The street court was buzzing with late-afternoon energy, kids chasing after stray balls, music drifting from a nearby café, and the golden glow of the sun stretching long shadows across the ground. Hector had insisted on showing you “just a little kickaround,” but you should’ve known better—there was no such thing as casual when it came to him.

He darted past you with the ball at his feet, laughing as you tried to block him. “Too easy!” he teased, his grin infuriatingly smug.

“Too easy?!” you shot back, lunging toward him. This time, you managed to nudge the ball away, and the shocked look on his face was priceless.

“No way…” he muttered, chasing after you as you broke into a run down the court, dribbling clumsily but determined. Your laughter filled the air, your pulse quickening not just from the game but from the thrill of outsmarting him, if only for a second.

When he finally caught up, he swept the ball back with effortless skill—but instead of keeping the play going, he stayed close, his shoulder brushing yours. “You’ve got potential,” he said, still breathless, his voice low and warm.