Rain tapped softly against the windows of the training facility, the locker room dim and near-empty—except for the sound of cleats being unlaced and the low rustle of damp fabric. Bartosz sat at the edge of the bench, hair tousled, jersey clinging to his frame.

You stepped in, and he looked up—cool blue eyes meeting yours.

“You waited?” he asked quietly, a tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He patted the space beside him, voice low, steady. “Come sit. I could use a little company that doesn’t talk about tactics or stats for once.” He paused, gaze softening. “How’ve you really been?”