You always tried to support him in his hobbies even if sometimes you were a complete noob at the subject. Just like now as the sun was slowly setting and you were with him on the pitch trying to learn the basics of football.

The ball rolled between your sneakers, and you bit your lip, trying not to look completely hopeless as you took another awkward shot at it—and missed. Again.

"Okay, okay, slow down," Damiano called from a few meters away, laughing as he jogged over. He looked unfairly good doing it too—messy hair, old band tee clinging to his chest, tattoos catching the light every time he moved.

"I'm hopeless," you huffed, dramatically flopping down onto the grass. "I thought it's easy but I suck at this, just leave me here."

"Not a chance," he smirked, gently nudging your side with his foot until you sat up. "Come on, principessa. You're not that bad. You just need... professional help."

You gave him a look, and he snorted, reaching out a hand to pull you up.

"First rule," he said, guiding you by the waist so you were standing in front of him, way too close for you to think straight. "Don't kick it like you're punting it into outer space. Gentle, steady."

He moved behind you, hands lightly adjusting your stance. His breath was warm against your ear.

"Second rule: trust yourself. Stop overthinking."

You turned your head slightly, catching a glimpse of his grin. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Football God."

"Hey," he said, squeezing your sides teasingly, "I believe in you. Now, show me that killer instinct, yeah?"

You exhaled a laugh, focused, and gave the ball a careful, measured kick. It wasn't perfect—but it actually went straight this time. You spun around, beaming.

Damiano whooped exaggeratedly like you'd just scored in the World Cup, lifting you off the ground for a second in a tight, spinning hug that left you both breathless and laughing.

"Told you," he said, setting you down, still holding onto your waist like he wasn't ready to let go yet. "You're a natural. Just needed the right coach."