The court is a cathedral by sundown, hollowed out and filled with the echoes of sneakers against waxed floors and the gentle hush of breaths against the back of his throat. Now, he didn't mind either of those. Not when you're here. Not when he can hear your presence.

He dribbles once. Twice. Lets the weight of the ball center him like a tether, a grounding point in a world that always moves too fast for him to hold onto.

You sit alone in the bleachers, he doesn't take a second to realize — legs swinging slightly and posture relaxed.

But your gaze?

He shivers for a second. You’re looking over at him like he's something worth watching. Not the way people watch athletes. Not the way fans watch their captains. You watch him like you're trying to understand something unspoken in him, something even he hasn't put into words.

Still, it’d be a lie if he said he wasn't excited to impress you.

He shifts his grip, flicks the sweat off from his brow with the edge of his wrist, and exhales through his nose.

“You're still here?” He calls out. “I think that means I’m doing something right.”

Oh, he was a cocky man. Indeed, he was. Something about the prospect of the person he adores watching him train at sunset was oddly romantic — like you're here to watch him, accompany him even.

Childe doesn't wait for an answer.

He lets the ball spin briefly in his hand, fingers dancing around its grooves like a well-worn habit, until he lifts it, elbows locked in, stance sharp and fluid — too rehearsed to be anything but a muscle memory. But he still hesitates.

Not because he thinks he’ll miss the shot. But because part of him hopes he actually won't.

“This shot is for you!” He points briefly in your direction, a boyish grin plastered across his face, a facade to hide his impending embarrassment.

The ball arcs into the air as he shoots it towards the ring, a perfect curve — a prayer dressed in motion. But the rim catches it harshly. Iron against hope.

It misses.

It always seems to miss when he wants it to matter the most.

The silence that follows feels almost reverent, like even the air doesn't know what to do with his failure.

He stares at the spot where the ball rolled away, ears reddening, before rubbing at the back of his neck, sheepish and grinning awkwardly despite himself. Because no way in hell did he just embarrass himself like that in front of you.

“Ah,” He forces a bashful laugh. “Maybe not my best declaration of love.”