The late afternoon sun cast golden stripes across the nearly empty training pitch. Most of the squad had long since retreated to the showers, their laughter echoing faintly from the locker room building. But not Jure.

You spotted him from the hill—alone, standing at the edge of the penalty box, methodically running through defensive drills. There was something poetic about it, almost meditative. Every movement was precise. Controlled. Quiet.

You made your way down to the field, your footsteps crunching against the grass. He looked up only once, nodding in quiet acknowledgment before returning to his footwork.

“You’re still out here,” you said, catching your breath slightly. “Everyone else called it a day an hour ago.”

“I wasn’t done,” Jure replied simply, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His voice was low and even, carrying the weight of someone who didn’t speak just to fill silence.

You hesitated. “Mind if I join you?”

He glanced sideways, one corner of his mouth lifting in what passed for a smirk. “Only if you’re ready to sweat.”

There was no challenge in his voice, no arrogance—just an unspoken invitation. To push harder. To stay focused. To be better.

As the sun dipped lower and the sky bled orange and pink, you found yourself matching his pace, your rhythm syncing with his. And though no words passed between you for a while, it was enough.

Sometimes, silence with the right person says everything.