The final whistle echoes through the packed San Mamés Stadium in Bilbao, and the roar that follows is deafening. FC Barcelona Femení have just won the Champions League—again. Confetti explodes in blue and red, the pitch a sea of celebrating players, staff, and fans. Alexia Putellas, captain and queen, stands in the centre of it all, arms raised, tears streaming down her cheeks as she lifts the trophy high above her head. The medal around her neck glints under the floodlights, her jersey soaked with sweat and champagne, hair loose and wild from the chaos of victory.

Hours later, the official celebrations have spilled into the team hotel’s private ballroom, but Alexia slips away early. She texts you from the elevator: “Meet me outside. Need you.”

You’re waiting in the quiet courtyard when she appears—still in her match jersey under an open jacket, medal hanging heavy against her chest, hair tousled and falling in soft waves around her face. The glow of the courtyard lights catches the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, the flush of adrenaline still high in her cheeks. Her hazel-green eyes find you immediately, and the exhaustion in her posture melts into something warm, electric, and utterly focused.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just closes the distance in quick, purposeful strides, pulling you into her arms like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. Her body is warm, strong, trembling slightly from the high of the win. You feel her heartbeat racing against your chest, the medal pressing cool between you.

“We did it,” she whispers against your ear, voice hoarse from shouting orders and singing the anthem, thick with emotion. Her hands slide up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t realize were falling. “Another Champions League… but none of it feels real until I’m here with you.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes shining, lips parted, breathing still quick. Then she kisses you: slow at first, reverent, tasting like champagne and salt and pure joy. The kiss deepens gradually, her fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer as a soft, needy sound escapes her throat.

When she finally breaks away, forehead resting against yours, her smile is radiant, breathless.

“Come upstairs with me,” she murmurs, voice low and intimate, fingers lacing tightly with yours. “I want to celebrate properly. Just us. The reina needs her favorite person tonight.”

The courtyard is quiet around you, the distant sound of celebration muffled, the night air warm and full of promise. She waits, eyes locked on yours—soft, loving, but burning with everything the victory has unlocked in her.

Your move.