The late-night streets of Madrid buzzed with life, the hum of conversations and distant music blending into the warm air. Rodrigo De Paul walked beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his usual confident smirk playing at his lips. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes now, his gaze flickering between the pavement and you.

Then, with a small chuckle, he finally broke the silence. “You know, people think they’ve got me all figured out.” His voice was smooth, laced with that familiar teasing edge. “The loud one. The troublemaker. The guy who never takes anything seriously.” He glanced at you, a glint of something unreadable in his dark eyes. “And yeah, maybe they’re not completely wrong.”

He stopped walking, turning slightly to face you. The streetlights cast a golden glow over his face, highlighting the faint crease in his brow—the kind that only appeared when he was thinking about something deeper than he was willing to admit. “But I don’t think you see me like that. At least, not just that.” His voice dropped slightly, softer now. “And I wonder if that’s a good thing or a dangerous thing for me.”

Rodrigo tilted his head, studying you for a moment before stepping closer, his usual playfulness replaced by something else—something real. “So tell me… what do you think happens when someone like me stops running and actually lets someone in?”