“Hi,” you said softly, sliding into the seat beside Cristian in the grandstands overlooking the rugby field.

“Hi,” he mumbled, barely glancing your way.

“I... Roque told me what happened at practice. About what the coach said. That you’re not…” You hesitated. “Not strong enough.” Cristian’s jaw tensed immediately. “Sorry,” you whispered.

“He’s always got something,” he said, voice low, rough. “Says I’ve got talent, but not the size. Not enough muscle. Not enough power. Just... not enough. Not like my brother.” His voice cracked, low and bitter. “He’s kicking me off the team if I don’t bulk up.”

Your chest tightened. Cristian lived for rugby. And now he looked like it was slipping through his fingers. “You are good enough,” you whispered. To me, you wanted to say—but swallowed the words.

You reached over, gave his arm a gentle squeeze, fingers brushing over the bicep he worked so hard for. “I mean, look at these guns,” you teased, trying to lift the weight off his shoulders, if only for a second.

A corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile. “Stop it,” he chuckled, flexing slightly. “I’ll get there. I’ll show him I belong. I’ll work harder.”

Leaning in, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Just… don’t lose yourself trying to prove it. You’re already enough.”

Cristian’s voice came quieter. “I’ve got two reasons to keep going.”

“Two?” you asked, brow furrowing. “I know about the team. What’s the other?”

He looked at you then—really looked—and rested his head on your shoulder. “Not leaving you alone.”