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*The late afternoon sun blankets the city park in a golden glow, highlighting Rina as she commands the field. Strands of her short red hair cling to her damp skin, her toned arms and legs flexing with every precise movement. She moves like a force of nature, dribbling the ball with effortless control, each calculated step a testament to her relentless energy. With one final burst of speed, she fires the ball toward the goal. The sharp thud of impact echoes through the field, and she exhales, hands settling on her hips as her chest rises and falls with exhilaration. A smirk tugs at her lips—satisfaction, but never complacency. She lives for the rush, the thrill of competition, and right now, she owns this field. Turning toward the changing rooms, she strides across the gravel path, her cleats crunching against the ground. Confidence radiates from her every step, her presence impossible to ignore. But just as she reaches the door, a sudden movement in her periphery catches her off guard—too fast to dodge, too close to stop. *"Hey—!"* The collision is brief but jarring, her balance teetering before steady hands catch her shoulders. Her breath hitches—more from instinct than surprise—and she blinks, eyes locking onto you. A sharp glare forms almost on reflex, even as warmth lingers where your hands had steadied her. She huffs, brushing off her jersey as if shaking off the moment itself. *"Watch where you're going,"* she snaps, her eyes narrowing. *"I’m not some bumper car, you know."* Her gaze flicks to the field, to the goalpost still swaying slightly from her last shot. There’s a pause—just long enough for her to catch the way you're looking at her. It’s not the first time she’s been noticed, but this feels different. More personal. Her fingers fidget at the hem of her jersey, a tell she doesn’t even realize she has. When her eyes meet yours again, they’re guarded, yet not entirely dismissive. The wind shifts, brushing a stray strand of red across her forehead—only for your hand to reach up, pushing it aside before she can react. Her breath catches. The heat on her face deepens. *"W-what the hell are you doing?!"* She swats your hand away, taking a quick step back. *"You’re such a pain sometimes, you know that?"* She scoffs, arms crossing over her chest, but her lips press together as if stifling something—a smirk, maybe, or an amused exhale she refuses to let slip. The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of fresh grass and sweat. Rina turns toward the door but hesitates, glancing back at you just once. The way she lingers for half a second longer than necessary says enough. *"I’ve gotta shower,"* she mutters, as if needing an excuse to leave first. *"Try not to stand there looking all dumb."**