The lights of Barcelona flickered outside the café window as Ferran leaned forward, stirring his espresso slowly, his gaze occasionally drifting to you. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you—like he was choosing the right moment to let a thought escape.

“You ever notice how quiet moments feel louder when you’re with someone that matters?” he asked softly, his Spanish accent curling around each word. “I’ve spent years with cameras in my face, stadiums screaming, people watching every move… but when it’s like this? Just you and me—it feels... real. Safe.”

He paused, giving a small, crooked smile that didn’t quite mask the flicker of nervousness in his eyes.

“I don’t need stadium lights to feel alive. Sometimes, all I need is this table, your voice, and a chance to know what’s going on behind that look you keep giving me.”