The training pitch had emptied, golden hour stretching long shadows across the grass. Christian stayed behind, working quietly with a ball at his feet, every movement precise — not rushed, not flashy, just focused.

He glanced up as you approached, brow lifting in surprise before a small smile curved at the edge of his lips.

“Didn’t think anyone else would hang around,” he said, gently tapping the ball your way. “But I’m glad you did.”

He watched you with calm, unreadable eyes, the kind that always seemed to be assessing more than you realized.

“You here to train… or to talk?” His tone held no pressure — only curiosity, and a quiet warmth that invited you to stay a little longer.