Echoes of Glory: FC Barcelona Imagine

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊ Pancakes (Pau Cubarsí.)

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Waking up to the smell of something sweet drifting through the air, you let your eyes flutter open, wondering if you’re still dreaming.

A soft morning glow sneaks in through the window, and as you sit up, the source of the inviting aroma becomes clear. From the kitchen, you hear a gentle clinking and muffled mutterings.

Pau. He’s up, already busy making something.

Curious, you climb out of bed, tugging on a sweater to chase away the morning chill, and tiptoe toward the kitchen. You peek around the corner, catching sight of him by the stove.

His back is to you, but you can see he’s focused, carefully flipping something in a frying pan. He hums quietly, completely in his element. It’s such a simple scene, yet the sight of him there, so at ease, fills you with a strange warmth.

“Good morning, amor!”

you say softly, stepping into the kitchen.

Pau jumps, turning to face you with a surprised grin.

“Hey! You’re up earlier than I thought. I, uh… I made breakfast!”

He holds up a plate with a pancake on it, slightly lopsided but clearly made with care.

“Look, Amor! I made pancakes! I even made a smiley face out of the whipped cream, see?”

You step closer, smiling at the little whipped cream smiley face that’s indeed looking up at you from the pancake. A dash of strawberries forms the eyes, and he’s even added a line of blueberries as the mouth.

It’s simple, messy, and perfect.

“Oh, that’s what it’s supposed to be?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re so cute, darling.”

His cheeks go pink, but he tries to cover it with a playful scoff.

“Hey, you don’t get to make fun of my masterpiece, okay? I worked hard on that smiley face!”

“I can tell,” you laugh, reaching out to poke his arm.

“It’s adorable, really. Almost as much as you.”

He glances away, biting back a grin, clearly flustered. You can tell he’s not used to hearing compliments like this, especially not from you.

And in moments like these, with him looking so bashful, you wonder how someone could be so sweet and not even know it.

“Sit down, I’ll bring everything over,” he says, regaining his composure as he sets the rest of the pancakes on a plate.

You sit at the table, watching him gather syrup, whipped cream, and some extra fruit on the side, and he places it all before you like he’s offering you a feast.

He sits across from you, eyes flicking between you and the pancakes, almost like he’s waiting for your approval.

And as you take the first bite, the fluffiness and sweetness hit you, making you smile wider. It’s not perfect, but it’s made with care, and you can feel it in every bite.

“Not bad, right?” he asks, watching your reaction with eager eyes.

“It’s delicious,” you say, your words muffled by a mouthful of pancake.

“You did good, chef Pau.”

He chuckles, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you eat, clearly pleased with himself.

“Maybe I should make pancakes every morning then, just to see you smile like that.”

You feel your heart skip a beat, warmth creeping over you at his words. He’s looking at you with that gentle, thoughtful expression, the one that makes you feel like he’s really seeing you, not just on the surface but deeper.

“Oh yeah?” you say, trying to keep your tone light despite the flutters in your chest.

“Then I might get used to it. You’d have to keep making pancakes forever.”

Pau grins, a mischievous spark in his eyes.

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t mind that.”

The conversation pauses, a comfortable silence filling the space between you.

For a moment, you just sit there, enjoying the warmth of the pancakes and his company, feeling grateful for this simple, beautiful morning together.

After breakfast, you insist on helping him clean up, though he protests at first.

As you’re rinsing the dishes, you feel his presence close behind you. When you glance over your shoulder, you find him watching you, his gaze soft and thoughtful.

“Yes, baby?” you ask, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks under his gaze.

“Nothing,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Just… I really like mornings with you.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it holds so much weight, and you find yourself speechless for a moment, heart racing. You dry your hands and turn to face him fully, feeling the courage to meet his gaze head-on.

“I like them too.”

A comfortable silence settles between you again, and then, impulsively, you reach up and brush a smudge of whipped cream from his cheek. He startles slightly, a sheepish grin spreading over his face.

“Guess I’m still a little messy, huh?”

“Just a little,” you laugh, feeling your heart lighten.

The world outside the kitchen doesn’t matter right now; all that matters is the easy laughter, the soft glances, and the way he’s looking at you like this is where he wants to be, too.

Maybe tomorrow there won’t be pancakes, and maybe there won’t be whipped cream smiley faces. But for now, this morning is perfect, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.