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Barcelona was always golden in the evening.
Sunlight spilled between buildings like warm syrup, painting the cobblestones in hazy orange light, alive with motion and music and voices raised in too many languages to count. The streets pulsed with energy, and Oikawa moved through it all like he belonged there—because he did.
You walked beside him, fingers laced loosely through his, sunglasses pushed up into your hair as you studied a nearby plaza, smiling at the crowd. You'd only stopped for a quick drink before heading home, but somehow a ten-minute rest turned into lingering.
Which was exactly how it happened.
He came out of nowhere—tall, handsome in that slightly too-smooth way, and a native speaker who clearly wasn’t shy about using his charm. He was friendly, casual, and you—being you—were nothing but warm in return. Oikawa was used to it. You made friends everywhere. Waiters, baristas, strangers on trains. He wasn't usually the jealous type.
Usually.
But today? You were laughing a little too softly. Tilting your head a little too far. And the guy? Oh, he was leaning in like he had a damn chance.
Oikawa didn't say anything right away. He just sipped his drink and watched, sunglasses shielding the slow burn building behind his eyes. Your fingers were still in his, but even that wasn’t grounding him tonight. Not when the guy started complimenting your accent. Not when he gestured toward the nearest bar with an easy smile and said,
"If you're looking for local recommendations, I could show you a few places."
That was when you felt it.
Oikawa's hand tightened slightly around yours, his thumb no longer stroking circles over your skin but now still, firm.
You turned toward him innocently, blinking up at his too-perfect face with a feigned sweetness that you knew drove him insane.
"Tooru," you said, voice syrupy, "he says he can show us some local spots. Isn't that nice?"
Oikawa set his glass down with a clink, but instead of stepping in front of you—he stepped behind. His arms slid smoothly around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back as he dipped his head low, his lips brushing just below your ear when he spoke.
"You’re playing dangerous games," he whispered, voice like silk and warning all at once. The way his breath fanned across your skin made you shiver, your back unconsciously arching into him. He chuckled against your neck, low and warm, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
The guy took a half-step back, visibly caught off-guard now as his eyes darted between you and the very obviously possessive arms wrapped around your waist.
Oikawa turned his head, resting his chin on your head, and finally spoke aloud—his tone still pleasant, still polite, but tinged with something sharper.
"Oh, you didn’t know?" he said, gaze locking with the man’s. "She’s very much taken. Tragic, I know. Don't worry though, I've lived here for years."
The guy blinked, awkward laugh faltering. "Ah—right. My mistake. Sorry, man. Just being friendly."
"Of course," Oikawa said with a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Happens all the time." The guy took the hint and left, vanishing into the crowd, and you finally let the smile stretch fully across your face.
"You're so dramatic," you hummed, stepping closer, chest brushing his as you leaned into his space.
Oikawa narrowed his eyes, even as his arms slid around your waist.
"Do I really need to wear a sign?" he muttered.
You batted your lashes. "Maybe. Or just keep doing that thing where your voice gets all cold. It's kind of hot."
His brows lifted.
"You're doing it on purpose."
You grinned. "Maybe."
Oikawa sighed, burying his face in your neck, lips brushing the skin there.
"You're going to be the death of me."
"Mmm. But I’ll make it fun."
The first thing you register upon waking up is warmth. A steady, lingering heat against your back, an arm draped lazily over your waist, the rhythmic rise and fall of a chest pressed flush against you. The scent of something familiar—clean linen, faded cologne, a hint of salt from the sea breeze slipping through the open window—fills your senses. Oikawa’s grip tightens instinctively as you shift, pulling you impossibly closer, his face buried against the curve of your shoulder.
“Tooru,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.
A muffled groan is his only response. His body is heavy against yours, limbs tangled in a way that makes movement difficult. You try once more to shift, but his arms only tighten around your waist.
“Nope,” he grumbles, his voice rough from sleep. “No getting up yet. It’s illegal.”
You huff, already knowing how this is going to go. Sunlight spills in through the sheer curtains, painting the walls of your shared apartment in soft golden hues. The distant sound of life beyond the bedroom—muffled chatter from the streets below, the occasional car passing by, the faint melody of a street performer’s guitar—reminds you that the world is awake, moving. And yet, Oikawa remains completely unfazed, as if time doesn’t exist beyond the warmth of your shared bed.
“I have things to do,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Lies,” he mutters against your skin. “You have exactly one obligation today, and that’s to stay right here in bed with your incredibly handsome husband.”
You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Is that so?”
“Mhm,” he hums, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “It’s scientifically proven that getting up too early makes you ten times more cranky.”
“More cranky?” you repeat, raising a brow. “Are you saying I’m cranky now?”
He hesitates.
“…No?”
You elbow him lightly, and he lets out a dramatic wheeze, flopping onto his back as if you’ve mortally wounded him. “Oh my god, the betrayal,” he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I let you into my home, my heart, my bed—and you stab me in the stomach.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re already smiling.
“I’m wounded.”
“You’re fine.”
He peeks at you from under his arm, brown eyes still hazy with sleep but glinting with amusement. “You’re not even going to check?”
“I know you’re fine.”
He lets out another exaggerated groan before reaching for you again, pulling you back into his embrace. This time, you let yourself sink into his warmth, the sound of the city fading into the background. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your arm, absentminded, soothing. The morning breeze flutters through the curtains, carrying with it the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the street, mingling with the salt-tinged air of Barcelona’s coastline.
“You really don’t wanna stay in bed with me?” he asks after a while, voice softer now, more genuine.
You sigh, pressing your cheek against his. “I do, but I also don’t want to waste the whole day.”
Oikawa scoffs, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s not wasting if we’re spending it together.”
“You always say that when you want me to be lazy with you.”
“Because it’s true,” he argues. “C’mon, just a little longer? Please?” He tilts his head, lips brushing against your jaw as he whispers, “For me?”
You groan, knowing you’re done for. Oikawa is many things—dramatic, annoying, way too smug for his own good—but he’s also incredibly hard to say no to, especially when he’s warm and sleepy and clinging to you like this.
“Fine,” you mumble. “But only for a little longer.”
A victorious grin spreads across his face as he pulls you flush against him, tangling your legs together under the sheets. “See? I always win.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you love me.”
You roll your eyes but don’t bother denying it. Instead, you let yourself relax into his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the hum of the city outside, the quiet comfort of being wrapped up in him. The world can wait a little longer.
Maybe, just maybe, staying in bed with him isn’t the worst way to spend the day.