𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓; 𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐈

𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆 𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲

✩♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
❝ 𝒅𝒐 𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎? ❞

I sit in the car parked outside Pedri's place, my fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel.

I've been parked here for way too long, my fingers drumming on the steering wheel, eyes darting from the front door to the plastic takeout bags resting on the passenger seat.

Bringing him dinner was meant to be simple. I wanted to check in on him, make sure he's okay after yesterday.

Watching him crumple to the ground on live television had twisted something sharp inside me. He's always seemed so strong, unbreakable even, but seeing him in pain, seeing him get carried off the field—it was like someone had flipped a switch in my mind.

Now, sitting here, my confidence drains away. What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he's irritated that I've shown up unannounced?

Again.

I mean, I know he hasn't exactly been welcoming lately.

I let out a long sigh and lean my head back, closing my eyes for a moment. Despite all his coldness lately, there's this undeniable pull—this feeling that I can't walk away from, even if he's been shutting me out.

Maybe I'm overstepping, maybe he won't want me there. I groan at the thought, wondering if I'm just setting myself up for another cold shoulder.

I check the time on my phone for maybe the tenth time, watching the minutes tick by, like that's going to change anything.

Part of me is tempted to turn the car back on, drive back home, and avoid the risk of him shutting me out again.

But then I remember the look on his face as he lay on the field, the way he covered his face with his hands, like he was trying to hide his vulnerability even in that moment.

That memory alone is enough to push me to action.

I grab the takeout bag, take a deep breath, and step out of the car, squaring my shoulders like I'm going into battle.

Each step feels like it takes a mile, my stomach twisting with every inch closer to his door. My hand hesitates on the doorbell, but before I can talk myself out of it, I press it.

There's a shuffle from inside, and a few moments later, the door opens. Pedri stands there, leaning heavily on his crutches, looking slightly annoyed and more than a little surprised.

"Bella... what are you doing here?" he asks, his tone both confused and tired. I feel my confidence waver for a split second, but I quickly force a small smile.

"I figured you'd need some looking after. I saw the game yesterday. And I wasn't going to wait around, wondering if you were fine."

He looks down, then back up, his expression softening slightly. He seems caught off guard, like he doesn't know how to react. "I'm... okay, I guess. But you didn't have to come all this way."

"Oh, trust me, I know," I say, "but I thought you could use some help, and maybe some company. So, I'm here."

He raises an eyebrow, glancing down at the takeout bag as I raise it up a little. "I also brought you dinner. I figured you could use a break from, I don't know, microwaved noodles or whatever you have lying around."

He opens the door wider, motioning for me to come in. "Alright," he mutters, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Even though I can already take care of myself."

"Yeah, I know," I say as I roll my eyes, stepping past him and into the house despite his attempt at sounding self-sufficient. "But humor me. It's not every day I go out of my way to deliver food to an injured footballer."