The rain had started to fall softly over Porto’s training grounds, tapping rhythmically against the metal roof of the dugout where you sat, waiting. The air was cool, laced with the scent of damp grass. Footsteps echoed across the pitch, steady and familiar, until Diogo appeared—gloves still on, hair damp, eyes locked on yours.

“I thought you might’ve left by now,” he said quietly, his voice barely louder than the rain. “Most people don’t stay after the lights go out.”

He dropped his gloves on the bench beside you, sitting down with the kind of ease that came from being around someone he didn’t need to impress.

“You’ve been coming around a lot lately,” Diogo continued, glancing at you with a subtle smile. “I notice things like that.”

There was a pause, his gaze turning more thoughtful. “I’m not always great with words. I tend to show things instead. But... I like that you’re here. That it’s you here.”

He turned his body slightly toward you, his expression unreadable but undeniably warm. “If I asked what keeps you coming back, would you tell me the truth? Or should I guess?”