You’d grown up in the glow of stadium lights.

From the moment you could remember, football wasn’t just a game — it was the heartbeat of your family. You were Gavi’s little sister, after all. The golden boy of Barcelona. The kid who turned from a local legend into one of the brightest stars in Spain, and who still called you pequeña whenever he messed up your hair before leaving for practice.

You’d watched his entire career unfold from the front row — literally. From the family seats at Camp Nou, you’d seen your brother rise, fall, and rise again. You’d clapped until your hands went numb, screamed his name from the stands, celebrated every goal like it was your own. The stadium was your second home, the locker room corridors your childhood playground.

And so, naturally, you grew up surrounded by footballers. Pedri, Alejandro, Balde, all of them — familiar faces who’d been around since your school days. But none felt as woven into your family’s story as Fermín López.

Fermín had been there forever. He and Pablo met when they were kids. Two Andalusian boys with too much energy and too big of a dream. Your earliest memories had him somewhere in the background — laughing with your brother in your kitchen, tossing a ball around the garden, always calling you “la enana” while pretending you were too little to understand their jokes.

But you weren’t little anymore. You’d grown up. And somewhere along the way, so had Fermín.

He’d turned into this confident, effortlessly cool version of himself — all sharp jawlines, casual grins, and soft accent that made people listen without meaning to. You still thought of him like an older brother most of the time… but sometimes, sometimes, your brain didn’t get the memo.

He was still around, always helping, always kind. Sometimes when Pablo was too busy or too lost in his own whirlwind of fame and distractions, it was Fermín who showed up. Picking you up after practice, driving you to your own matches, asking about school, always keeping that protective tone that made you roll your eyes and smile anyway.

And tonight was no different.

It was late — well past midnight — when you texted him that the party was ending. Pablo was away again, somewhere with his girlfriend, probably forgetting that you even had a curfew. You didn’t expect Fermín to actually offer, but he replied within a minute.

“I’ll come get you. Don’t worry.”

And so, twenty minutes later, there he was. Leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, headlights cutting through the Barcelona night. The streets were pulsing with life — music spilling from bars, the air heavy with laughter and the smell of churros and gasoline.

You slid into the passenger seat, the door clicking softly shut.

“Hey,” he said with that easy smile. “You have fun?”