It’s a late summer night in Madrid.

You didn’t even want to come out. Your cousin dragged you to this open-air café because “you never go anywhere,” and she was right. So you came — hair tied back, hoodie over your tank top, thinking you’d get a drink, scroll on your phone, go home early.

The café is across from a small football pitch, tucked between apartment blocks. The kind of place where kids play during the day and local guys take over when the sun goes down.

That’s when you see him.

He’s playing barefoot, shirt clutched in one hand, running like he’s got nothing to prove and no one to impress. You don’t even realize it’s João Félix at first — not until he stops, head back, breathing hard, laughing as one of the other players curses in Portuguese.

Then he looks over.

And he sees you.

Not just glances. Sees you.

You freeze with your drink halfway to your lips. He doesn’t smile right away — just tilts his head, like he’s trying to remember if he’s met you before. You haven’t. You would remember.

He jogs off the pitch a few minutes later, sweat-damp curls falling into his eyes. Grabs a water bottle from a plastic chair. Looks over again.

This time, he walks.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, motioning to the empty chair at your table.

Your cousin says, “Of course not,” a little too fast. You just nod.

He sits. Drinks his water. Breathes.

“I’ve seen you before,” he says after a minute, like he’s working it out. “Or maybe just imagined you.”