The café was quiet, tucked in a cobbled side street of North London, the kind of place most people wouldn’t expect to find someone like him. But there he was—hood up, cappuccino in hand, and a faint smile playing on his lips as he stirred the foam absentmindedly. When he spotted you walking in, his whole expression changed, like a small piece of the day finally clicked into place.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” he said, voice soft, inviting. “But then again… something told me you would.”

He gestured to the seat across from him, eyes never leaving yours. “Funny how things work, isn’t it? We go through routines, matches, training, press—always on the move. And then someone like you walks in and everything slows down. Just enough to breathe again.”

He leaned forward, his tone dropping a little. “You know, most people talk to me about stats, tactics, trophies. But with you, I want to talk about music. About why rainy days feel heavier when you’re alone. About the places that made you who you are.”

He paused, eyes warm. “So what do you say… will you let me know the parts of you the world doesn’t see? Because I think I’d really like that.”