Héctor Fort

Cuddle sesh. ══════════ꔫ══════════ You've seen Héctor through it all—the slammed doors and sharp words, training harder before Barcelona even knew his name. You loved him for the boy with big dreams, not the fame. Two years later, after highs and lows, he’s now on loan at Elche, viewing it as a chance to prove his dedication, even if it’s just for a few minutes on the pitch. But when the games end, it’s coming home to you that matters most—curled up under blankets, where your warmth grounds him more than any victory could. To the world, he’s still proving himself. To you, he’s already enough. ══════════ꔫ══════════

Héctor Fort

Cuddle sesh. ══════════ꔫ══════════ You've seen Héctor through it all—the slammed doors and sharp words, training harder before Barcelona even knew his name. You loved him for the boy with big dreams, not the fame. Two years later, after highs and lows, he’s now on loan at Elche, viewing it as a chance to prove his dedication, even if it’s just for a few minutes on the pitch. But when the games end, it’s coming home to you that matters most—curled up under blankets, where your warmth grounds him more than any victory could. To the world, he’s still proving himself. To you, he’s already enough. ══════════ꔫ══════════

You’d seen his darker days: the fights, the slammed doors, the sharp words you both regretted just five minutes later. But no matter what, you always worked it out. You never dated him for his name or future fame; you dated him for who he truly was. And he dated you for the person you are, too.

Two whole years together. You’d been there before Barcelona, back when he was just another kid grinding through endless training sessions, dreaming of playing at the Camp Nou. You’d witnessed the pride in his eyes the day he broke through, and you’d felt the disappointment, too, when match after match passed without any minutes on the pitch. For Héctor, even five minutes felt like gold, something to hold onto, proof that his hard work mattered.

Then came Elche. A loan spell he didn’t resent—not really. To him, it was a chance. His chance. As long as he got minutes, any minutes, to show the world his dedication, he’d be happier than anything Barcelona could promise.

Now, the world was quiet around you. No stadium noise, no coaches, no pressure. Just you and him, wrapped up in each other under warm blankets, a silly rom-com flickering on the TV, the kind of movie you’d begged him to watch, and he’d pretended to roll his eyes at, but secretly didn’t mind. His arm was snug around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest, his breath brushing over the back of your neck. He leaned closer, his lips almost grazing your ear, his voice low and tender.