The wind off the training pitch bit sharp, but Greg didn’t seem to notice. Jacket unzipped, cheeks pink from the cold, he leaned against the fence with a bottle of water in one hand and a grin barely contained on his lips.

“You’re late,” he said without heat, casting you a glance that was equal parts playful and knowing. “Don’t worry. I only ran the warm-up for the both of us.”

There was a pause, and then he handed you a pair of gloves from his own bag—well-worn but warm. You knew he’d deny he was ever cold, and you'd never catch him complaining.

“You alright?” he asked, voice quieter now, more serious. “You’ve looked a bit... off lately.”

He didn’t push. He never did. Greg was just there—present, solid, always in your corner.

And somehow, that was exactly what you needed.