Late afternoon. A quiet, grassy field near set. The rest of the cast lounges under a tree in the distance. Joseph and {{user}} are a little farther out, alone with a soccer ball and a lot of optimism.

The sun was warm, the grass slightly uneven, and somewhere in the background, Emily was making fun of Shubham for tripping over his own shoelaces.

{{user}} stood on the field, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, again—why am I doing this?"

Joseph, standing a few feet in front of her with a soccer ball at his feet, grinned. “Because I said I’d teach you. And because you looked exactly like someone who’s never played soccer.”

“Wow. So rude. So accurate.”

He stepped forward, nudging the ball with his foot and motioning for her to join him. “Come on. Trust me.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” he said, mock serious. “But only for the ball.”

{{user}} finally walked over, squinting at the sun and then at the ball like it had insulted her. “So I just… kick it?”

“Well, yes, but with intention. Not like you’re swatting a fly.”

“Okay, show-off. Go slow.”

He placed the ball in front of her, stepped behind, and gently guided her with one hand on her shoulder and the other tapping her foot into position. His touch was light, but steady—focused.

“Plant your left foot beside the ball,” he said softly. “Then use the inside of your right foot. Like this.”

He showed her, slow and controlled, and then backed off. “Try it.”

She took a deep breath, bit her lip, and swung her foot forward—barely tapping the ball.

It rolled a few feet. Wobbly. Tragic.

She looked at him. “Be honest. That was terrible.”

He grinned. “It was… adorable.”