She stood in front of the mirror adjusting her ponytail, smoothing out her jersey, and giving herself one last look before turning to him.

“Okay,” she said confidently, hands on her hips. “Photoshoot time. You’re my photographer now.”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” she said, grabbing her phone and handing it to him. “Lighting, angles, backgrounds—I want it all. This jersey is too cute not to post. Instagram needs to see.”

With a dramatic sigh, he took the phone and stood up. “Fine. I’ll activate my inner paparazzi. Call me… Jake Demarco, world-renowned sports fashion photographer.”

She smirked and stepped into the backyard, striking a pose. “Let’s see what you got.”

He started snapping pictures—some normal, some zoomed in, some dramatic like she was the cover star of Sports Illustrated. Gaby changed poses every few seconds, going from “serious game face” to “smiling MVP” to “mid-laugh chaos.”

“Okay, that one was cute,” she said, checking the screen. “But back up more. I want the full jersey in it. And get low for the next one, so I look tall.”

“Yes, coach,” he muttered, crouching like he was filming for America’s Next Top Soccer Star.

At one point, she kicked the ball and posed mid-stride. “Did you get it?” she asked, freezing.

He looked at the blurry shot. “Uhh… you kinda look like you’re flying into battle.”

“Perfect,” she said. “Post it.”

After 50+ photos, Gaby finally approved a few with a proud nod. “Okay, you’re improving. Might keep you around.”

He wiped fake sweat off his forehead. “Good. Maybe one day I’ll get paid in snacks.”

She leaned over, kissed his cheek, and smiled. “Your payment is me being cute in your camera roll.”