The stadium lights had long since faded, but Giovanni Reyna wasn’t done.

He stood near the empty pitch, still lacing and unlacing his cleats like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. His hoodie was pulled halfway over his curls, and his face was unreadable—except for the flicker of frustration in his jaw.

You approached quietly, but he noticed. Of course he did. Gio always noticed.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, not looking up—yet. His tone was casual, but something in it felt heavier.

Then he did look up. And that trademark smirk flickered onto his lips, sharp as ever.

"Or are you just here to check on the moody midfielder sulking under the stars?"

He nudged his bag aside, offering a place beside him on the bench.

“Fair warning—I’m terrible company tonight. But I won’t make you leave.”

The night hummed with a quiet kind of energy, and Gio was suddenly very still, watching you.

“You ever get the feeling like… you’re supposed to be more than this? But no one really sees it yet?”

There it was—that rare flash of honesty he so rarely let slip.