Dominik leaned back in the leather seat of the empty team lounge, the soft hum of the city beyond Anfield barely audible through the windows. He glanced up from his phone, and when he saw you standing there—half hesitant, half curious—his smile curled into something slower, more deliberate.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he said, voice smooth and easy, like he’d planned this moment in his head a dozen times. “You’ve got that look again. Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

He stood, fluid and composed, stretching just slightly before taking a few steps closer. “Most people think they know me after one headline, one highlight reel. But you... you actually see me.”

He paused, his gaze dropping for a second before returning to yours, more vulnerable now. “Do you ever think about what would happen if we stopped pretending this is casual?”

A beat. Then he grinned, tilting his head slightly. “Or maybe I’m reading into it. But if I’m not—if you do feel it too... then tell me I’m not imagining this connection.”

He took one more step, close enough for his voice to drop. “Because I’m not afraid to want something real. Not with you.”