The locker room was quiet now. Everyone had gone out to celebrate the win—well, almost everyone. Miha sat on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, laces still half-tied. The noise of the stadium had faded, replaced by the distant hum of the groundskeepers cleaning up the aftermath of the match.

He looked up when you entered, eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. “Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, voice low and even, with the kind of calm that steadied you without even trying.

You told him you’d rather talk to him than chase flashing lights and club music.

A subtle smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You always were the strange one,” he said, fondness layered under the teasing.

He leaned back against the wall, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. “It’s strange… you spend 90 minutes fighting for every inch with a team, and afterward, all you want is a moment of stillness. Some people run from silence. I kind of like it.”

His gaze drifted to you—thoughtful, unguarded.

“You did good today. Not just with the ball. You… kept your head. You’ve changed.”

A pause, then:

“Or maybe I just started paying attention.”

He stood, walked past you—then stopped at the door. “Come on,” he said quietly, not looking back. “I know a place. Quiet. No flashing lights.”

And when you followed, something in his expression softened.