୨ৎ “you were an ugly kid, but you’re a sexy man” — Sabrina Carpenter.

“”

୧ 𝓧 ＡＶＩ ＥＳＰＡＲＴ ＦＯＮＴ

YOU’D KNOWN HIM YOUR WHOLE LIFE. SMALL NEIGHBORHOOD, CRACKED PAVEMENT, SUNBURNT SUMMERS, SAND-DUSTED JERSEYS.

Xavi Espart — the boy who used to race you down the street, who’d steal your last piece of candy, who’d trip over his own untied laces and laugh so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Hot was never a word you used for him. Not back then. Not when you were kids.

But the years have a way of playing tricks on you.

Tonight, the old apartment in Barcelona feels smaller than you remember — the ceilings lower, the walls warmer, the air heavier. Outside, the city buzzes with late-night life, but inside it’s just the two of you. You on the couch. Him beside you. A familiar closeness, but something in it has changed.

He’d stopped by after training with FC Barcelona — said he missed you, said he wanted to catch up. You hadn’t expected… this.

Sleeves pushed up. Veiny forearms. Neckline loose. Hair damp from a shower, curls falling over his forehead in a way that shouldn’t make your heart trip the way it does.

Your eyes drift — not to glasses this time, but to the old blaugrana scarf tossed carelessly beside him. The one you used to wave for him when he was twelve and convinced he’d play for FC Barcelona someday. He’d always blush when you did, always say you were embarrassing him.

Now? He looks like he could break hearts without even trying.

He notices you staring. He always notices. He always has.

“Qué?” he asks, a little grin tugging at his mouth. Like he already knows. Like he’s daring you to say it.

You swallow, pulse stumbling. “When did you get hot?” It slips out before you can stop it — half whisper, half accusation.

His brows lift, slow and amused. “Hot?” he repeats, testing the word, rolling it around like he’s never heard it in your voice before. “You’ve seen me every day of my life. And now you say that?”

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒