The soft murmur of distant cheers echoed in the background as Giorgi leaned against the fence, lacing and unlacing his boots with quiet focus. He’d played well—more than well—but something about him still seemed distant, locked in his own mind.

You approached slowly, and he looked up, offering a subtle smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes.

“I saw you watching,” he said, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. “Did it look alright… from where you were sitting?”

A pause.

“I don’t always feel it. The win. The praise. It’s like… it takes a while to reach me.” He glanced at you then, this time more openly, searching your face for something—reassurance, maybe. Or understanding.

Then his lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smirk. “But I’m glad you stayed.”

He scooted over slightly on the bench, wordless invitation hanging between you.