Your cousin’s wedding is the kind of event that feels more like a movie than real life.

A vineyard in the Douro Valley. Long tables under fairy lights. White roses everywhere. Everyone dressed like it’s the Met Gala instead of a family celebration. You’re wearing a soft slip dress you borrowed from your sister and shoes that hurt in the prettiest way.

You haven’t even made it past the cocktail hour when your aunt grabs your wrist and says, “Come, come Miguel wants you meet some of the boys from his team.”

Team?

You didn’t realize your cousin had football friends. You didn’t even know he had a team. He was always the one organizing beach barbecues and showing up to parties late, not the type to casually mention his circle includes professionals.

You follow her anyway.

And then you see him.

João Félix.

Standing in a linen shirt, collar open, hands in his pockets, sunglasses pushed up on his head like he forgot they were there. He’s smiling at something your cousin says, not that you hear a word of it. You blink, look again. It’s him. Not in a stadium. Not on a screen. Here.

Your cousin turns to you. “João, this is my little cousin. Don’t let the dress fool you, she bites.”

You want to vanish.

João laughs, eyes already on you, amused. “I can handle it.”