I’m dying.
Mapi doesn’t make a scene about it. She doesn’t call the team out in the middle of training or snap at them when the teasing starts up again. That isn’t how she does things.
Instead, she waits until they’re in the locker room, until training is done and everyone is relaxed, peeling off sweat-soaked shirts and taping up sore ankles. She waits for a moment when they’ll actually listen.
Then, casually, she says, “Chicas, lay off Ingrid, yeah?”
The chatter dies down.
Ona glances up from tying her laces. “Why? It’s just jokes.”
Pina frowns. “Did we say something bad?”
“It’s not about what you said,” Mapi says, firm but calm. “Just -enough with the teasing, okay?”
The team exchanges glances.
Aitana tilts her head. “Is something going on between you two?”
Mapi resists the urge to sigh. “No.” She shakes her head. “None of that.”
“Then why-?”
Mapi cuts Patri off with a look. “Porque lo digo yo.” Because I said so.
That seems to settle it. For all their curiosity, for all their teasing, they trust her. They let it go.
Ingrid doesn’t know this conversation happens. All she knows is that, one day, the teasing stops, and God, she’s relieved. The jokes had made her stomach twist, her skin crawl. She’d felt like something private had been dragged into the open, left out for anyone to comment on.
But now, there’s nothing.mNo sly smirks, no knowing glances, no just date already comments. And she can breathe again. She doesn’t ask why it stopped. She doesn’t want to know. She’s just grateful. Things settle after that.
She falls back into her new routine with Mapi -training together, driving together, spending evenings together. Mapi still stays the night. It’s still unspoken, still something they never talk about, but it happens, like clockwork.
It’s comfortable. Safe.
And then-
Then, Ingrid gets butterflies. The first time it happens, she ignores it. It’s a fluke, she tells herself. A weird reaction to something unrelated. But then it happens again.
And again.
And again.
Every time Mapi’s fingers brush against hers, every time she casually slings an arm around Ingrid’s shoulders, every time she grins at her like she’s pleased with her presence. It’s not good. It’s really not good. Because Ingrid knows what this is. She knows. She’s been here before. And it never, never ends well.
So she does what she does best -she ignores it. She shoves the feeling down, locks it away, pretends it doesn’t exist. Because if she ignores it, then it isn’t real. And if it isn’t real, it can’t hurt her.
She does a decent job of hiding it, too.
Mapi doesn’t notice anything -doesn’t notice the way Ingrid tenses when she touches her, the way her breath catches when their fingers accidentally brush. Or if she does notice, she doesn’t say anything. And Ingrid -she takes that as a good thing. Because she can’t let this be real. She won’t.
In fact, she eventually manages to convinces herself she’s fine, that she was just imagining things. That these feelings, the butterflies -none of it means anything. It’s just nerves. That’s all. She’s never trusted someone like this before, never let someone in this much. It makes sense that she’d be a little…on edge.
It doesn’t mean she likes Mapi. Not like that. They’re just friendly feelings. She repeats it enough that she starts to believe it. It helps, honestly. Helps her relax, helps her be close to Mapi without second-guessing every little touch, every lingering glance.
She falls into their routine again. It’s normal. It’s easy.
Until Mapi gets sick.
It starts with a cough. A small, dry thing that Mapi tries to hide behind her fist. Ingrid notices it, of course, but doesn’t think much of it. Training is exhausting, the weather has been weirdly unpredictable, and Mapi isn’t exactly known for taking care of herself properly.
Then, the next day, the cough turns into sneezing. Sniffling. Red-rimmed eyes. Ingrid raises a brow when Mapi slumps onto the bench beside her, groaning as she rubs at her temples.
“Are you okay?” Ingrid asks, tilting her head.
“Yes, yes,” Mapi waves her off. “I’m fine.”
She’s not, though. Because, an hour later, she’s visibly shivering despite the Barcelona heat, blinking sluggishly as she tries -and fails- to focus on the training drill. And then she throws up. Right there. On the pitch. Ingrid barely has time to react before Mapi is bent over, hands braced on her knees, retching into the grass.
“Joder,” Ona mutters, stepping back. “That’s not good.”
Pere is by Mapi’s side in an instant, rubbing a hand over his face like this is the last thing he needs today. “María, go home.”
“I’m fine,” Mapi groans, straightening up way too quickly. It’s a mistake. Her legs wobble beneath her, her face ashen.
“Home,” Pere repeats, firmer this time.
“But-“
“María.”
Mapi groans again, this time in defeat, rubbing a hand over her face before turning to Ingrid.
“Come with me,” she pleads, her voice scratchy and weak.
And Ingrid, before she could sepal, was interrupted by Pere.
“Yes, go with her. Make sure she rests.”
But Ingrid hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want to. But because the idea of taking care of Mapi -of being the strong one, the one someone else depends on- is terrifying. But Mapi had done the same for her, hadn’t she? Countless times. Without hesitation.
So Ingrid swallows her fears and nods.
“Okay.”
Mapi is miserable by the time they get to her place. She slumps onto the couch with a dramatic groan, kicking off her shoes with little care about where they land.
“Dios, I think I’m dying,” she mumbles, rubbing at her temples.
Ingrid scoffs, setting her bag down by the door. “You’re not dying.”
“I feel like I’m dying.”
“You have the flu.”
“Same thing.”
Ingrid rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she moves toward the kitchen. “Do you have anything for the fever?”
Mapi hums, then points weakly toward the bathroom. “Cabinet above the sink.”
Ingrid nods, heading that way. She finds the medicine easily enough, along with a thermometer, which she grabs because she has a suspicion that Mapi’s fever is worse than she’s letting on. When she gets back, Mapi has curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
“Here.” Ingrid kneels beside her, holding out the thermometer. “Check your temp.”
Mapi groans. “Too much effort.”
“Mapi.”
“Fine.” She takes it with all the enthusiasm of someone being forced to do hard labor. It beeps a minute later. Ingrid checks.
39.4°C.
“Jesus,” she mutters.
“What?” Mapi mumbles, voice thick with exhaustion.
“You’re burning up.”
“Told you I was dying.”
Ingrid huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, she presses the back of her hand to Mapi’s forehead, confirming what the thermometer already told her. She’s boiling.
“Okay,” Ingrid says, shifting back. “You need to take this.” She holds up the fever medicine. “And you need to drink something. Have you eaten today?”
Mapi barely cracks an eye open. “No.”
Ingrid sighs. She should have known.
“Alright.” She stands. “I’ll make you something.”
Mapi makes a noise of protest but doesn’t fight it, clearly too exhausted to argue. Ingrid goes to the kitchen. She makes something -soup, the easiest thing to force down when sick- and by the time she brings it back, Mapi is already half-asleep, curled up with a pillow over her face.
She nudges her gently.
“Eat first,” she says.
Mapi grumbles but obeys, forcing herself to it up and take the bowl. She barely gets halfway through before she sets the bowl down, her body sagging with exhaustion.
“Okay,” Ingrid murmurs, softer now. “Sleep.”
Mapi hums, shifting to get comfortable. And then, just as her eyes flutter shut, she mumbles, “Gracias, Ingrid.”
And Ingrid-
Ingrid feels something tighten in her chest. Something she really shouldn’t feel. But she doesn’t think about it. She won’t. Instead, she sits on the edge of the couch, watching as Mapi’s breathing evens out, and tells herself -again- that this means nothing.
Hours pass, and Mapi is still miserable. She’s now buried under what has to be at least five blankets, cocooned in them like some kind of feverish, grumpy caterpillar.
Ingrid sits on the edge of the couch, frowning, not sure what her next move is.
“You’re overheating yourself,” she says, reaching to peel one of the blankets away.
“No,” Mapi croaks, grabbing it and pulling it back up to her chin. “It’s cold.”
“It’s not cold, María.” Ingrid murmurs.
Mapi grumbles something in Spanish -too fast for Ingrid to catch- before turning onto her side, sniffling pathetically. Ingrid sighs, glancing at the thermometer in her hand.
Still 39.4°C.
She sets it aside, then reaches for the damp cloth she’d left on the coffee table, wringing it out before pressing it against Mapi’s burning forehead. Mapi hums at the touch, leaning into it slightly. It’s quiet for a moment.
Then, “Go to bed with me.”
Ingrid blinks. “What?”
“Sleep with me,” Mapi repeats, her voice thick with exhaustion. “Please.”
Ingrid swallows.
She should say no. She should remind herself that this -this closeness, this affection- is dangerous. But Mapi is sick. She’s miserable and vulnerable and looking at Ingrid like she needs this, needs her, And Ingrid finds herself struggling to say no. She doesn’t want to. So she exhales, then quietly slips under the blankets, settling beside Mapi.
Mapi’s body was absolutely boiling beneath the blankets, so much so much so, Ingrid almost immediately feels herself beginning to sweat. She contemplates going back on her word for just a second, but then Mapi sighs, shifting closer, pressing her scolding hot forehead against Ingrid’s shoulder, murmuring a quiet,
“Gracias.”
Whatever words that had been about to escape Ingrid’s lips, immediately slip back in. She closes her eyes, letting out a quiet sigh as she rests her hand on Mapi’s arm. If she forgot about what this all meant, and how much of a furnace she currently felt like pressed against her, holding Mapi felt…nice.
“De nada,” she whispers.