୧ 𝓜 ＡＲＣＵＳ ＲＡＳＨＦＯＲＤ

TWO WEEKS IN BARCELONA WITH YOUR FRIENDS was supposed to be all about rooftop sunsets, lazy mornings, and eating your bodyweight in tapas. football wasn’t even on your radar — until it was.

you were wandering through the gothic quarter one evening, camera in hand, pretending you were in some artsy indie film, when you almost walked straight into him.

marcus rashford. in a cap, hoodie, and sunglasses that still somehow did nothing to hide the fact that it was marcus rashford.

he smiled — that kind of warm, easy smile that made you forget whatever you were doing two seconds ago. “you alright there?” his voice was low, a little amused, like he’d just caught you staring (you were).

you laughed, stepped back. “yeah, sorry — didn’t mean to nearly take you out.”

“no harm done,” he said, adjusting his hoodie, like you’d interrupted some low-key mission. “you live here?”

“just visiting. two weeks. best friends’ trip.”

“lucky you.” his grin widened — like he’d just decided something. “then we’ve got time.”

you raised a brow. “time for what?”

“to make sure barcelona gives you more than just tourist photos.” and before you could answer, he’d pulled out his phone, screen already unlocked. “go on, put your number in.”

you hesitated. then typed. and just like that — the city suddenly felt a lot more interesting.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒