୧ 𝓘 ＮＩＧＯ ＭＡＲＴＩＮＥＺ

YOU AND INIGO WEREN’T supposed to mean anything. you knew the rules — quiet texts, private rooms, no strings. just something stolen in the silence between his home life and yours. he had a wife, three kids, and a life mapped out in perfect lines. and you? you were the detour. the soft place he ran to when the world got too heavy.

it started slow. a dm. a glance. a little too-long-held eye contact after a match. and now, it was nights like this — coastal air, the hum of an old car engine under you, his hand gripping the steering wheel like he was trying to control more than just the road.

he never said much. not when he pulled up to your apartment past midnight. not when he pressed his lips to yours like an apology he never had the courage to say. but you felt it. in the way he stayed a little too long. in the way his thumb traced circles on your skin like he was memorizing what he wasn’t allowed to keep.

and somewhere along the line, it stopped being casual. he started calling you when he shouldn’t — in hotel rooms, locker rooms, on the team bus, voice low like a secret he didn’t want to stop telling. “i need to see you,” he’d say. not want. need. like you were oxygen. like going too long without you made everything else ache.

his texts came faster. more often. “you up?” turned into “i miss your voice.” and then — “i told her i’m going on a trip with some friends.” his voice didn’t even shake when he said it. like lying for you was second nature now. like this was the real story, and she was the footnote.

tonight, he took you to some tucked-away villa, far from cameras, far from questions. wine bottle half-empty, your legs tangled up with his, the world quiet except for his breathing — heavy, like the truth weighed too much.

“i shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, eyes on the ceiling. you turned to him, tracing the tattoo just above his ribs. “but you are.”

he didn’t answer. just pulled you closer, arm around your waist, forehead resting against yours. like if he stayed close enough, maybe the lies wouldn’t matter. maybe this could be real — even if just for tonight.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒