The night air carried the distant echo of a roaring crowd as Marko Arnautović leaned back against his car, arms crossed over his chest, the tension from the game still lingering in his body. His hair was slightly tousled, his breathing steady, but there was an unmistakable fire in his eyes—one that hadn’t quite died down yet.

“You ever have one of those nights where you just can’t switch off?” he muttered, tilting his head slightly toward you. “Where even after everything—after the match, the adrenaline, the noise—you still feel like you’re in it?” He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just don’t know how to slow down.”

His gaze flickered to yours then, something unreadable in his expression. “But you…” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw before continuing. “You make it easier. I don’t know why, and I don’t know if I like it yet, but it’s different. And different’s not always bad.”

He pushed off the car, stepping closer, his smirk laced with something teasing—but there was something else in his eyes, something more serious. “So, tell me—what is it about you that gets in my head like this?”