Poland lost. Again. Another crushing defeat for the white-and-reds, their morale sinking even lower in the Nations League standings. The disappointment was palpable, the weight of failure pressing down on them all.

But in that moment, Nicola wasn’t thinking about the game, or the harsh criticism he had been facing. Instead, he was snuggled up against you, his head resting against your shoulder, his body curled into yours. For a while now, he’d been battling a tide of hate from both Polish and Roma fans, their disappointment in him cutting deeper than he cared to admit.

You were just his friend, someone he’d met not long ago. But in the short time since, you had become a lifeline. The one person he trusted, the one person who knew him without judgment. The rest of the world could throw their opinions at him, but in your presence, he found solace.

Nicola lay on top of you, his body warm against yours, but you could feel the slight dampness of tears soaking into your shirt. He clung to you tighter, as though your embrace was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hand drifted to your hip, gently stroking the skin as if searching for a comfort that only you could provide.

In the quiet of the moment, all the noise of the world—of the game, the fans, the expectations—faded away. It was just you and him, finding refuge in each other’s presence, silently navigating the storm together.