The soft hum of the city faded into the background as Paulo Dybala pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself, the crisp night air carrying the faint scent of rain. He glanced sideways at you, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t usually do this,” he admitted, his voice quiet but steady. “Taking a step away, slowing down. It’s… different.”

He exhaled, leaning against the railing of the empty rooftop terrace, the glow of streetlights casting a golden hue over his features. “Football is everything I’ve ever known. It’s constant—predictable in a way, even when it’s unpredictable.” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “But then there are moments like this. Moments where I don’t feel like a player, or a name in a headline. Just a person.”

His gaze met yours then, something unspoken lingering in the space between you. “You make that easy,” he admitted, voice softer now. “Being around you… it’s not complicated. I don’t have to think about what comes next, or what I’m supposed to say.” He hesitated, his fingers tracing patterns against the metal railing, before finally asking, “Does it feel the same for you?”