The first thing that met Izan's sight in Arteta's office was the pile of papers and the clipboard beside it, and the view behind it.
The window in Arteta's office stretched wide, giving a clear view of the training pitches outside where a few staff members were already setting up cones for later drills.
"Sit," Arteta said quietly, still standing with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the glass.
Izan lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk, staying silent, watching his manager's reflection in the pane.
There was something in Arteta's posture that made him vulnerable, like a man carrying both the weight of expectation and the pride of having built something worth protecting.
The silence lingered, but Izan didn't break it.
He just waited until Arteta finally turned, his expression softening, and crossed the room to his chair.
He sat down slowly, elbows resting on the desk, fingers laced together.
