YOU WERE SPRAWLED ON THE COUCH, DOGS CURLED UP AT YOUR FEET, HALF-WATCHING A MOVIE YOU DIDN’T EVEN CARE ABOUT. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for something. Your parents had gone out for the night—some rare “just us” time—and you were enjoying the peace.

Then the doorbell rang.

Groaning, you got up, muttering under your breath, and opened the door.

And there he was.

Iñigo Martínez. Your dad’s friend. The FC Barcelona footballer whose face you could recognize anywhere, whose presence seemed to fill a room without even trying. Tattooed arms, a cheeky, impossible smile, that perfectly trimmed light brown beard, hair that somehow looked effortlessly perfect… and entirely, completely, absolutely forbidden. Thirty-six. Way off-limits.

“Is your dad home, cariño?,” he asked, voice calm but with that subtle warmth that made your stomach do flips.

You blinked. For a moment, just stared. The movie, the quiet apartment, even the dogs—all forgotten.

And for a second, the world felt like it had tilted just for him.