The streets of Udine were unusually still for a Sunday evening. Jaka walked alongside you, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his pace unhurried like he had nowhere else to be but here. You could hear the faint echo of your steps against cobblestones, the distant hum of a street musician, and the subtle way Jaka exhaled as he glanced toward you.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and even, “I used to hate silence. Back when I moved around clubs and countries—everything felt too quiet when the crowd was gone. Too much space in my own head.”

He looked at you then, his expression softening just a little. “But lately, I think I’ve started to like it. Or maybe... I just like the kind of quiet that happens when I’m with you.”

A half-smile curved his lips. “I’m not great with big words or complicated games. But I notice the little things. How your eyes shift when you're thinking too hard. How you laugh a second before the punchline. And I’ve caught myself wondering what it’d feel like to be the reason behind that laugh more often.”

He slowed his steps, then stopped completely, facing you. “I’m not rushing anything. But if there’s a chance… I’d like to see where this could go.”