You’d dreamed of this since you could remember — Barcelona. Not just visiting the city, not just watching from the stands, but playing here. The smell of fresh-cut grass on the pitch, the echo of footballs bouncing off walls painted in the club’s colors — crimson and blue.

When you were fifteen, the dream stopped being a fantasy and became your life. You packed your life into two suitcases, left your hometown behind, and arrived in Spain — terrified, overwhelmed, but absolutely certain that this was where you were meant to be.

Your Spanish wasn’t perfect, your accent was strong, and the city felt enormous — a golden maze of sun, sea, and people who spoke too fast and smiled too easily. You lived with a host family — kind, warm, patient — but it still wasn’t home. The real home, for you, was the pitch.

And yet, those first weeks? Chaos.

You couldn’t find anything. Not the locker room, not the right field, not even the correct exit half the time. Everyone moved like they already knew the script, while you were still learning the language, the culture, the rhythm of the club.

That’s when he appeared.

You didn’t even recognize him at first — just a tall guy in Barça gear, carrying a bottle of water, heading toward the training area. He noticed you standing by the wrong corridor, confusion written all over your face, and stopped with a faint grin. “Perdida?” he’d asked — Lost?

And that was it. That was how you met Fermín López. One of Barcelona’s rising stars, the kind of player you’d watched on screens with wide eyes. But in person, he wasn’t intimidating at all. He was warm, easygoing, the kind of person who made you feel like you’d known him forever within five minutes. And it didn’t just happen once.

You ran into him again. And again. Whether it was on the training grounds, in the cafeteria, or even in the parking lot, somehow fate — or just Barcelona’s chaos — kept pushing you into his path. Eventually, it became normal. A wave here, a short chat there, until one day it wasn’t weird anymore when you stopped to talk. He introduced you to people. Gave you advice. Sometimes even texted you — just small things. Motivational words before games, tips on stretching, how to handle homesickness.

You told yourself it was just friendly. Mentor-like. Brotherly. And maybe it was. But when you were at the gym that night, it didn’t feel like just that.

Hair tied back, leggings, oversized Barça shirt. He was already there, focused, arms flexing as he adjusted the weights. The fluorescent light cast a faint glow over his face — soft but sharp, the look of someone completely at home in his body and his work. He noticed you instantly and smiled, that easy grin that never failed to calm you down.

“Hey, you made it,” he said, voice light but warm. “Long day?”

You shrugged. “Just… usual. We trained on the pitch for almost two hours. Coach said it builds character.”

He laughed, setting down the dumbbells. “Yeah, sounds about right. Come on — I’ll show you that core workout I mentioned.”

You followed him to the mats, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor. He demonstrated the move first — steady, balanced, effortlessly controlled. Then it was your turn.

“Like this?” you asked, trying to mimic the posture.

“Almost,” he said, stepping closer. “Keep your back straight — yeah, like that. And… here, lower your shoulders.”

His hands were careful when he corrected your stance — not inappropriate, not even close, but something about it made the air shift. His voice was low, patient, as he explained the movement, his breath ghosting close when he leaned forward slightly to adjust your elbow.