Collide | Pablo Gavi

7

Alisa

It's a couple days before Pablo's birthday, and I have no idea what to get him. After whatever happened two days ago, I wasn't even sure I wanted to give him a present.

Unfortunately, I don't hold grudges very well. I got out of bed, confused.

I smelt—pancakes? Did Pepi finally understand  that he couldn't rely on my amazing cooking skills, if I do say so myself.

I fidgeted with my anklet before making sure that it's properly covered by my socks. I'm still wearing my Victoria Secret pajamas, as I need to go in for a quick instruction session for our first runway show.

I'm climbing down the stairs and the smell is getting stronger and it's not that bad. Good job for not burning down the kitchen Pedr—Pablo?

Not just Pablo. Pablo, who has no shirt on and only a towel wrapped around his torso.

I couldn't stop myself from looking, because it was impossible. His strong arms were flexed, huddled over the stove. As he moved the pan, his back muscles shifted and I cursed myself when I felt myself wanting to reach out and trace the already carved out muscles.

I gave up and let my eyes roam downwards, where the towel was holding on for its dear life. If I were him, I wouldn't put this much trust in a towel.

His hair was wet at the tips, so he just took a shower. He ran one hand through his brown locks and his built biceps made the movement all the better.

Seriously, I should stop. This is exactly what a stalker would do.

I sat on one of the stools at the bar table and coughed to make my presence known.

Pablo whipped around, startled and almost burning himself, "Mierda, Alisa."

I said nothing. Just like how I've said nothing these past two days.

He picked up the burnt pancake from the floor and looked at me. His brows were furrowed and face muscles tight.

"It smells okay," I whispered, looking away. His face features softened, slightly, as if he didn't want me to see his reaction to my three words. Like he's relieved that I'm not mute.

Knowing him, he would've fired back a snarky comment, but he stayed quiet, swiping a water droplet that dropped from his hair to his stomach.

I stole a glance. Holy—his abs were sculpted by god himself. But I guess this is every professional footballer, so I shouldn't be this impressed. I looked back at him, and his gaze spoke unheard words.

"Like what you see?"

He's back to his normal self. Inflated ego and all.

I felt blood rush to my cheeks and I looked away because this was forbidden. Pablo wasn't even supposed to be my friend, because—never mind. I have to think with my brain and not my heart.

"Good morning pequeña," Pepi came in, also shirtless but with a pair of beach shorts on. At least he was more presentable.

"Pablo, ¿estás loco? ¿Delante de Alisa también? ¡Te estás volviendo loco, ve a cambiarte!"

(Pablo, are you out of your mind? In front of Alisa too? You're going crazy, go get changed!)

Pablo leaves silently, but not without pushing a plate with two pancakes towards my direction. He holds my gaze for a second too long, making Pedri raise his eyebrow, but then hurries towards Pedri's room.

I look down, and there's a message written on the top pancake in chocolate.

"I'm sorry."

I resist the urge to laugh. This is something I would write to my mom if I got into trouble when I was younger.