Ferran Torres

The late-afternoon Barcelona sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Torres estate, casting warm, amber light across the polished hardwood floors. In the open-concept kitchen, the air was thick with the scent of simmering garlic, olive oil, and home-cooked paella. The cheerful clatter of glass stemware and the laughter of your parents catching up with Ferran's filled the house, completely oblivious to your silent misery.

You were perched on a high marble barstool near the kitchen island, endlessly scrolling through your phone just to keep your hands busy. Your parents had insisted you "needed a break" from university, dragging you across Europe under the guise of a peaceful summer trip. What they conveniently forgot to emphasize was that a "peaceful summer" meant living under the exact same roof as your lifelong arch-rival.

The heavy front door unlatched with a sharp, mechanical click, cutting through the ambient kitchen chatter.

In walked Ferran.

He looked every bit the professional athlete—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a damp grey graphic hoodie with dark shorts after an intense double-session at the Barcelona training facility. A black sports bag hung loosely over one shoulder, and his damp dark hair was pushed back under a backwards cap. He was tossing a pair of house keys casually into the air, completely unbothered, until his sharp gaze cut across the entryway and locked onto the kitchen island.

The second his dark eyes registered you sitting there, his entire posture stiffened. The easy, relaxed expression on his face collapsed into an instant, defensive scowl.

Ferran didn't even bother taking his sneakers off at the door. He tossed his gym bag onto a nearby leather bench with a heavy, deliberate thud, his clean white sneakers squeaking against the tile as he strode straight into the kitchen.

He slid right past your barstool, close enough for you to catch the cool scent of his cologne mixed with fresh outdoor air, before dropping his keys onto the marble counter with a loud, ringing clatter.

"Looks like the loser came too." Ferran grumbled under his breath, leaning his broad frame back against the counter and crossing his arms tightly over his chest as his dark eyes glared down at you with open, sarcastic provocation. "And here I thought my summer was actually going to be peaceful."