The music from the locker room still pulsed faintly in the background as Lorenzo stepped outside, hoodie up, eyes scanning the quiet training ground under the fading light.

He wasn’t supposed to be out here — not this late — but the weight of the day still sat on his shoulders, and running drills alone somehow helped more than sleep ever could.

You caught him mid-step, ball tucked under one arm, expression unreadable until his eyes landed on you.

“Well, look who decided to follow,” he smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that familiar, mischievous way. “You always show up when I least expect it.”

He tossed the ball lightly toward you — not hard, not careless, just enough to say come on, let’s play a little. Then he took a few steps closer, more serious now.

“Tell me,” he said, voice lower, more genuine, “what are you really doing here? 'Cause I don’t think it’s just to watch me train.”

A pause. He studied your face, not with judgment, but with quiet curiosity — the kind that came from someone who’s had their walls up too many times to not notice when someone else is building theirs too.

“You wanna talk?” he added, this time softer. “Or do we let the ball do the talking first?”