The sound of rain tapped softly against the windows, a steady rhythm filling the quiet space. Pierre-Emile Højbjerg sat across from you, his fingers loosely clasped around a glass, his expression contemplative.

“You ever notice how people only see the fight?” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “They see the tackles, the grit, the hard edges. But no one ever asks what’s behind it.” He exhaled, leaning back slightly, his gaze steady on you.

“I play the way I do because I know what it means to fight for something real. To earn your place, to prove your worth—not just once, but every single day.” His jaw tightened for a brief second before he let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “But I suppose not everything in life is a battle, is it?”

His eyes softened just a fraction, the intensity giving way to something quieter. “Some things... some people... they remind you that not everything has to be won. That maybe, just maybe, some things are meant to be given.”