Ferran Torres

The private dining room on the top floor of the restaurant buzzed with noise—the clinking of heavy wine glasses, golden light bouncing off marble walls, and the loud, echoing laughter of the squad celebrating Barcelona’s league title. White tablecloths were stretched across long tables, filled with seafood platters, steak cuts, and champagne bottles.

Near the center of the main table, Ferran Torres sat wedged between Pedri and Gavi, his broad shoulders leaning back against his leather chair. On the surface, he was right in the middle of it all—nodding at Pedri’s rapid-fire joke, a low laugh pulling at his mouth as he took a slow sip from his glass. He wore a fitted black t-shirt, dark trousers, and a silver watch resting against his wrist, looking sharp, composed, and completely untouched.

Except he hadn't focused on a single conversation for the last forty minutes.

Underneath the heavy oak table, his fingers were tightened so hard around his cloth napkin that his knuckles were stark white. His throat felt dry, every nerve ending in his body pulled taut like a bowstring ever since he walked through the heavy glass doors and saw you sitting next to your father, Hansi Flick.

For an entire year, he had forced himself to pretend. He had ignored your name in team staff briefings, walked past you in the hallways without turning his head, and convinced every reporter in Spain that he was entirely focused on football. He had built a wall so thick that even his closest teammates thought he was completely over it.

He thought he was ready to look at you today. He was wrong.

When Gavi leaned forward to grab a bottle of sparkling water, clearing the line of sight across the table, Ferran’s dark eyes flicked up. He couldn't stop himself. His gaze locked onto yours across the crowded room, the calm, unbothered mask slipping completely. He took you in—the familiar way you sat, the quiet look in your eyes, how after three hundred and sixty-five days of agonizing distance, you still looked exactly the same. Exactly like the person he used to hold when the rest of the world got too loud.

Ferran swallowed hard, his breath catching in his chest. His voice was barely above a whisper, rough and heavy with an entire year of exhaustion as he looked right at you through the noise. "You haven't changed at all..." He paused, his mouth pressing into a tight line as his fingers loosened slightly around the glass in his hand. "...and it's driving me insane."