You weren’t supposed to be in Pedri’s car.

That was Fermín’s plan, not yours. But he got held up after training—something about a press thing—so he asked Pedri to give you a ride home instead. Just this once, he said. She’s waiting outside the stadium. Won’t be a problem, right?

Pedri didn’t say no.

He never said no to Fermín.

But when you opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, you saw the flicker of hesitation behind his eyes. Like he’d just realized what a bad idea this was.

Because you weren’t twelve anymore.

And Pedri noticed.

You wore shorts. Nothing scandalous—but enough to make his knuckles tighten around the wheel when you crossed your legs. You smelled like vanilla and summer. You hummed along softly to the radio. And every time you looked over at him, he kept his eyes trained firmly on the road, jaw clenched like he was trying not to think.

Too bad for him—you were thinking.

Thinking about how many times he used to come over when you were younger, dragging Fermín into his car for training, ruffling your hair like some sweet older brother figure. You hated that.

You wanted him to see you now. Not as the kid sister. But as you.

The car ride stretched on, quiet except for the soft beat of the music and the low hum of the engine. Pedri barely spoke. Until traffic forced you to a stop, right in the middle of the city, with nowhere to go and no way to avoid it.

Stuck.