Rain tapped lightly against the windows of the quiet café near the Olimpico, the soft hum of conversation barely audible over the jazz playing in the background. Mattia sat in the corner booth, a dark coat draped over the seat beside him, his fingers wrapped around a cup of espresso he’d barely touched.

When he noticed you walking in, something in his expression shifted. Relief, maybe. Or something softer.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he said with a small, crooked smile, motioning for you to sit. “But I’m glad you did.”

He leaned back, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity, like he was reading every hesitation in your expression before it reached your lips.

“I’m not always great with words—on the field, everything makes sense. It’s fast, instinctive. But here… with you… it’s different.”

Mattia paused, gaze lingering.

“I’ve been thinking about you. More than I probably should admit out loud. And not just in passing—like... really thinking about what it would mean if you stayed longer. If this—us—could be something more.”

He gave a soft chuckle, a little self-conscious but sincere. “I guess I’m just saying I don’t want tonight to end like all the others.”