. -> [Barbara Palvin POV]
December 30, 2015 — 6:04 AM
The room was still dark, with a bit of sunlight creeping through the blinds.
Barbara's eyes opened slowly, hazy with sleep. The first thing she registered wasn't the light, or even the time, it was the ache.
Not just one place. All of her.
Her jaw. Her hips. The backs of her thighs. A dull pull along her neck when she shifted, muscles groaning like they hadn't quite remembered how to move. Even her ribs stirred with each breath, faint and steady, like her body was gently reminding her just how thoroughly and unapologetically it had been claimed.
Fair enough, she thought, lips tugging at the ghost of a smirk.
He did warn me.
She didn't move much. Didn't want to. The sheets clung to her skin, warm, lived-in, a little twisted from the night before. The air still carried the scent of everything they were: salt, sweat, his cologne, her perfume. All of it steeped into the cotton like a memory that hadn't finished fading.
Then came the silence.
No phones buzzing. No wind rattling the windows. No Biscuit barking so she was still asleep.
A peace they didn't get very often as normally both of them were up at 5:30 for their busy day.
Tristan hadn't moved either.
Not an inch.
Barbara shifted just enough to glance sideways, pillow brushing her cheek, limbs still heavy beneath the covers.
And there he was.
He was turned away from her, one arm thrown above his head like he'd surrendered to sleep mid-stretch. The blanket sat low on his hips, just barely covering the dip of his waist. His curls were a soft, wild mess against the pillow flattened in places, tousled in others and his lips were parted, like he'd fallen asleep in the middle of a thought.
Barbara stared.
It wasn't fair, how peaceful he looked. How untouched. Meanwhile, she was going to be sore for the next twelve hours minimum.
She almost laughed. Almost.
His back told a different story.
Her story, really.
Red streaks — some faint, some raw, ran across his shoulder blades, down the slope of his ribs, trailing like a quiet confession along the ridge of his spine. Half-moons. Nail marks. Little scratches from the moments she couldn't hold herself back.
All of them… hers.
She traced each one with her eyes but didn't reach for him
God, you needed this, didn't you? she thought, her gaze softening. All of it.
Barbara let her head fall back onto the pillow, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. The sky beyond the curtains was still stuck in between — too early for sunrise, too late for full dark. That uncertain blue-grey hush, like the world hadn't made up its mind if it was waking up or not.
Neither had she.
And not for the first time, Barbara found herself thinking about everything he'd been carrying.
Since August, Tristan had been living like a man racing against the clock. Match after match. One target bleeding into the next. Points. Wins. Records. Headlines every weekend. Goals and assists stacking up like receipts in a jacket he never bothered to empty.
But you'd never see it on his face. Not on the pitch. Not on camera. Not even in front of his teammates.
Only with her.
Because the one thing he ever truly obsessed over — the thing that made his voice crack when he talked about it, the thing that kept him up at night — was Leicester.
That they could actually do it. That he could. That this scrappy, strange, beautiful miracle of a team could keep flying past the limits and not fall by May.
And the pressure of that?
He never said a word.
Not once.
But she saw it. Of course she did. How could she not?
What kind of girlfriend would she be if she didn't notice the weight hanging off the love of her life?
She remembered Greece — the way the sea breeze stirred his curls as he whispered:
"If we don't win something this season… I won't forgive myself. And if I haven't made enough time for you… it's not because I don't want to."
And he'd meant every word. He hadn't made much time. Not like this. Not the way they used to. But she never hated him for it. Not once. It wasn't neglect. It wasn't distance. Her man trained, played, fought for a city — and came back to her.
Safe. Whole. Hers.
That was more than enough.
Sometimes she didn't have to wonder. This was his last season at Leicester.
He hadn't said it publicly — hadn't even told the team — but with her, she knew everything about him when Tristan literally tells her everything.
His farewell tour.
And every goal, every pass, every roar from the King Power crowd was another brick in the monument he was building.
Something permanent. Something no one could erase.
He wasn't just playing to win.
He was playing to leave something behind.
They were top of the table now with a safe lead. And finally — finally — he'd let himself rest.
Vardy. Mahrez. Kanté. They were stepping up now, shouldering the dream with him. It wasn't all on his back anymore. Not like last season.
Barbara's gaze moved over his back — the soft curve of sleep, the way the sheets dipped just enough to reveal the slope of his spine. Golden and bare in the hush of early morning.
She reached out, fingertips grazing the groove between his shoulders. He didn't stir.
Her hand slid lower, tracing the aftermath. Scratches — hers.
Red. Raised. Still warm.
One trailed along his ribcage. Two more curled like branches across his back.
She pressed her palm gently over them. Letting her warmth sink in. Marking him again — but now in comfort.
She knew pressure. She knew performance, cameras, headlines, critics. Modeling was no stranger to brutal scrutiny.
But Tristan?
Tristan faced a thousand times more.
The microscope. The obsession. The need for him to be everything — every match, every week.
A product. A symbol. A miracle.
But he never played that part. He was still Tristan, that man she had fallen in love with.
Barbara laid her cheek against his back, hand splayed over his ribs.
Thirty minutes passed in a quiet, golden blur.
Barbara hadn't moved. Not really.
Her body didn't want to. Her mind… even less so.
Her arm stayed curved around Tristan's waist, her cheek resting against the groove of his back. Each rise and fall of his breathing softened something in her chest, a rhythm she could've sworn was syncing with her own.
But eventually, she shifted. She lifted her head and pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades — right above a faint red scratch that she instantly recognized as hers. Her lips lingered there a second too long before she whispered, under her breath, "I love you."
No reply. He was still gone to the world.
Barbara sat up, wincing slightly at the stretch in her muscles. Her thighs ached. Her neck felt stiff. Her ribs, even, gave a quiet throb when she exhaled too deep.
Worth it.
She peeled the sheets away gently, careful not to disturb him. Cold air nipped her bare skin. The floor was worse — a freezing slap to the soles of her feet after the heat of the bed. She winced but didn't flinch. Just tiptoed toward the bathroom, grabbing a towel along the way.
The en suite was already fogging up by the time she stepped into the shower. She let her head fall forward under the spray, arms braced against the tile.
He's going to kill me one day, she thought, and she couldn't help but laugh at the thought of it.
What a way to go. Although it wouldn't be the worst way to die.
By the time she stepped out, the mirror was a smeared blur of condensation. She wiped a hand across it once — and there she was.
Hair a damp, tangled bun. Cheeks flushed. Eyes a little too wide, like she still hadn't come all the way down from last night. Red marks traced her collarbone like a necklace made of secrets. A hickey sat bold and unapologetic just below her throat.
She touched it, eyes narrowing faintly at her own reflection.
"Ridiculous," she murmured aloud.
But her voice cracked slightly — too full of affection to sound annoyed.
He's ridiculous. And I'm even worse for allowing it to happen.
Back in the bedroom, she didn't bother digging through drawers.
Just reached for one of Tristan's red shirts in the closet. She caught a glimpse of herself in the tall mirror on the wardrobe door.
Then she grabbed a pair of her own light grey cotton shorts from the drawer. As she passed the wardrobe, the mirror caught her.
She paused.
The shirt hung low, just brushing the tops of her thighs. Her shorts hugged her hips, legs bare and still faintly flushed. Damp strands of hair framed her face. Her lips were still a little swollen from last night.
Barbara stared at herself for a second. Then bit the inside of her cheek, half shy, half amused.
Yeah, she thought. He's going to lose his mind when he wakes up.
And honestly?
She didn't mind. Not even a little.
Barbara padded downstairs barefoot, humming under her breath. The kitchen still smelled faintly of last night's ramen. She opened a window, letting in a crisp breath of winter, and tied her hair up tighter.
Then grabbed her phone.
Chef: Hey Felix, take the day off. I'm cooking for Tristan today.
Send. Phone tossed onto the counter.
Some days, she liked being spoiled. The chef, the stocked fridge, the perfectly plated dinners. But today?
She wanted to spoil him.
There was something quietly romantic about making breakfast for the man who made her feel like the only girl on earth.
She checked the fridge. Eggs. Avocado. Tomatoes. Sourdough. Cheese.
And for Biscuit — salmon, grain-free kibble, and the last of yesterday's blueberries.
Barbara smiled, stacking the ingredients near the stove. Her little princess would be up soon, probably demanding half the avocado if Tristan didn't steal it first.
"God help me if they both start begging again," she muttered, cracking the first egg into the pan. The butter popped around the edges, golden and warm.
She leaned on one hip and flipped it with a practiced hand.
Two spoiled brats in this house. And she wouldn't trade either of them for the world.
Her mind wandered as she cooked.
It always did on mornings like this before the world could barge in with emails, both Sophias, cameras, interviews. Before the noise returned.
If this was the rest of her life...
She glanced toward the stairs.
She could picture him still knocked out in bed — that same idiot who could slice defenders apart like silk, but never remembered to close the cereal box. The same man who brought her a Porsche because "it matched her eyes." Who whispered szeretlek to her every single night without fail.
Who gave her the promise ring she now wore on her ring finger for every single day since she had gotten it on their anniversary.
He told her he wasn't ready yet. But one day — when they were a little older, a little more settled — he'd make it official.
She hadn't cried, but she remembered feeling something close.
And now — standing barefoot in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, cooking breakfast while he slept upstairs — she looked down at that simple silver ring, and smiled to herself.
If this was it?
She didn't mind it at all.
She didn't just accept it. She wanted it. All of it.
Not just the quiet mornings. Not just eggs on the stove and Biscuit curled underfoot. She wanted the whole thing.
She wanted to marry him.
Not in some vague, distant way. Really marry him. Say it out loud. Legally. Permanently.
She hadn't always felt that way about anyone. But with Tristan, the thought didn't scare her — it grounded her. Like some part of her already knew where this road led, and had started packing boxes in the background.
God, imagine little versions of him running around.
Green eyes. Wild curls. Too much energy. Way too many opinions.
She knew he wanted a girl with her eyes and his hair. But Barbara wanted a mini-Tristan — just a small, chaotic hurricane of him. Either way, boy or girl, she'd love them like nothing else. Three, maybe. One was lonely, two was a gamble. Three felt right. Case in point: her boyfriend.
She laughed quietly, slicing into the tomatoes. "We'd need five Biscuits just to keep up."
And she wasn't naïve about it — the diapers, the tantrums, the sleepless nights and the stretch marks. But she didn't care. Not even a little.
Modeling wouldn't last forever anyway. She'd been doing it since thirteen. Lately it felt more like a habit than a passion. She kept at it because she didn't know what else to do. But that was changing.
The makeup brand — her brand — was finally taking shape. Not just her face stamped onto someone else's idea. Something she actually owned. Something she was building.
Sophia and Sofia were helping her source factories, design formulas, map out the first launch. It was real now. Tristan was funding a large part of it, sure — but she would be the majority owner. Fifty percent hers. Thirty percent his. The rest for smart investors who knew when to back a woman with a plan.
She wanted to give it her full focus — not just to sell lip gloss, but to make something that could stand beside Tristan's legacy. Something that wasn't just hers, but her.
She didn't want to be a stay-at-home wife. Never did. But she did want to be the woman who came home from a day of meetings to a dog, a kid or two, and a man who still looked at her like she hung the moon.
That sounded perfect.
Barbara plated the eggs with care, added avocado, a few herbs — Felix-level touches. Then prepped Biscuit's bowl like it was a fine dining course, crumbling salmon over kibble, tossing in the last of the blueberries.
Because in this house?
Everyone got loved.
Barbara glanced to the side, spatula still in hand, just as Biscuit waddled in from the hallway like a disgruntled goblin recently ejected from a dream. Her cream-colored fur was flattened on one side, one ear flipped inside-out, the other stuck upright like a tiny antenna of judgment. Her eyes squinted at the kitchen light, and her paws made soft, uneven pat-pat sounds as she shuffled toward destiny.
Then her nose twitched.
She froze. Sniffed. Sniffed again.
Salmon.
Without another thought, Biscuit bolted to her bowl with the urgency of a tax auditor, tail up, determination in her little legs.
Barbara crouched with a smirk, brushing the floppiest ear back into place. "Good morning, you tragic little pancake."
Biscuit offered a gravelly, half-awake: "Roooh."
Then, as if that had been sufficient greeting, she began demolishing her breakfast with the focus of a Michelin inspector. Between mouthfuls, she let out a quick, triumphant: "Hmph!"
Then a louder: "BORK."
Barbara blinked. "Was that a review?"
She stood and flipped the toast. "Yes, I'm wearing your dad's shirt. Yes, I smell like eucalyptus and sin. And no, I'm not sorry."
Biscuit made a sharp little "Ruff!" like a gavel being slammed.
"Oh, get over yourself," Barbara muttered. "You didn't see what I saw. I had an out-of-body experience."
Biscuit trotted over and collapsed on Barbara's foot like she'd been shot. One dramatic sigh later, her head thudded gently against Barbara's ankle, and her eyes blinked up, full of sleepy judgment.
Barbara leaned back on the counter, brushing a hand through her hair, still warm from the shower. The kitchen smelled like toast and herbs and butter — home, basically.
Her gaze flicked to the window.
"New Year's is tomorrow," she murmured.
The words came out a little strange. Not sad. Just… surprised. Time went by fast.
They usually did something for special days.
But this year? Nothing. Not a single plan.
Too many obligations. Too many nights coming home late. Shoots. Training. Sleep. Repeat. Somewhere between Christmas and their schedules, it had slipped through the cracks.
Barbara glanced down at Biscuit again. "We could hang lights. Just around the living room. Put on a playlist. Make champagne jello shots, I don't know."
"Roo?" Biscuit asked, ears lifting slightly.
Barbara chuckled, rubbing her ears. "Not for you. But you can have the first dance."
Biscuit gave a short, approving "Mmmf." Then another flop. Clearly done with the conversation.
Barbara exhaled slowly, smiling.
"We'll kiss at midnight anyway."
Then — the stairs creaked.
She glanced up, heartbeat skipping just once.
Bare feet. Curls. Sleepy grin.
Here he comes.
Here he comes.
She thought he'd sleep longer.
But of course… When did Tristan Hale ever rest when he could be with her instead?
Barbara looked up just as Tristan appeared at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes and yawning like a cartoon lion waking from hibernation. His curls were damp and flopping into his face, the ends still dripping from a recent shower. He wore nothing but soft grey pajama pants slung low on his hips and a navy robe that hung open like it had lost all will to behave.
Her eyes traveled — against her better judgment — to the state of his chest.
Marked. Bruised. Bitten. Red lines from her nails. Faint teeth marks where she'd lost control. One particularly vicious hickey near his collarbone that hadn't faded even after the steam.
Barbara blushed instantly. A full-bloom kind of blush. Cheeks, ears, even her neck warm.
Tristan caught it. Of course he did.
He smirked. "What?"
"You know what."
He padded toward her with a lazy sort of swagger, scratching Biscuit behind the ears as the little dog launched into a round of dramatic barks.
"Roof! Rooof! RRR-ooof!"
"I know," Tristan said seriously, scooping her up. "I missed you too."
He planted a kiss on Biscuit's head, then walked straight to Barbara and wrapped himself around her from behind — one arm, one dog, and a whole lot of trouble.
"Hi," he murmured into the curve of her neck, voice still hoarse and low. "You smell like my dreams."
"You smell nice," she whispered, lips twitching. She couldn't throw back an insult.
He kissed the bruise behind her ear — gently. Almost reverently. "Still hurts?"
She elbowed him. "Would you like it if it did?"
"That depends," he whispered. "Do I get to make it worse?"
"Tristan Hale."
"Sorry, sorry." He kissed her again. "I'll be good."
They stood like that for a while. Wrapped in quiet. Biscuit wedged between them like a sentient marshmallow, tail thumping softly against Tristan's stomach.
Eventually, they moved to the table — Barbara setting down their plates with care, Tristan pouring orange juice. Biscuit stationed herself directly between their chairs like a furry referee.
Barbara took a bite of toast and gave him a look. "So… what's the plan for New Year's?"
Tristan blinked slowly, chewing. "You mean besides me staring at you in those shorts until the fireworks?"
She kicked his shin under the table, gently.
"Seriously."
He swallowed, then shrugged. "Can't invite the lads. Everyone's booked. Vardy's with family. Mahrez and Kanté took off. Ben's with his family. Danny is out as well. I actually bought N'Golo a ticket to visit his folks in Paris."
Her eyes softened. "That's really sweet."
He looked at her, suddenly more thoughtful than teasing. "Is it too much?"
"No," she said quietly. "It's not."
He reached for his juice, paused. Then glanced at her like he was half-nervous, half-excited.
"What if we brought your family here?" he asked. "Not for the Ballon d'Or. Not a big thing. Just… today. Tonight. Ring in the New Year together. Like we did for Christmas."
Barbara blinked. "Wait. Are you serious?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Jet's just sitting there. We can book them a hotel if they want space. Or they can stay here — whatever they're comfortable with. I just… I want them here. You. Them. Biscuit. Us. My parents of course."
Her smile bloomed slow, warm, and stunned — the kind of smile that made her eyes burn a little.
"You really want that?"
He reached across the table and hooked his pinky with hers. "Always."
She grabbed her phone without hesitation. "I'm calling my dad."
Biscuit, from beneath the table, gave a triumphant:
"Roof!"
Tristan laughed. "That's a yes from her too."
Ten minutes later, Barbara hung up the phone, her eyes practically sparkling.
"They said yes," she said, practically glowing. "They're so excited. My mom's already yelling at Anita to pack faster."
Tristan looked up from his toast, wiping his mouth with a napkin and grinning like he'd won something.
"Told you," he said smugly.
Barbara narrowed her eyes at him, cocking a hip. "You just wanted an excuse to flex the private jet."
He raised both eyebrows, completely unbothered. "Please. It's Mendes's jet. I'm just borrowing it… in the name of international family unity."
She snorted, walking around the table to him. "You make it sound so noble."
But she kissed him anyway. Firm, warm, grateful. Lips lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"For what?" he whispered back.
She didn't answer — just leaned in and kissed him again.
Because he never made her ask. Never hesitated to treat her family like his own. Never said no when she needed something that mattered.
And God, the jet.
It had been a whole saga.
Mendes had told Tristan flat-out he could use the jet whenever they needed it — for the Ballon d'Or, for holidays, for getting Biscuit to a vet in Milan if they wanted. And of course, Tristan had taken that as a sign he needed to buy one.
Barbara had nearly choked on her coffee when he brought it up.
"A plane? A whole-ass plane? For what — to fly from Leicester to London like we're Bond villains?"
She'd had to bring in reinforcements. Called Ling. Called Julia. Even got Sofia involved with a slide deck titled Why This Is Stupid, Please Listen to Your Future Wife. It was a full operation.
Eventually, he'd caved. Barely. Grumbling.
"We still have it on call, though," he'd pouted.
Barbara didn't mind. As long as they didn't own the damn thing. It was one of the few extravagant things she genuinely pushed back on — not because they couldn't afford it, but because it felt wasteful. They traveled constantly, yes. But even she had limits.
Now, as she pulled back from the kiss, she smiled.
It didn't matter how they got there — borrowed jet, train, teleporter. What mattered was that her family would be with them tomorrow. That Tristan made it happen, because he knew how much it meant.
Under the table, Biscuit barked — loud and insistent.
"Roof!"
Tristan laughed, reached down, and scooped her up. "Alright, alright, drama queen. You're invited too."
Biscuit curled smugly into his lap like the true heir to the throne.
Barbara looked around the kitchen — the warm light, the messy plates, the man smiling at her like she was still the best decision he ever made — and felt something settle in her chest.
This year hadn't gone to plan. They hadn't thrown a party. They hadn't dressed up.
But maybe this was the plan.
Just them. Their weird little world. The life they built by accident and kept choosing on because of life.
And for New Year's?
That was more than enough.
.
A/N: Some folks probably won't like this chapter but it's fine I think. Hopefully, maybe? A long time reader messaged me asking for a Barbara chapter as I haven't done one in a long time so here it is.
Thank you for the support for so long.
And no for the few asking I won't write smut lol. So here's a compromise: you can think about what they did.
If I ever write smut, just know your boy couldn't pay rent for the month.
Anyway I will start skipping months to get the end of the season after the Ballon d"or ceremony.
Peace