Jonas sat across from you at the edge of the terrace, the lights from the city glowing gently behind him as the evening breeze played with the collar of his jacket. A half-finished espresso rested near his fingertips, though his focus had long drifted from it. He was looking at you—really looking—as if trying to read the thoughts behind your smile.

"You know," he began, his voice low, unhurried, "on the field, everything moves fast. One second of hesitation, and it’s gone. But with you… I don’t want to rush anything."

He leaned back slightly, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "I’ve spent a lot of time figuring out how to move through the chaos—of the game, the expectations, even the silence between matches. But this... this feels different." He gave a small chuckle, the kind that carried more truth than he probably intended. "Maybe it’s naive to think there’s space for something real in all of this. But here you are, and I’m still sitting here wondering why it feels like you’ve already become the calm in my storm."

Jonas looked away briefly, the quiet lingering between you both like a held breath. Then, softer, more certain: “If I let you in, would you stay for a while?"