୧ 𝓕 ＥＲＲＡＮ ＴＯＲＲＥＳ

THE AIR SMELLED OF WARM VANILLA, CINNAMON, AND THE FAINTEST TRACE OF HIS COLOGNE MIXED WITH THE SWEETNESS OF THE COOKIE DOUGH. Rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window, a soft soundtrack to the quiet domesticity of your Barcelona apartment. The world outside seemed far away, blurred behind streaked glass and the fog of the winter chill.

Ferran leaned against the counter, flour dusting the ends of his hair, one hand buried in the sticky dough, the other brushing your arm as you worked beside him. His grin — slow, lazy, completely his — made your heart skip even after all these months together.

He dipped a finger into the dough and held it out to you, eyebrows raised in playful mischief. “Come on, you know I’m not sharing it unless you kiss me first,” he teased, voice warm, low, the kind that makes your chest tighten just by hearing it.

You laughed, smearing a tiny bit of dough on his nose before leaning up. He caught your lips easily, the taste of sugar and chocolate mingling with his presence, familiar and grounding. When you pulled back, his hand lingered at the small of your back, holding you close as if letting go wasn’t an option.

“I love this,” he murmured against your hair, eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. “Us… this life. You, me, cookies, rain… nothing else matters.”

And in that quiet, rainy Barcelona afternoon, with flour on your fingers and love in every glance, the world outside ceased to exist entirely.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒