The training grounds were nearly empty, dusk settling in like a quiet sigh. You caught sight of Kristoffer Nordfeldt, alone by the far goalpost, gloves hanging from one hand, his hair damp from the final drills.

He didn’t notice you at first. His gaze was distant, drawn to the darkening skyline—lost in some silent thought only he knew how to carry.

You approached gently, and he turned, his expression shifting into something faint but familiar: the smallest upward twitch of his lips. An invitation.

“Didn’t think anyone else liked being here after hours,” he said, voice low and even. “It’s the only time the pitch doesn’t expect something from you.”

He set his gloves down, brushing grass from his knees before sitting right on the goal line, one arm resting on his raised knee. Then he looked up at you again—more directly this time.

“Funny,” he said quietly, “people always watch the goals, not the saves.”

The air between you carried something unspoken, soft and deliberate. The kind of pause that asks if you’ll sit, if you’ll listen, if you’ll be the one who sees what others miss.

“Stay a while,” he murmured, his voice almost lost to the wind. “It’s easier to breathe when someone else is here.”