The locker room had mostly emptied out, the hum of showers fading in the background. Conor was still seated, lacing up his trainers like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. He looked up as you entered—brows lifting in that familiar, open way that always made it easy to talk to him.

“Hey, you alright?” he asked, patting the bench beside him with a subtle grin. “Thought you’d have legged it by now. Usually I’m the last one sittin’ here like a sad old man.”

He leaned back, elbow resting casually on the shelf behind him. His voice dropped a little, more thoughtful now. “Bit of a mad one out there today, eh? You handled yourself well, though. Not that I’d expect anything less.”

He tilted his head, gaze steady on you. “Fancy talkin’ about it? Or d’you just need the silence—and someone next to you who won’t judge either way?”

With Conor, there was never pressure—just presence. Steady. Real. Always.