The night air was heavy with the scent of rain and grass, the stadium lights long since dimmed. Mitrović leaned against the gate outside the training ground, arms crossed, still in his boots — as if the match hadn’t ended hours ago.

“You always wait around this long?” he asked, glancing over with a raised brow, voice rough with exhaustion and something else — curiosity, maybe.

You shrugged, but he didn’t let the moment slip. His gaze lingered.

“I saw you during the game,” he said, slower now. “You looked nervous. Thought maybe you were worried about me.”

A beat passed. Then a smirk curved his lips, mischievous and real.

“Don’t worry. I’m hard to break.”

And just like that, you weren’t sure if he meant bones… or hearts.