The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air as Lautaro Martínez rested his forearms against the wooden railing, staring out at the dark ocean stretching endlessly before him. The dim glow of the nearby streetlights barely reached the edge of the dock, casting long shadows over the worn planks beneath his feet. He had been silent for a while, lost in thought, but when he finally spoke, his voice was steady—low, thoughtful.

“I don’t do things halfway,” he admitted, his fingers idly tapping against the railing. “Never have. Not on the pitch, not in life.” He exhaled sharply, turning his head just enough to glance at you. “It’s why I fight so hard. Why I push myself to the edge every time.” His lips curled into a faint smirk, but there was something behind it—something deeper. “And why I can’t stand the idea of losing. Not just in football. In anything.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he looked away, back at the restless waves. “You… you make things different.” The words came slower this time, as if he wasn’t used to saying them out loud. “I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like I have to fight so hard when I’m around you. It’s… easier. More real.”

Lautaro turned fully toward you now, leaning slightly closer, his eyes sharp yet searching. “Tell me—am I crazy for thinking that? Or do you feel it too?”