
"Show me," Emily says. "Show me the tattoos."
Hannah reaches for the top button of her shirt, her fingers steady despite the hammering in her chest. She undoes it slowly, then the next, then the next, letting the fabric fall open. The ink on her arms spreads across her shoulders, dark patterns that climb toward her collarbone, intricate and deliberate. A phoenix rises from her left shoulder, its tail feathers trailing down her bicep. A compass is etched into her right forearm, the needle pointing inward, toward her heart.
Emily's breath catches. Her fingers reach out, hovering, not quite touching. "Can I?"
"Please."
Emily's fingertips trace the edge of the phoenix, following the curve of the wing where it meets Hannah's shoulder. The touch is light, reverent, and Hannah shivers despite the warmth of the room.
"This one," Emily says, her voice low, "what does it mean?"
Hannah swallows. "It's for — for getting through things. For being reborn. I got it after I moved here, after I signed with Barcelona. I wanted to remind myself that I could survive anything."
Emily's fingers trace the compass. "And this one?"
"That's newer. I got it after we won the Champions League. To remind me that I know where I'm going. Even when I feel lost."
Emily looks up at her, her eyes bright in the dim light of the apartment. "Do you feel lost now?"
"No." Hannah's hand comes up to cup Emily's jaw, her thumb brushing across the freckles on her cheekbone. "For the first time in a long time, I know exactly where I am."
She leans in, and this time the kiss is not soft. It's hungry, urgent, the kind of kiss that has been building since the café, since the first text, since the voice message that changed everything. Emily makes a sound against her mouth, a small gasp that Hannah swallows, her hands sliding into Emily's hair, tilting her head back.
Emily's fingers grip the open edges of Hannah's shirt, pulling her closer, and the world narrows to the heat of their bodies, the taste of wine and want, the soft sounds Emily makes as Hannah walks her backward until her shoulders hit the wall.
"Hannah," Emily breathes, her voice breaking. "I need —"
"Tell me." Hannah's lips find her jaw, her throat, the delicate skin where her pulse beats fast and wild. "Tell me what you need."
Emily's hands slide up Hannah's chest, pushing the shirt off her shoulders. It falls to the floor, and Hannah stands there, bare from the waist up, her tattoos fully visible in the soft light. Emily's eyes travel over her, drinking her in, and the look on her face is something Hannah will carry with her forever — wonder and want and a tenderness that makes her chest ache.
"You," Emily says. "Just you."
Hannah's hands find the curve of Emily's waist, and she pulls her closer until there's no space left between them. The sundress is light cotton beneath her fingers, the fabric warm from Emily's skin, and she can feel the shape of her — the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, the soft give of flesh that makes Hannah's fingers press deeper, wanting more.
Emily's hands slide up Hannah's bare shoulders, tracing the ink that coils there, her fingertips following the lines of the phoenix's tail feathers where they curl toward Hannah's collarbone. She's looking down at the patterns, her brow furrowed in concentration, like she's memorizing them by touch.
"There's more," Hannah says, her voice rough. "Down my back. A tree. With roots that go all the way to my spine."
Emily's breath catches. Her fingers travel over Hannah's shoulder, down her arm, tracing the compass on her forearm before sliding around to her back. The touch is light, searching, and when her fingertips find the edge of the trunk where it rises from the base of Hannah's spine, she makes a small sound — wonder, maybe, or awe.
"It's beautiful," Emily whispers. "All of it. You're beautiful."
Hannah's eyes close. She wants to deflect, to say something about the artist, about the hours of pain, about how the tree was done in three sessions and she almost cried during the last one. But the words won't come. All she can feel is Emily's hands on her skin, the warmth of her body pressed close, the soft rhythm of her breath.
She opens her eyes. Emily is looking at her, those sea-glass eyes bright in the low light, her lips parted, her freckles a soft dusting across her cheeks. The sundress has shifted, one strap sliding down her shoulder, and Hannah reaches up to trace the edge of it, her thumb brushing the skin beneath.
"Can I?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Emily nods. Her hands drop from Hannah's back, moving to her own shoulder, and she hooks her thumb under the strap, sliding it down. The other follows. The sundress pools at her waist, and she stands there in a simple white bra, her freckles scattering across her chest like a map of small, pale islands on warm skin.
Hannah's breath leaves her. She reaches out, her fingertips hovering over Emily's collarbone, and then she touches — featherlight, tracing the line of bone, the soft skin beneath, the freckles that cluster there like a constellation she wants to learn by heart.
"You're staring," Emily says, but there's no accusation in it. Her voice is soft, almost shy.
"I can't help it." Hannah's fingers trail lower, following the edge of the bra, the curve of Emily's breast. "You're — I don't have words. I've never had words for this."
Emily's hands come up to cup Hannah's face, her thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Then don't use words. Just — stay."
Hannah leans in, her lips finding the hollow of Emily's throat, the place where her pulse beats fast and warm. She tastes salt and something floral — the faint trace of Emily's skin, the evening air still caught in her curls. She presses a kiss there, soft and slow, then another, trailing down toward her collarbone.
Emily's head falls back, a small sound escaping her. Her fingers thread into Hannah's hair, gripping loosely, holding her close. The sundress slips further, pooling at their feet, and Emily steps out of it, kicking it aside. She's in just the bra and a pair of pale blue underwear, her legs bare, her skin warm where it presses against Hannah's.
Hannah pulls back just enough to look at her. The light from the kitchen spills across Emily's body, catching the curve of her hip, the softness of her stomach, the freckles that scatter across her thighs like sand on a beach. She's lovely in a way that makes Hannah's chest ache — not in the polished, airbrushed way of magazine covers, but in the real way, the honest way, the way a body looks when it's comfortable in its own skin.
"You're beautiful," Hannah says, and the words feel inadequate, too small for what she's seeing.
Emily's cheeks flush. She ducks her head, her curls falling forward, and Hannah catches them in her fingers, tucking them behind her ear. Her thumb traces the line of Emily's jaw, the sweep of her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth.
"Come here," Hannah murmurs, and Emily steps into her arms again.
This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Hannah's hands find the clasp of Emily's bra, and she pauses, her fingers still, asking without words. Emily nods against her mouth, and Hannah slides the straps down, unhooks the clasp, lets the fabric fall away between them.
Emily's breath hitches as the air hits her skin. Hannah's hands find her waist, her ribs, the soft curve of her breasts. She touches her like she's something precious, something to be savored, her thumbs tracing the undersides, the swell, the delicate skin. Emily's eyes are closed, her lips parted, her hands gripping Hannah's shoulders like she's afraid to let go.
"Lie down with me," Hannah says, her voice rough. "On the couch. I want to — I want to feel you. All of you."
Emily's eyes flutter open. She looks at Hannah, her gaze steady despite the flush spreading across her chest. "Yes."
They move together, a tangle of limbs and breath, settling onto the faded blue throw blanket. Hannah lies on her side, facing Emily, her hand resting on Emily's hip, tracing idle patterns on her skin. The light is dim, the apartment quiet, and the world beyond these walls has ceased to exist.
Hannah leans in, pressing a kiss to Emily's shoulder, then lower, to the curve of her breast. Emily's back arches, a soft sound escaping her, and Hannah takes her time, her mouth exploring the terrain of Emily's body like she's mapping a country she intends to return to again and again.
"Hannah." Emily's voice is breathless, searching. "I —"
"What?" Hannah looks up, her lips still brushing Emily's skin. "Tell me."
Emily's hand finds Hannah's hair, her fingers curling into the short strands at the nape of her neck. "I don't know how to say it. I just — I didn't expect this. Any of this. You."
Hannah's throat tightens. She presses her palm flat against Emily's chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart. "Neither did I. I walked into that café to get a coffee. I walked out with —" She stops, searches for the word. "Everything."
Emily's eyes are bright. She pulls Hannah up, into a kiss that tastes like the edge of tears, and Hannah holds her through it, her arms wrapped tight, her body a shelter against whatever comes next.
They stay like that for a long time, tangled in the blanket, the night deepening around them. Hannah's hand wanders, finding the soft skin of Emily's inner thigh, tracing the freckles there, feeling the warmth of her. She doesn't rush. She doesn't push. She lets herself learn the shape of Emily's body the way she learned the shape of her voice — slowly, deliberately, with the attention of someone who knows this matters.
Emily's breath quickens as Hannah's fingers trace higher, finding the edge of her underwear, the damp heat beneath. She looks at Hannah, her eyes wide and dark, and nods — a small, almost imperceptible movement that sends a current through Hannah's entire body.
Hannah's fingers slide beneath the fabric. Emily is slick, ready, and the sound she makes when Hannah's fingers find her is low and broken, a sound that Hannah wants to memorize and replay. She moves slowly, watching Emily's face, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her moan, what makes her hips press forward and what makes her arch away.
"Tell me," Hannah murmurs, her lips against Emily's ear. "Tell me what you need."
Emily's answer is a gasp, her hands gripping Hannah's shoulders, her body trembling. "More. Please — I need —"
Hannah gives her more. Her fingers find the right rhythm, the right pressure, and she watches Emily fall apart beneath her — the flutter of her eyelids, the parting of her lips, the soft, broken cry that escapes her as she comes. Hannah holds her through it, her movements slowing, gentling, until Emily's breathing evens out and her grip on Hannah's shoulders loosens.
Emily opens her eyes. They're hazy, soft, full of something that makes Hannah's chest ache. "That was —"
"Not enough," Hannah finishes, echoing Emily's words from the terrace. "I want to stay here all night."
Emily's laugh is breathless, warm. "The couch isn't that comfortable."
"Then show me your bed."
Emily's hand finds Hannah's, their fingers interlacing. She leads her through the small apartment, past the books stacked by color, past the monstera, into a bedroom that's cozy and cluttered — clothes draped over a chair, a stack of novels on the nightstand, a lamp with a crooked shade. The bed is unmade, the sheets rumpled, and it feels more intimate than any five-star hotel Hannah has ever slept in.
Emily pulls back the covers, and Hannah follows her in, the sheets cool against her bare skin. Emily wraps her arms around her, her head finding the hollow of Hannah's shoulder, her breath warm against Hannah's neck.
"This is real, right?" Emily asks, her voice small. "I'm not going to wake up and find out I imagined the whole thing?"
Hannah's arm tightens around her. She presses a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her — shampoo, sweat, something indefinable that is just Emily. "It's real. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Emily is quiet for a moment. Then: "Good. Because I have a lot more questions. And I need you to answer them while I'm still too tired to be embarrassed about asking."
Hannah laughs, the sound rumbling in her chest. "Ask me anything."
Emily props herself up on an elbow, looking down at Hannah. Her hair is a wild halo in the dim light, her freckles dark against her flushed skin. She's still in her underwear, and Hannah traces a lazy pattern on her hip, waiting.
"The phoenix," Emily says. "You said it's about being reborn. What did you survive?"
Hannah's hand stills. The question lands softly, but it carries weight — the weight of years she doesn't talk about, pieces of herself she's kept locked away. She looks at Emily, at the genuine curiosity in her eyes, and feels something in her chest give way.
"My parents died when I was three. I don't remember them. I was shuffled between foster homes in Norway — some good, some not. I never belonged anywhere until I found a football. Until I found Barcelona." She pauses, her thumb resuming its tracing on Emily's hip. "The phoenix is for the girl who didn't have a home, rising from the ashes to build one for herself."
Emily's eyes are bright. She doesn't look away. "And the compass?"
"I got that after we won the Champions League. I'd been lost for so long — moving, adapting, never letting myself want anything permanent. And then I was standing in the middle of a pitch in Paris, with confetti in my hair and my teammates' arms around me, and I realized I knew exactly where I was. Where I was going. The compass points inward, toward me. Toward the person I'd become."
Emily's hand finds Hannah's chest, her palm flat over her heart. "Do you still feel it? The knowing?"
Hannah covers Emily's hand with her own. "Right now? More than ever."
Emily leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Hannah's lips. "I don't know where this is going. I don't know what it means that you're famous and I teach seven-year-olds how to spell 'turtle.' But I know I want to find out. With you."
Hannah's throat is tight. She pulls Emily closer, their bodies fitting together like they were made for this, the sheets a tangled mess around them. The night stretches ahead, full of possibility, and for the first time in a long time, Hannah isn't afraid of what it might bring.