Fortified -Pau Cubarsí-

29 - is that...

When I walk into Pau's apartment, the smell of his cologne and leftover takeout greets me. He's already stretched out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. The TV hums in the background, the pre-match commentary buzzing about Real Madrid's supposed "unbeatable form" lately. I roll my eyes at the sound as I close the door behind me.

"You started without me?" I ask, mock-offended, dropping my bag by the door.

Pau glances up and grins lazily. "First whistle hasn't blown yet. You're just in time for the fireworks." He gestures to the screen. "Milan's gonna destroy them. I can feel it."

"That confident?" I tease, toeing off my shoes and heading toward the couch.

"It's not confidence, Cesca. It's fact," he says with a smirk, sitting up to make room for me. "Real Madrid's luck runs out tonight."

I drop onto the cushion beside him, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug against my chest. "Alright, psychic. Let's see if you're right."

Before I can settle in, though, the memory of my undone hair hits me like a ton of bricks. I groan, sinking back into the couch dramatically. "Ugh. I just remembered—I have to wash my hair tonight."

Pau raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "And that's...a bad thing?"

"Yes," I say, dragging out the word. "Do you have any idea how much effort it takes? My arms are going to feel like I just did a full upper-body workout."

There's a pause, and then he says, "I could do it for you."

I blink at him. "What?"

"I could wash it for you," he says, like it's the most obvious solution in the world.

I stare at him, trying to figure out if he's joking. "Pau, you don't even know how to wash hair."

He shrugs. "How hard can it be? Shampoo, rinse, repeat. Easy."

I can't help but laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're stalling," he counters, standing up and motioning for me to follow him. "Come on. Let me prove I'm a man of many talents."

Despite my skepticism, I let him lead me to the kitchen, where he grabs a chair and sets up like he's about to perform some sort of delicate surgery. He tests the water temperature with the same focus I've seen him use on the pitch.

"This is going to be a disaster," I mutter, sitting down and draping the towel he hands me over my shoulders.

"Have a little faith," he replies, grinning. "I've got this."

To my surprise, he's actually...not terrible. The warm water cascades over my scalp as his fingers work the shampoo into my hair, and I let out a content sigh despite myself. His hands are gentle, but firm, massaging my scalp in a way that's unexpectedly relaxing.

"You're a natural," I admit begrudgingly.

"Told you," he says, smirking as he rinses out the shampoo. "I should add 'hairdresser' to my résumé."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I reply, though I can't help but smile.

Once he's done, and my hair is wrapped in a towel, we head back to the couch. Pau grabs the remote, and I grab my spot next to him, tucking my legs underneath me.

"Alright," I say, cracking my knuckles. "Your turn."

He raises an eyebrow. "My turn for what?"

"The massage you earned for your hair-washing skills," I reply, patting the cushion in front of me. "Come on, superstar. Don't make me wait."