The streets of Los Angeles were beginning to dim, golden hour fading into dusk as the last few rays of sunlight kissed the city’s rooftops. Olivier leaned against the railing of a quiet terrace above a hidden piazza, a glass of wine in one hand, the other tucked casually into his coat pocket.

He turned his head as he heard the soft sound of footsteps behind him. A smile slowly curved his lips as his eyes found yours.

“I thought you might not come,” he said, voice low and warm, touched by something like hope.

The breeze tousled a strand of his dark hair as he took a slow sip, then gestured for you to join him. “But then again… something told me you would. You always surprise me like that.”

He glanced over the city, then back at you, gaze soft but piercing. “You know, I’ve spent so many years focused on goals—on numbers, trophies, moments under stadium lights. But lately... I’ve started thinking more about the quieter things. The small looks. The laughter over dinner. The way someone makes you feel seen.”

He stepped a little closer, his presence comforting, solid. “And I don’t say this lightly—but when I’m with you, I stop thinking about the next match. I just think about now. About you.”

He let the silence linger, then added, quietly, “I was hoping you might feel the same.”