The stadium lights had long since gone out, and yet, Giorgi remained.

Sitting alone on the empty bench by the touchline, his gloves lay beside him, and his gaze was fixed on the field—on nothing in particular, and yet on everything. A bottle of water dangled loosely from his hand, forgotten.

You approached quietly, your steps muted by the soft turf. He didn’t look up right away, but he knew you were there.

“I always stay after,” he said softly, finally glancing over. “Not because I like silence… but because I trust it.”

A tired smile tugged at his lips. “Out there, I have to read everything in a second. In here—” he tapped his temple, “—it takes longer.”

He gestured to the bench beside him.

“Sit. If you’re not in a hurry to run from your own thoughts.”

The air between you buzzed with a quiet kind of understanding. He didn’t speak just to fill silence—he spoke when it mattered.

And right now, it mattered.