••••••~Leo's POV~••••••
Madrid shimmered below us—golden, restless, and humming with midnight secrets. The rooftop of our building in Salamanca was quiet, save for the clink of Camila's wine glass and Álvaro's laugh: low, cocky, and unmistakably his.
I sat cross-legged on the lounge chair, sketchbook balanced on my thigh. My pencil moved in slow, uncertain strokes. I wasn't drawing anything in particular—just chasing a silhouette I hadn't seen yet. Something elusive. Something that felt like a whisper.
Álvaro leaned against the railing, shirt half-unbuttoned, his Atlético jacket tossed carelessly beside him. His skin glowed under the terrace lights, bronzed from training, his smirk carved from pure ego.
"You should've seen her, tío," he bragged, voice thick with pride. "Brazilian. Legs like sin. She moaned my name like it was a prayer."
Camila snorted, swirling her wine with lazy elegance. "You're disgusting," she muttered, though her lips curled into a grin.
Álvaro winked. "You're jealous."
She arched a brow, her tone sharp as her cheekbones. "Jealous of what? Your stamina or your inflated ego?"
I smirked, eyes still on my sketch. "He's got more ego than stamina. I timed him once—three minutes, forty-two seconds."
Álvaro launched a cushion at me. "Liar."
Camila laughed, the sound like velvet. She turned to me, her gaze playful. "And you, Leo? Who was your last conquest? Don't pretend you're a saint."
I hesitated. My last wasn't a conquest—it was a slow burn. Clara. A model with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a heart made of smoke. She'd worn my designs, kissed me backstage, and slipped a folded note into my coat pocket before vanishing with a producer.
I found her again, undressed in her hotel room—thanks to that note.
"Her name was Clara," I murmured. "She cried. Begged me to keep going. Said no one had ever touched her with such magical hands."
Camila's gaze softened. "You always touch like you're painting," she whispered, her lips brushing the rim of her glass.
Álvaro rolled his eyes. "He touches like he's writing poetry. I touch like I'm writing history."
I chuckled. "History that gets deleted in the morning."
The rooftop breeze picked up, carrying the scent of Camila's vanilla mist and the distant aroma of grilled chorizo from a nearby terrace. Salamanca pulsed below us—balconies glowing, streets humming with late-night lovers and lost tourists.
Camila stood, her hips swaying with deliberate rhythm. She walked to Álvaro, leaned in, and brushed her lips against his ear.
"You're lucky I'm family," she whispered. "Or I'd ruin you."
Álvaro swallowed, visibly flustered. "You already do."
She turned to me, fingers grazing my jaw. "And you, Leo… you'd beg."
I looked up, heart thudding. "I'd sketch you first."
She smiled, kissed my cheek, and settled between us on the ledge—legs crossed, wine glass balanced like a crown.
"By the way, how was training today?" I asked, pulling my gaze from the sketch and focusing on Álvaro.
"Not great," he muttered, rubbing his neck. "Don't think coach will put me in the starting eleven tomorrow."
I caught the frustration in his voice. It lingered like smoke. I felt for him.
"Don't worry, tío. You'll be fine."
"You wish," he scoffed, flashing a wicked grin. "I cooked so hard today, even the first-team players couldn't get off my meat."
I nudged him. "I knew it. You lying bastard. I was actually feeling sorry for you."
"The coach said I'm really good in tight spaces. He was impressed…"
"I guess you're good in tight spaces both on and off the pitch," Camila interrupted, her voice dripping with mischief.
We burst into laughter.
"Good one," I clapped, still laughing. Álvaro joined in, shaking his head.
Camila, nestled between us, wrapped her arms around our shoulders and kissed each of us on the cheek. From the outside, we probably looked like two brothers dating the same girl. But that couldn't be further from the truth.
Camila was our cousin. She'd flown in from Valencia to study psychology. She loved teasing us, whispering filthy things in our ears. I didn't know about Álvaro, but I adored her. She was the only girl I couldn't have—and maybe that's why I wanted her most.
We fell silent, gazing out over the rooftops. Madrid stretched before us, glittering and infinite.
Then Álvaro stiffened. "Who's that girl?"
Across the street, on the penthouse balcony, a girl stepped into view. She wore a cropped hoodie and silk shorts, her hair tied in a loose bun. She laughed into her phone—too distant to hear, but magnetic all the same.
Camila leaned forward. "She must be our new neighbor."
I froze. My pencil stopped mid-stroke. Her silhouette was the one I'd been chasing all night.
Camila's eyes sparkled. "That's Catalina Vélez. Twenty. Fashion muse. Linked to some French labels."
Álvaro and I turned to her, surprised.
"What? I do my research," she shrugged, sipping her wine.
Álvaro couldn't look away. "Wow… she's stunning."
"And dangerous," Camila muttered, setting her glass down. "Looks like you've found your match. She's way out of your league—even for you," she added, gesturing at Álvaro.
Álvaro blinked, stunned. "No way you just said that. No one resists the great Álvaro Ruiz Ortega."
I raised an eyebrow. "Bet I can make her cry… in a good way."
Camila clapped. "Alright, chicos. Let's make a bet."
Álvaro leaned in, eyes gleaming. "What are you willing to wager?"
"Whoever bags her gets a full day to do whatever they want with me," she purred, winking twice—slow, deliberate.
I swallowed. "And what makes you think we'd want that?" I asked, though my mind was already painting scenes of her perfect curves.
"Because I'm the only one you can't have."
Álvaro extended his hand. "Deal."
I followed, gripping Camila's hand with a grin.
"But wait… what do I get if you both lose?"
Álvaro shrugged. "That's impossible. But for the record, I'll get you a jersey signed by Mbappé."
We all burst into laughter. The idea was absurd.
"Then I'll give you my two cars," I joked, mocking Álvaro's impossible promise.
Camila's eyes lit up. "Are you serious, tío?"
"You know what… yes," I nodded.
Camila didn't just smile—she leaned in again, this time slower. Her lips brushed my ear, then Álvaro's. Her fingers traced the back of our necks, lingering. She whispered, "You better fight for me like you'll fight for her."
Then she stood, walked to the edge of the rooftop, and bent slightly—just enough to tease. Her silk robe fluttered in the breeze, revealing the curve of her thigh.
Álvaro whistled. I bit my lip.
Camila turned, eyes blazing. "Let the war begin."
I looked back at Catalina. She glanced up, her eyes meeting mine across the street. Just for a second.
And I knew.
This wasn't going to be a game.
It was going to be war.