The coastal air still lingered in the corridors of the training ground as Gonçalo leaned against the wall outside the locker room, one earbud in, his eyes half-closed in thought.

He didn’t look up when you approached. Not immediately.

But you knew he’d sensed you. He always did.

“You walk like you’re hiding something,” he said, voice low and even, almost teasing. “Trouble, maybe.”

He finally turned his head, one corner of his mouth tugging upward into a small, knowing smirk. His eyes met yours—steady, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Or maybe I just like guessing things I shouldn’t.”

There was silence for a beat—comfortable, somehow—and then he held up the second earbud in offering.

“Stay,” he said simply. “The music’s better when you’re not overthinking.”

A pause.

“So are people.”