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serveandchoke · 9 days ago

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THIS IS EVERYTHING TO ME

the picture in the bush ; J.S

summary : when you find a mysterious photo at the park, you keep it without knowing why. you never expected a simple photo that you tucked away and forgot about would have such a lasting effect on your life. pairing : fem!reader x jannik sinner warnings : none this is the fluffiest of fluff

you were 9 when it happened.

it was a warm afternoon in san candido, italy. While the late spring sun made everything in its path golden, you were busy playing tag with the other kids. your sneakers had dirt all over them, your shirt stained with some sort of juice you had a couple hours before.

you didn't mean to find the picture at all. you could hear the kid that was 'it' running towards you, and in your hurry, you stumble, chasing into a cluster of trees not too far for you to be in danger, but tall enough to cover your frame. all in one breath of something that consisted of a giggle and a inhale, you saw it.

half tucked beneath a bush, there it was—waiting to be found : a photo.

it had clearly been lost. A little wrinkled at the edges, rough from time but soft enough from the rain of yesterday. But the image was clear : a young boy with bright red hair, shirt slightly too big, holding a tennis racket almost as tall as him, and smiling like he'd just done something amazing. There were specks of what you suspected was either dirt of clay on his knees, like he had fallen before the photograph, or won whatever he was doing.

you stared at the picture in your hands. you didn't know why you looked at the picture for so long, maybe it was the grin, maybe it was the eyes, or his crazy red hair that was longer than your own at the time. You didn't know him, but something in your stomach felt warm.

warm enough for you to slip the picture in your pocket and tell nobody about it. You didn't think too much of it, only that it was a secret little treasure.

At first, you'd take it out sometimes at night. When the house was quiet, and the loudest thing was you carefully unfolding the picture, just to look at it.

then, years passed. The photo lived in a keepsake box, then on the cover on your wallet, then on the side pocket of your carry-on bag, and by then, the photo was worn soft at the edges, colors a bit faded, paper thinner.

Until you forgot about it, the way people forget lyrics of a song they once played on repeat.

You met jannik when you were in your early 20's. long after the photo had lost its place in your mind.

An ordinary afternoon at a coffee shop near your apartment. The barista had messed up your order, and you were too tired to argue, so you turned around with a sigh—and bumped into someone?

"Sorry," he said without hesitation, voice carrying a distinct italian accent.

you looked up

tall. red curly hair. kind hazel eyes. His large hand immediately steadying your side, helping you regain composure; while the other hand carried two identical cups.

your expression flickered as you saw the cups in his hands. "wait—is that—" you tried to get the sentence out, but the italian must've already connected the dots, cutting you off with a 'ah—' then handing you one of the cups.

"are you sure this is mines?" you questioned.

"hmm, not sure actually. i think she panicked." he replied, gesturing his hands towards the same barista who had messed up your order.

god, he was so italian

"if it's not yours, you can take it anyway, i don't like caramel." the italian jokes, letting out a boyish laugh along the way.

you politely laughed back, surprised. "then why did you order it?"

"i didn't. i ordered something boring," he said, holding up his cup, "like me, no?"

you raised an eyebrow. "you don't seem boring."

he gave a small shrug. "i would give it time."

you laughed, a soft giggle escaping.

he shyly smiled, happy that his joke landed well, swaying so gentle.

you had realized that you were standing in front of him, holding your drink, not moving.

"well, uhm, thanks for 'rescuing' me," you managed to say.

"hm, well, it was not that dramatic i would say."

"no, really, i would've cried just now."

"then i'm glad i was here." he replied quietly.

there was a pause. A strange, light silence. before you could nod and go on about your day, he held out his hands.

"jannik," he offered. then, in a playful tune, "and you?"

you told him your name. he repeated it softly, like he was trying it on. neither of you knew what had just started.

you didn't plan to see him again.

it was supposed to be a passing moment, you thought—one of those odd, warm moments life throws your way, then takes it back before you even realize. But the universe, apparently, had other plans in mind.

a week after the interaction, you had walked into that same café after work, craving coffee, a sweet treat, and maybe a little peace. when you spot him. sitting in the corner, hood pulled up, reading and scrolling on something on his phone.

he looks up right as you spot him.

you waved, instinctively. he gave you a quiet smile—surprised, but not startled— and raised his cup like a toast.

you had told yourself to not read into it, but your stomach did a somersault, and something in your chest fluttered anyway.

you got your drink, hesitated for a half second, then sat across from him.

"still drinking boring things?" you questioned.

he grinned at you, in a oh-so-familiar way, but you couldn't place your fingers on it.

"americano. no sugar. wanted a change from the cappucino today."

you snorted. "jesus. and i thought the caramel thing was bad. this is just another level of unusual."

"unusual," he intervened, "but effective." raises his cup, and does a terrible attempt at a wink so bad it makes you laugh and shake your head.

jannik was warm and easy to talk to. funny, in a questionable way. The kind of funny where if you weren't paying attention, you would miss the joke. He asked thoughtful questions, really listened to the answers, and carefully state his understanding of your answer. His voice was slow, deliberate; he was careful with his words, sometimes forgetting what the english word for something was, leading to you guys trying to figure it out for 5 minutes.

you didn't know much about him, not yet. just that he was from northern italy. that he was often tired. that he seemed a little older than you, but not in years—rather in experience. Like life had tried to toughen him and knock him down in one breath, but hasn't quite succeeded.

you started bumping into each other on purpose after that.

coffee once turned into coffee again. then coffee and a walk. then coffee and hours in the corner of the café talking about everything and nothing. you learned he traveled a lot. you learned he played tennis, but he brushed it off as something unimportant. you only found out he was Jannik Sinner—capital letters, tennis star—when you accidentally saw his face on the back of someones ESQUIRE magazine on the train.

when you asked him about it. he seemed embarrassed.

"i didn't want that to be the first thing you know about me."

"well, it wasn't," you had replied, smiling. "the first thing i knew about you is that you don't like caramel."

he grinned, soft and crooked. "still true."

you fell for him quietly.

it was a slow kind of love—the kind that builds in conversation between plane rides, ‘i made it’ text from the hotel rooms, in quiet diners where he leaned in to hear you better. you had learned quickly that he wasn’t what people made him out to be. behind all the fame and headlines, was a shy and thoughtful man who didnt know how to sit or stand still and had a tendency to overcook pasta.

to you, he wasn’t “Jannik sinner. the wimbledon champion”. he was the guy who leaves sticky notes on the mirror for you to find when he goes away for a tournament. the guy who text you the same, after a win or loss. the guy who laughs at your bad joke and falls asleep with his head in your lap on off-days. the guy who hates caramel and refuses to try any drink you give him involving it.

you loved him, all of him.

your story with jannik was slow, careful, filled with shy glances, long calls when he was on tour, and gentle forehead kisses after a long day. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, and listened when you couldn’t speak. something in him that felt like home.

you had learned, over time, that jannik loved in ways people missed.

he didn't shout it, he didn't post it, he loved you in the details

he remembers the exact way you take your coffee, no matter what country you were in. how’d he leave his hoodie behind for you because he knew how comfortable you felt in them. how’d he call you just before bed even if it meant setting an alarm for 4 AM in shanghai.

You never rushed each other. The love unfolded slowly - not dramatic or volatile, but something warm and rooted. It came in Sunday mornings with tangled legs under the blanket, in shared playlists on long car rides, in him watching you out of the corner of his eye like he couldn't believe you were real.

One night, during a rare few days off, he took you to a quiet mountain in the south of tyrol.

it was autumn. the leaves had started to turn colors, crisp gold and deep red. the air cold and sharp in your lungs. jannik had found a tiny cabin with windows that looked out to miles of nothing.

you didn't know he had it then.

you didn't know how long he’d been carrying it with him—how many cities it had traveled through in his duffle bag, hidden between sweatshirts and string dampeners. waiting.

he made dinner—an overcooked risotto you both pretended to love. you both played cards by the fire, he lost dramatically. hurling up together by the fire, his arms wrapped around you like a seal.

it was quiet.

broken by him. saying your name, softly.

“yea?” you uttered out.

before you could turn your head to face jannik, he pulls out the ring from the side of his pants.

he held the box out, getting on one knee.

and before he could even ask the question. you whispered the only thing that couldve made sense.

"yes."

you married him on a spring morning, tucked away in the dolomites. Just a small wedding—family, close friends, the scent of flowers in the air.

you wore white. he looked at you like the world stopped spinning just to watch you walk down the aisle. everything was perfect.

later that night, still in your dress, you dropped your shoes off by the bed, and dropped yourself on the bed. Jannik was humming to himself the tune of 'forever young' by alphaville by the suitcases, moving to unpack your stuff. as he got to your overnight bag, something dropped on the floor.

a wallet.

your wallet.

it flipped open while it landed, revealing the small plastic window inside. the old photo, faded now with age, was still there.

he picked it up and froze.

you were pulling off the dress when you heard the stillness.

"wait," jannik turned, holding the photo between his fingers. "where did you get this?"

you walked over, eyes widening when you realized what he was holding. "Oh." you replied, flat. "that? i just found it. when i was 9. in a bush. I don't know why i kept it, i guess i thought he was cute? it felt special in a way."

he blinked, stunned.

"that little boy, thats me."

you had laughed. not believing him at first. But then he reached into a drawer and pulled out and old photo album, flipping pages with speed and certainty, until he lands on a nearly identical picture—same tennis racket, same muddy knees, same wild red hair, and the exact same cheeky smile.

"i remember this day. it was after a junior tournament. my mom took the photo and gave me a copy. i put it in my pocket, we stopped by a park before going home and i must've dropped it." he murmured, eyes soft. "i cried after."

you stared at him. then the photo. then back at him.

"no way."

he smiled, soft and crooked, same as the photo

you felt the room spin.

"that's you?"

he nodded.

you gasped. covering your mouth. sitting on the edge of the bed. "are you kidding me right now?"

jannik stood in front of you, still holding the photo.

"guess i really was your first love," he teased, gently.

you stared at him, completely dazed. "i married the boy in the bush."

"you married the boy who lost his favorite photo." he whispered, brushing your hair back behind your ear. he gave a small, breathless laugh. "i guess you could say you met me years ago."

you laughed, full and stunned and disbelieving. "no way, thats insane."

"so tell me," he leaned in. "was i your first love then?"

you rolled your eyes, grinning. "i guess so."

"you were mine too."

authors note ! first jannik sinner fic so this might suck but its okay cause thats MY italian goat. please leave requests teehee im getting the sudden surge of motivation..... i think for like 5% of this fic i wanted him to put that lavazza sponsorship to use and got you a custom lavazza coffee creation.... or omg i wanted to do a little tennis commentary part where the guy is like "looks like our italian ice man is melting"and honestly you guys i'm gonna be honest him proposing is short cause i cringed myself out thinking of it #sorryyyy gahhh okay long asf authors note bruh but thank you if you read this through the end this means a lot!!! and also i wrote this at 1 AM and finished around 4:39 so if anything is written wrong thats all me lol also the wink just imagine that as his wink towards alcaraz

heavily inspired by this pic i saw on pinterest :)

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serveandchoke · 15 days ago

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FINALLY GOT A NEW LAPTOP I CAN CONTINUE WRITING

#THIS IS A BIG DAY #LET'S FUCKING GOO

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serveandchoke · 19 days ago

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this healed me

Tainted | J.Sinner

synopsis: in the midst of jannik’s suspension, you realize just how strong you are.

pairing: jannik sinner x f!tennisplayer!reader, established relationship

warnings: agnst, focused on jannik’s d*ping ban, depressive state, this is just fiction and i’m completely unaware of what jannik was doing or how exactly he was feeling during this time.

author’s note: took my time with this, got emotional at the end 😂😭, thank you to the anon who requesting this i appreciate it alot! your request was gold. i’m really proud of this one. please enjoy!

words: 1,861

You don’t even hear the question the first time.

It’s somewhere after your second-round loss in Toronto. You’re tired—emotionally wrung out, limbs heavy, mind fraying at the edges. The press conference lights are harsh, the room packed. You’re already bracing yourself before the first reporter even lifts their mic.

“…how are you handling Jannik’s suspension?”

Your stomach sinks.

You keep your face neutral, the way you’ve practiced. You pause, breathe through your nose, and keep your voice steady. “I’m here to talk about my match today.”

But they don’t stop. The questions keep coming, reframed and reworded, but always circling back to the same thing: him.

Jannik.

Jannik, who tested positive.

Jannik, who’s suspended.

Jannik, who’s not here.

And you—you, who are still expected to win matches, smile for cameras, shake hands, and carry the weight of someone else’s shame like it was stitched into your kit.

You fly back to Europe two days later. Your coach tries to talk to you about your footwork, about match tension, about getting back into rhythm. You nod along, say “yeah” at the right places, but your mind is elsewhere. Has been for weeks.

He hasn’t answered your last few messages. Hasn’t posted, hasn’t been seen.

So when you knock on the door of his apartment in Monte Carlo, you don’t even know what you’re expecting.

But when he opens it, you realize you weren’t expecting this.

Jannik stands in the doorway like he doesn’t know how to move anymore. His hair’s longer, unkempt, his skin pale, lips pressed together like speaking might break him. He doesn’t say your name, just steps back to let you in.

It smells like he hasn’t cooked in days.

You don’t ask any questions. You just wrap your arms around him and pull him into a hug that feels like it’s been waiting to happen for far too long.

And slowly, so slowly, his arms wind around your waist and hold on.

The days blur.

You sleep in his bed, though sometimes you wake in the middle of the night and find him sitting on the couch, staring out the window. You bring groceries, cook breakfast, nudge him into showering, help him shave.

Some days he talks. Most days he doesn’t.

He whispers once, as you hand him a glass of water, “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

You kneel beside him on the floor, fingers brushing his knee. “You didn’t drag me into anything,” you whisper back. “I walked in. I chose you. Still choosing you.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t know how to deserve it.

Your own game has been slipping.

You’ve lost three first rounds in a row. Sponsors are gently asking if you want to reschedule campaigns. Your coach says it’s okay to take time off, but the WTA Tour doesn’t stop for heartbreak, and neither do ranking points.

Some nights, when Jannik’s asleep, you cry in the bathroom—quietly, so he won’t hear.

Because you’re supposed to be strong.

You’re supposed to be the one who holds it together.

But strength feels like sand slipping through your fingers lately.

His parents have been a big help, they flew out quietly to Monte Carlo in the first week of his suspension, just to sit with him in the silence. Didn’t ask him directly for explanations, didn’t scold or cry in front of him, just stood by his side and tried to make things better in their own little way.

They suggest that Jannik go back to Italy with them, but he refuses—even if he feels like an absolute burden, he’ll feel even more guilty for leaving you to deal with everything yourself in Monaco.

You might not notice it at first, but they’re worried about you too, his mom’s weekly checkups turns into daily ones and they secretly speak to your parents to convince you to take a break.

During this break your coach suggests that you work on returning back to your old form, the dominant one you were in before everything happened. One some occasions you bring Jannik along, he might be banned from playing on tour but harmless hitting won’t hurt.

•

It happens after midnight.

You wake to the sound of him choking on a sob—not crying, not in that quiet way he usually does, but breaking down completely. The kind of grief that takes over the body like it’s drowning from the inside out.

You sit up instantly, heart pounding.

He’s curled on the edge of the bed, back to you, his shoulders shaking so violently it looks like he’s in pain. His hands are pressed to his face, trying to muffle the sound, like even now, he’s afraid of disturbing you.

“Jannik,” you whisper, reaching out, pulling him gently toward you. “Baby, no—come here. Come here.”

He lets you hold him, collapses into your arms like his whole body forgot how to carry itself. His head finds the curve of your neck and he sobs—open and raw, like everything he’s tried to keep locked in is finally spilling out.

“I ruined everything,” he chokes out. “My name… my career. All of it. And you—you shouldn't have to keep cleaning up after me.”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, even as your own chest aches with how broken he sounds.

“No,” you whisper into his hair. “You didn’t ruin everything.”

He keeps crying, shaking his head, and you pull back just enough to cup his face in your hands.

“You’ll come back stronger. Do you hear me? You’re not done. This isn’t the end. You are not the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

His breathing hitches.

“You don’t even realize who’s still here, standing with you,” you whisper, brushing tears from his cheeks. “Me. Your parents. Jack’s been defending you in every interview, telling people the kind of person you really are. He said, ‘Jannik’s one of the most hardworking and honest guys I know.’ You’ve earned that. You matter, Jannik. Even now.”

He lets out a broken sound, something between a sob and a laugh, burying his face in your shoulder again.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I did. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You stay like that until his breathing slows, until the tears run dry.

And even when he falls asleep in your arms, you don’t.

You just hold him.

Because someone has to remind him that he’s still whole.

Even when he forgets.

•

Monte Carlo feels like it’s paused. Like the outside world exists on a separate reel of film.

Inside Jannik’s apartment, things move slowly. Quietly. You two breathe in the same silence, day after day. Sometimes there’s music. Sometimes just the faint hum of the sea.

He’s better now—more present. But there are still days when his eyes drift to the floor too long, and his voice sinks under the weight of something that still won’t let him go.

You lie in bed together one night, the window cracked open to let in the breeze. You’re curled into his side, legs tangled under the sheets, your cheek pressed to his chest. His hand rests on your back, bare skin against bare skin.

The TV is on, muted. Neither of you are watching.

“You should’ve walked away from me,” Jannik says, his voice barely more than a breath.

You lift your head slightly, watching the way his jaw tightens.

“I would’ve understood if you did. God knows I would’ve done it if I were you.”

You sit up slowly, shifting your body to face him fully. He avoids your eyes at first. You place your hand on his cheek and guide his gaze back to yours.

Then you say it—soft but solid.

“When I told you I love you… you know I meant that, right?”

His brow knits just slightly, confusion flickering.

“I’m not talking just about all those warm feelings. I’m talking about putting in the work. I’m here to stay for the hard parts, not just the pretty ones.”

Jannik doesn’t speak right away.

But something breaks—or maybe opens—in his expression. Like the floodgates holding everything back can’t hold anymore.

He reaches for you and pulls you close—really close—until you’re in his arms and your faces are only inches apart.

“You don’t know what you’ve done for me,” he whispers. “You saved me without ever asking me to be okay first.”

“I just loved you,” you whisper back.

“I know,” he says, and then he kisses you. Deep and slow, with the kind of certainty that tells you he means it. His fingers slide into your hair as his other hand wraps around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the only solid thing he’s got.

The kiss lasts longer than usual. There’s no rush. Just a quiet reverence in the way your mouths meet, like you both finally understand the full weight of us.

And when you pull back, foreheads resting together, you see something flicker in his eyes again.

Hope.

•

A month later, you’re back on the WTA Tour.

Your game is sharper, lighter. Something inside you has begun to settle—maybe not perfectly, but enough.

It’s a smaller tournament. One of those warm-up events, but it means something because you’re finally, finally playing like yourself again.

You fight through a tough three-setter in the quarterfinals and win, collapsing on the court with a grin, sweat clinging to your skin like victory.

As you walk to the chair, towel in hand, you glance toward the stands.

And then—you see them.

A couple sitting a few rows back. Not in the VIP box, but close enough to matter. His mother’s hands are clasped tightly in front of her mouth. His father’s eyes are glassy with pride. They don’t wave, don’t try to draw attention. But they’re watching you like you just gave them something they didn’t know they needed.

Your breath catches.

You smile so wide it hurts, blinking back tears as you wave up toward them—broad and childlike and full of joy. You don’t say anything at first. Just feel.

Later, during your post-match interview on court, the crowd still cheering, the mic is passed to you.

“How does it feel to find your rhythm again?” the interviewer asks.

You smile, nodding.

“Feels like I’m starting to breathe again,” you say, pausing for just a second. “And there are two important people behind me today.”

You turn your head toward the crowd, and you see them again—his parents.

His mother presses a hand to her heart.

And you realize that love doesn’t always shout.

Sometimes, it just shows up and sits quietly in the stands.

That night, Jannik calls. The moment your face lights up on the screen, he smiles—eyes crinkling, color back in his cheeks.

“I saw them,” you say softly.

He nods, emotion thick in his voice. “They said they wanted to thank you. For not leaving me.”

“I didn’t do anything heroic.”

“Yes, you did.”

And the way he says it—his voice full of love and awe and quiet gratitude—you believe him.

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serveandchoke · 20 days ago

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everytime he celebrates my life span expands to 5 years

god i love when he celebrates. that's roman emperor pookie

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serveandchoke · 20 days ago

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hey so this is insane

I've decided that every time I see it on my tl I'll repost it because that's the right thing to do. 🔥

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serveandchoke · 25 days ago

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crazy things that my mind can think of

#do not perceive me #jannik sinner #tennis #mine #i had photoshop open anyway #ahahaha #help

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serveandchoke · 26 days ago

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my jaw dropped

I have nothing appropriate to say

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serveandchoke · 26 days ago

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Champion’s Waltz | J.Sinner

synopsis: in which after winning the 2025 wimbledon, you reunite with your ex boyfriend for the champion’s waltz

pairing: jannik sinner x f!reader, exes to lovers (???)

author’s note: i recently got into tennis and jannik’s become my favorite! +iga & carlos

1,346 words

The applause is deafening. It rolls over the emerald grass of Centre Court like a tide, crashing in waves as the Duchess hands you the Wimbledon trophy. Your fingers tremble around the silver plate, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath. You're soaked in sweat, mascara smudged just slightly under your eyes, but you don't care. You did it. After nearly three hours of slugging it out with Iga Swiatek in one of the most punishing, exhilarating finals in years, you’re the Wimbledon champion. Again.

You glance across the net where Iga stands, shoulders slumped but eyes bright with admiration. She offers a tired smile, walking over to embrace you.

"You earned that," she says, voice rough but warm. "Every point. Damn near killed me."

You laugh against her shoulder. "You’re the toughest opponent I've ever had. I’m just glad it's over."

As you part, she smirks. “Almost over.”

You blink. “What do you mean—”

And then it hits you. The Champion’s Ball. The waltz.

Tradition.

Your stomach sinks like lead as your gaze shifts to the men’s trophy ceremony happening a few courts away, broadcast on the big screen above the stands. Carlos Alcaraz claps Jannik Sinner on the back, grinning, while Jannik lifts the silver cup high, his eyes shaded behind thick lashes and the familiar, lopsided smile you haven’t seen up close in months.

Because Jannik is the men’s champion.

Your ex.

And you’re about to be stuck dancing with him in front of the entire tennis world.

•

The hotel ballroom is opulent—gold chandeliers glitter above you, casting champagne-colored light on polished floors and glittering gowns. You wear white, of course. Wimbledon’s tradition even stretches to its formalwear, and your silky, off-the-shoulder dress hugs your frame with an elegance you didn’t know you still possessed after nearly tearing every muscle in your body on court.

You catch glimpses of familiar faces: Ons Jabeur laughing with Aryna Sabalenka by the bar; Novak Djokovic in deep conversation with Roger Federer near the floral arrangements. Cameras flash. Waiters pass hors d'oeuvres. And yet you only feel the weight of one pair of eyes.

You don’t have to look far to find him. Jannik stands near the center of the ballroom, dressed in a crisp white tuxedo, bow tie undone, looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. He’s surrounded by people—journalists, officials, fellow players—but his eyes are on you the moment you walk in.

You freeze for a second.

There’s no hate there. No bitterness. Just… something that crackles in the air between you. Familiar, magnetic, dangerous.

Iga appears at your elbow like a guardian angel with a devilish grin.

“Nice dress,” she says casually, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.

“Don’t start,” you murmur.

She shrugs. “I’m just saying, if I had to waltz with my ex in front of the royal family and millions of viewers, I’d want to look like a goddess too.”

You arch a brow. “You really know how to calm a girl’s nerves.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, nudging you toward the center. “Besides, Carlos is practically foaming at the mouth for a reunion. Don’t let him down.”

Your eyes flick to where Carlos is standing—shirt sleeves rolled, tie already off, his grin wide as ever. He gives you a massive thumbs-up like he’s watching his favorite soap opera unfold.

You roll your eyes.

•

The music begins.

Soft, classical. A Viennese waltz. Jannik steps forward through the crowd, parting the sea of people with grace you forgot he had. He stops in front of you, eyes tracing your face with a look you can’t name.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You extend your hand, and he takes it, warm and familiar. His other hand settles at your waist, and just like that, you're dancing.

Your bodies move together with ease, gliding through the steps like muscle memory. For all the things that didn’t work between you, your rhythm always did. On the court, off it. You were in sync—until you weren’t.

He’s quiet for a few turns, his jaw tight. Then he says, “Congratulations.”

You glance up at him. “You too. You played beautifully today.”

His lips twitch. “It felt like crap, actually. Nerve-wracking the whole way through. Until I saw your match.”

You blink. “You watched it?”

He shrugs. “Streamed it on my phone between sets. Nearly smashed it when you double-faulted at 5–5 in the second.”

A breath of a laugh escapes you. “Iga was brutal.”

“She always is.”

There’s a long pause, filled only with music and the shuffle of feet.

You finally murmur, “This is surreal.”

He looks down at you. “Dancing with me?”

You hesitate. “Being here. Like this. After everything.”

Jannik doesn’t answer right away. He just twirls you gently, his hand still firm at your waist when you spin back into his chest. You land closer than before.

“You look happy,” he says, not quite a question.

You tilt your head. “Are you asking if I am, or saying it like you already know?”

His gaze drops to your lips for a heartbeat. “I’m saying it. But I’m wondering if it’s the kind of happy that lasts. Or the kind that’s... just for show.”

You search his face. “What do you think?”

“I think we weren’t ready before,” he says quietly. “But I wonder sometimes if we gave up too soon.”

It hurts. Not in a raw, angry way. In a slow, aching one. Because part of you has wondered the same, even if you've never said it out loud.

"I was scared," you admit, voice barely above the music. "Of us being bigger than the game. Of losing myself in it."

"I know," he says. “And I didn’t fight hard enough to keep us from falling apart.”

Another pause.

"I missed you, you know," he adds.

You swallow. “I missed you too.”

And there it is again—that invisible thread. The one that pulled you together in locker rooms and hotel corridors, in airports and warm-up courts, now tugging once more.

You don’t say I want you back. Not here, not tonight. Because this isn’t a movie. This is the afterglow of glory and pain, of months apart filled with late-night texts you never sent.

But maybe he doesn’t need you to say it.

He leans closer, breath brushing your temple. “One dance won’t fix everything.”

“I know.”

“But it’s a start.”

You nod, pressing just a little closer as the music swells, feeling his heartbeat match yours in rhythm.

Around you, the crowd claps at the beauty of the moment—two champions, reunited in motion, gliding like they never broke at all.

Iga nudges Carlos as they watch, sipping from her champagne.

“I give them two weeks,” she says.

Carlos grins. “You’re generous. I give them one.”

•

Later that night, when the cameras are gone and your feet ache from hours in heels, you’re standing on the hotel terrace with a flute of champagne. London’s skyline twinkles beyond the balustrade. You think you’re alone—until you hear the soft click of a door behind you.

You don’t need to turn to know it’s him.

Jannik steps up beside you, mirroring your pose, hands braced on the railing. The silence between you now feels less tense, more lived-in.

“You heading to the States next?” he asks.

“Yeah. Toronto, then Cincinnati. You?”

He nods. “Same.”

You sip your drink. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Guess so.”

Another beat.

Then softly, with the kind of hope that tastes like spring, he asks, “Want to practice mixed doubles again?”

You glance at him sideways, heart flipping in your chest.

“Are you asking for tennis reasons or...?”

His smile is slow. “Both.”

You bite your lip, try not to smile back—and fail.

“I’ll think about it.”

He chuckles. “I’ll take that.”

You stand there a little longer, shoulder to shoulder, letting the London night wrap around you.

Maybe you’re not lovers again.

But maybe—just maybe—you’re not quite exes anymore either.

314 notes · View notes

serveandchoke · 28 days ago

Note

hello !! i love ur fics so much 🥹🫶🏻 idk if u’ll take this request but i suddenly thought of this aha like a jannik fic wherein mc is neither a model/influencer blonde like the typical girls linked to jannik, rather she’s a law student who is close to his coach Darren (fam friends or sort of like that) but she’s really beautiful im picturing her with the features of barbara palvin x alexandra saint mleux and just a normal girl from the same his age haha from an affluent family with the humor of alex consani but actually, she never had boyfriends since birth (standards and stuff). and she met jannik thru his coach. like jannik is suddenly curious and tries to stalk her on ig but failed bc her acc’s private and like tried to sneak glances during the time she’s on a facetime with darren. darren is really close with her like an uncle vibe. so her and jannik kind of have like a enemies-to lovers trope ?? cause the reader isnt easy like that like she’s aware of the gossips around tennis athletes and how they handle relationships. so they have this banter/tension between them. mc also has that sarcastic humor and speaks with an aussie accent. but this is not angst in any way haha it’s up to you for the rest of this one haha i trust u !!! anw thank you so much in advance i luv luv ur fics hope u continue writing more 🥹🤍

To love the (not so) ordinary

Wow that is very detailed. I love it when people know exactly what they want in a story, it makes me more sure that'll I satisfy or not. Hope you like it.

The lounge smelled faintly of eucalyptus muscle balm and faint traces of espresso — the usual post-training cocktail. Outside, the sky had deepened into a molten peach, and the late Monte Carlo sun filtered through the half-shut blinds, casting long lines across the floor. Jannik sat in the far corner, slouched but tense, the edge of his hoodie bunched in his fist, water bottle half-forgotten in the other.

His brain was still slightly fogged from drills and footwork, but his attention snapped back the moment Darren’s voice lifted with a rare kind of fondness.

“Ah, there she is. Took her long enough.”

Jannik didn’t look up right away. He was mid-wrap, tightening his racquet grip with practiced motion. It was supposed to be mindless — muscle memory — but his fingers faltered slightly when he heard her.

“Oh, finally. I thought you died, or worse, switched to coaching pickleball.” A woman’s voice. Unapologetically bold, warm, with that specific kind of Aussie accent that always sounded like it was mocking you even when it wasn’t. But this one was mocking — and amused.

He looked up.

Darren was grinning, phone held up in one hand. On the screen, lounging back in a chaotic sunlit bedroom somewhere far from the tour, was a girl. Not just a girl — she looked like the kind of person who had never tried to be beautiful, and yet somehow always was. Dark, slightly messy hair framed a face that didn’t need filters or designer labels. Oversized hoodie, sleeves pushed up carelessly, one knee tucked under the other. She had that effortless, unreadable beauty — the kind that belonged to girls who knew exactly how sharp they were.

“Still coaching,” Darren replied, settling into his chair. “Though the kids are getting taller and moodier.” She made a noise like a scoff. “Must be all the hormone injections in their chicken nuggets.”

Jannik rolled his eyes subtly and went back to his grip, but his ears stayed tuned. He hated when someone could hold a room like that — even digitally — and she didn’t even seem to be trying. The way she filled space with words, completely unbothered, borderline dismissive… it was irritating.

Worse: it was working.

“Say hi to my boy,” Darren said with a grin, angling the screen slightly. She looked directly at the camera for the first time, and Jannik suddenly felt like a spotlight had hit him. Her gaze was... invasive. Sharp. Not flirtatious, not warm — just assessing.

“Oh. Him.”

He blinked. She studied him with open curiosity — and a clear lack of being impressed. “He’s the one with the legs, right?” she asked, tilting her head like she was squinting at a piece of modern art. “Looks like a flamingo and plays like he’s got a tax fraud case pending?”

It took all of Jannik’s self-control not to let his jaw drop. His fingers froze mid-twist. He blinked at her, once. Slowly. Did she just call him a—? Darren let out a wheezy laugh, slapping his thigh.

“She’s in law,” Darren explained, between chuckles. “Thinks she’s clever.”

“I am clever,” she replied with ease. “And also very right. You’ve trained a redheaded menace with god-tier footwork and the emotional availability of a houseplant.” Jannik tensed. His entire brain stalled for a beat. Had she seriously just—

“I understood that,” he said, not even trying to mask the edge in his tone. She smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Good,” she said, leaning toward the camera, that obnoxiously perfect mouth tilting at the corners. “I like it when they listen.”

He held her gaze. For once, he didn’t care how sweaty or tired he looked. He just wanted her to stop looking at him like that — like she’d already written him off as another stupid headline. “Do you always glare at people like that,” she asked lightly, “or is it just me?”

He didn’t break eye contact. His voice was flat. “Only when they’re annoying.” She leaned back, unfazed. “Ah. So always, then.”

Jannik’s jaw ticked. His skin was still flushed from training, but now his ears were going hot for a different reason. She was smug. Not flirtatious. Not giggly. Smug.

It irked him. She irked him.

And somehow, that made her more interesting.

Jannik didn’t know why he kept replaying the conversation in his head.

The flamingo line. The houseplant insult. The way she’d said *“Good. I like it when they listen.”*

It wasn’t like him to care what someone thought — least of all someone who clearly didn’t care much for him either. But she’d thrown him off, and now he couldn’t stop mentally circling the exchange, picking it apart like a dropped string in a racquet.

Maybe it was her confidence. Or that dry wit. Or the way she looked straight at him — not starstruck, not intimidated, just… unimpressed. He hated how much space she was taking up in his mind for someone he hadn’t even met in person.

He’d made the mistake of stalking her Instagram again. Still private. Still no new posts. Still that photo — just her in the passenger seat of a car, sunglasses low, chin tilted like she was daring someone to disappoint her.

Jannik sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he stepped out onto the terrace. The golden hour sun dipped over the hills, casting a soft fire across the skyline. The table was already half full — a few familiar faces from Darren’s circle, some local friends. Wine was being poured, conversation easy.

And then, his stomach dropped.

She was there.

She was actually there.

She sat at the far end of the table, dressed in something simple — black pants, a white top, and a tailored blazer that made her look both expensive and effortlessly relaxed. Her hair was down, wind-swept, and the way she lifted her glass of wine to her lips made Jannik unreasonably tense.

He hesitated. Darren noticed. “Didn’t I tell you?” Darren said, motioning toward the empty seat beside her. “She landed this morning. Said she wanted to escape Sydney finals week stress. Figured she might as well be insulted by you in person.”

“I didn’t insult her,” Jannik muttered. “Right,” Darren grinned. “You just glared at her like she keyed your car.”

She looked up then, meeting his eyes as if she knew he was talking about her. Her mouth curved — not a smile, more like an amused observation. She sipped her wine and turned back to her conversation, completely unbothered.

He took the seat across from her, stiffly. “Didn’t expect you to show,” he said eventually, voice low. She arched a brow. “Didn’t expect you to talk.”

He blinked. She said it so casually. Her words were always slightly delayed, like she enjoyed dragging the point out just enough to get under the skin. “I talk,” he muttered, picking at the edge of his napkin. She leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table. “Mmm. I’ve seen your interviews. They’re mostly just blinks and we played good, ehhh.”

“That’s—" he paused, stunned. “That’s not even a quote.” She grinned. “Could’ve fooled me.” For a second, he thought about walking away. But he didn’t. Because somehow — despite how infuriating she was — he couldn’t stop engaging. “Why are you so…” he trailed off.

She tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “So?” He shook his head. “So… annoying.” She let out a small, delighted laugh. “You're lucky you’re good at tennis, Sinner.”

“And you’re lucky you’re not on tour,” he shot back before thinking. The words slipped out quicker than usual — a little sharp, not cruel, but more cutting than he intended. She blinked. And for the first time, her expression shifted. Just slightly. Then she smiled again, slow and amused. “Oof. Touchy. Did I bruise the ego?”

He wanted to say no. Wanted to brush it off. But his face betrayed him — that slight furrow between his brows, the way his mouth pulled tight. She caught it. She always caught it. “You’re used to being the golden boy,” she said softly, not unkind, but honest. “Used to people melting at your feet just because you hold a racquet.”

He didn’t answer. Her words hit too close to something he didn’t want to admit — not that he was arrogant, but that people did treat him differently, and he never questioned it. But now, here was someone who didn’t care how many titles he had, who saw right through the press-polished version of him. And it rattled him. She sipped her wine again and leaned back in her chair, gaze drifting over the view. “Relax, Sinner. I’m just a law student on holiday.”

But she wasn’t just anything, and he knew it. He could feel her eyes on him occasionally during the rest of the meal — the brief flick of her lashes, the little smirk when he stumbled over his English and switched into Italian without realizing. She didn’t say anything. She just smiled to herself like she was cataloging him, slowly.

It made his skin crawl. It made his chest feel tight. And worst of all — it made him want to impress her. He hated it.

The conversation at the table flowed like expensive wine. Someone was talking about Monaco rent prices, another about the horrors of long-haul travel. She leaned into it all — smiling, nodding, dropping quick-witted replies with the ease of someone who’d been raised around politicians, CEOs, and summer homes in three continents.

Jannik, meanwhile, sat across from her in silence, chewing on a piece of grilled sea bass like it had personally offended him. He watched her laugh at something the girl beside her said, her head tilting, that sharp little smile showing just enough teeth. She was… pleasant. Effortlessly so. With everyone but him.

And it made him irrationally annoyed. “So,” he said, his voice breaking through the hum of conversation, “you don’t follow tennis?” She didn’t even look at him at first — just hummed, sipping her wine again. Then her gaze slid to his, cool and unhurried. “I follow courtrooms,” she replied with a mock-serious shrug. “Yours has a net. Mine has justice.” A few people at the table chuckled.

Jannik’s brow lifted. “Sounds boring.” She grinned, not missing a beat. “Sounds like a sport where no one grunts.” More laughter. Even Darren stifled a laugh with a cough. Jannik narrowed his eyes, trying not to smile. “We don’t grunt.” She raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Please. Half your colleagues sound like they’re exorcising demons when they serve.” He didn’t respond. She was too fast. Too sharp. She parried every jab like it was a warm-up drill.

So he tried again.

“Did you rehearse all this before dinner?” he asked flatly. She tilted her head, amused. “Why? Do you want the script?”

“No. I’d just like to know if you’re like this with everyone, or if I’m the lucky one.” That earned him a thoughtful pause. Then she smirked, leaning forward just slightly across the table — elbows on linen, chin resting on the back of her hand. “Depends,” she said. “Are you always this tense, or do I bring it out in you?” He faltered.

It wasn’t the words — it was the way she said them. Teasing. Observant. Like she could read the very current of his bloodstream. He tried to recover. “I’m not tense.”

“Mmm.” Her smile widened. “Then maybe it’s just the emotional constipation.” Darren choked on his drink. Jannik stared at her, eyes narrowing. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. She just went back to her plate like they hadn’t just exchanged verbal punches under the tablecloth.

And somehow, the more she dismissed him, the more he wanted to win — not a match, not a game — her. Her attention. Her respect. Her undoing. She didn’t care that he was Jannik Sinner. That he’d been ranked No. 1. That he had sponsorships, billboards, fans who flew across continents just to see him practice. She looked at him like he was some mildly interesting riddle she hadn’t decided was worth solving.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t stop watching her.

He noticed the way she drummed her fingers softly on the side of her glass when she was half-listening. The way she pulled her lower lip between her teeth when someone made a clever point. The faint freckles across her cheekbones that were barely visible under the terrace lights. The gleam of silver rings on her fingers that looked faintly like heirlooms.

She was infuriating. And magnetic. And completely out of his league — not in looks or charm, but in the way she seemed untouchable.

He realized then, mid-bite, that he wanted her to touch him. Figuratively. Literally. Anything. He just wanted to know what it would take to make her look at him like she looked at everyone else — with ease. With approval. With a damn smile that wasn’t laced with mockery.

Instead, she looked up and caught him staring. Again. “What?” she asked, voice light, eyebrow arched. Jannik blinked, mouth half-full, caught like a schoolboy. “You’re staring.” He swallowed. “I’m not.” She grinned. “Is this what they mean when they say men have no hobbies?” He had no comeback. He only had the urge to pull her chair closer. Or push his back. Anything to close the distance he wasn’t supposed to want.

The training center was mostly quiet on rest days — low chatter, the distant thud of balls echoing off courts, and the occasional buzz of a stringing machine humming somewhere down the corridor. Late morning sun streamed through the high windows, casting geometric shadows onto the court where Jannik stood mid-warmup, tugging at the sleeve of his dri-fit shirt.

He was stretching, head bowed, when he heard Darren laugh.

Not a polite chuckle — not the kind reserved for journalists or agents or tournament staff. It was the loud, easy kind that rarely escaped him unless he was talking to someone who felt like home.

Jannik didn’t need to look up.

But he did anyway.

She had just walked in — sunglasses perched atop her head, loose hair falling over her shoulders, her phone tucked against her side and two takeaway cups in hand. Her steps were unhurried, confident, the sound of her sandals soft against the concrete. Jannik caught the faint scent of her perfume as she passed. Clean. Something expensive and hard to name.

Only one of the coffees made it to Darren.

“Thanks, love,” Darren said, already grinning like a man well-fed. “You’re a saint.”

She handed it to him with mock reverence. “Don’t let that get out. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

“No worries,” Darren said. “We’ll just tell people you’ve been disbarred for charm.” She laughed, tilting her head, but Jannik was still hung up on the single coffee. He cleared his throat. Loudly. “And none for me?” he asked, straightening up, arms crossed loosely.

She turned toward him, cool and unbothered. Her gaze behind those tinted lenses didn’t waver. “Oh,” she said blandly. “Didn’t know we were on speaking terms.” Jannik blinked. “Wow. That’s cold.”

“I thought you liked cold,” she replied. “You know. Ice in your veins, emotional detachment. Athlete essentials.” Darren snorted behind his cup. Jannik just stared at her, biting back a grin.

She made her way toward the bench by the court, sliding into a folding chair with the elegance of someone used to courtside seating — not because she wanted to be seen, but because she belonged there. She crossed her legs, set her phone aside, and pulled a sleek notepad from her bag. A pen was already twirling between her fingers. She looked like she was about to draft closing arguments, not casually watch practice.

Jannik tried to ignore her. He failed.

Darren fed balls, and he swung through forehands with practiced ease. Still, his focus was split. His eyes kept flicking to the sideline where she sat — sunglasses lowered now, one foot bouncing, her attention somewhere between her notes and the court. She wasn’t cheering, wasn’t even really watching in the usual way. She was studying him.

He caught her gaze once. She didn’t look away. Darren shouted for him to adjust his footing. He did — late.

Then, as he was recovering for a volley, her voice called out, casual and cool: “Jannik, your footwork’s actually impressive.” He faltered — just slightly — but enough to clip the next shot off center.

Darren frowned. “Foot. Work.” Jannik nodded, teeth grinding. “Got it.” Meanwhile, she was still lounging, arms folded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Didn’t expect you to be graceful,” she added. “Thought it was just the legs and cheekbones.”

Jannik tossed his racquet to the bench. “Seriously?” She barely blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been staring.”

“I observe,” she replied smoothly. “It’s different.”

“That’s creepy.”

“No, accurate.”

He squinted at her, but the glint in her eye was unmistakable: she was enjoying this. He could almost feel her pulling strings, knowing exactly what annoyed him and plucking those nerves with surgical precision. Still, two could play.

He toweled off, walked over, leaned just close enough for her to feel the heat off his shoulders. “Did you rehearse all this before showing up?”

She didn’t flinch. “Why? Do you want the script?” He blinked, caught again. “No. I’d just like to know if I’m the only one on your hit list.”

She took a slow sip of Darren’s coffee, then gave him a small, lazy smile. “Are you always this tense, or do I bring it out in you?” God, she was quick. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” she said, tapping her pen to her notepad, “here you are. Performing.” Darren, from across the court, called out, “Less flirting, more footwork!” Jannik coughed. “We’re not—”

“Sure,” she said, not looking at him. “Tell that to your forehand.” Practice ended not long after. Darren peeled off first, muttering about answering emails, while Jannik lingered, sweaty and tired, flopping onto the bench beside her with a heavy sigh.

She didn’t move away. Didn’t look at him either. “You don’t like me,” he said after a moment. She raised an eyebrow, pen still in hand. “Did I say that?”

“You don’t act like someone who likes me.”

“I don’t act like someone who dislikes you either,” she replied, finally turning to him. “I just treat you like a person. Maybe that’s new for you.” That landed harder than he expected. Most people around him didn’t dare say things like that. Not even friends. Not even players. And definitely not girls who looked like her.

He shrugged. “Most people are… I don’t know. Nicer.” She tilted her head. “To you.”

“Yes.”

She paused. “Most people want something from you. I don’t.” That was true. She hadn’t asked for anything. Not a match ticket. Not a post. Not even the coffee. “Not even a signed ball?” he tried.

“I think I’d rather win one off you in a bet.”

“Oh?” he asked, lips quirking. “You think you can beat me at something?”

“Anything verbal,” she said without missing a beat. “Easily.” He chuckled. “Maybe.”

And then, something in her expression softened — just a flicker. She wasn’t mocking him now, just watching. The air between them quieted, a kind of hum settling in the stillness. But before he could say something else — something real — her phone buzzed.

She glanced down, expression cooling like a switch had flipped. “I’ve gotta take this.”

Already standing. “You’re leaving?” he asked, sitting up straighter. She nodded, already backing toward the exit. “Duty calls. Some of us are trying to pass torts and not just look good hitting balls.”

He stared at her retreating figure, mouth parting slightly. Her hair swung as she disappeared around the corner, voice already low and professional as she answered the call.

She hadn’t touched him. She hadn’t lingered. She hadn’t even said goodbye.

But Jannik sat there, heartbeat a little faster than before, towel still draped over his shoulders — and all he could think about was when she’d come back.

And what he’d say to keep her from leaving so fast next time.

Evening settled gently over Monte Carlo, the sky bruised lavender and orange outside Jannik’s suite window. The sea murmured beyond the glass, half-muted by the sound of the air conditioning humming in rhythm with the tennis match replay on mute.

But Jannik wasn’t watching the screen.

He was lying on the hotel bed, hair still damp from his shower, one hand on his phone. The screen was dim, blank. For ten minutes, he’d been staring at it like it might answer his questions on its own.

He sighed and opened Instagram.

@yourusername: Private account. 0 mutual followers.

Her display picture was just her hand — writing in a notebook, silver rings catching sunlight. No bio. No stories. Nothing. He’d sent the follow request after practice — impulsively, while toweling off — and immediately regretted it. She hadn’t accepted. And now here he was. Typing. Deleting. Typing again.

Screw it.

Jannik Sinner

You ghost everyone or just me?

The message turned “seen” in less than thirty seconds.

She was online. And now he was pacing his hotel room. The reply came in.

You

Curiosity killed the cat, you know.

He huffed a laugh and sank onto the bed again.

Jannik Sinner

Didn’t know you were the cat. Thought you were more of a... fox.

The three-dot typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

You

I thought you were the fox here. You calling me sly or just devastatingly attractive?

Jannik Sinner

Both. Probably.

You

Finally. A correct answer

Then: follow request accepted. He tapped her profile again. Still private. Still no posts. No tagged photos. Nothing new unlocked.

He sent another message:

Jannik Sinner

So you accept my request but keep everything hidden?

You

Privacy’s hot.

Jannik blinked. Then grinned. And then, somehow, he was on his stomach, legs dangling off the bed like a teenager, texting faster than he’d meant to.

Jannik Sinner

What if I wanted to see more of you?

You

You’ve seen plenty. That baseline view at practice is basically indecent exposure.

He buried his face into his pillow and groaned.

Jannik Sinner

Are you always this much?

You

Only when I’m bored. Or entertained. You decide.

He paused before replying this time, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Jannik Sinner

What if I wanted to entertain you on purpose?

There was a longer pause this time. For a second, he wondered if he’d pushed it too far. He sat up, watching the screen. Then it lit up.

You

Then I’d say your forehand isn’t the only thing with good follow-through.

He nearly dropped his phone.

Jannik Sinner

You flirt like a lawyer.

You

Objection: leading the witness.

Jannik Sinner

Overruled.

He could almost hear her laugh. He didn’t even know what it sounded like when she wasn’t being sarcastic — but the image of her, curled up on some pristine hotel couch with a glass of wine and her phone, amused and maybe a little flushed, started to take root.

She was typing again.

You

What’s your angle, tennis boy? You trying to collect witty girls like trophies?

Jannik Sinner

No. I just want to figure you out. You’re like a crossword puzzle in cursive.

You

You’re like a golden retriever who speaks Italian when he’s nervous.

His breath caught.

Jannik Sinner

That’s… accurate. Also, mean.

You

I said it with affection. Aussie affection. It’s harsher than usual.

Jannik Sinner

You do this with everyone you meet?

You

No. You’re special. I only emotionally terrorize people I find interesting.

Jannik Sinner

So you do find me interesting.

You

Don’t push it, golden boy.

He smiled, jaw tight from trying to control it.

The sun was long gone now. The only light in the room came from the glow of the phone in his hand and the quiet flicker of the TV, long forgotten. His heart beat quicker than he’d admit, and for the first time in hours, he didn’t feel restless.

She was all thorns and cleverness and locked doors. But she’d opened just enough of a window. And now? He was hooked.

The following evening, the courts were nearly silent at night, washed in a sleepy kind of gold from the overhead lights. The echo of bouncing balls had long faded, leaving behind the subtle chorus of cicadas and the occasional rustle of wind sweeping through the trees that lined the path back to the hotel.

Jannik tugged the hood of his white sweatshirt over his damp curls, tennis bag slung over one shoulder, muscles heavy from hours of drills. He was halfway to autopilot, exhaustion making his steps slow and loose — until he saw her.

She was leaning against the fence by the front gate, half-shadowed by the flickering lamp overhead. Her phone was in one hand, long coat tied neatly at the waist, hair pulled back with a clip. She looked effortlessly chic — like someone who should be waiting outside a gallery in Paris, not killing time outside a tennis center at 9 p.m.

His body straightened without thinking. “You waiting for Darren?” he asked, stopping a few feet away.

She didn’t glance up immediately, thumb still scrolling. “Supposedly,” she said, unimpressed. “He texted five minutes. That was twenty ago.”

Jannik shifted the strap on his shoulder. “Want to walk? I doubt he’s even left the café.” She raised a brow, studying him like she might say no — then shrugged. “You’ll do, I guess.”

They fell into step down the cobbled garden path that snaked toward the players’ hotel. It was lined with palm trees and glowing lanterns, each casting puddles of warm light onto the stone. The night air was cooler now, carrying the salty brush of the sea in its wake.

They walked in silence for a moment, just the sound of her heels clicking and his sneakers scuffing the path. He stole a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Her lips were parted slightly, eyes focused ahead, thoughtful. Not unreadable, not really. But closed. Guarded. As always.

“You’re not bad at footwork,” she said at last, voice dry but not unkind. “For someone who trips over English half the time.”

He rolled his eyes, grinning. “You’re so annoying.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

She chuckled, quiet and pleased, and looked up at the sky as if debating whether to keep the moment going.

Then — casually, like it didn’t matter at all — she said, “You know, I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

He blinked. He hadn’t expected that. His reaction was subtle but instant — his steps faltered, his brow lifted, eyes narrowing like he didn’t believe her at first. “Seriously?”

She gave a slight nod. “Mm-hmm.”

“No way.”

“No, yes way.” Her lips twitched at his disbelief. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“I mean… yeah?” He laughed under his breath. “You? Never?”

“Not everyone grows up falling for athletes in Nike kits, tesoro.” The smirk she threw his way was devastating, and it was even worse knowing she said it half to amuse herself. He narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m trying to make you fall for me?” She tilted her head with that maddening little smile. “Aren’t you?”

The moment cracked open — brief but electric.

They’d reached the base of the marble steps that led up to the hotel. Under the golden glow of the lights, everything felt a little slower. Quieter. Even the sea had dimmed to a distant hush. She stopped, one foot on the first step, but didn’t climb. Just stood there, turning to look at him.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth for the briefest second. And he noticed.

He leaned forward — barely — just a tilt of his head, just enough that he could smell her perfume: warm and sweet and something he couldn’t name.

And then her phone buzzed.

She jumped slightly, checking it, and her entire body language shifted. “Saved by the bell,” she muttered with a soft, performative sigh, already stepping back.

He blinked, disoriented. The moment evaporated like breath on glass.

“Night, golden boy.” She turned on her heel and started up the stairs like nothing had happened. And something in him snapped — not angry, just… done with the runaround. He was done with the emotions he didn't know what to do with.

He strode after her. “Why do you do that?” he called, voice not loud, but urgent. She stopped a few steps up, half-turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Do what?”

He came to a halt at the base, expression stormy and unreadable. His voice was low but fast now, edged with that familiar italian tilt. “This—this thing,” he gestured between them. “You flirt, then vanish. You throw a line and then walk away. You say I’m trying to make you fall, then act like I’m crazy for even- ma che cavolo- how do you expect anyone to keep up with you ?” ("what the hell") She didn’t reply, but her brow furrowed slightly. "You walk into rooms like you're in charge of oxygen then disappear when things get real. Sei impossible. You drive me mad, and I don't even know if you like me or if you just enjoy watching me implode."

Jannik exhaled, hands running through his hair. He started pacing, just a step or two, as if movement helped him think faster. “You confuse the hell out of me,” he said, voice lower now, edges softening. “Mi fai impazzire. You act like you don’t care, but then you say things and look at me like—like maybe you do. And then you’re gone again. And I don’t know if you’re playing a game or if you’re scared or if it’s just... fun for you to keep me guessing.” ("You drive me crazy.")

He laughed once, humorless, shaking his head. “Non lo so. Non riesco a capirti.” (“I don't know. I can't understand you.”)

She hadn’t moved. He looked up, finally still, breathing hard. “I’m trying here,” he said, quieter now. “And I don’t usually try like this.”

There was a beat of silence. The wind picked up slightly, rustling the trees. For once, she didn’t have a witty comeback waiting on her tongue. Her lips were parted, eyes wide. Something had cracked in her expression — not fear, not hesitation, but… surprise.

A long, breathless second passed. Then, slowly, her lips curved. “Okay,” she said. A pause. “Tomorrow. 9 p.m. You pick me up.”

His mouth opened slightly, startled. “Wait, seriously—?”

“It’s a date,” she added, eyes gleaming, accent thicker now — like she was letting it slip through, no longer performing for control.

“Try not to combust for once.”

And with a soft, smug smile, she turned and walked the rest of the stairs alone, hips swaying just enough to make his already-scrambled brain short-circuit all over again.

Jannik stood frozen at the bottom like an idiot. His tennis bag had slipped halfway off his shoulder, his cheeks were flushed and he was still catching up to whatever the hell just happened.

Wind in his hair. Heart somewhere in his throat. But he was smiling. And for once, he didn’t mind being the one chasing.

dividers : @strangergraphics @olenvasynyt

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