Improvements
It’s routine now.
Not something they talk about.
Not something Ingrid ever asks for.
But each night, around ten, Mapi either turns up at her apartment or, if she’s already there from dinner or a movie, just… stays. They don’t make a thing of it.
They go through their bedtime routines, brushing their teeth side by side in the small bathroom, bumping elbows when Mapi gets too close. Ingrid grumbles about it, Mapi just grins. Then Mapi disappears to change into sleep clothes -usually an old, oversized Barça tee and a pair of loose shorts- and Ingrid does the same.
By the time they both crawl into bed, exhaustion is tugging at Ingrid’s limbs. She barely thinks before rolling onto her side, facing away, but she feels the shift of the mattress as Mapi settles in behind her. Close, but not touching. Never touching.
That’s part of the unspoken rule too. Ingrid isn’t sure why. Or, well, she does know why. If Mapi held her, if she let herself lean into her, it would mean something. And Ingrid can’t afford for this to mean something. Because that would make it real. And if it’s real, it can be taken away.
So, instead, she keeps it as it is.
No talking. No touching. Just presence, and somehow, that’s enough. Somehow, she sleeps. Really sleeps. She’s not saying the nightmares aren’t there -they are. But they don’t feel as real anymore, don’t leave her gasping awake in a panic.
She doesn’t feel like she’s dying every day. She’s functioning.
And Mapi…
Mapi doesn’t say anything. She never acknowledges that she stays over every night, never comments on how Ingrid is sleeping better, playing better, being better. Ingrid doesn’t know if that’s because she doesn’t realise how much of a difference she’s made or if she’s just waiting for Ingrid to bring it up first.
And Ingrid-
She doesn’t know if she wants to bring it up, because if they talk about it, she’ll have to admit that she’s relying on Mapi. That she needs her, and that’s a terrifying thought. So she ignores it. Focuses on the fact that, for the first time in months, things feel easier. And she lets herself have it.
Just for a little while longer.
A week into their new routine, Ingrid feels good at training. Not just not exhausted, but good. Her passes are sharper, her movement is quicker, she actually feels present instead of just trying to keep her head above water.
Pere notices, makes a comment about it after a particularly good drill.
“Looking sharp today, Engen.”
Ingrid just nods, doesn’t trust herself to respond, because she doesn’t know what to say. She glances across the pitch, finds Mapi watching her, something unreadable in her expression.
She looks…thoughtful. Like she’s figuring something out. And Ingrid-
She forces herself to look away. Because if she thinks about it too much, she’ll start thinking about why she’s doing better, and she can’t afford to do that.
That night, Mapi shows up a little earlier than usual. Ingrid is in the kitchen, finishing up the last of her dinner when she hears the front door open and close. She doesn’t even flinch anymore.
Just calls out, “You’re early.”
Mapi appears in the doorway, grinning as she leans against the frame. “Training wiped you out today, huh?”
Ingrid rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Because, well, yeah. It had.
“I was gonna shower,” she mutters, moving to take her plate to the sink.
Mapi waves a hand. “Go. I’ll clean up.”
Ingrid hesitates. “You don’t have to-“
“Go.”
There’s no room for argument. So Ingrid just sighs, turning to leave. By the time she comes back, hair damp and feeling a little more human, Mapi is already curled up on the couch, flicking through the TV.
“Anything good on?” Ingrid asks, dropping onto the other end of the sofa, tucking her feet up.
Mapi hums, pausing on some Spanish crime drama. “You wouldn’t understand it,” she teases.
Ingrid scoffs, grabbing a cushion and tossing it at her. “I would.”
Mapi catches it easily, laughing.
And it’s-
It’s easy. It’s comfortable. And Ingrid…she tries not to think about why. Later, when they’re getting ready for bed, Ingrid catches Mapi watching her in the mirror.
She pauses mid-tooth brushing, raising a brow. “What?”
Mapi just shrugs, like she hasn’t been staring for a full minute. “You’re doing better.”
Ingrid’s stomach twists.
She spits out the toothpaste, rinses her mouth. “What?” she repeats, feigning ignorance.
Mapi just leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You know what I mean.”
Ingrid looks away, focusing on hanging her toothbrush back up.
“Training,” Mapi elaborates. “You’re sharper. You’re sleeping. You don’t look like you’re gonna collapse at any second.”
She says it lightly, but there’s something pointed beneath the words.Like she knows. Like she’s waiting for Ingrid to admit it. And Ingrid, she can’t, because admitting it means acknowledging that Mapi is the reason. That she’s the reason Ingrid isn’t drowning anymore. And that’s too much. Too real.
So she just shrugs.
“I guess.”
Mapi doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. Just gives her a look, then turns to leave the bathroom.
“Come on, princesa. Bedtime.”
And Ingrid-
She follows. Pretends that her heart doesn’t stutter at the word, and pretends she doesn’t care why Mapi keeps staying.
*
It starts the way it always does. Soft at first. Subtle. Then the edges sharpen, the colours bleed, and she’s back there. The apartment. The smell of Isabelle’s perfume clinging to the air. She can hear her voice, sickly sweet, cooing her name like it’s a joke, like it’s funny, like Ingrid is a game she already knows she’s won.
Then the laughter. Not Isabelle’s. Someone else’s. And the worst part-
The part that always guts her—
Is that she stays. She knows. She’s known for months. But she stays. Lets herself be gaslit, manipulated, made to believe she’s the problem. That if she was just better, if she was just enough, Isabelle wouldn’t need anyone else. Wouldn’t have to go looking for something more.
And Ingrid,
She knows how this ends.
She knows what happens next.
She sees herself there, standing in the doorway, frozen, gut twisting, heart cracking, watching, and yet she still can’t move. She still can’t look away.
She still can’t-
“Ingrid.”
The voice cuts through the dream like a knife. A hand grips her arm, firm, grounding.
“Ingrid, wake up.”
It drags her out, yanks her back into the present, back here, back to-
She wakes with a violent inhale, body jerking, hands clenched into fists against the sheets. The room is dark. She’s not in that apartment. She’s not there. She’s here. In her own bed. In Barcelona. Safe.,But she doesn’t feel safe. Her chest is tight, breath coming too fast, too shallow. She blinks hard, trying to shake the fog from her mind, trying to remind herself what’s real and what isn’t.
There’s movement beside her.
“Ingrid,” Mapi says again, voice soft. Steady. “You’re okay.”
Ingrid swallows hard, shifting. Her body is trembling. She hates that. Hates this. Hates that Mapi had to see it. That she had to wake her up. That she knows.
“I’m fine,” Ingrid mutters, voice hoarse.
She pulls away from Mapi’s touch, pushing herself upright. She presses her hands against her face, then into her hair, gripping tight at the roots like the pain will anchor her somehow.
Mapi doesn’t touch her again. Doesn’t try to. She just sits there, waiting. Close, but not too close. Ingrid focuses on the sound of her breathing. The steady, real rhythm of it. Something to hold onto. She exhales, long and slow, forcing her hands to drop to her lap.
“It was just a dream,” she mumbles.
Mapi is quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, she asks, “About her?”
Ingrid tenses. Because of course Mapi knows. She’s never said Isabelle’s name aloud, never spoken about her, never acknowledged that she exists. But Mapi isn’t stupid. She’s been piecing things together from the moment Ingrid arrived. The way she flinches at unexpected touches. The way she keeps herself at arm’s length. The way she never lets her guard down completely.
Mapi knows, and now, after everything, after all Mapi has done for her, Ingrid feels like she owes her something.
So she gives her the bare minimum.
“She-“ Ingrid swallows, licks her lips. “She wasn’t…good to me.”
Mapi says nothing. Just listens.
Ingrid exhales, glancing down at her hands. “I should’ve left sooner,” she admits. “But I didn’t.”
She doesn’t say why. Doesn’t say how it happened. How Isabelle got into her head, into her bones. How she made Ingrid feel so fucking small, so convinced that no one else would ever want her, that she was the problem, that Isabelle was the best she’d ever get. She doesn’t say any of it. But somehow, she thinks Mapi understands anyway.
Mapi exhales, rubbing at her jaw. “Joder,” she mutters.
Ingrid doesn’t say anything. She can’t. Because it still hurts. Even now, even after all this time, it still fucking hurts.
Mapi shifts, pulling her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She doesn’t press Ingrid for more. Doesn’t ask for details. She just sits there.
Present.
And Ingrid,
She doesn’t know why, but that makes her throat tighten.
She clenches her jaw, stares at the wall. “I don’t -I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Mapi nods. “Okay.”
Silence settles between them. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable.
Just there. Eventually, Ingrid lies back down.Mapi does too. She doesn’t reach for Ingrid, doesn’t try to touch her or comfort her. She just stays close. And somehow…somehow, that’s enough, because eventually, Ingrid is able to start initiating touch herself.
It’s slow, but it happens.
Ingrid doesn’t notice at first, too wrapped up in surviving, too focused on just getting through. But one day, she finds herself reaching for Mapi’s wrist mid-conversation, a casual, natural touch, as if it’s something she’s always done.
And she doesn’t flinch.
Not at the contact, not at the warmth of Mapi’s skin beneath her fingertips. It startles her, for a second, this realisation. That she’s no longer just tolerating Mapi’s presence but actively seeking it out.
That she’s -comfortable. She’s not sure when it happens. If there’s a single moment where things shift, or if it’s just been building, stacking on top of itself like bricks, until there’s finally something solid underneath her feet. But she doesn’t question it too much. She just lets it happen.
Mapi, of course, notices immediately. Her delight is subtle at first, shown in the way her lips twitch upward when Ingrid makes a joke during the drive to training, or in the way her eyes soften when Ingrid rests her forehead against her shoulder after a long day.
But eventually, it becomes more obvious.
“Look at you,” Mapi teases one evening, as they walk along the beach after training. “Making jokes. Initiating touch.”
She bumps her shoulder against Ingrid’s, grinning.
Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Cállate,” she mutters, but there’s no heat to it.
Mapi just laughs. And Ingrid -she lets herself smile.
It’s not perfect.
There are still moments where Ingrid feels like she’s balancing on a knife’s edge, where a misplaced touch or an unexpected sound makes her stomach twist in a way she can’t quite control.
And Mapi, perceptive as always, still asks before touching her.
Not with words. But Ingrid notices the way she hovers, the way her hand lingers just above her arm before settling, only when Ingrid gives the barest of nods. The way she waits. Always. The way she’s patient.
And Ingrid -she’s getting better. She’s learning. Healing. It’s not linear, but it’s something. But then…
Then, the jokes start.
From the team. From people who don’t know. It’s harmless, at first. Lighthearted teasing.
“You two are practically attached at the hip.”
“Just date already.”
“Why do you even bother having separate apartments?”
It shouldn’t bother Ingrid. She knows they don’t mean anything by it. Knows that to everyone else, her and Mapi’s closeness is just another easy target for banter. But it does. It does. It makes her stomach turn. Makes her skin crawl. Because suddenly, it’s not just them. Suddenly, there’s attention on it.
On her.
On something that has, up until now, felt safe.
Private.
Hers.
She stops reaching for Mapi after that. Stops initiating contact. Stops making jokes. She doesn’t pull away entirely, but she withdraws. She goes quiet. And Mapi notices. Of course she does. One evening, after training, after another awkward car ride where Ingrid barely said two words, Mapi finally corners her.
“Okay,” Mapi says, crossing her arms as she leans against the kitchen counter. “What’s up?”
Ingrid stiffens. “Nothing.”
Mapi’s brow lifts. “Oh, claro,” she says, sarcasm thick. “Because nothing explains why you’ve suddenly gone mute around me.”
Ingrid exhales, turns away. “It’s -I just- It’s stupid.”
Mapi steps closer. “Try me.”
Ingrid clenches her jaw. She doesn’t want to talk about this. She doesn’t want to admit how much it affected her, how much something so small sent her spiralling.
But Mapi is patient. She just waits.
So Ingrid sighs, rubbing at her temple. “The team,” she mutters. “The jokes.”
Mapi’s expression shifts, softens slightly. “Ah.”
Ingrid fidgets. “I just -I don’t like-“ She shakes her head, frustrated with herself. “It makes me feel-“
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have the words for it. But Mapi watches her carefully, eyes dark and serious. And then she exhales.
“Ingrid,” she says, voice quiet. “I’m sorry.”
Ingrid blinks.
Mapi sighs. “I should have shut it down earlier. I didn’t think-I thought maybe you were okay with it. That you knew it was just jokes. But I should have realised-“ She shakes her head. “Mierda.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” Ingrid mutters.
“Yes,” Mapi insists. “Yes, I do. If it made you uncomfortable, I should have done something. Next time, I will.”
Ingrid doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just nods. Mapi studies her for a moment longer, then takes a careful step forward.
She reaches out -slowly, deliberately- hand hovering just above Ingrid’s. A silent question. Ingrid hesitates. But only for a second. Then, cautiously, she nods. And Mapi’s fingers curl around hers, warm, steady.