The afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training ground. Benjamin leaned casually against the fence, a water bottle in hand, eyes scanning the empty pitch like he was already running through plays in his mind.

He caught your approach and offered a small, welcoming smile. “You always show up at the quietest times,” he said softly, his French accent wrapping warmly around the words. “Not many appreciate this calm.”

He took a slow sip before nodding toward the field. “Sometimes, it’s good to step back—to breathe and think. You want to join me? No pressure, just two people trying to figure things out.”

His gaze was steady, patient—as if he genuinely wanted to hear what you had to say.