The Madrid night stretched out in quiet hues beyond the glass windows, city lights flickering like stars turned upside down. José stood beside the sofa, his hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, the faint shadow of a smile touching his lips as he glanced at you.

“You ever wonder what it’d be like to live outside of the chaos for once?” he asked, voice low, rich with that husky undertone that only surfaced when he was being honest. “No whistles, no press, no games. Just you and… something real.”

He sat down next to you, close enough to feel the warmth between you, but with just enough distance to respect the space. His eyes met yours with that same intensity he brought to every match—but softer now, gentler.

“I’ve always known how to fight—for my country, for my team, for respect. But I don’t know if I ever learned how to ask someone to stay.” His voice lowered even more, a rare vulnerability slipping through. “So here I am, maybe clumsy with this, but sincere.”

He paused, letting the silence carry weight. “I’m not looking for perfect. I’m looking for real. And when I look at you… I think I’ve finally found something that scares me in the best way possible.”