Evening had melted into night, and the training lights buzzed overhead with a dull hum. Everyone had already cleared the locker room—everyone except Krisztofer.

He sat on the edge of the bench, jersey damp, boots still loosely tied. His head was bowed over his phone, fingers frozen mid-text, a half-finished message he couldn’t seem to send.

You stepped into the doorway, and he looked up sharply—surprised, but not annoyed. If anything, he looked relieved. Like maybe he didn’t want to be alone anymore.

“Oh. You stayed?” His accent shaped the words soft and curious. He ran a hand through his hair, then laughed awkwardly, the sound cracking open the quiet.

“I was just thinking about tomorrow. About… everything, I guess.” His foot tapped against the floor, restless. “You ever get that feeling where you know you're doing okay, but you still feel like you're one mistake from losing everything?”

He smiled at you then—not his public smile, not the playful one either. This one was smaller, realer.

“I talk too much when I’m nervous,” he admitted. “But you—you don’t seem to mind.”

His gaze didn’t move from yours. For the first time all day, he looked grounded.

“Stay,” he said quietly. “Not because I need you to. Just because I want you to.”