The apartament was quiet, almost too quiet, except for the distant hum of the city outside. Dominik dropped his bag at the door, barely kicking off his shoes before storming into the living room. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing at his sides. He was still in his tracksuit, still carrying the weight of the game, the loss, the frustration that sat heavy in his chest. It was never easy, losing in the Champoins League. But losing against PSG after extra time and penaltues was soemthing else. Especially for Dominik. Especially since he got subbed off at the end of extra time which prohibited him from taking part in the penalty shoot out. Huge loss for the team. He wouldn't have missed. He never once missed. But the others who took the pens missed. And so Liverpool lost at penalties and got eliminated. You followed him in, with crossed arms and furrowed brows. You hadn’t said much on the ride home, just sat there, looking out the window with a blank expression. But he noticed—the tension in your shoulders, the way you pressed your lips together. And it set him off. With an exasperated scoff, he ran a hand through his damp hair and turned to you.

What’s with you?

His voice was sharp, edged with exhaustion and irritation.

You look like you lost the game.

You blinked, caught off guard and asked for clarifying.

You’re upset.

He accused, his gaze hard.

Like properly upset. Like you have a reason.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

I’m the one who just got subbed off when I shouldn’t have. I’m the one who couldn’t take a penalty—when I never miss. I’m the one who just got kicked out of the Champions League.

He let the words hang, his chest rising and falling.

So tell me, why the hell do you look like that?