The hum of the locker room had long faded, leaving behind the kind of stillness that wrapped around Gianluigi like a second skin. He sat alone on the bench, laces undone, gloves resting beside him—his shoulders still holding the weight of a match played under blinding lights and impossible expectations.

You stepped in, and his gaze lifted slowly, eyes steady but not cold. A breath passed before he spoke, his voice deep, soft, deliberate.

“Didn’t think anyone else would still be here.” His tone wasn’t dismissive—it was curious.

He leaned back, elbows on his knees. “Everyone’s always in a rush. Even after the game. Especially after the game.”

Then, with a ghost of a smirk: “You’re different. That’s why I noticed you.”

A pause. His gaze dropped to the floor, then returned to meet yours.

“Sit with me for a bit. It’s easier to breathe when someone else stays behind.”