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wosospacegirl · 3 months ago

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And they were roommates - part 2

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate, Kyra, is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: angst; hurt/comfort; reader might have a crush on Kyra ;)

Word count: 3.4k

Masterlist

You can read part 1 here and part 3 here

Over the next few days, Kyra and Y/n settle into a comfortable, domestic routine.

Kyra was the first to wake up each day. She went straight to Y/n’s room to check on her and give her her morning medication, along with a cup of black coffee.

Y/n didn’t like mornings, especially now with the heavy cast on her leg. Kyra, on the other hand, loved mornings, so she sat by Y/n’s bed and chatted for 20 minutes straight while Y/n nodded along to whatever Kyra was saying.

“—And that's how we’re beating Man United this weekend,” Kyra concluded after a long thought process about technical strategies that would lead the Gunners to yet another victory. “I mean, they can’t keep putting her as a winger, right?” Kyra turned to Y/n, waiting for her to nod again.

“How can you have so much to say at 7 am?” Y/n asked, hiding her face in her pillow.

“I just do, it’s a talent, you wouldn’t know it, Grumpy,” Kyra shrugged and threw herself on the bed next to Y/n, the sunlight hitting Kyra’s freckles.

Kyra was wearing tracksuit bottoms and an old, oversized t-shirt, she looked pretty, comfy, and very cuddly too.

“Will you come with me today?” Kyra asked, changing the subjects, caution in her voice.

“Where?” Y/n asked confused, her eyebrows furrowed. She wasn’t supposed to go to physiotherapy or the doctor for another two weeks.

“Training?” Kyra explained, holding her head with one hand as she rested her elbow on the mattress. “They miss you, the girls, I mean. You could go there for a few hours, talk to Alessia, Leah, Steph… I bet Win misses you too,”

“I’m not in the mood,” Y/n said, turning her back to Kyra. Y/n missed the girls, but it would be too upsetting to see them running around while she could barely stand on her own.

“You’ve said that the last three times, Y/n” Kyra sighed. “You haven’t left the house, not once, and you also won’t talk to anyone but me and your mom. That’s worrying. You can’t just wait for me to come home every day, you also need to do relaxing and fun things for yourself.” Y/n felt a pleasant pressure on her shoulder. It was Kyra’s hand.

You can’t just stay here in bed and rot, maybe you could start a new hobby! Painting, sudoku, I don’t know!”Kyra continued, using the serious tone she never used with Y/n. “You need to see people, see your friends, get some fresh air.

Y/n rolled her eyes. “And do what? Talk about how miserable I am all the time?” Y/n said bitterly.

Kyra didn’t understand.

She had never been seriously injured before, she didn’t know what it was like to just go to bed every day not knowing what the future held. Football was everything to Y/n. It was her passion, her hobby and her career. Ninety per cent of her friends were footballers themselves, her whole social circle revolved around football.

Without it, she was nothing Football’s been her thing since she was a kid. Y/n had grown up with a ball on her feet, and now it was gone, and she didn’t know if she would get it back. Right now, Y/n was nothing.

Kyra pressed her lips together and stared at the girl, trying to think of what to say.

“Go away please, I want to be alone,” Y/n muttered after the room had gone quiet.

“No,” Kyra said. “Let’s talk about this, let’s—”

“Go. Away.” Y/n snapped.

Y/n felt the shift in the mattress. Kyra wasn’t sitting on it anymore. “You can’t keep pushing people away, it’ll only hurt you even more,” Kyra said quietly. “You can’t let yourself go like that, you know how easy it is for us athletes to get depressed after an injury, I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“I’m not depressed, Kyra!” Y/n locked eyes with the other girl, anger slowly building in her chest. “I just don’t have anything! If I talk to the girls all I’ll think about is how they’re playing and I’m not.

“You don’t have anything?!” Kyra raised her voice. “What do you mean you have nothing? You’re not just your fucking leg, or your football—You’re a whole person! Just because you can’t play right now doesn’t mean you have no worth.”

Y/n remained silent as Kyra’s voice escalated. Kyra was starting to get angry with her. Kyra had never been angry with her before.

“You are injured! Your tibia split in two, of course, it’ll take some time to heal. Does that mean you have to stay in the house for the remaining months? Of course not!” Kyra’s face was flushed, and she was out of breath.

“Kyra, my whole life had been inside a pitch, I don’t know how the fuck to live without knowing if I’ll ever be in one again!” Y/n exploded, pointing at her cast “And this fucking leg hurts all the time, it’s always a reminder of how unhappy I am and how the world kept on moving while I just stay here!”

“But you don’t have to just stay here! You are the one who is avoiding the world, but it hasn’t stopped for you, it never has! Especially because you have people who care about you! You would know that if you would answered your phone when your friends called,” Kyra rubbed her eyes, tiredly.

“Why is it so hard for you to be kind and patient with yourself?” Kyra asked, looking genuinely confused, trying to find the answer to her question on Y/n’s face. “It’s so easy to treat you well, I don’t know why you find it so difficult.”

Kyra finally took a deep breath, and then another.

“Okay, I’m calm now. I’m sorry,” Kyra said, unclenching her fist. “I didn’t mean to get mad at you, I know you’re frustrated and angry right now. I just wish you’d be more compassionate with yourself and your body.

The room was silent.

“I’ll just… go then. I have to be at training in half an hour anyway,” Kyra took a step closer to where Y/n was lying, she dropped a soft kiss on her cheek. “Just don’t—rot in bed the whole day, ok? I’ll buy you some food and send it over at lunchtime so you can eat something other than crisps”.

Y/n felt her skin warm where Kyra had kissed her. She barely had time to process it before Kyra pulled away. “Okay, thank you,” Y/n whispered, she couldn’t help the blush creeping up her neck.

She should say something, she should say how sorry she was and how ungrateful she had been, Kyra didn’t complain about having to put up with her. Often Y/n felt that she didn’t deserve to have Kyra by her side and now was one of those times. She felt embarrassed by the way she just acted.

Y/n wasn’t someone who felt at ease with vulnerability. She didn’t normally let people see her at her lowest, except her closest friend, of course, but even now the thought of seeing them, of going back to Arsenal, even if for a few hours, felt excruciating.

It was as if life was mocking Y/n. Everyone’s life would go on, even if hers was frozen in time. Arsenal still had good and healthy athletes to train.

Kyra still had responsibilities to attend ttoY/n didn’t, not for the months ahead of her.

Eight months the doctor said, eight months until (and if) she could run. Would she be this bitter for that long? Was she going to stay frustrated with everything and everyone forever? Was she going to shut herself off from her teammates—her friends—if she didn’t heal the way she intended?

Change was a slow process, but Y/n decided to start it right now.

“Ky?” Y/n called.

“Yeah?”

“I’m being an idiot,” Y/n admitted.

Kyra smiled. “Yeah, you kind of are.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/n apologized. Small steps.

“It’s fine, you are a lot meaner when you lose at UNO, it didn’t scare me.”

Both girls smiled at each other.

Kyra held no grudges; it was one of the things Y/n admired the most about her.

“But if you really want me to forgive you, you’ll let me do something,” Kyra added, mischievous in her voice.

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “What?’

“You’ll see,” Kyra said before leaving the room. “I’ll be back around 3 pm, see you!”

Y/n heard the front door close, and now she was alone. Y/n thought she enjoyed being alone, but deep down she didn’t. She missed Kyra when she was away. The house no longer felt warm and comforting; instead; it felt cold and isolated.

Y/n thought about Kyra’s words; about her being kind to others and not to herself. When Beth and Viv tore their ACLs, Y/n committed herself to take their dogs on a walk every day, since the couple couldn’t walk.

When Vic got injured Y/n made sure she was left alone during the physio sessions. When Leah also tore her ACL she made sure to call her every day to see how she was doing; Leah, unlike Y/n, answered her calls.

Y/n had so much love and support around her. She needed it to allow herself to receive it.

Y/n looked around her room. It felt strange now. Before her surgery, she had thought the room was rather cosy, with its green walls and light wooden furniture, but now it felt like a prison.

Maybe Kyra would agree to put on a mattress in the living room and make it into a bed. Then both girls could just sleep there, and watch some films. It would probably bring Y/n some comfort.

Hours later Kyra came back from training wearing a black kit. Her hair was in a ponytail, with grass and dirt on it. Y/n wasn’t sure if it was because of their fight earlier, but Kyra seemed different somehow

Even though Kyra was all dirty, y/n couldn’t help but notice how pretty she looked. She realised she hadn’t seen Kyra with her hair in a ponytail before, she always wore it in a bun. It was nice, maybe the new hairstyle was the reason why Y/n couldn’t take her eyes off of her.

Cute, Kyra is cute.

She has always been cute, of course, but in the last few days, she looked even prettier. It’s okay to think your friends are cute. It was normal. Y/n thought to herself as Kyra bent down to take out her shoes, the black legging hugging her body. The book Y/n had in hand long forgotten.

Hot. Y/n thought. She was hot.

Maybe it wasn’t okay to think your friends were hot.

“Sorry?” Kyra asked turning to face Y/n.

Y/n widened her eyes. “What? Y/n said, her cheeks flushed. Fuck, had she said that out loud? And why did she sound so defensive? Chill out. “I didn’t say anything., she said, in a calmer tone, closing her book.

“Yes, you did,” Kyra insisted, looking at her with a smile. She let her hair out of the ponytail, letting it fall over her shoulder.

“Nop! You’re going mad, I’m afraid.” Y/n asserted, chin up.

“It must be all the time we spend together, then” Kyra raised a brow.

A lot of time together, indeed.

“Wait, is that a book? I haven’t seen you with a book for a while, I’m proud you still know your letters.” Kyra continued, a smirk on her face

Kyra was right, thought. With football and national camps, she hadn’t had time to read. It had been embarrassing years since she picked up a book. But now she had time, so she just took advantage of it.

“Haha you’re so funny,” Y/n said dryly. “You told me to do something nice for myself, so I decided to read this book I had lying around,” Y/n said, proudly.

Kyra looked dramatically surprised. “Wow, you actually listened to me? Did something happen while I was gone? Did you fall? Oh, you might have brain haemorrhage!”

“The ability you have to turn a normal conversation into a sarcastic one will always blow my mind,” Y/n said, rolling her eyes.

“Good thing I love to blow your mind,” Kyra said before realizing the double meaning of what she just said.

The girls stared at each other.

“Okay that was awkward,” Kyra mumbled, blushing. “I mean it like—”

Y/n laughed, thinking it was cute how embarrassed Kyra looked. Usually, Kyra was the one who put people in awkward situations.

“It’s all right, I got what you meant,” Y/n said, offering a small smile. “So—” She changed the subject, not wanting Kyra to feel uncomfortable. “What was that thing you wanted me to do so you can forgive me?”

Kyra looked at her watch. “You won’t have to do anything. But they will be here soon.”

Y/n frowned slightly. “Did you get that line from some horror film? Who the hell are they?”

Kyra rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun, I’m trying to be mysterious here”.

“You sound suspicious, not mysterious!”

“Oh, shut up, just sit there and look pretty, no more questions, please.”

Y/n welcomed the compliment “Why, because you won’t be able not to tell me?” She challenged.

Kyra was the worst secret keeper she had ever known.

“You know me so well actually!” Kyra said. “Stop asking questions. I’m going to take a shower, but I’ll be right back,” Kyra said before heading upstairs.

Don’t go. Y/n almost said. Almost begged her to keep that kit on so Y/n could just look at her for a few moments.

The thing was: Y/n got used to having Kyra around, not just because she needed Kyra’s help to get things done, but because she just…appreciated her presence.

Y/n was always bored to tears while Kyra was away for training or a match day, so when Kyra came home, Y/n wanted her all to herself. Which was a bit strange.

Kyra Cooney-Cross was making Y/n think of very, very weird things. She wasn’t necessarily upset about it, though.

Minutes later Kyra stepped out of the shower, wearing sweatpants and an Arsenal hoodie. Y/n welcomed the sight more than she’d ever admit. Kyra was pretty, prettier than yesterday and the day before that.

Was Y/n suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning? Could that be the reason she was fancying Kyra? As it genuinely finding her attractive and not a bets mate type of way?

Kyra was attractive, of course. But Y/n hadn’t realised just how much it messed with her mind, and mostly her body. Kyra was her friend. Not as in a friends-with-benefits thing, but oh they could be, Y/n would be happy about that.

Kyra moved in to help me out, that’s all. She doesn’t like me that way, and that’s fine. Totally fine. Y/n bit her nails, trying to convince herself.

Before Y/n could spiral any further, Kyra clapped her hands and told Y/n to get ready, because apparently, the visitors they were having over were about to arrive.

An hour later Alessia and Leah stopped by with a warm lasagna on Leah’s hands.

It turned out that Kyra was only forgiving Y/n if she agreed to meet some of their friends and socialise for a few hours. “It’ll do you good” Kyra had said.d

“Hey, pest,” Leah greeted Kyra at the door. “How’s your pest doing? She hasn’t been answering mine or Lessie’s messages for a while now, is she dead? Did you kill her?”

“Well good evening to you too, Leah,” Kyra said ironically, letting both Leah and Alessia in, after kissing Alessia on the cheek.

“Why can’t you be like Alessia, she is so nice!” Kyra pouted, pointing at the blonde girl, “She doesn’t call me a pest or anything.”

Leah laughed and handed Kyra the lasagna. “Lessie girl is too nice to ever tell you the truth.”

Kyra and Leah continued their bickering while Alessia made herself at home. The girl was very familiar with Y/n’s house, having spent many film nights here with Y/n and Kyra before Y/n’s injury.

Alessia went into the living room, where she found Y/n sitting on the couch, crutches propped up to the side.

“Less” y/n said cheerfully.

“Hey sweetie, how are you doing?” Alessia sat by Y/n’s side, hugging her. “God, I missed you so much, you have no idea.”

Y/n smiled and leaned further into Alessia’s embrace. “I missed you too, I feel like dying every time Kyra goes to training and I have to stay here by myself., Y/n confessed.

“Oh, so you miss me when I’m away. That is so lovely to hear!” Kyra's mischievous voice filled the living room as the girl elbowed Leah, “See, I told you she wasn’t bored of me yet.”

“Take me with you, Less, please.” Y/n playfully whispered in Alessia’s ear before the girl’s body was replaced by a taller and leaner one.

Leah hugged Y/n and patted her back before lightly smacking the top of her head.

“Ouch! What was that for?” Y/n whined, pouting.

“Me, Beth, Less, Kim—we’ve all been texting you non-stop, and you won’t text us back!” Leah scolded. “We’re not just your teammates, we’re your friends, in case you forgot!”

“Tough love. Told you.” Kyra chimed in from the corner of the room.

“Shut up, Kyra,” Leah and Y/n said in unison.

Y/n kept her eyes down, feeling a little embarrassed. Leah wasn’t wrong, though. Over the past week, she’d only been texting two people: her mom—because otherwise, she’d probably sent the police down; and Kyra—so she could pick up some snacks for Y/n on her way home.

“I know being injured is hard, but you can’t isolate yourself, especially from us!” Leah continued with a gentle reprimand. “You’re only going to feel worse.”

Leah pointed at Alessia, who was now standing next to Kyra. “Lessie told me you didn’t laugh at the memes she sent you! It’s Less, mate—you can’t make Lessie sad.”

If Y/n wasn’t being lectured by her captain, she would’ve laughed at how Leah was using Alessia’s sweetheart personally to make Y/n feel remorse about being a bad friend.

“Also,” Leah continued, now turning to Kyra. “Can you imagine how hard it is to rely on someone like Kyra for updates? Yesterday, she thought it’d be funny to tell Steph one of your bone screws had come loose.”

Y/n snapped her head towards Kyra, who suddenly looked like a kid caught red-handed. “I didn’t even get screws in my surgery! The doctor used locking compression plates instead!” Y/n argued.

“Well, you tell that to Steph,” Leah said dryly. “She cried and said we should call the surgeon responsible for letting you leave the hospital with a loose screw in your leg before Kyra finally told her she was just joking and that you were fine at home.”

“I didn’t think she would actually believe it,” Kyra winced, looking away, a small blush crept onto her cheeks.

“Steph got back at Kyra, don’t worry, Y/n,” Alessia added smiling. “Kyra is now responsible for walking Win every day before training.”

“I hate walking,” Kyra mumbled.

“Should’ve thought of that before messing with Steph,” Leah smirked.

“I was just trying to lighten the mood!” Kyra groaned.

“You don’t always have to fix things with jokes,” Y/n said smiling. “But I appreciate you are—at some point— giving updates to the girls. Still, leave that to me, I’ll start texting you guys back. I am sorry” Y/n apologized, glancing at Leah and Alessia.

“It’s all right kid, we’ve all been there, injuries bring out the worst in us,” Leah said, patting Y/n’s shoulder. “Now can we please eat the lasagna Lessie has made us? I’m starving!”

“You made your lasagna?” Y/n asked, her mouth watering.

“Sure did. I know it’s your favourite,” Alessia said with a wink.

“May you be blessed for all eternity, Less,” Y/n said with an utmost stone face. “It’s been days since I’ve had good food.”

Kyra helped Y/n with her crutches before asking, a firm hand on her lower back. “Days? I’ve been making nutritious meals for us since you got back from the hospital!”

“Putting frozen pizza in the oven isn’t ‘making nutritious meals,’” Y/n teased, accepting Alessia’s hand as she sat down on the dining chair.

“I’m trying my best here,” Kyra huffed, crossing her arms.

Y/n leaned in, pressing a kiss to Kyra’s cheek. “Yeah, Yeah, I know. And I appreciate it very much.” She smiled.” Now let’s eat before Leah passes out from hunger.”

| PART 3 |

Notes: Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Masterlist

#woso #woso fanfic #woso imagines #woso x reader #kyra cooney cross #women soccer #arsenal fanfic #woso appreciation #arsenal women #woso community

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hrtwayne · 3 months ago

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Hasta Los Dientes || Alexia Putellas [Part One]

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Lionesses!Reader

Summary: One of Arsenal's top players receives an offer to play for Barcelona after recovering from a cruciate ligament injury in her leg. Following a recent fallout with the Gunners' captain, the athlete decides that the best course of action is to accept the offer and escape the tension in the locker room.

Note: English is not my first language!

Warning: None!

Next chapter | Women's Football Masterlist

It wasn’t much of a shock for Arsenal fans to know that Y/n Lancaster was one of the best players to ever set foot in London. With her tall stature and athletic build, Y/n was an imposing figure who caused a certain apprehension and fear in some rival players (and sometimes even in her own teammates). But it was also clear that the passionate sighs often outweighed the frightened ones.

Y/n Lancaster was a true sight for sore eyes.

Y/n had woken up just a few minutes earlier to the sound of rain tapping against the window of her bedroom. It was the only sound filling the uncomfortable silence in the room. Y/n stared at her own reflection in the mirror across from her bed, wearing a shirt from last season’s Arsenal training kit. The red shirt seemed to weigh heavily on her shoulders—not because of the fabric, but because of the uncertainty that had settled in her chest since the incident that had nearly cost her career. Her return to football was supposed to be triumphant. That’s what was expected of one of the team’s biggest stars, wasn’t it? The young prodigy who had become a relentless defensive midfielder, and who, after months of recovery, would return more unbeatable than ever.

But reality was far less cinematic. Her body still bore the scars of the injury, and although the doctors assured her she was ready, Y/n’s mind still seemed to stumble over the memory of that fateful day when a hard tackle took her off the pitch, taking with it not just a perfect season, but perhaps her future as well.

Now, time was running out for Y/n. Her contract was nearing its end, and negotiations were becoming more complicated with the rise of a new star in the squad. Arsenal wouldn’t wait for her forever. Y/n knew that.

Taking a deep, painful breath, Y/n closed her eyes, tasting the faint bitterness of fear and uncertainty. But she quickly swallowed it, knowing she couldn’t afford to doubt her own abilities, and especially not to lose her place not just as a starter, but also as the captain of her national team.

Y/n got out of bed carefully and stretched, knowing she had to be at the training center by one in the afternoon. The physiotherapy sessions seemed to have intensified with the expectation that Y/n might play in the next match, even if only at half her capacity. The defensive midfielder felt she could deliver more than just a simple game—she wanted to return to being the absolute starter who was essential to the team.

Lancaster had promised herself that she would come back more unbeatable than ever. This would be her golden season, and perhaps it wouldn’t be at Arsenal where her true potential would be tested.

With determined steps and a reserved posture, Y/n entered the physiotherapy wing with a closed expression and Frank Ocean’s *Ivy* resonating through her headphones like the soundtrack to her own melancholy. Y/n kept up her recent routine: spending hours practicing exercises that would drain all her energy, then heading to the second pitch to test her free kicks with an assistant who had been hired to help her recovery. He didn’t seem to be more than twenty-three years old and was a little less reserved than Y/n, which helped form a small friendship between them.

Y/n finished lacing up her boots and appreciated the faint appearance of the sun in the English city. It was rare to find any trace of weather other than rain. Y/n tied up her hair, making a mental note to trim the ends before officially returning to the pitch. If Y/n were to stay at Arsenal for only the next six months, she would make sure they were the best six months of her nearly ten-year stint with the team.

The sound of her cleats hitting the ground was enough for Henry to notice her presence. The tall, blond-haired boy smiled, showing he was happy to see Y/n well enough to start training with the ball.

“Ready to test some kicks and drills?” Henry asked, his tone knowing.

Y/n shrugged as she tested the condition of the pitch, her eyes landing on one of the goals used by the youth team. It was the first time Y/n had trained with someone several years younger, and she knew that younger players always tried to prove themselves to earn a spot in the main squad.

“I hope I’m not rusty. I’m a bit too old to be away for so many months,” Y/n said, hearing the man chuckle.

Henry grabbed a few soccer balls, testing them to make sure they were properly inflated before starting Y/n’s training. The main team was in need of an official free-kick taker, and Y/n was the best at that. No matter the distance or angle, Y/n would either score or make a pass so precise that many wondered how she found those damn gaps in the defense.

It didn’t take long for Henry to set up the wall and for Y/n to place the ball at an angle she loved. Taking free kicks and hitting the perfect angle was one of Y/n’s specialties. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and counted to three, listening for the whistle to blow across the field. With her eyes fixed on the top right corner, Y/n struck the ball so perfectly that the goalkeeper didn’t even come close to reaching it.

“Rusty, huh?” Henry uncrossed his arms, his expression one of surprise.

Y/n chuckled softly, knowing there was no way she could forget how to hit an angle that was relatively easy for her. By the end of the afternoon, Y/n had done some isolated drills with some of the younger players to test if the defensive midfielder was still at her best.

“Damn, my knees are going to kill me,” Y/n complained, collapsing onto the grass, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down her forehead.

“I have to admit, your performance was better than expected. Twelve out of thirteen free kicks scored. Seven tackles and three assists,” Henry listed, his clipboard full of notes and points to be evaluated by the support staff. “Tomorrow you train with the starting team. Just do your best, and the reward will come.”

“I owe you one. Thanks, Hen,” Y/n thanked, smiling at the blond boy.

The boy smiled, knowing Y/n still had a long journey ahead, but that she would undoubtedly recover with excellence.

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas imagine #alexia x reader #woso x reader #gxg #fem reader #lionesses x reader #barcelona femeni #arsenal women #short fanfic

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serafilms · 1 year ago

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FIRST DATE, KINDA NERVOUS

part 2 of the golden quartet

art donaldson x reader, slight tashi duncan x reader, slight patrick zweig x reader

summary: the story of your first kiss with art donaldson in a hotel room, and your first date in a diner. cute, fluffy, healthy, a tiny bit suggestive but not really. group polyamory dynamics hinted at. (play: so high school by taylor swift). wc: 3.5k

“What do you think?”

You shrugged. “They’re cute, they seem nice, and your backhand is like, a million times stronger than theirs, so I reckon you could take them in a fight.”

“What, you wouldn’t help?”

“Please. I’m too weak for that,” you said, shaking your wrist limply in Tashi’s face.

She rolled her eyes at you and pushed it out of the way. “Whatever, fine. We’re going.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. After showering, the straight hair from the party had disappeared, giving way to her natural waves. You always thought she looked prettier this way. Softer, somehow.

“Yay,” you said simply. “But just remember that my parents placed my safety and care in your hands, so if we get, like, murdered or something—”

“Oh, shut up,” Tashi groaned, a laugh bubbling out of her mouth, “you were just endorsing them.”

“Yeah, well. I’m indecisive.”

The smile that slowly spread across Tashi’s face told you all you needed to know. Ten seconds later you had grabbed and shrugged on your jacket and the two of you were climbing your way out of her bedroom window.

Now, you’re sitting on the floor of a hotel room, Tashi on your left and Art on your right, Patrick laying comfortably across from you, propped up by his elbows.

The beer in your hand is pretty shitty, which is a fact you find odd considering you can only assume it was either stolen from one of their parents, or paid for using a bribe, and in both of those cases, wouldn’t the beer be better?

But maybe that’s not what you should be focusing on right now, you think, as Patrick leans forwards to take it from your hand. His fingers brush yours as the can crosses over. For the last hour or so, the four of you have gone through eleven cans of beer, each consumed one at a time, being passed around like a bong.

Your eyes linger on the way Patrick’s mouth engulfs the opening of the can, right where yours had just been, and the way he passes it right to Tashi, who does the same as she takes a sip. The flush of heat in your face and belly are hard to ignore, and you’re not too sure how much of it can be attributed to the alcohol.

There’s a stutter in your chest as Art nudges you with his elbow. “So what are you planning on majoring in?”

His cheeks and ears also look flushed, but you think that might just be a consequence of the story Patrick told earlier. It was a sweet story; you assured the boy next to you of that when he’d buried his face in his hands, but he still seemed a little perturbed.

It was a sweet story though, you muse. Tashi said that they seemed like brothers, but you thought they seemed like they were an old married couple.

You’re brought back out of your thoughts as Tashi hands you the beer. “Oh, um. I’m not too set on anything yet, but I think maybe journalism.”

Patrick lets out a whistle. “What, not physiotherapy or sports medicine?”

You shrug, and before you can stop yourself, you say, “Just because I was a tennis player doesn’t mean it’s my whole personality.”

Immediately, you wince. Wrong place, wrong time. You steal a quick glance at Tashi, but she seems unaffected. Right. It’s Tashi. The last thing she feels is insecure. She simply looks at you.

But for good measure, you add, “I mean, I can still do sports news, or something.”

Against the better judgement of your burning stomach and your sluggish thoughts, you take another swig and then pass the can to Art.

“Journalism suits you,” he comments quietly as he takes it. You give him a small smile. He takes a small sip of the beer, and you can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple shifts when he swallows.

“I need some ice,” announces Tashi. She rises from her position on the floor.

Patrick wastes no time in scrambling up too. “I’ll come with!”

Tashi gives you a look like she’s exasperated, but you know better from the way she waits for Patrick to grab his key and open the door for her. She doesn’t look back as she walks out, but Patrick calls out a teasing, “See you guys later,” before the door closes fully.

When you turn your head towards Art, you see that he’s looking right at you.

“You sure do that a lot,” you mumble.

He smiles in a way that seems endeared and a little confused. “What?”

“Stare.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s nice. I- I, uh.” Your thoughts are racing, everywhere and nowhere all at once, as you struggle to find the words. The way Art looks at you sends a buzz of something in your abdomen, and your mind becomes all the more scrambled. “I need to stand up.”

You stand quickly, maybe too quickly, and immediately stumble.

“Whoa, you okay?” Art’s quick to jump to his feet. His hands find their place on either side of your waist to steady you. Now you really can’t focus.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, “I think I should sit down instead.”

You’re very aware of the fact that his hand stays on your waist as you bumble over to the edge of the bed and take a seat.

There’s a pang of disappointment when his hand leaves your waist, and another when he stands unsurely in front of you. You pat the spot next to you.

“Sit. Please.”

He complies. Perched on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, he’s much closer than when you were sitting on the floor together. You fiddle with your hands and steal glances at him every now and then.

“I wanted to ask you,” Art breaks the silence, “do you ever miss it?”

You don’t need to ask what he means by ‘it.’

There’s a moment where you gaze off, eyes wandering towards the door, before they return to the boy next to you and you shake your head.

“I don’t, not really.” You bite the inside of your cheek in thought. “It was fun for a while, and I liked being good at something, but I think I just fell out of love with it after a while. Like my whole life became just tennis, and thinking about a future in tennis. If I’m being honest, the injury was like a miracle to me.”

Art looks thoughtful at that. “What’s so wrong with a life of tennis?”

“Well. I mean, nothing, I guess. It just took a lot more time and effort than I would’ve liked. And there’s all the things I had to give up for it.”

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to continue, so you do. “Cheeseburgers, sleeping in. Love.”

The bed dips closer to you as he shuffles a little closer. It prompts you to look back up at him.

The curls on his forehead hang low, just over his eyes. His hand rests just next to your thigh, and he rests his weight on it to lean just a bit closer. “You don’t think you can be in love and play tennis at the same time?”

Art’s presence has a magnetic effect on you. There’s a gravitational pull that has you angling your body towards him and moving ever so slightly closer to him.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

His eyes dart down to your lips. It’s an action that doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you feel the corners of your mouth twitch upwards as you do the same. You can almost feel the warmth of his exhale as your faces draw closer and closer.

“Can I?” Art whispers.

“Please,” you respond.

His hand comes off the bed to rest on your cheek, and then he’s kissing you. It’s soft, gentle, but there’s an urgency in the way his tongue teases the entrance of your lips, and the way he moves even closer towards you, almost as if he’s chasing you.

Your hands find themselves at the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. His other hand moves to rest on your waist. Then your thigh. You let out a hum as your stomach does a little leap. Then, he pulls away for a fraction of a second to take you in, before his lips are on yours again. It’s electric, when he tilts his head slightly to the other side, when the hand on your cheek slides down to your jaw to bring you closer, when you hear a low groan in the base of his throat as his hand slides to the inner part of your thigh.

Then you hear the key at the door, and you both jump apart.

Tashi has a cup of ice water in her hand when she surveys the scene in front of her.

Your bodies are still angled suspiciously towards each other and your hands both rest awkwardly in your laps. Little is left to the imagination. You can still feel the butterflies in your stomach and the racing of your heart when Patrick raises his eyebrows at the two of you, a grin on his face.

“So,” he begins, “what have you guys been up to?”

Art and you speak at the same time. “Oh, you know, nothing much.” “Just chilling.”

Tashi’s face is thoughtful, as she looks at you and her lips quirk up in a smile. She nods her head to the door behind her. “Well, it’s late. We should go.”

Your eyes dart back and forth between the three people in the room. Slowly, you stand, giving Art an awkward kind of smile as you brush past him.

“Wait,” Patrick exclaims, “can I get your phone number?”

She shrugs back at him, holding the door open. “Play some real tennis tomorrow, and then I’ll give you my number.”

“So like, if I win?”

“You don’t have to win to play well.”

You’re not sure where this leaves you and Art in the mix, but Tashi is looking at you expectantly from the doorway, and you fear you don’t have the time to decide now. With an apologetic look and a wave, you mutter, “See you guys,” and then you’re out the door.

In the end, Patrick does win. He gives a flourishing bow as Tashi shrugs and applauds him. She turns to whisper something in your ear, but the words make no contact with your thoughts. As Art looks dejectedly at his racket, then at his best friend across the court, you stand abruptly. Tashi looks at you, bewildered.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, I was—”

Whatever her next words are, they die in her throat as she sighs and watches you thread your way through the stands and go down the stairs to the side of the court.

“Hey!” you call out. Art’s head perks up and his eyes search for the source of the sound until they land on you. He jogs to meet you.

“Hi.”

“Um,” you say, feeling suddenly like your foot has been shoved into your mouth, “you did really well.”

Art looks at you deadpan, but a smile starts to show in his eyes. “I lost.”

“Still, you were really good.” Your eyes glue themselves to the floor as you start to regret coming over so hastily without planning what to say.

“Well, thanks. Really. It means a lot coming from you.” Looking back up, you see him scratching the back of his head nervously. It’s an odd look, considering he’s also drenched in sweat, and his glistening skin makes him look even more nervous than he is. “Look, uh. I know we didn’t make a deal or anything, but do you think I could get your number?”

Maybe this wasn’t such a mistake. “Yeah, I think I could make that happen.”

SIX WEEKS LATER.

God, you’re stressed right now. The hem of your top has fallen victim to your incessant fiddling as you tug at it, scrunch it up, release it and repeat.

“You’re acting like it’s your first date ever,” Tashi says, rolling her eyes. There’s a smile playing at her lips that tells you she isn’t trying to be as mean as she sounds.

“He’s cute, okay? I’m nervous.”

Tashi comes up behind you and you meet her eyes in the mirror. A shiver runs down your spine as she tugs at the collar of your jacket, knuckles brushing your neck in the process.

“You should take this off.”

“What? Why?” You stare at her reflection. “I know it’s still summer, but it’s nighttime, so like…” Her deadpan expression has you trailing off. “What?”

“You can wear his jacket instead.”

There’s a hollow silence as your mouth forms an ‘o’. Your fingers move to tug at the sleeves of the jacket, gaze averted from hers for a moment.

“You think he’ll offer?”

Another eye roll. “The guy’s like, obsessed with you. Of course he’ll offer. Doesn’t hurt to throw in a little shiver either.”

“What if he’s not wearing a jacket?”

“Oh, he’s wearing a jacket.” She waves her cell phone in your face. “Patrick texted me an update.”

You grin and shrug off the jacket as you turn to face her. “Who knew Tashi Duncan was such a sucker for clichés?”

“I’m just trying to make sure your date goes well,” Tashi scoffs as she snatches the jacket from your hands. “You’re the one who swoons every time you watch a romcom.”

She’s right about that one.

Tashi smacks her lips as she hangs your jacket back up in your closet. “I still don’t get why you’re so nervous. I thought we broke all the ice at the hotel.”

“Well, I can still be nervous. Just because you and Patrick had sex two weeks ago doesn’t mean I have to be as confident.”

She sighs because you’re right. Tonight is your first date. With Art. Not your first date ever. But you sure do feel nervous enough to pretend it is.

You and Art have been texting nonstop for the last six weeks, but between the odd part time jobs you’ve picked up over the summer and his tennis training, you haven’t had any time to hang out, unless your best friends who managed to squeeze in their first date, first time and first sleepover together all in one go. But Tashi and Patrick are much more go getter than you.

Tashi didn’t give you shit for your lack of fervour in pursuing whatever relationship you and Art had, but you still felt a little perturbed when she called you the day after her night with Patrick, and told you that he’d asked about you guys.

(“Does he not talk to Art about it?” you asked.

“He said Art’s happy, but he wanted to know how things were going on your end. Since you guys have only been texting.”)

So now you feel pressured. Like somehow your relationship is linked to Patrick and Tashi. Like they’re waiting for you guys to catch up.

But you don’t say any of that. Because you want things to go at your own pace, you keep quiet. Because you don’t want to speak it into existence, even if Tashi will roll her eyes and call you ridiculous for it because she knows your life is yours and hers is hers, despite the way she keeps trying to push you in certain directions.

When the doorbell inevitably rings, you and Tashi exchange looks. She gives you a nod. It’s more firm than comforting, like she’s sending you off to play at Wimbledon and she knows you’re going to win.

Your parents aren’t home for the next few days, which is why you strategically planned your date for tonight, because God forbid they use their last few weeks with you living under their roof to embarrass you in front of a guy. You almost expect Tashi to answer the door for you as if she’s your mother, but instead, she shoves your bag in your chest, says, “I’m using your shampoo and eating all your snacks,” and pushes you out of the bedroom door, then closes it.

One last check in the nearest reflective surface, and you’re ready.

Art is dressed casually, like you, in jeans and a polo. Tashi was right in saying that he would wear a jacket. In the light of your front porch, he looks especially gentle, the warm light threading through his hair like a halo.

The smile that lights up his face when you open the door has the potential to end your whole bloodline, you swear. The way your heart rate picks up feels like some kind of fight or flight response, but you’re willing to ignore it all for him.

“Hey,” he says. His voice has a comforting cadence, you think. It’s been six weeks since you’ve last heard it, since you were always too scared to call him. But it’s a sound like coming home.

“Hi,” you speak softly.

There’s a bouquet in his hands, which he holds out to you, one hand tucked in his jeans. “I brought these for you.”

You take them gingerly, trying to fight the grin that threatens to split your face in half. He’s so cute. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

You put them on the table just inside. Tashi will eventually make her way downstairs and put them in some water for you. Closing the door, you turn back to Art, who holds his hand out to you. It’s such a strangely innocent gesture that you almost catch yourself giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Shall we?”

You take it, grinning like a madman. “We shall.”

“I never got to hear what you want to major in.” The fry in your hand is currently being waved around as though you’re conducting an orchestra.

“Oh. I don’t know,” Art averts his eyes to his plate. “I haven’t thought about it much.”

“I won’t judge,” you prompt gently.

He looks contemplative, and wets his bottom lip with his tongue briefly before looking up at you. “Okay.”

“Okay…” You gesture your fry towards him.

“You promise you won’t judge?” He asks, bobbing his head questioningly at you

You lean towards the table with your hand over your heart. “I swear it.”

“Physics. Or engineering.”

Sitting back in your seat, you survey him.

“That suits you,” you say genuinely. After you’ve said the words, you’re reminded all too well of the night in the hotel room again, and your cheeks warm.

“Thanks,” Art says, gazing at you. “Patrick says that too, before he calls me a loser.”

“I’m guessing you’re more studious than he is.”

“You’d be right.”

Another sip of your milkshake. “I think it’s cool. Maybe we’ll even have some classes together.”

Art smiles his eye-crinkling smile across the table. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

You don’t even need to pretend to shiver. The second you’ve stepped out of the restaurant, Art’s jacket is slipped onto your shoulders. It’s warm, and smells faintly like sandalwood mixed with laundry detergent. You resist the urge to inhale the collar. Instead you smile shyly, and take his hand. There’s a knot forming in your chest at the thought of the night being over, but when the two of you reach his car, Art doesn’t take out his keys. He turns and leans against the side of his car, hand still entwined with your own.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” he says simply.

Your lips quirk up in amusement. “So did I.”

He hums. Your hands are swung from side to side as he looks down at them. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you as you step closer.

“What are you thinking about?” you whisper. You know what he’s thinking about.

He looks down at you, and does a one shoulder shrug. “I’m thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”

Your heart stops and gets jumpstarted again in the span of about six milliseconds. God. You knew it was coming, but you still couldn’t prepare yourself.

“Not asking anymore, are we?” You grin, chest thumping like crazy.

“Oh, come on.” With a tug on your hand, you’re pulled flush against him, chest to chest.

Art leans in to your ear, and whispers as if divulging a well-kept secret. “May I please kiss you?”

The tickle of his breath over your jaw sends a zap of electricity through every single nerve in your body. Your breath hitches. “You may.”

You’re not sure you’ll ever get sick of Art Donaldson’s smile. The curve of his mouth as he leans in, brushing his nose to yours before your lips meet.

Your computer pings.

Patrick Zweig sent you a friend request.

You raise an eyebrow and hit ‘accept.’

A minute later, there’s another notification.

Patrick Zweig wrote on your wall. “Congratulations on a successful first date with @Art Donaldson! 😘”.

#challengers #challengers x reader #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #tashi duncan x reader #challengers imagines #tashi duncan #art donaldson #patrick zweig #mike faist #josh o'connor #zendaya #written works !

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rosachae · 9 days ago

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more than a game | lara raj x reader

⁍ song: sienna - the marías ⁍ genre: AU! fluffy, happy endings. tennisplayer!lara x physiotherapist!y/n. ultimately, just a story about two girls who are very much not over eachother. right person, wrong time-- except the right time is now. ⁍ wc: 8.3k ⁍ warnings: mentions of injury, nothing major. ⁍ synopsis:

lara broke up with y/n at the end of highschool to pursue her dreams as a professional tennis player. when she was faced with the decision, it wasn't made easily, but she convinced herself it was necessary. that was until she sustains an injury before an upcoming tournament and her new physiotherapist happens to be the very girl she left behind.

y/n had known for three days. three full days since the email arrived in her inbox, all official and sterile and life-ruining.

lara raj — pcl strain, grade I — primary physiotherapy care assigned to: y/n y/l/n.

she hadn’t slept properly since. part of her almost regretted responding to manon’s email, the manager of the girl who split her world in two the day she left. she’d tried to tell herself it would be fine, that it had been a year, that she was a professional, that her heart no longer lived in the hands of a girl who smiled like sin and kissed like salvation. but none of it held up. not when she was standing just inside the rehab suite now, stomach in knots, lungs refusing to inflate past surface level. she heard manon say her name before she even saw her.

“lara, this is y/n, your new physiotherapist.”

and there she was.

lara sat on the edge of the treatment table, long legs crossed at the ankles, her right knee gently elevated with a foam bolster. the navy skirt of her tennis kit curved along the defined line of her thigh, a shade darker than her skin. her top was cropped and sleeveless, loose in the back where it bared a long, toned stretch of muscle. her hair was swept to the side, no longer dyed red like it has been in their senior year of highschool. it was black now, natural and perfect against her complexion. strands fell loose along her cheekbones, which were as sculpted as y/n remembered. she looked unfair. poised and calm and glowing, even under the flat clinical lighting. and when her gaze found y/n, she didn’t falter.

“nice to meet you,” lara said, smooth as a drop shot.

her voice hadn’t changed. low, cool, deceptively soft. like velvet wrapped around something pointed. and she said it—nice to meet you—like they were strangers. like she hadn’t once taught y/n how to hit a forehand in the rain and kissed her under the awning when she got it right. like she hadn’t broken her heart with an apology and a plane ticket and a “you know i have to chase this.”

y/n forced her lips into something resembling a smile. she prayed it didn’t look like a grimace.

“you too,” she replied, automatically, stepping forward to shake her hand.

lara’s palm was warm, firm. confident. y/n’s was clammy, cold. of course it was.

“y/n’s got a stellar background,” manon went on, still cheerfully unaware of the emotional wreckage she’d just reassembled in one room. “sports therapy, rehabilitative training, joint mechanics—you’re in very good hands.”

lara tilted her head slightly, her gaze still lingering on y/n like she was seeing through every layer of her.

“looking forward to it,” she murmured, smiling with all the grace of someone who absolutely was not.

not genuinely, anyway. y/n knew that smile too well. she’d studied it, memorized what it meant. this was the smile lara wore when she knew she was holding the upper hand. this was the smile that had once made y/n say yes to sneaking out of a biology exam just to drive around aimlessly and listen to music with the windows down. the smile that had y/n’s heart beating rapidly in her chest, just as it had all other times before.

manon clapped her hands gently. “great. we’ll ease you in today, no pressure—just letting y/n get acquainted with your injury and the facility.”

lara nodded, cool and agreeable. “works for me.”

and then manon turned to leave, her heels tapping softly out the door. the click of it shutting behind her sounded more final than it should have. the silence that followed was thick and oddly charged.

lara shifted, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. her toned arms caught the light in just the right way, and her smirk came back, subtle this time.

“so doc,” she said, voice low, “you’re gonna be the one fixing me?”

y/n straightened her spine automatically, willing her pulse to behave. “physically,” she replied, keeping it clinical.

lara laughed. a low, amused sound that wrapped itself around y/n’s ribcage and tugged.

“you’re still funny,” lara said. “that’s nice.”

“you’re still...” y/n started, then caught herself and cleared her throat. “you strained your posterior cruciate ligament—likely from overextension during a pivot or landing. based on your imaging and the initial pain markers, we’re looking at a low-grade strain. not a tear, but if you don’t rest and stabilize it, it could worsen. you need to stay off it for the next few days before we begin any weight-bearing exercises.”

lara raised an eyebrow, like she found the lecture charming. “posterior cruciate ligament,” she repeated, slow and deliberate. “so formal.”

“it’s your knee,” y/n deadpanned. “i don’t know how else to explain what’s wrong without sounding like a quack.”

lara grinned. “i missed your mouth.”

y/n choked on air. “excuse me?”

“your words,” lara amended innocently. “you’ve always been good with them.”

y/n stared at her, trying very hard not to fall into the gravity of that grin. or the memory of it. or how it used to tug at the corner of her mouth when she was about to say something that would wreck y/n’s whole afternoon. she looked down at her clipboard instead. empty. entirely unhelpful.

“sessions start tomorrow,” she said, mostly to the paper.

lara leaned back, stretching just enough to make it obvious. “can’t wait.”

y/n turned to go, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape. but before she could reach the door, lara’s voice came again. quiet, teasing, but just loud enough for her to hear.

“you still get nervous around me, huh?”

y/n didn’t answer. she didn’t need to. she kept on walking, leaving lara alone in the room.

the very second the door shut firm behind herself, she sprung into action. she tried so desperately to play it cool, to not let herself be caught internally fawning over the girl who still managed to set her soul alight. alas, it was near impossible.

her footsteps carried her very pointedly in a single direction. the door to a small office, only a couple rooms down in the rehab wing, slammed open so hard it bounced off the stopper with a hollow clang.

sophia didn’t even blink.

she was kneeling on a foam mat beside one of the treatment benches, unbothered, guiding her client— choi soobin, pro tennis player and her assigned disaster for the next six weeks—into a deep mobility stretch. one hand anchored his wrist while the other pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, nudging him deeper into position. her expression was the same one she always wore when y/n burst in like this: calm, vaguely unimpressed, and only mildly entertained.

“i’m going to die,” y/n announced, dramatic and breathless.

“hi,” sophia said flatly. “welcome.”

soobin made a small sound, halfway between a grunt and a question. “is that, like… literal or—”

“not you,” y/n snapped, waving him off like static.

he blinked and went quiet again, wise enough to stay out of it as the temperature in the room shifted to match y/n’s spiraling heartbeat.

she dropped her bag on the nearest table with a thud, like it had personally offended her. “it’s her,” she said, breathless. “lara.”

sophia didn’t react at first. just adjusted soobin’s elbow with clinical precision. “lara… raj?”

“yes, lara raj. as in the client i was assigned. as in the literal love of my life and the reason i have abandonment issues.”

sophia hummed. “you’ve known this for three days.”

“i didn’t think it’d be her her!” y/n threw her hands up. “i thought maybe it was a different lara raj. or maybe i hallucinated the email. or maybe the universe would do me one small favor and make her ugly.”

soobin opened his mouth again, cautiously. “so you guys—”

“shut up,” sophia and y/n said at the same time.

sophia pushed his shoulder forward an inch farther. he let out a wheeze and didn’t try again.

y/n started pacing in a tight, agitated loop, like if she stopped moving she might implode. “i walked in and there she was. sitting all casual, legs crossed, like she didn’t ruin my life. still tall. still glowing. still smelling like coconut shampoo.”

“you’re kidding.”

“i’m dead serious. she looked me in the eye and said, ‘nice to meet you.’ like we didn’t know each other. like i didn’t write her a poem.”

sophia winced. “you did write her a poem.”

“and she loved it.”

“it was terrible.”

“well she thought it was nice!”

sophia didn’t argue. instead, she shifted soobin into a seated hamstring stretch without warning. he yelped. she ignored it.

y/n flopped face-down onto the bench beside them. “and then she smiled. the smile.”

“not the smile.”

“the smile,” y/n groaned. “the one that made me skip calculus to get froyo. the one that made me forget what state i lived in. it’s like it’s engineered to dismantle my sense of self.”

“she’s always been terrifyingly pretty.”

“she’s prettier now. it’s criminal. i should report her.”

sophia offered no sympathy. “and you’re still in love with her.”

“i’m not,” y/n said, muffled against the bench cushion.

“sure.”

“i’m not! i’m just... disoriented. and stressed. and probably dehydrated.”

“and in love with her.”

y/n rolled over and covered her face with her hands. “i can’t do this for ten days. she’s already trying to flirt. i can feel it.”

sophia actually laughed. laughed. y/n lifted her head, betrayed.

“you’re enjoying this.”

“a little,” sophia said. “but also? you’ve been fake-mad about her for a year. now she’s here, and you have ten uninterrupted days of forced proximity. that’s karma.”

“that’s a romcom,” y/n muttered darkly. “i don’t want a romcom. i want a sedative.”

“you want to make out with her.”

“i want peace.”

soobin groaned softly as sophia rotated his hip outward.

“breathe through it,” she said, voice sweet, hands merciless.

y/n groaned, low and dramatic, and dragged both hands down her face like she could wipe away the memory of lara’s smirk. “she called me doc.”

sophia tilted her head. “you are a doctor.”

“yeah, but not like that. she said it in the voice. you know the one. the voice she used when she used to ask if i was free after practice, and then we’d end up making out behind the bleachers for forty minutes.”

“forty?” sophia asked, skeptical.

“it felt like forty.”

“it was, like, eleven.”

“emotionally, it was forty.”

soobin made another quiet noise of protest as sophia twisted his torso into a deep spinal rotation. she kept her grip firm and her expression neutral, like she wasn’t witnessing a slow emotional meltdown three feet to her left.

“and the skirt,” y/n continued, helpless. “why does she have to sit like that? with her knee up and her arm draped all confident, like she’s in an adidas ad and knows i’m dying inside?”

“because she does know you’re dying inside.”

y/n pointed a finger at her. “traitor.”

“realist,” sophia said. “look, i love you, but you have exactly two emotional modes when it comes to lara raj: ‘still in love’ and ‘fully feral.’”

“i am not fully feral.”

sophia raised a brow.

“okay, maybe a little feral,” y/n admitted. “but only internally.”

“mm-hm.”

y/n stared up at the ceiling tiles like they held answers. “she’s going to ruin me.”

“probably,” sophia said cheerfully.

“i’ll lose my license.”

“unlikely.”

“i’ll cry in the supply closet.”

“that one’s more likely.”

y/n sat up, eyes wide. “what if she’s trying to mess with me? what if this is her revenge arc?”

“revenge for what?”

“i don’t know! leaving her unread on valentine’s day senior year? forgetting her dog’s name that one time?”

sophia laughed. “she did hold a grudge about the dog thing.”

“it was an ugly dog!”

soobin exhaled loudly as sophia released the stretch. he looked faintly shell-shocked, like he’d just lived through a natural disaster and wasn’t totally sure if it was over yet.

“we done?” he asked, hopeful.

“almost,” sophia said, moving behind him. “one more set.”

he whimpered.

“you’re doing great,” she said, like a lie.

y/n leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “i think i blacked out when she said ‘nice to meet you.’ my soul left my body. i became a ghost.”

“you are pale,” sophia agreed.

“do you think she really forgot me?”

“no.”

“do you think she pretended to forget me?”

“yes.”

“psychopath,” y/n whispered.

“welcome to women’s tennis,” sophia said.

“i’m not going to survive ten days.”

“you’re going to survive exactly ten days,” sophia corrected. “and then you’re either going to get closure, or make out in a supply closet, or cry about it for another year. all of which are valid.”

y/n looked haunted. “what if she asks me to stretch her hamstrings?”

“then you remember your degree,” sophia said. “and your ethics. and maybe bring a cold compress for your face.”

soobin pushed himself upright with great effort, limbs slow and stiff like a baby deer learning to walk. he hovered awkwardly beside the mat, blinking at both of them, looking between them like a kid caught between two divorced parents mid-argument. “i feel like i just sat through a fight i wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“you did,” sophia said, unfazed.

“it’s good for you,” y/n added, dragging a hand down her face. “builds empathy.”

he stared at them for a beat, visibly trying to process the emotional whiplash. then he sighed, long and beleaguered. “i want a different therapist.”

“file a complaint,” sophia said, already resetting the mat with clinical efficiency. “y/n will write you a poem about it.”

“it’ll be terrible,” y/n warned.

“but heartfelt,�� sophia added.

soobin muttered something under his breath and walked off like a man who’d just survived a natural disaster and wasn’t sure if it would come back for round two.

the door swung shut behind soobin with a soft click, and the room fell quiet in his absence. without his awkward commentary or the false comfort of banter to fill the space, the tension settled again—this time softer, heavier. y/n sat back against the bench, arms wrapped loosely around herself like she was trying to hold something in. or keep something out.

sophia glanced over, her expression finally shifting—less amused now, more open. steady.

“you okay?” she asked, voice gentler than before.

y/n let out a slow breath. “i don’t know.”

she sounded smaller than usual. not the flustered storm that had barreled through the door earlier, but something quieter. unraveling.

sophia moved to sit beside her, their shoulders almost touching. “you want to talk about it?”

“what’s there to talk about?” y/n stared at the floor. “she left. she broke my heart. i thought i moved on. and then i saw her and it’s like—i don’t know. it’s like no time passed. like all the stuff i buried just came back.”

“of course it did,” sophia said. “it’s not a switch. you don’t flip it off and forget her.”

y/n nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “she looked right at me. and smiled like nothing happened. like we were strangers.”

“maybe she didn’t know what to say,” sophia offered. “maybe that was her version of keeping it professional.”

“or maybe she really doesn’t care anymore,” y/n said, and her voice cracked on the last word. “and i’m just the only one still carrying it.”

sophia didn’t say anything at first. just let the silence sit. let it breathe.

“you’re not,” she said eventually. “i’ve seen a lot of people try to fake it, but you don’t forget someone you loved just because a year went by. and you don’t talk about someone like this unless you still feel something.”

y/n blinked hard, swallowing. “then why didn’t she say anything? why pretend we never happened?”

“because it’s easier to pretend than admit you left someone behind,” sophia said. “especially when you don’t know if they’ll forgive you.”

that struck something. y/n’s throat tightened.

sophia bumped her shoulder gently. “you don’t have to fix anything. and you don’t owe her forgiveness. but if she’s really here—and if you’re still feeling all of this—then maybe it’s worth seeing what’s left. for closure. or clarity. or whatever it is you need.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“what if it just hurts again?” she asked softly.

“then at least you’ll know,” sophia said. “and you’ll stop wondering.”

y/n looked over at her, eyes tired but grateful. “why are you always right?”

sophia smiled. “i’m not. i just love you. and i don’t want you carrying this forever.”

y/n leaned her head against her shoulder, the weight of it finally too much to hold alone. for a few moments, they just sat like that. no jokes, no dramatics. just the kind of quiet that comes when someone understands you enough not to fill it.

“i’m scared,” y/n admitted.

“i know,” sophia said. “but you’re braver than you think.”

and y/n believed her. or at least, she wanted to. and maybe—for now—that was enough.

she had ten days to see this thing through. she could only hope lara didn’t kill her before their time was up.

the next morning came by faster than expected, and sure enough, lara was already on the table when y/n walked in, reclined back on her elbows, tossing a stress ball into the air like it had personally wronged her. her hair was pulled up, skin flushed faintly from the earlier warm-up. she looked like she owned the room. like she always did.

she grinned. “took you long enough,” she said. “was starting to think you were scared of me.”

“i was,” y/n replied flatly, setting her clipboard on the counter with a little more force than necessary. “but then i remembered you’re the one who can’t walk properly.”

lara’s grin only widened. “ah. there she is.”

y/n didn’t return it. she gestured toward the table. “lie flat.”

lara obeyed, still smirking. “aren’t you going to ask how i’ve been?”

“no.”

“rude.”

y/n didn’t respond. her hands found their rhythm—methodical, careful, clinical. she started with palpation, fingers moving around the swelling, pressing gently, checking for heat, tenderness, guarding. she catalogued it all, let her body do the remembering so her mind didn’t have to.

but it did anyway.

lara’s skin was warm. familiar. same tan lines, same faint scar from that time she tripped over a ball cart during warm-ups and refused to let the trainer stitch it. same muscle under y/n’s palm that used to curl around her waist in the mornings, anchoring her in place.

y/n swallowed. kept her face neutral.

the silence stretched. it used to be comfortable, safe, even. now it just felt like a fuse waiting to burn out.

her fingers shifted slightly, pressing into the muscle just above lara’s knee, and it was muscle memory more than anything. not just the physio work—though she knew this anatomy like second nature—but all the rest of it, too. she remembered tracing these lines with her mouth. remembered lara half-asleep, limbs tangled with hers, mumbling dumb things into her neck. remembered this exact thigh wrapped around her hips, pulling her closer, always closer.

her hand stilled.

she breathed in, slow and steady, grounding herself in the sterile clinic air and the clipboard waiting across the room. not the way lara’s breath had just hitched. not the way it always used to.

y/n refocused. pressed down with more intent this time, dragging her thumb along the medial border like she was following a map she helped draw.

lara exhaled sharply, more surprise than pain, and y/n blinked hard, looking away.

it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. it wasn’t supposed to still be like this. they hadn’t even spoken after the breakup. not really. no closure, no friendship attempt, just a clean split followed by radio silence. y/n had buried it, like everything else. and yet here she was, elbow-deep in lara raj’s thigh and halfway to a breakdown.

she hated how easy it was to fall back into orbit. how close lara felt, even after everything. like no time had passed at all.

lara broke it first. “you still do that thing when you’re concentrating. the lip thing.”

y/n paused. “what thing.”

“bite the inside. right side.” lara turned her head, voice softening without losing its edge. “used to drive me crazy.”

y/n’s jaw ticked. “flex your quad for me.”

lara did. the muscle fired under her palm. automatic, precise. y/n nodded once and stepped away, scribbling something she wouldn’t be able to read later.

lara watched her. “you’re different.”

y/n flipped the page without looking up. “you’re not. still think flirting is a personality.”

“you used to like it.”

“you used to mean it.”

silence again. heavier, this time. like a bruise pressed too hard. y/n didn’t dare look at her.

after a moment: “okay,” she said quietly. “let’s start with some range of motion work. we’ll go slow. tell me if anything feels off.”

lara lifted a brow. “like your attitude?”

y/n just stared at her—the kind of look that used to be followed by a kiss or a slammed door. lara sighed and lay back again, one arm flung lazily over her head.

“fine, fine. i’ll behave.”

y/n didn’t answer, but her hands were steady as she guided the knee. internal rotation, external, slow flexion. she moved on instinct, trying not to notice the way lara kept making faces—these dramatic, exaggerated winces every time her fingers so much as grazed too close.

“are you always this dramatic?” y/n muttered, adjusting her grip on lara’s thigh.

“only when i’m being manhandled by an ex,” lara replied smoothly, eyes flicking to hers.

y/n’s mouth opened, closed. “jesus christ,” she muttered.

lara hummed. “you’ve gotten stronger. must be all those lonely nights at the gym.”

and that was it. y/n pulled just a little too hard on the next stretch.

lara yelped. “ow—okay! okay! what the hell, are you trying to tear it more?”

“you always did like it rough,” y/n said before she could stop herself. and immediately wanted to crawl into the floor.

lara laughed. loud and shameless, the kind of laugh that used to shake the sheets. y/n clenched her jaw and stared at the floor, actively resisting the urge to bang her head against the nearest resistance band hook.

“don’t make me laugh,” lara gasped, breath catching. “it makes the pain worse.”

“good.”

“you’re so mean now. it’s hot.”

y/n didn’t respond. she was too busy pressing into the medial thigh, deep tissue work that should’ve required all her focus. but all she could think about was how soft the skin felt. how close her face was to lara’s knee. how the air between them was thick with something unspoken and impossible to forget.

lara wiggled her foot. “you’re making that face again.”

“what face.”

“the one where you look like you want to punch me but also maybe kiss me.”

y/n jerked back like she’d been stung. her thumb left a sharp red streak along the inside of lara’s thigh. not intentional. not really. but it stood out. hot. bright. incriminating.

and that was exactly when the door creaked open.

manon stepped in, sunglasses perched on her head, a smoothie in one hand and a familiar glint in her eye. she stopped cold just inside the room, blinking once at the scene in front of her—lara flushed and sprawled on the table, thigh streaked with red, y/n stiff as a corpse and visibly sweating.

“jesus christ,” manon said. “do you two need a room?”

lara looked down and burst out laughing. “is that a hickey?”

“it’s not a hickey,” y/n said quickly, voice cracking like glass under pressure.

manon raised a brow. “sure it’s not. just a little physio love bite.” she held up her smoothie. “anyway, didn’t mean to interrupt your foreplay. i actually came with news.”

lara blinked, still breathless from laughing. “what news?”

“you’re in,” manon said, like it was obvious. “tournament officials accepted your wildcard. the final matches have been postponed for your recovery. you’re on the roster.”

lara sat up straighter. “you’re serious?”

manon grinned. “deadly. congrats, raj.”

the glow on lara’s face was immediate. relief. pride. something almost childlike in how it lit her up. she reached for the tablet manon had tucked under her arm and flipped to the schedule.

and just like that, the light dimmed.

her smile faltered as her eyes landed on the name next to hers in the bracket. daniela avanzini. reigning champ. already being called the next big thing by every major sports outlet.

lara didn’t say anything, but y/n saw it. the shift. the stillness. how her mouth flattened slightly, jaw locking into place.

manon didn’t seem to notice. she gave a dramatic bow and backed toward the door, tossing a wink over her shoulder. “celebrate later, yeah? just not on the treatment table.”

then she was gone. the door clicked shut behind her.

y/n didn’t move at first. just watched lara staring at the tablet like it had personally insulted her.

“what is it?” she asked, quiet, careful. “you were just excited.”

lara didn’t answer.

y/n sighed and stepped closer, wiping her hands on a towel, voice softer now. “come on. it’s me.”

lara’s shoulders shifted, the faintest sign of tension.

“daniela avanzini,” she muttered, eyes still fixed on the screen. “first round.”

y/n’s brow furrowed. “so?”

lara let out a dry breath. “she won this whole thing last year. hasn’t lost a single match since. i wasn’t even sure i’d get in—and now i have to open against her?“

y/n watched her, then leaned against the edge of the table. “you’ve played tougher.”

lara huffed a humorless laugh. “not with one and a half knees, i haven’t.”

there was no teasing in her voice now. just exhaustion. and the creeping shadow of self-doubt y/n remembered all too well.

“you’ll be fine,” y/n said, steady. certain. “you don’t back down. not from girls like her.”

lara looked at her then, eyes searching, like she wasn’t used to hearing that anymore.

and for a second, y/n didn’t care about the past. or the tension. or the red streak still fading on lara’s thigh.

because whatever they were now, she could still read lara like a book. and right now, she needed someone to believe in her.

“you’ve got this,” y/n said. simple. firm. true.

lara’s shoulders dropped, just slightly. she nodded, slow.

“yeah,” she said. “yeah. okay.”

y/n turned away and started packing up the ice packs like it was urgent. like the act of organizing something—anything—might keep her from unraveling. emotionally speaking, it kind of had to.

behind her, lara placed the tablet down and moved to stand. whatever flicker of doubt had cracked through a minute ago was gone from her face now, wiped clean and replaced with that effortless cool she always wore like armor. but y/n saw right through it. the wince as lara shifted her weight. the tightness around her mouth. the sheen of nerves still clinging to her eyes.

“so,” lara said, too breezy, like nothing at all had happened, “same time tomorrow?”

y/n didn’t answer right away. she glanced at her, the way you look at something you used to call home. lara had always been like this—sharp, stubborn, all-in. tennis was everything. it had been the start and the end of them.

still, y/n didn’t poke at it. didn’t offer comfort or push too hard. she just looked back down at her clipboard and scribbled something illegible, feigning disinterest like it was a sport.

“unfortunately,” she said.

lara bit her lip. not flirtatious this time, but soft. familiar. a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, quiet and a little worn around the edges. maybe even fond.

“can’t wait.”

perhaps y/n should’ve trusted her instincts that something wasn’t quite right in the mind of her ex girlfriend.

the pop of the tennis ball echoed across the near-empty court, sharp and rhythmic. it was hot—too hot to be out here, especially with a healing knee—but lara’s body craved the repetition. the sweat, the sting of sun in her eyes, the dry rasp of her breath. it all felt like control. like something she could grip tight before it slipped away again. it'd been five days since her therapy sessions kicked into swing, and little by little, she was going crazy. she hated stagnancy. sitting and waiting around doing nothing when the court was right there. the late afternoon heat pressed down like a weighted blanket, thick and unmoving. golden light pooled along the edges of the tennis court, casting long shadows over the clay. cicadas droned somewhere in the trees beyond the fence. it was the kind of california heat that made the ground shimmer, the kind that stole breath from lungs. but lara was still out there, hitting ball after ball like it owed her something.

her tank top was damp, clinging to her skin, dark with sweat along her back. strands of her inky black hair stuck to her neck, and the angles of her face were set tight with determination. her movements were clean, trained. forceful even/ but there was a hitch in her stride. her knee. every pivot came with a flicker of pain she refused to acknowledge. she wasn’t cleared to be playing. she knew it. megan knew it. but knowing didn’t stop her.

on the other side of the net, megan twirled her racket lazily, her white tank cropped just enough to flash the silver hoops of her belt every time she moved. where lara was coiled tension, megan was loose limbs and sleepy eyes.

“i’m starting to think you like punishing yourself,” she called out, visor askew like a lopsided crown. she stuck her tongue out in mock concentration. “either that or you just love making me run.”

lara didn’t answer. she returned the shot with a sharp forehand, sweat flying from her elbow. her chest burned. her leg throbbed. she didn’t care.

“don’t get me wrong,” megan said, jogging to catch the ball. “i’m flattered. i mean, i’ve got a nice ass and all, but if this is your way of flirting—”

lara hit the next shot harder. it cracked like a gun going off.

megan whistled. “okay, simmer down, federer. jesus.”

lara didn’t smile. didn’t even flinch. her eyes stayed locked on the ball, lashes clumped with sweat, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. her breath came shallow and fast. she could feel the tremble in her knee starting to spread, small at first, but gaining ground. still, she kept going. she had to. she wasn’t thinking about her knee. not really. she was thinking about daniela. daniela with the perfect serve, the iron discipline, the smile that never reached her eyes. the girl who might be better. faster. cleaner.

lara couldn’t afford to lose. not again.

“if you die out here,” megan called after a moment through her heavy breathing, slicing the ball with a lazy flick, “can i have your sneakers?”

lara lunged to return it. “you wouldn’t fit them.”

“rude and ableist. i’m a growing girl.”

they kept the rally going. backhand, forehand, slice, lob. lara’s form was cleaner than it should be for someone not cleared to train. but there was a stiffness in her leg, a hesitance in her recovery steps. megan noticed. megan always noticed.

“you’re thinking about daniela again,” megan sing-songed.

lara grunted as she pivoted. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are. it’s written all over your moody little murder face.”

lara hit the ball harder than she needed to. “i’m fine.”

“no, you’re tense. like emotionally and also physically. i’m your friend-slash-secret therapist-slash-occasional doubles partner, and i can feel it in my soul.”

lara didn’t answer. they both knew megan was right. lara just couldn’t help but dread her upcoming match with the latina. couldn’t shake the memory of her devastating efficiency, the knowledge that she was fresh. rested. uninjured. probably sleeping eight hours a night in a cryogenic pod while lara spent hers trying not to scream into a pillow every time her knee ached.

she hated that she wasn’t sure if she could beat her anymore.

“you know it’s okay, right?” megan said, softer now, tapping the ball across gently. “to be scared. or whatever.”

lara caught it on the bounce and shot it back harder than necessary. “i’m not scared.”

“okay. cool. you’re just out here in a heatwave playing on a busted leg because… you love pain?”

lara gave her a look. “yes. it’s called character building.”

“uh-huh.” megan grinned. “okay, new theory. you’re not scared of daniela. you’re just distracted. and i think i know by who.”

lara sighed. “don’t.”

“y/n,” megan declared, grinning wider. “hot physio. broody aura. what did you do, hit her with your car?”

lara’s next shot clipped the net.

“she’s—” lara started, then stopped.

“what?” megan twirled her racket. “gonna say she’s just your physio? because i’m pretty sure i saw you make eye contact with her once and your soul tried to leave your body.”

lara rolled her eyes. “megan.”

“what? i’m allowed to look. she’s hot. if you’re not gonna go for it, i’ll take a shot.”

lara’s grip on her racket tightened. “no, you won’t.”

megan blinked. “whoa. calm down, stabby.”

“i’m not stabby.”

“you sound a little stabby.”

lara hit the ball hard. too hard. the pressure jolted up her leg like lightning. the second her foot came down, she knew. the angle was wrong. her knee buckled, and pain shot through her like a scream.

she collapsed with a sharp gasp, racket skidding across the clay.

“shit—lara!” megan rushed over, dropping to her knees beside her. “hey, hey, don’t move—”

lara clenched her jaw. “i’m—fine—”

but the pain said otherwise. it pulsed hot and urgent, and her breath was already going shallow. panic started to press in around the edges. from the corner of her eye she noticed a familiar figure darting over.

“what the hell is going on?” y/n’s voice rang out, fierce and familiar.

lara looked up just in time to see her pushing through the gate, eyes wide, clipboard forgotten somewhere behind her.

“she fell,” megan said quickly. “knee again. i think—she’s in real pain.”

y/n knelt beside her without hesitation. “lara. talk to me.”

lara’s throat felt tight. “it—it twisted.”

y/n’s hands were already assessing the joint, fast but precise. “can you put weight on it?”

“not right now.”

megan stood back. “i’ll get ice.”

y/n nodded without looking up. “bench. come on.”

between the two of them, they got lara onto the bench. y/n’s arm around her waist was steady, grounding. her touch wasn’t gentle, but something about it made lara’s chest ache.

megan returned with an ice pack, handing it off with a sheepish wince. “i’m gonna give you guys a minute.”

lara didn’t say anything. didn’t meet y/n’s eyes. she ignored megan when she gave her a brief apologetic shoulder pat before sauntering away, disappearing behind the large fence.

the silence left behind was heavier than it should’ve been.

“you shouldn’t be out here,” y/n said finally. not angry. just tired. scared in her own way.

lara closed her eyes. “i know.”

“so why are you?”

lara opened her mouth, then closed it again. the truth tasted bitter, like something she didn’t want to admit.

“because i’m not ready to lose,” she said, voice low. “not again. not this. it’s all i have left.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“you have more than this game,” y/n said softly, kneeling in front of her. the ice pack in her hand melted slowly, droplets slipping over her fingers as she pressed it gently to lara’s knee. “more than this court.”

lara exhaled through her nose, sharp and shaky. “you don’t get it,” she murmured. “tennis is all i’ve ever been good at. it’s the only place that made sense when everything else didn’t.”

y/n stayed quiet for a beat, watching her. the pain on lara’s face wasn’t just from the fall. it was the kind that had been building for years. “it doesn’t have to be,” she said. “you’re more than your ranking. your record. your injury. you’re… you’re smart. stubborn. annoying.”

lara huffed a breath, something almost like a laugh.

“and you’ve got people,” y/n added. “people who want you to be okay. not just back on the court. actually okay.”

lara’s eyes met hers then, dark, tired, and a little wide. like something in her had cracked without warning. “even you?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “especially me.”

the silence that followed was thick. a cicada buzzed somewhere just past the fence. a breeze picked up, lazy and warm. neither of them moved.

“have you…” lara started, then trailed off, eyes flicking away.

y/n tilted her head. “what?”

lara’s voice came quieter this time. “have you been with anyone since me?”

y/n blinked. “why?”

lara shrugged, but it was brittle, all edge. “just wondering.”

y/n watched her for a second. “no.”

lara’s gaze shot back to hers. “really?”

“yeah. really.”

lara nodded slowly, jaw tight. she looked away again, toward the net where the ball still rested like a forgotten thought. “i haven’t either.”

y/n didn’t say anything.

lara’s voice dropped even lower. “because no one was you.”

the air caught in y/n’s throat.

lara didn’t smile. didn’t flirt. didn’t try to hide behind the usual smirk or offhand comment. she just sat there, sweaty and bruised, a little broken and not bothering to pretend otherwise.

“i didn’t know how to move on,” she added, almost to herself. “still don’t.”

y/n reached for her hand without thinking. their fingers brushed, hesitant at first. then stayed.

they didn’t say anything else after that.

the planned ten days were over within a blink. neither of them mentioned the words lara uttered that day. the remaining days they had were spent in full recovery, much to the desi girls' chagrin. she was back to her usual coy smiles and flirty compliments, but y/n could’ve sworn there was something deeper hiding beneath the surface. a warmth she hadn’t seen since they dated, a warmth she often stayed up late at night thinking of. a warmth she craved for so long, and perhaps, one she never got over. spending time with lara had her heart soothing over, mending slowly without even realizing it. she missed her. and of course, sophia was right.

y/n was still deeply, madly in love with lara raj.

y/n was torn from her thoughts when a loud jeer sounded through the staff room. the room was cramped, humid, and vaguely haunted by the smell of instant coffee and sports tape. above the lockers, a slightly tilted flat-screen tv streamed the tournament feed in all its 720p glory. y/n sat cross-legged on a bench beside sophia and manon, the two girls having grown quite fond of each other over the past ten days they’d spent in the same social orbits. y/n kept her arms folded, her expression tight: trying to look calm and collected and pulling off exactly neither.

soobin’s match had just wrapped. he’d played clean and sharp, held his own against a higher seed, made it all the way to the semis—but came up short in the last set. the staff room let out a collective, sympathetic groan as the final point landed.

“still proud of him,” sophia said, chewing a protein bar aggressively. “personally, i think i would’ve done better. maybe that’s just the competitor in me. bad bitches always come out on top.”

manon blinked. “you cried when i beat your ass at mario kart two days ago.”

sophia narrowed her eyes. “shut your mouth.”

y/n wasn’t listening. her gaze was fixed on the screen as the bracket updated. next match: lara raj vs. daniela avanzini. center court. her stomach tightened.

manon noticed the way y/n’s face twisted. turning away from the filippina, she lowered her voice in clear concern. “you good?”

“peachy,” y/n said flatly. “just watching my ex-girlfriend walk into battle against the most terrifying forehand in women’s tennis. no big deal.”

manon blinked. turned. “wait, what?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “we dated.”

“what?!”

sophia rolled her eyes and offered manon the rest of her protein bar. “catch up, girl.”

manon’s face was somewhere between scandalized and impressed. “why did no one tell me?!”

“we figured the dramatic mid-tournament reveal would be more cinematic,” y/n said dryly.

manon threw her hands up. “i’ve been in the dark for ten days!”

y/n stood before the banter could pull her under. she smoothed her staff polo, then immediately regretted it. it didn’t help anything.

“i’m gonna go check on her,” she mumbled.

sophia gave a thumbs up. manon looked like she had several follow-up questions but wisely zipped it.

the hallway was unusually quiet—like even the building itself had gone still, holding its breath for what came next. y/n slipped through the back corridors with practiced ease, dodging staff carts and volunteers with clipboards, letting instinct guide her more than memory. she didn’t have to think about where lara would be. she just knew. past the physio bay, past the equipment closets and storage crates of unopened gatorade. just before the tunnel to center court—there.

lara stood exactly where y/n expected: framed in the stark fluorescent light spilling from overhead, tucked just out of sight from the cameras and chaos waiting at the other end. she was alone, headphones hanging loose around her neck, not playing anything anymore. her racquet leaned gently against the wall beside her. her knee, freshly wrapped in compression tape so smooth it looked like glass, bent and straightened in a slow, careful rhythm, like she was testing its limits without daring to push too far.

she looked good. better, even. lighter on her feet, her posture more relaxed than it had been a week ago. physically, at least, she was ready.

but her hands were fidgeting. her shoulders tight with tension. her brow furrowed in that way that always came when she was thinking too much, feeling too much. y/n stopped just before she reached her. didn’t say anything at first.

lara noticed her anyway.

she looked up, and for a moment, all the nerves on her face paused. like the sight of y/n alone was enough to break the spiral.

“hey,” lara said, voice low and rough around the edges.

“hey,” y/n echoed, softer. she let herself linger on the sight of her, how strong she looked, how scared she clearly still was underneath it all. “figured i’d find you here.”

lara gave a weak smile. “it’s almost time.”

y/n stepped closer, careful not to intrude too quickly. “how’re you feeling?”

lara nodded, too fast. “i’m good.”

y/n arched a brow. “you’re literally vibrating.”

lara’s jaw worked, like she wanted to argue and didn’t have the energy.

“i keep thinking,” she said, gaze fixed past the tunnel, “about everything that can go wrong. like—what if i slip again? what if it gives out? what if i choke in front of all those people?”

her voice was too steady for how fast she was blinking. y/n took another step forward, now close enough to touch her, but didn’t. not yet.

“you’ve already done the hardest part,” she said gently. “you got back up. the rest is just tennis.”

lara gave a short, quiet laugh—dry and almost bitter. “just tennis.”

“you know what i mean.”

lara looked down at her hands, flexed them once, then let them fall.

“sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” she said. “i’m not enough.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she reached out, slow, and brushed her fingers against the hem of lara’s sleeve, straightening it with care that didn’t need words.

“you are,” she said. “you always have been.”

lara finally looked at her. eyes shining, jaw tight.

y/n held her gaze. “and if you forget that out there, just look for me.”

a long beat. the kind that said everything too big to speak aloud. then the announcer’s voice boomed from the court, muffled but unmistakable.

lara flinched like it physically tugged her. her name echoed into the tunnel, followed by a swell of crowd noise.

she exhaled shakily.

“time to go,” she said.

y/n nodded.

lara hesitated—just for a second—then took a step forward and rested her forehead briefly against y/n’s, barely touching.

“thank you,” she whispered.

and then she was gone.

the match was chaos. not the kind that spiraled out of control, but the kind that demanded everything. every nerve, every drop of focus, every breath held and released in rhythm with the ball.

y/n didn’t take a seat.

she stood in the tunnel, half-hidden in shadow, just past where the athletes emerged. not quite on court, not quite behind it. close enough to hear every thwack of the racquet, every screech of shoes on the baseline, every collective inhale from the crowd.

lara started strong. sharper than she had in weeks. her footwork was tight, her backhand crisp, her serve landing just where it needed to. she was reading daniela well. all of the angles, predicting the pace. but then came the second set.

one bad step on a wide return sent her skidding, her sneakers dragging across clay. she didn’t fall hard, but y/n’s heart still jolted into her throat. she gripped the wall instinctively, knuckles white, watching lara freeze for a half-second before she pulled herself up like it hadn’t happened.

that was the turning point.

lara adjusted. gritted her teeth. she stopped trying to out-power daniela and started out-thinking her instead—mixing in drop shots, surprising her with deep lobs, keeping her off rhythm. tie breaks. long deuces. brutal rallies that felt like little wars.

y/n stood still through it all, not blinking, not breathing.

lara looked exhausted. flushed and damp, her wrap peeking through the edge of her skirt, her swing a little slower with each game, but she never backed off. never once glanced toward the tunnel.

not until championship point.

y/n knew the pattern by now. she could see it coming in lara’s posture, the way she bounced on her toes one last time before the serve. the way daniela’s return came just a fraction too high.

lara pounced. a forehand down the line. fast. unforgiving. it clipped the baseline and vanished past the reach of her opponent.

silence. then the crowd roared. the stadium exploded, cheering, whistling, thunderous applause like a wave crashing over the court. confetti started falling from somewhere. a reporter yelled her name. cameras swung wildly to catch her face.

lara had won. she’d done it. on court, lara stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide like she didn’t fully believe it either. a tournament official jogged over and placed the trophy into her hands. silver and shining and somehow too small for what it meant. it was only the first round, yes, but she knocked out the toughest opponent she’d have to face for the rest of the tourney.

lara barely looked at the small trophy before she turned. and for the first time in the whole match—hell, maybe the whole year—she wasn’t searching for the ball, or the next point, or the fear of what might break again. she was looking for her.

before y/n could even react, lara was already moving. she slipped past the officials with barely a glance, dodged a reporter, ducked under the boom of a camera that tried to follow. someone caught her by the arm, and she shook them off without a word. then she was there. standing in front of y/n in the tunnel. flushed from the match, eyes glassy with disbelief and adrenaline. breath caught halfway in her throat. for a moment, she didn’t say anything. just looked at her—really looked. like y/n was the only thing anchoring her to the ground. then, with a trembling breath, she reached out.

her hands found y/n’s face gently, like she was afraid she might shatter if she moved too fast. her thumbs brushed over her cheeks, soft as breath, and then she kissed her. slow. tender. nothing rushed or showy, no crashing hunger. just this quiet, aching certainty that said i missed you. i see you. it’s always been you.

y/n didn’t move right away.

not because she didn’t want to, but because the softness of it, the sincerity of it, cut straight through her. lara raj—newly crowned champion dethroner, one step closer to taking it all, headline material, national broadcast darling—was kissing her like none of that mattered. like she’d won the biggest trophy of her life and still turned around to find the one thing that made it real.

when they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. lara was still catching her breath.

y/n blinked, dazed. “what the hell was that?”

lara’s laugh was quiet, shaky. “closure. maybe.”

y/n raised a brow. “that felt suspiciously like the opposite of closure.”

lara smiled again—crooked and small and impossibly full of love. she didn’t pull back.

“i used to think the game was everything,” she whispered. “that if i won enough, if i kept proving myself, maybe one day i’d feel… whole.”

y/n said nothing. her heart was too loud in her ears. lara’s thumb traced the line of her jaw.

“but you—” she swallowed. “being with you made me feel like i already was. i didn’t need to chase anything. i’m so sorry i walked away. i thought i had to choose. but there’s nothing—nothing—in this world i want more than you.”

y/n’s eyes burned. she didn’t say anything. just wrapped her arms around lara’s waist, pulled her in close, and kissed her again—deeper this time, but still just as sure.

lara didn’t care a single shred about the outcome of her match, she realized. standing with y/n in that moment made all the sense in the world.

it felt like coming home.

187 notes · View notes

icallhimjoey · 2 months ago

Note

I need more fake joe pls😭😭🫶🏻

you sent this in ages ago, and im using it for whatever this random shit i came up with is..... HOPE THATS OK LOVE YOU BYE Wordcount: 2.5K

---

I've Got You

Joe wakes up to the sound of the shower going, and momentarily, he thinks that maybe he’s dreaming still. Thinks that whatever he was hallucinating whilst he slept sort of leaked into his awake state, a little.

It feels like it’s not even close to the morning yet.

One tap to his phone on his bedside table tells him he’s right. A squinty eye reads it’s not even 2AM yet.

The fuck are you in the shower for?

He knows the answer before his internal monologue has even asked the question. It had only been a few hours since he’d tried to help soothe the pain in your neck and shoulders. A pain that prevented you from turning your head both ways. Prevented you from being able to get comfortable on a sofa, let alone in a bed.

You’d been trying to massage your own neck all day. Joe had caught you with hands softly rubbing at reddened skin a couple of times, trying to alleviate the pain you felt in sore muscles. It started when you slept on it wrong and woke up with a stiff neck, unable to turn all the way to the right, and now it had graduated to the other side as well.

“Can you please go and see someone? Go get a professional massage? Or actual physiotherapy?”

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t even want to look at him.

You knew very well that it wasn’t fine, but you didn’t want to let someone else touch you where it hurt. It was easier to pretend it would just go away on its own in a few days – part of you really did believe that to be true. You sort of had to. And the suffering you’d have to do until then would just make you a stronger, more well-rounded person.

It was all a test of character, you see.

A bit like when you’d have period cramps and would just.... take it. Suffer through. Wouldn’t take anything to help with the pain. You’d just feel it and suffer through and feel a strange satisfaction at being a strong person that can easily deal with shit like that.

You’re a trooper God fucking damn it, and you were going to fucking prove it.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, et cetera, et cetera.

“You said that three days ago.” Joe dryly argued, and looked at you like he knew he was right. “It’s only gotten worse.”

He was right. But there was no way that this wasn’t the tipping point. The only way from here was up. Had to be up.

“No it hasn’t.”

It had.

“Look how far I can turn my head to the right without any pain…” you demonstrated to prove your point but turned your head very slowly and so very carefully that it made Joe laugh.

“Who exactly are you trying to convince here?” he shook his head, not quite believing how ridiculous you were being.

It was easy to ignore him though.

“Couldn’t do this yesterday, it’s definitely getting better.”

You let fingertips softly push into flesh that hurt much worse before, and pretended the other side of your neck wasn’t actively killing you as the muscles there twisted and stretched.

Joe eyed you for a second, and then suddenly got up. He’d known you for long enough to know that pushing you meant pushing you away, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

But he did want to help.

“Will you let me have a feel?”

“What?” the way you flinched at the suggestion spoke volumes. The way you winced right after maybe even more so. “Help... help how?”

“You’re in good hands.” Joe was already moving across, a hand waving you over, and the strength of acting like you were fine somehow weighed heavier than the panic of having Joe touch you where you were hurting.

Barely, though.

Only just.

Joe sat down on the sofa, scooched all the way against the back, tapping his hand between his opened legs.

“Come sit.”

You hesitated for just a second too long.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t,” you lied, convinced he was absolutely going to if you let him near you, so you softly added, “Just... be gentle, okay?”

That made Joe’s chest ache. It was one thing to see your girlfriend in pain. It was a whole other to have her be fearful of being hurt even more by the hands that only want to desperately make better.

“Of course. C’mon. I’ve got you.”

You sat down between Joe’s legs, right on the edge of the sofa, and it took a couple of deep breaths for you to try and relax as much as you were able to. And Joe was clever about his touches. Grabbed you by the biceps first to squeeze your arms there for a moment, moving them up and down, shaking you about slightly to check how easily you’d move with him.

“Would you just... trust me?”

You kind of wish you could, but you genuinely couldn’t. Which wasn’t Joe’s fault. You wouldn’t trust anyone with this, really.

“Have I ever hurt you before?” Joe tried making a point but failed spectacularly. His question made your brain immediately find a memory Joe thought you’d forgotten about.

“Yea you kneed me in the vag once, remember, and–”

“Oh my God, intentionally! Have I ever hurt you intentionally before? No. I haven’t.”

You stayed silent for a moment, secretly smiling to yourself before Joe quietly went, “Have I?”

“No.” you confirmed, then, your voice revealing your smile. “You haven’t. I’m just... here, this bit? It’s getting better, I swear, but it’s almost just... painful to the touch and I–”

You couldn’t help the miniature bit of movement as Joe let fingertips skim across where you were gesturing. Joe noticed it, but you corrected yourself immediately, slinking back down slightly.

“Yea this feels hot...”

“It’s because I’ve been rubbing, I think.”

“Does it burn?”

“A little.”

A lot, actually. But you understood that abnormal tenderness of strained muscles would do that. It wasn’t like you’d never had a sore neck before. You just didn’t remember ever having it be so severe. Have it last so long.

For a couple of minutes, maybe five, six, Joe did as promised. Used gentle fingers, soft pressing touches that hurt when he found the wrong – the right – spots.

It actually felt nice.

Every time you flinched, he moved his fingers to different spots, and Joe felt how you slowly relaxed more under his massaging hands.

And it was just then.

Just when you thought you could lean back a little and fully slacken into his front, suddenly, a thumb harshly pressed into sore tissue and made lightning explode behind your eyes.

“Ahh– Stop, stop, stop.”

Joe did.

Immediately.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Hands moved down to rub at your arms again for a moment, trying his best to regain the little bit of trust he’d just lost.

“Hurts.”

“I know, sorry. I’ve got you.”

You felt a tiny little apologetic kiss of lips that barely touched your shoulder before Joe let his fingers trail back up. Slowly, he got you back into that same state where he could feel you were relaxed enough to let him get some actual work done.

Your frown was there to stay, though.

It only took about a minute for him to make a similar move, one he knew would make you lurch forward like you just had done. He knew it would be received just as bad, if not worse. Knew the touch wouldn’t feel very kind, but, Jesus fucking Christ, how else could he convince you to go see an actual doctor?

This next move wasn’t going to make him very popular, he was well aware.

Joe drove a thumb into a bit of flesh that had no business feeling as sore as it did, and, he was right.

“Ow stop!! Be fucking gentle! Did I not just say that it hurts?” You moved forward and turned your whole torso to look at him over your shoulder, face in a deep frown, betrayed and offended and hurt.

“Do you want me to fix it or not?” Joe said, hands hovering over your shoulders, voice and facial expression much less caring and apologetic than you were expecting him to be.

“You’re pushing your whole hand in between my bones, how is that fixing it?!”

“Lean back, I know what I’m doing.”

Joe tried to use a firm grip to move you to where he wanted you and quickly got his hands back on you.

Everything inside of you screamed no.

You wanted soft slow touches that barely grazed your skin. Massaging fingers that you appreciated but that didn’t really do anything. Just nice, kind fingertips. None of this.

“It’s this bit, this is the worst of it.”

A single hand to your neck made you flinch up and out of the spot between Joe’s legs.

“Oh piss off– done. I’m done. You’re done, that hurts. You’re hurting me, I can’t–”

“Babe you need to– it’s bad. There’s no other way to get rid of it without biting that bullet.”

“Fuck you, I asked you to be gentle and you’re deliberately hurting me.”

“I’m trying to help you! I don’t want to listen to you wince every time you make the smallest little bit of movement in bed tonight.”

“Fine. You won’t have to. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Oh yea, ‘cause that’ll surely fix it.”

“Shut up. I’ll be fine.”

“Fine. You’re wrong. But fine. Whatever.”

Joe had gone to bed that night, and had waited for you to eventually find your way over and slip under the covers after you’d cooled down enough. You would, he knew, because you always did. But then he’d fallen asleep as he twiddled his thumbs, and now, the sound of a shower had pulled him back into consciousness.

Have you even gone to bed at all?

With a deep sigh that graduates into a yawn, Joe lets himself roll out of bed to check what’s going on. Stiff hips take a few steps to ease up as he makes his way over to you.

Joe opens the bathroom door and is hit with a cloud of steam. The contrast in temperature is intense - you’ve turned the bathroom into an actual sauna, revealing to Joe that you’ve already been in there for a good while.

“Hey, are you...” Joe starts, but stops when he sees you stood in the shower, a hot steaming stream of water hitting you right where he knows you’re in the most pain.

Your skin colours bright red.

And you’re crying.

You’re actively, but extremely unsuccessfully, holding back sobs.

Part of you hates that you woke up your boyfriend, but a large part of you is pleased to have someone there to take the reins.

The look on your face is one Joe hasn’t seen before. Not on your face, anyway. There’s absolutely no strength left - just... sheer desperation. A wobbly mouth and red-rimmed bleary eyes that make you look like you’re not fully mentally there.

“Hey...” Joe coos, stepping into the room fully now, one arm already tucking into his T-shirt so he can take it off. “Is it that bad?”

“I d-don’t know what t-to do...” you stutter through your words, and Joe’s heart cracks right down the centre.

If you’ve stopped acting like you’re fine, it means it’s serious.

“I j-just want to sleep. I can’t get into any position for more than 30 seconds without wanting to move, and I... my head, it’s... non-stop, this is... it’s non-stop...” you’re heaving, practically hyperventilating, trying to remain quiet still because it’s the middle of the night and you have neighbours, but, what the fuck, nothing you’ve tried to alleviate the pain is working.

The shower was your last resort, and the water helps a little, but not nearly enough to feel comfortable in any way.

Joe pulls his T-shirt over his head and lets it drop to the floor, not hesitating for a second as he gets into the shower with you. Unsure hands hover around you a little at first, afraid to touch you and make it worse.

He doesn’t want to make it worse, but his girlfriend is crying in the shower under scalding hot water in the middle of the night because her neck hurts and all he wants to go is make it go away.

“What do I.... what do I do?” Joe asks softly, hoping that you have an answer.

“I don’t know... I don’t...” you’re spasming through breaths as Joe turns the temperature of the water down to more of a sensible heat. Something that won’t make a layer of his skin slide off after a minute or two.

“Soft touches? Like before?” Joe needs to have you agree before he feels like he can touch you. He’s no doctor. All the knowledge on massages that he’s got is from when he gotten massaged himself.

“Can you... can you just...” you sob, one hand reaching out to grab onto one of Joe’s who’s extremely glad he’s about to get an instruction.

You move Joe’s hand up to your face and try to place it over your jaw.

“Can you hold my head?”

Joe obliges immediately, even though he doesn’t know how this helps at all. With both hands cupping your face he spreads his fingers wide and flexes his triceps to take the full weight of it.

“Hold your head? Like this?”

You close your eyes at the instant relief.

“Oh, my God,” you sigh, and for whatever reason, it just makes you cry more.

Joe’s underwear darkens more when he leans in to press kisses to the parts of your face his hands aren’t covering. He shouldn’t be able to taste the salt of your tears through all this shower water, he thinks.

He also thinks you genuinely might need a neck brace.

“That feel better?”

“Please can do you this all night?” you keep your own hands folded over his to make sure they stay where they are.

“Stay like this?”

Yea, he’s gonna see if he can find one of those foam neck braces tomorrow. If you don’t want to go see a doctor, then at least there’ll be that, and he knows you’ll hate it because it’ll look funny, but God. At least there’ll be that.

That, and every over-the-counter painkiller under the sun.

He’ll fight you if you won’t take any.

Joe can feel the minor adjustments you’re making in his hands, moving with him enough to keep yourself aligned exactly right for you to fully relax everything between your jaw and your chest.

“I’ll just sleep here, like this,” you joke, and Joe can’t help the little laugh that startles out of him.

“Go ahead,” Joe smiles against your forehead, knowing that there’s little chance you’ll actually sleep standing up like this.

But then he sees the way your face relaxes. How the lines in your forehead disappear. How your lips go a bit funny in between his palms.

“I’ve got you...” he whispers. Means it.

He hasn’t gone through months of push-ups and pull-ups for fucking nothing, so it seems.

“I’ve got you.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

@eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@notverywise, @overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf

@royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

Add yourself

#joe quinn #joseph quinn #joe quinn x reader #joe quinn x you #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x reader #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joe quinn fanfiction #joe quinn fanfic #icallhimjoey #ive got you

164 notes · View notes

toruro · 2 years ago

Text

— ✧ flight of the stars

"It’s funny; Minghao’s whole career is about being in the driver’s seat but somehow when it comes to you, he doesn’t know when to press on the gas or hit the brake."

you go following flights to the stars, and these cars can get us home (zayn)

genre: smut (18+ / mdni), f1 au, brief high school au, angst, fluff

description: being a doctor, you think you should feel guilty when you start to enjoy the presence of a “regular” a little too much, but who can blame you for missing your patient when he's xu minghao. you know—the xu minghao: crown jewel of SECTOR Racing, top pick of the season, and possibly the one person who knows more about you than anyone else in the world.

tags: character death (not reader / hao), discussion of medical issues, descriptions of pain, pining, racer minghao, physiotherapist reader, probably inaccurate representation of physiotherapy, also featuring kwannie, sollie, cheol, wonu, & hannie

w/c: 13.3k

fic playlist

a/n: oh. always thank u to @gyuswhore for helping me w this, and special smooches to han for going over this w me too ^^

smut tags. oral (m receiving), pet names (baby)

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Cheol is going to kill Minghao when he finds out he somehow managed to screw himself over while training. Well, only if Minghao doesn’t kill himself first.

It was just supposed to be a regular session, doing some standard neck exercises with Wonwoo, his training partner. General training shit—you know, the stuff Minghao needs to do so his neck doesn’t snap in half the next time he races and then—pang! Pain flares up in his muscles when Wonwoo adjusts the controls on the harness around Minghao’s head a little harder, the latter losing his form in a moment of unexpectancy.

His hand flies up immediately Wonwoo stops, shutting off the controls and loosening the tether attached to Minghao’s harness, releasing all the tension. “Are you good?” he asks, taking a step closer as he takes in the sight of the racer.

Wonwoo’s heart sinks into his chest when he finds Minghao’s head and neck unmoving, staring straight down as his breaths begin to grow shaky, and—crap, his eyes are glossy and—oh fuck, Wonwoo might just shit his pants.

“Hao—” Wonwoo calls out again, this time his voice drenched with worry as he reaches out to try and untie the harness from around his friends head, but as his hand brushes over the back of his neck, Minghao shifts a little and that’s when Wonwoo hears it—a sharp gasp following by Minghao muttering under his breath:

“G-get the medic.”

His voice is labored and Wonwoo knows exactly what to do and nothing at the same time. His mind is racing because holy crap, SECTOR probably just lost their best racer for a few months, if not the entire racing season, and it’s all because of this stupid neck training session, and—Wonwoo stops himself from thinking about what this means for Minghao’s work and forces himself to scramble back, running out of the training room and down to the nursing hall.

Five minutes and several phone calls later, Minghao is being loaded into a stretcher. He doesn’t say a word though, doesn’t know what to say.

Five hours and even more phone calls later, Minghao is sitting up with a brace around his neck, and his manager and friends around his hospital bed (Wonwoo and Hasnsol are to his left while Seungcheol stands on his right).

“So you’re telling me I won’t be able to compete for the rest of the season?” Minghao finally scoffs out after a couple minutes’ worth of silence in tense air.

“We don’t know that yet,” Cheol responds, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches the racer carefully. Minghao’s lips are curved down in a heavy frown but his eyes remain unwavering as he finally looks up at his manager.

“Fuck,” he breaths out.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Hansol asks worriedly, and Minghao knows that his friend is only just concerned for him but all the pain and frustration is already starting to bubble up inside of him.

“Like a bitch,” he mutters bitterly.

Seungcheol sighs deeply, stepping closer to the bed. He knows the situation isn’t easy for Minghao—it isn’t easy for anyone—and he’s aware of the stakes involved for the team. “Hao, you know we’ll do anything to get you back on the track as soon as possible.”

Minghao scoffs, not meeting the eyes of his manager. “Yeah. I know.”

Wonwoo nearly flinches at the stillness of his friend’s voice. “I’m sorry,” he finally says loudly, causing the other three in the room to look at him. “I messed up with the controls—it’s my fault, and I—”

“It’s fine,” Minghao huffs, tearing his eyes away from his friend. “It was an accident.”

It’s not fine. It’s not fucking fine at all and—

Deep breaths, Minghao reminds himself, but when he actually starts to think about the ache that blooms from his neck and down his spine, it gets harder and harder to keep his cool. He feels like he’s ‘bout to pop a vein from all the blood that’s rushing through his body, the only thing snapping him out of his trance being Wonwoo’s voice.

“You’ll start seeing a physiotherapist tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Best to start the recovery process early, Minghao thinks to himself, mildly calming his irritation. He purses his lips, trying to navigate the cluster of thoughts that plague his mind until he finally musters up the courage to ask, “How long is it gonna take? T-to heal?”

His friends look at him solemnly, and Minghao feels his heart sink right down to his stomach.

“We don’t know.”

“You already sa—” Minghao stops himself from saying something he might regret. “Could I actually be out the whole season?”

There’s silence until Cheol finally decides to speak up.

“There’s a chance.”

Minghao thinks he might scream.

“Hey Seungie!” you chirp, walking into the reception of your office with a bright smile. Your best friend greets you with only an eye roll as you approach his counter at the front, peeking at him from over his monitor.

“I told you to stop calling me that in public!” he whines, nose scrunched up as you laugh at the way he’s pouting.

“No one’s even here, no one’ll hear anything,” you try to reason as he huffs and turns away, refusing to look at you.

“Still!”

You sigh, putting down a brown bag on the floor before raising your hands up in surrender. “Okay fine, I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?”

This time, you roll your eyes. “Yes … Seungie—”

“I hate you!” Seungkwan roars as you double over laughing. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! I’m officially disowning you as my best friend.”

You gasp, stepping back and picking up the brown bag again. “Are you kidding me? And here I thought I would’ve liked to share one of my Americanos with you but I guess not …” you sigh dramatically, starting to walk away as you lift the bag to wave it in Seungkwan’s face.

“I was just joking! Come back! How could I disown you as my best friend—c’mon, you know I was just joking,” he pleads from behind you.

You grin as you turn around and walk back to him with a grin. “You’re horribly unpersuasive. Like your acting skills are actually an abomination,” you tell him, pulling out one of the cups of the cold drink and handing it to Seungkwan. “You’re lucky I love you,” you continue, laughing a little as Seungkwan snatches the cup away hastily with a bashful “thanks” under his breath.

“Okay, well ditto to you too,” he barks back. “Who else would put up with you and your ugly crying over Taylor Swift music videos?”

“Hey! Wildest Dreams is a lyrical, musical, theatrical, melodcial masterpiece! ”

“Okay, first of all, melodical isn’t even a word, and even if it was—” Seungkwan is cut off by the ringing of the office phone line. “I probably need to answer this but we are not done with this conversation,” he shoots at you.

You giggle, waving him off and heading down one the hall to get to your office, barely catching what Seungkwan is saying, or who he’s even talking to. It vaguely crosses your mind that it’s a bit too early in the morning for your office to be getting work calls, but you brush it off as you slip past your door and into your little room.

It’s a nice little space you’ve made for yourself; your physiotherapy firm was set up a few years back, and you’d even recently gone through a certification process to belt yourself as one of SECTOR’s physiotherapists. Pretty exciting stuff when you think about it—being able to work with such top-notch racers (albeit under rather unfortunate circumstances), and you get to do what you love at the same time.

Now, you haven’t actually gotten any big-shot patients yet, and you’ve started to appreciate that more recently. It’s not as stressful, and you don’t have to navigate a possibly awkward doctor-patient relationship with someone who’s dealing with what might be a career-changing injury.

You wonder when you’ll stop forgetting that your luck ran out years ago.

Just as you set your bag down and slip into your chair to answer some emails, Seungkwan is knocking on your door and walking in. “Hey, uh, this is kinda important,” he tells you, pointing behind him at his desk where he was taking the call.

“What’s up?” you ask, slightly worried by Seungkwan’s quick change in demeanor from playful to serious.

“Some doctor at SECTOR’s facility just called and—” Crap, you know where this is going already. “—Xu Minghao just fucked up his neck. Like yesterday. And he’s getting discharged from the hospital in a few hours hopefully and they’re gonna send him over right away so you can take a look and start working with him.”

You press your lips together tightly, head going slightly dizzy at the mention of his name. Of course, when you finally got yourself licensed to practice under SECTOR, you were aware of the possibility of working with him, but this feels a little too real and a little too fast.

“You good?” Seungkwan asks, snapping you out of your haze. “Lost you for a second—it looks like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Sorry, just zoned out,” you laugh stiffly, turning on your computer and taking a shaky breath. “I’m a bit nervous I guess. I’ve never worked with a professional like him—at least not yet,” you continue to say, and it’s not entirely a lie.

You are nervous, and in any other situation you would try your best to just not think about the situation but given Xu Minghao is going to step into your office in a few hours, you figure you should get to work right away.

Seungkwan steps out soon, saying, “You got this. Seriously, you’ve been working so hard for so long and you finally get to work with one of the big shots!”

Chuckling at his optimism, you finally open the email application on your monitor. Your inbox is flooded with emails, most of which are a series of X-rays and MRI scans of your soon to be patient, and so taking a deep breath, you dive in.

“Hey Hannie, did you sanitize Room C?” you ask one of your (few) employees as he steps out from the supply room behind the reception.

“Shoot, was it supposed to be C? I’m sorry, I cleaned up B, but I can go to C and get it sanitized right now—” he starts to say, turning towards the supply room at the end of the hall.

“Hey wait no it’s okay, I just asked for C ‘cause it’s a bit bigger but it doesn't really matter. Don’t worry about it—have you had your lunch break yet?”

“Nah not yet, I was just about to step into that with Seungkwan, but he’s taken a moment to grab coffee from the cafe across the street.”

You chuckle, “Already? I got him an Americano only a few hours ago …”

Jeonghan laughs out loud at that, slipping off his cleaning gloves and patting his hands down on his scrubs. “You know how Seungkwan is with his Americanos.”

“Don’t remind me—he’s crazy. I don’t know how he ingests that much caffeine and still functions like a normal human being but—”

Seungkwan’s voice cuts you off. “I know you guys are talking about me but I’d suggest you take a break and go get ready because I swear I just saw a car with SECTOR’s logo on the back pull up onto the street right up front.”

Oh fuck. You’re already starting to feel awfully nervous.

“Shit, really? I didn’t think they’d be here as early as noon,” Jeonghan says quickly, tossing the gloves and turning to you for instruction. “Anything we need to do?”

“Guys, just chill,” you say casually. Ironic, you think to yourself, because you feel like your heart might pound right out of your chest any second now. “Just handle this like you would any other patient. I’ll probably have to talk to his manager, but while we’re doing that Jeonghan can take Xu into B and just ease him into things. Lay off the tension, you know? He’s probably stressed out as is.”

“Noted,” Jeonghan nods as he walks down the hall, and then you turn to the door of the reception where you see a group of three people walking up.

You try to make out their figures; that one on the left’s probably one of SECTOR’s health directors, and the one on the right is … that’s Choi Seungcheol isn’t it? The one who sent you the emails? He’s Xu Minghao’s manager, you’re pretty sure of it.

You straighten your back when the front door opens, clutching the clipboard full of prints of the scans you were sent earlier. Setting your eyes straight, you take a deep breath and finally take in the sight of the three people filling into the reception.

Yup, there’s Choi Seungcheol … and then Cho Miyeon following behind and she’s pushing a—shit, it’s Xu Minghao in all his glory.

Well, you’re not sure how wondrous he feels right now in that wheelchair, eyes cold as he stares at the floor. His neck’s held up in a thick brace that you can see reaches down under his shirt and over his shoulders; he doesn’t look up, and for a moment you’re grateful.

It puts off the question though, the words that linger in the back of your mind.

Will he recognize you? Well, more importantly …

Does he even remember you?

You rid yourself of the personal thoughts when Choi Seungcheol approaches you, holding out his hand to you. You shake it, strong and firm as he smiles awkwardly. “Nice to meet you, thanks for making time for us today.”

“No problem,” you reply with a nod as Jeonghan comes in from the hallway. “My assistant, Jeonghan here can take Mr. Xu to one of our rooms while I talk with you two about a few things. Does that work?”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Seungcheol nods, motioning Jeonghan to Minghao in his wheelchair behind him. The racer keeps his head down as Jeonghan brushes over and starts pushing him down the hall to Room B. You wonder if he’s even noticed you.

As Jeonghan goes off, you turn back to the other two still in the reception and point at your room. “Shall we?”

Once the three of you settle down, Seungcheol and Miyeon sit across from you, the former speaks up. “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice—this all happened really quick and if you can't already tell, we’re kind of desperate to get him back in the driver’s seat as soon as possible.”

“No worries, please. These kinds of situations are exactly what I’m here for,” you tell them, and they both seem to crack a small smile of relief. “Now I spoke with the doctor that examined him at the hospital, and then briefly with Ms. Cho,” you say, motioning towards the woman on your right, “And there’s a general understanding that Mr. Xu’s suffered a pretty serious strain in his neck muscles.”

“Yeah, uh—how long is this going to take to heal?” Seungcheol pops in, and you sigh.

“I can give you a range, but it’s not so definite … I’d say between three to five months,” you tell him. “But again, it’s different for every patient. Muscle strains aren’t like a clean break or fracture where we can determine almost exactly when it’ll be healed … this stuff is going to take more time and it varies from person to person as well. It all kind of depends on Mr. Xu’s body, and that’s what I’m here for—to help figure out what works for him.”

“We understand that, thank you,” Miyeon nods, sitting straighter in her seat. “How often should he be coming in?”

“Hm, I’ll give you a definite answer after checking in with him today, but to estimate, I’d say around 2-3 times a week, while also using my suggestions outside of our sessions.”

You finish the conversation with the two after that, excusing yourself as you let them back into the reception before knocking on the door to Room B. Jeonghan opens the door from the other side and quietly closes the door behind him before pushing you a little deeper into the hallway.

“He seems like, really sad, so—”

“Well, duh. It’s a serious injury,” you say with a roll of your eyes. Jeonghan clicks his lips and nudges your shoulder.

“Whatever. I’m just telling you to tread carefully,” he says as you make your way to the door. You don’t respond to Jeonghan as you slip in. Minghao’s turned away from you as he sits on his wheelchair in the middle of the room you purse your lips before taking a deep breath and nodding.

You got this. Seungkwan was right—you’ve worked too hard for too long to be rendered anxious ‘cause of a silly little overlap of your past with your patient.

“Hi Mr. Xu,” you greet, making your way to the table right by where he sits, finally seeing him up close. He doesn’t look at you. “I’m pretty sure you already have heard enough about what’s wrong with your neck right now, so let’s talk about how we can make it better, yeah?”

You hear a gruff, “Sure,” escape his lips, and you figure that given his circumstances, it’s understandable.

“The report says that when you first started feeling the pain you couldn’t move your right arm even a little without it hurting in your neck, right?” you clarify as you sit at the chair between him and your table.

“Yeah.”

“Is it better now?”

“A little. Can move my forearm but moving my shoulder still hurts.”

“Okay, this is a good sign actually—you’re getting through the initial stages of healing just like normal. The first week or so of strain like yours might be pretty painful, but it’s over quickly and the pain after that should be pretty bearable, although it’ll take more time for it to heal.” You tell him, looking away to glance at the scans.

As he stares at the ground, Minghao wants to scream. Good sign? What the fuck are you talking about—he can’t even lift his goddamn arm without it feeling like there’s daggers plunging into his neck, and you’re here sitting all calm faced, pristine, acting like this isn’t his fuckin’ career on the line. Acting like your words are gonna make a difference as long as he’s in this stupid ass brace with this stupid ass injury in this stupid ass room with—who the fuck even are you?

His head hurts, and Minghao thinks it’s partly because of his neck, but it’s mostly because he can’t stop thinking. Thinking about the worst possibilities, thinking about everything that could go wrong and—well shit, he chides himself for letting his anger get the better of himself, even if it was just in his head.

Shamefully, he presses his eyes shut and takes a deep breath before finally lifting his gaze and turning to face you. When you look up from your paper and finally turn back to him, you’re met with the sight of pretty brown eyes staring right back at you.

“I—” Minghao starts, but it sounds like the air got stuck in his throat as he finally takes in your figure, and then he purses his lips together and turns back away. “Nothing.” the possibilities of what he could have been thinking ruins your mind just a little.

You can see it in his eyes—Minghao remembers. Still, he doesn’t say anything about it, and you wonder if you prefer things to stay that way.

“What time is Xu scheduled for on Wednesdays? He’ll be coming in on Wednesdays, right?” Jeonghan asks as he steps into your office.

“Uh, he’s coming in for a session from 11-2 today—which, by the way, could you set up Room C for that? I can’t remember if I already put that on the to-do list.”

“Yeah I did it yesterday after our last patient of the day, I was just wondering. You’re gonna lead it with him this time, right?”

“Yeah, since it’s the first session. You were right about him being … apprehensive—”

“Sad,” Jeonghan corrects you. “A sad, sad boy.”

“Yeah well, go figure,” you sigh out of sympathy. “Anyways, like I said, it’s understandable for him to be frustrated, so I’ll work with him at first to ease him into things and stuff. You can start taking over more of the sessions once he warms up to the whole process, and once we figure out and set a routine.”

“Okay great. Does this mean I can go out for my lunch break at 11:30?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you reply with a casual shrug as Jeonghan thanks you and slips away. You shift your attention back to your monitor before glancing through the initial medical reports you were sent by the hospital, and then the results of your own tests you ran during your first session with Xu Minghao.

It’s a shitty injury, you’ll have to admit. A neck strain on the muscles closest to his right shoulder, not only rendering his neck immobile for a period of time, but also hindering his abilities to move his right arm.

Must hurt like a bitch—physically and mentally—and the image of him staring down at the ground burns in the back of your mind.

With a sigh, you silently wonder if you could offer him the same solace he gave you.

Xu Minghao shows up to your office two hours later with Choi Seungcheol pushing him inside on his wheelchair, and you’re thankful to see that his stature looks much more relaxed than before. “I’ll come by at 2, right?”

“Yeah, that’ll be great. Thank you,” Jeonghan tells Mr. Choi with a smile before taking control of Minghao’s wheelchair and strolling him into the room. You’re already there and waiting for him, standing up to greet him with a smile.

“Hi Mr. Xu,” you say, thanking Jeonghan as he leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

“Morning,” he says quietly, not quite meeting your gaze. The air isn’t as thick as it was the first day, but there seems to be some invisible barrier between the two.

“How’s the pain right now, Mr. Xu?” you ask, pulling out a notepad on your computer to jot down some notes.

Your patient’s eyebrows furrow, and for a second you have a feeling this might be harder than you thought, but his next words are more comforting than anything. “Uh, can you just call me Minghao? Mr. Xu is … it’s weird.”

“Y-yeah of course, sorry about that, Minghao,” you nod with a half smile. “So could you tell me how things are feeling?”

“I guess it hurts less. I don’t really move that much so I can avoid hurting myself though—kinda in this thing most of the time anyways,” he replies gruffly, hitting the left side of the wheelchair with his palm.

“Do you stand up? Walk around at all?”

“Not often.”

“Okay so I think we’re going to try and change that soon,” you tell him. “We’ll do some mobility checks today but if it doesn’t hurt to move your shoulder a little, then I think it’s best you move as much as you can without pain. Honestly, you’re going to be injured for a while and—”

You pause when you hear Minghao inhale sharply at that, making a mental note to soften your words a little.

“—and we don’t want you to be immobile. If you can move, try to. We’ll try and get you out of the wheelchair within the next two weeks, how does that sound?”

Minghao’s ears perk up at that. “Two weeks? Only?”

You nod happily at his sudden energy and the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Yeah, you know the wheelchair is just so you don’t move your upper body too much but like I said the last time we met, the initial stages are pretty painful but once it’s over, you’ll be more mobile. Of course, you won’t be able to get back to racing and training right away, but you’ll be able to be a lot more active than you are now.”

“How long will it take before I can start training again?” Minghao asks curiously, finally looking you straight in the eye with parted lips.

The desperation is painful to watch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly, watching his shoulders deflate. “At least two months.”

“Two months?”

“At the least,” you say with a held breath.

“At the most?” Minghao asks hopefully.

You purse your lips. “At the most? … A year?”

“A year? That’s more than a whole racing season!”

“Yes but neck strains are fickle and we can’t let anything go wrong, and due to the nature of your sport, you really—”

“I think I know the nature of my own sport,” Minghao scoffs, and with the way he says it, you don’t know if you should be mad or sad or disappointed or a mix of all three.

“I—” you pause, “I understand your frustration Mr.—Minghao, but my job is to make sure you’re one hundred percent healed before you set foot on the track again, so please be patient and allow yourself to heal.”

Something about those last few words rings in Minghao’s ears, and he zones out for the rest of what you’re saying.

Allow yourself to heal. Fuck.

Minghao stays pretty much silent for the rest of the session, and you’re not quite sure if it’s out of complacency or indifference. You go through some slow mobility exercises, and figure out a good range for him to stay in for the next few days.

“Make sure you practice those movements every day,” you note once you near the end of today’s session. “I’ll send you an email listing all of them with instructions so you remember. Please try and do them every day, and it’ll hopefully speed up the recovery process.”

“Thanks,” Minghao murmurs as he carefully sits back down in his wheelchair.

“Is there anything else you’re doing in your free time right now?” you ask, trying to make casual conversation as you start to type up your list.

“Not really. I watch practice videos and stuff, I guess.”

You hum, not really responding until you finally finish the list and send it to his email. “I sent the list, you should start using it tomorrow. Anyways, I think you should try crocheting,” you tell him casually.

Minghao gives you a sideways glance as he raises an eyebrow. “… Crocheting?”

“Yeah,” you say with a shrug, finally turning around to face. “You know, with yarn and stuff.”

“I know what crocheting is.”

“I-I know,” you say awkwardly, slightly thrown off your game by his bluntness. “You won’t have to move your shoulders, only your forearms, so it’s fine.”

“But why?”

“It’s fun. And a nice way to pass time, especially when you can’t move around a lot. Plus, it’s always good to have something to distract yourself from—” You pause, thinking about how to finish your sentence. “—from shitty stuff, y’know?”

Minghao chuckles, and your heart swells a little when you finally see him break a smile. “Yeah, I guess.” There’s a long pause. “Shitty stuff, huh?”

You laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Shitty stuff.”

“You and your stupid Americanos,” you sigh, watching Seungwkan grin as the barista hands him his drink.

“Stop acting like you don’t indulge in me too. Getting me all those Americanos in the morning … I should blame you for this addiction!”

“So you admit it’s an addiction!” you exclaim triumphantly, waving your hands in the air. Seungkwan rolls his eyes, leaving you to sit at a table in one of the corners of the cafe. Laughing at his silent admission of defeat, you wait for your drink patiently.

It’s only a few more moments before the barista is back at the counter, calling out, “Honey lavender latte!” With a smile, you walk over, about to reach for the drink before a hand beats you to it.

Frowning, you look up at the man who’s holding your drink before you say, “Hey, I’m sorry, I think that’s my drink.”

“Uh, honey lavender latte? I’m pretty sure I ordered this,” he says. You look at him with a funny expression on your face, eyes darting between the drink you ordered and the drink that’s in his other hand. He catches your suspicion and shakes his head quickly. “It’s for my friend, I ordered for the both of us so I could get us a spot.”

“Oh,” you breath out, figuring that it probably isn’t a lie. “S-sorry for the misunderstanding. I just—” you chuckle, watching some of the tension from the man’s shoulders wither away. “I ordered the same thing—”

“Oh sorry, I—my friend isn’t here yet so you can just take this and I’ll wait for the other to come out,” he offers, watching your face, and you see something in his expression change. “Hey wait, you look really familiar,” he murmurs.

Your eyebrows furrow as you silently thank him when he hands you the drink. “Uh, are you sure? I’m sorry, I just—I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” you admit with an awkward chuckle.

The man shakes his head and laughs quietly to myself. “No, I swear I’ve seen you somewhere, but I’m just blanking on it right now—sorry this is probably so weird but—” The bell of the front door rings and he shoots his head to see who’s coming in, eyes lighting up. “Oh hey, Hao! Was just waiting for you!”

Hao? Mingh—

You lock eyes as soon as he walks in.

The man from before beams as he walks up to him as your eyes finally break away, and Minghao turns to his friend. “Hansol,” he greets with a small smile, and it’s a pleasant sight to see your patient—who’s more often monotone than not—seem a bit more at ease than before.

“How’re you doing? Was just waiting on your drink and—” the man—Hansol—points at you with eyes as wide as saucers, “—oh by the way, doesn’t she look really familiar?”

You chuckle nervously, breaking out an awkward smile and waving at Minghao who returns you by raising his left arm in a sort of half-wave before turning his attention to Hansol to give him a blank stare. “Yeah, she’s kinda like my physiotherapist dude.”

This time, you chuckle a bit more genuinely, eyes darting between the amused smirk that’s just barely there on Minghao’s lips, and Hansol’s agape stare.

“Ohh shit, yeah that’s where I saw you! Cheol and Miyeon were talking about you when they were booking you for Hao at the hospital, and I saw your picture on the screen,” Vernon explains as the realization hits him.

“Oh,” you laugh lightly. “That’s funny,” you reply as you turn your attention to Minghao, “Good to see you’re getting out of that wheelchair. I bet it feels nice to finally stretch your legs and stuff,” you say. If Minghao could move his neck without eruptions of pain, he’d nod his head.

For now though, he settles on smiling and saying, “Yeah, it’s refreshing.” His eyes wander around you, taking in how you aren’t dressed in your usual work attire, but rather clad in a cute outfit. “Is that my drink?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed as he points at the coffee you’ve just taken a sip of.

Hansol laughs and shakes his head. “You two got the same drink so when it came out, I just let ‘er have it, since you weren’t here yet.” He glances around before putting his drink down at a nearby table. “Shit, I think I left my laptop in my car,” he murmurs, looking at his friend. “I’m gonna go get it so I can show you those videos I was talking about.”

“Yeah, that’s chill,” Minghao agrees. Hansol smiles at you and then his friend before quickly retreating from the cafe to get to the parking lot, leaving you and the tall man standing in silence. It’s a few passing moments where you awkwardly sip on your drink before something pops in your mind.

“Hey, it’s actually really funny that you’re seeing me right now because—well it’s not funny funny, but it’s a nice coincidence so I guess that counts as funny but—anyways, look, I crocheted this cardigan.” You smile, lifting your arms a little so he can see the dark, navy blue fabric you made yourself, before turning around to show off the light blue, striped pattern on the back. “Cool, right?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty. Nice color scheme and all,” Minghao agrees.

“Thanks. Have you started crocheting? I can send you some videos to get you started,” you offer. Just as Minghao is about to reply, the barista from behind you calls out another order of your drink, causing both of you to glance back. “Oh, you wait there; I’ll get it,” you say, putting your drink down on the same table Hansol did before walking over to grab Minghao’s drink and hand it back to his left hand.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to,” he says as your fingers brush over each other before falling back to your side. “Isn’t your friend waiting for you?”

“Of course I have to. I’m your doctor! I can’t make you do that,” you reason before pointing back at your best friend. “And are you talking about Seungkwan? Looks like he’s having the time of his life doing—” You turn your head around to glance at him before looking back at Minghao, “—doing god knows what on his phone and—”

“Are you talking about me?” you hear Seungkwan’s voice calling from a few meters away, and the way you cringe has Minghao stifling a giggle. “All good things I hope!” he continues.

“You know it!” you shoot back sarcastically, only to be followed by Seungkwan’s rolling eyes. “That little shit. I pay his bills!” you exclaim, a faux frown making its way onto your face.

Minghao laughs, his head throwing back a little. The small movement flares up a bite of pain in his neck, causing his breath to get stuck in his throat, eyes widening as he slowly shifts back into a comfortable position.

“Sorry,” you murmur sheepishly.

If Minghao could shrug without feeling like his neck would snap in half, he would. Instead, he raises his eyebrow playfully when he says, “Are you seriously apologizing for being funny?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m retracting my apology.”

It’s been around three weeks since you started working with Minghao. He’s warmed up to you a fair amount, and ever since you saw him at the cafe, the air around you two has been lighter.

It’s still a bit awkward at times—skitting around the moments where you wonder if you should say something about the elephant in the room before shaking your head and biting your tongue. Then again, given how often you see Minghao, you’ve gotten used to it.

Seungkwan stops by your office this morning when he walks into work. “Morning,” he greets, dropping a small brown bag by your desk as you file through some papers.

“Ooh, thank you,” you tell him gleefully, taking a break from your task to glance at the chocolate muffin that sits inside of the bag. “I’ve been craving this,” you admit, reaching in and picking out a small piece to stuff into your mouth.

“Your welcome,” Seungkwan sighs, sitting down on the seat in front of you. “Anyways, I found something cool that I don’t think you told me.”

You raise your eyebrows at him skeptically. “Yeah? What is it?”

“You and Xu Minghao are from the same hometown!”

You roll your eyes. “Why do you still keep calling him Xu Minghao? He’s told us to just say Minghao, and even if he didn’t, it’s awkward when you say his full name like that.”

Seungkwan scoffs at you, reaching his hand over to try and flick your forehead but you dodge. “Because he’s Xu Minghao. I can’t believe you aren’t still jumping up and down for getting to work with him, seeing how much you love SECTOR.”

“You want me to be happy that the best racer from my favorite team is injured?”

“Ugh, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever,” you shrug, a small hint of a smile peeking from your lips.

“Anyways, you didn’t answer what I actually said. Why didn’t you tell me you guys are from the same area? That’s so cool!”

“I mean I guess,” you say with a shrug.

“And you guys are the same age so—wait, did you go to school together? Oh my god, are you guys like—I don’t know, long lost best friends or something?” Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’d be so cool—I could totally see a movie on this and—wait! If he’s your long lost best friend, where does that leave me? You better not replace me with him!”

You laugh at the progression of his thoughts, almost choking on your second bite of the muffin. “We did go to school together,” you admit. “It’s not like we crossed paths though. He kinda just, I don’t know, existed back then. So no worries for you, you’re not getting replaced any time soon … unfortunately,” you add with mischievous giggle.

“Better not …” Seungkwan huffs.

Minghao comes in a few hours later for his afternoon session. Jeonghan works with him for the first two of the three hours, and you walk in for the last hour. You go over some more mobility exercises, before finally sitting down so you can discuss his progress.

“So things are going really well,” you start to tell him, beginning to list off a couple signs of development which stood out to you. You’re about to commend him on keeping up the exercises everyday, when you notice him staring at the floor with a blank expression. “H-hey, Minghao?” you ask, clearing your voice when he doesn’t respond. “Minghao.”

His eyes shoot up to yours, shoulders tensing for a second before he lets out a deep breath. “Sorry, zoned out for a second.”

You chuckle nervously, wondering if it’s okay if you probe just a little. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Minghao replies casually, but you catch the way he doesn’t meet your gaze. “Just thinking about last night’s race.”

“Oh, Singapore?”

“Yeah.”

“I was able to catch a bit of it last night, but I passed out. It seemed intense though—you see Kim’s pit stop?”

“Yeah, it was kinda insane,” Minghao says breathily. His expression is unreadable, but he’s continuing to respond and so you choose to let things go on naturally. “He’s been living up to his talent now that his shitbox is back to what it’s supposed to be.”

“Can’t imagine how frustrating it is.” Fuck, when Minghao’s shoulders drop, it feels like you said something you probably shouldn’t have.

I can imagine, Minghao thinks after hearing your response, but he bites back the words. “Yeah,” he says dejectedly instead.

Silence. This seems like a good chance to change the topic.

“Uh—” Sorry, you want to say, but you choose to hold your breath instead. “I have good news.”

“Oh?”

“We can get you out of the neck brace today,” you tell him happily.

Minghao’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“Yeah, your progress has been great. Didn’t want to tell you earlier to get your hopes up, in case something went wrong, but everything has been looking really good and you’re at the point where we usually take any supports like braces off.”

Minghao grins, and it’s a stark contrast from the grim shadow cast on his face just moments earlier. You take a few moments to go over the procedures with him, helping him out of the foamy, firm brace with gentle hands and watchful eyes.

“How’s it feeling?” you ask, setting the brace down by one of your counters so you can dispose of it later.

Minghao lets out a low groan of what you can only assume is relief when he looks up. “Like my skin can finally breathe,” he sighs heavily, a bright smile taking over his features as you turn to face him.

“I’m happy for you,” you tell him, before beginning a quick examination process of the area under the brace and going through some quick motions.

“All done?” he asks. When you nod, he continues. “Kinda early, huh?” he say pointendly, and you both quickly glance at the clock on the wall: his session is supposed to end in 43 minutes.

“Oh yeah, uh—actually … I was wondering if you wanted to try something?” you ask tentatively, and Minghao senses your hesitation. “If you have the time.”

Raising a brow, he nods. “Yeah I don’t mind, what is it?”

“One second,” you tell him, getting up and leaving the room to grab something from your office. Shyly, you walk back in and to your seat, all while holding up a brown bag. “Just some old crocheting supplies I thought you might like,” you murmur, placing it down on the counter.

Minghao presses his lips together tightly, not expecting your words. “Oh, uh—I haven’t really … I haven’t taken up crocheting yet. Sorry, uh—”

“Oh yeah,” you say quickly, holding a hand up, using the other to show him the contents of the bag. There’s some balls of yarn and hooks in a little mess, and you reach in to take some out. “I figured—it’s pretty intimidating to take up by yourself but,” you sigh. “I think it’ll be really nice for you. I recommend it to a lot of my patients who can’t do their regular activities and hobbies … and now given your brace is off, your vision will have more range and it might be really fun for you. No pressure if you don’t like it, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to show you the ropes,” you admit, holding up a ball of blue yarn.

Catching onto your pun, Minghao chuckles and replies, “Sure, why not.”

“Okay great,” you say excitedly, dropping the bag and pulling your chair up in front of him and next to the table, pulling the supplies out.

Minghao is patient as you show off the different yarns and hooks, explaining the very basics in great detail. You can’t quite tell if he’s being so obedient out of genuine interest, pity, or simply polite compliance, but for whatever reason, you’re thankful. Soon, you’re showing him how you do it yourself before handing him one of your spare hooks and the ball of yarn, letting Minghao test the waters for himself.

“Yeah, just do that and—wait,” you mutter, reaching over to adjust the way he’s holding the hook. Your soft fingers gingerly brush over his knuckles, and Minghao finds himself getting lost for a moment. As you innocently fix the position of his fingers, his stomach churns in a manner he can’t quite name. “You got that?” you ask him suddenly, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Sorry, zoned out again. What was that?”

“Singapore really got you thinking, huh?” you muse before shaking your head and laughing it off.

“Sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, I was just saying you should position your thumb like this or else you might start to cramp up really fast. Happens to me like crazy but I didn’t fix my habit and now I just gotta crochet through the pain.”

Minghao looks at you with an odd expression. “Crochet … through … the pain?”

“That sounded cooler in my head, my bad.”

Minghao laughs. It’s not a tight chuckle, or a soft giggle, it’s a laugh. And it’s bright and full and tugging at your heartstrings in a way you’d rather ignore. “It’s okay.”

“Anyways … here, I’ll show you how to start off with a slip knot and then we’ll take things from there,” you instruct.

Slowly, you walk him through the steps. You learn that Minghao is a good learner. He’s intuitive, but it’s not that you expect much different—you figure no one can get to the level he’s at without being quick to pick up on things.

You’re soon showing him how to start a simple chain, the yarn and hook still in his hands as you work him through the process. “Yeah, now you just gotta yarn over like this—no, the other way, just like that … and—yeah … yeah!” you exclaim excitedly when Minghao slips the hook right through, lengthening the chain. “You got it!”

“Really?” Minghao asks. “Simpler than I thought,” he admits aloud, and you nod vigorously.

“Yeah … crocheting looks hard from afar but once you actually get the hang of it, it’s as easy as breathing,” you explain, softly taking the yarn and hook from his hands and showing how it looks once you build in more loops.

He watches you carefully—the way your fingers so gently, with such precision; how your eyebrows furrow ever so slightly as you focus in on the task at hand, tongue unconsciously sticking out from the corner of your mouth, and—

“You’re really good at this,” Minghao murmurs quietly, and you swear he’s so close, his warm breath fans down on your cheeks. You gulp, pausing what you’re doing to look up at him.

“My mother taught me. It’s been a casual hobby ever since.”

You feel Minghao’s eyes bore down on yours intensely, wondering if he’ll respond. Something is screaming at you to pray he’ll keep his mouth shut.

Minghao doesn’t say a word, thankfully. Still, the possibilities of what could be running through his mind haunt you.

You think you should start feeling guilty. You think you should already be feeling guilty when you start to look forward to seeing Minghao. He’s your patient for fuck’s sake—you should be happy he’s not holed up in here everyday.

Still, there’s a weird feeling that festers in your chest when you think about him.

Minghao, and the way he’s so persistent, so patient, so attentive with all the exercises and information you tell him. Minghao, and the polite smile he throws your way at the beginning of each session. Minghao, and the way his eyes light up.

“We’re going to try some new mobility exercises today,” you tell him today with a grin, standing up from your seat. Minghao’s ears perk up as he catches the bright look on your face, and something inside of him swells with hope.

“Really?”

You smile and nod in return. “Yeah! I mean your recovery has been really great so far and I think this is a good point to move on and see if we can test out an even wider range of motion.” Minghao doesn’t really say anything in response, but the way his eyes light up when he watches you explain the exercises tells you enough.

In the hour that follows, you two walk through the exercises, trying out each one, and you’re almost three quarters through all the motions you planned today right before you show him how to angle his shoulder before a new exercise.

“How are things feeling? Anything hurting? Anywhere?” you ask anxiously as Minghao comes out of the last stretch you showed him with a pleasant look on his face.

“No, not like pain pain,” he says casually, leaning back into the chair. “Not the kinda pain from the strain, but I feel a bit of tension on my shoulder from keeping it in that position for too long.”

“Okay great,” you say, typing it down onto your digital notepad. “We’ll try and switch up that one next time so your body is completely relaxed from now on.”

“Thanks. What’s the next exercise?” Minghao asks curiously upon taking in the information. You vaguely think to yourself about how you enjoy his growing warmness—he’s been a lot more positive these past sessions with his rapid progress, and it’s bringing a much lighter atmosphere to Room C.

You explain the movement to him, explaining to him how to lift his shoulders just enough to circle them backwards without too much movement. It’s going pretty smoothly like the other exercises; you explain, Minghao listens, you adjust, Minghao lets you.

Right now you’re about to lean in, hands brushing over his shoulder blade to guide them to a more steep angle, explaining to Minghao how to fix his posture. Your fingers brush over his collarbone and jaw a few times in the process, your eyes keeping steady on making sure he doesn’t make any abrasive movements.

“There we go,” you tell him after showing him how to do the circular movement with his shoulders. “Why don’t you try it by yourself?”

Shooting you a thumbs up, Minghao complies, lifting his shoulder forward first slowly. He’s going through the motions of everything pretty normally—after all this is just like any other exercise so he doesn’t really worry that much until—fuck.

Holy shit, that quick but sharp pain stings so bad.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” you ask worriedly when Minghao stills, his eyes widening.

So much. So fucking much, Minghao thinks to himself.

“Talk to me,” you say, moving closer to him so you can move your hands over his shoulder and lead them back down to a natural position.

“It h-hurt for a second. Really bad, but then it was gone,” Minghao says breathily. You purse your lips together and Minghao feels his heart sink to his chest when you turn around and type some stuff he can’t read from where he sits. “Is this like—” He needs to pause to collect himself so the nerves don’t get to him. “—is it bad?” When you hesitate to respond, Minghao already knows his answer. “Fuck.”

“Look, it’s just hurting in that spot for this exercise. The rest of your progress is amazing, but we’re just going to need to take it slower since you’ve probably just overexerted the muscle a little bit.”

“So I’ve been set back, basically,” Minghao says bluntly, his tone doing a full 180 from just a few moments earlier.

“Not a setback …” you sigh. “Just a sign that we need to go slower right now.” You watch him worriedly when he presses his lips together and doesn’t meet your gaze.

“So a setback.”

You gulp. “You can’t think of this like that. I told you from the start that progress is never linear and—”

“I don’t give a fuck, okay?” Minghao breaths out, and something about the way he says it with such a curt, tense tone almost makes you lose your composure. “This is—fuck, this my career okay? I can’t afford any setbacks.”

“I know that and that’s why I’m your doctor, okay?” you say, a bit more harshly than you intended.

You don’t understand why you’re letting his hostility get to your head all of sudden—it isn’t like you haven’t had frustrated patients before. Fuck, you’ve had people cry, sob, break down in this same room over slow progress but something about the way he looks so disheartened has your heart clenching.

“I’m here to help you,” you reiterate, your tone more composed than before. “But I can only do that if you let me.”

Minghao eyes flicker between your wide eyes and his hands in his lap. There’s a growing knot that ties in his throat, and he’s too afraid to open his mouth to speak, too afraid of what he might say. Instead, he just huffs and stands up.

“Sorry,” he finally musters up, eyes trained on the ground as you watch him carefully for his next move. “I’m leaving.”

You don’t stop him as he walks away.

When Minghao walks into the reception a few days later, he’s not surprised to see that you aren’t the one greeting him. He thinks back to the way your lips were pressed into a tight line when he walked out last week. It was the last time he’d seen you in the past few days, and some weird mix of worry swirls in his stomach.

Were you avoiding him? He wouldn’t blame you if you were, but he feels guilty for thinking that way. You wouldn’t let something personal get in the way of your work, Minghao knows that for sure.

Still, he bites his tongue when he briefly considers asking Jeonghan where you are. Would that be overstepping? It’s not like there haven’t been sessions where you weren’t there, but something about the thickness in the air around him tells Minghao that there’s something he should be worried about.

As if he could read Minghao’s mind, Jeonghan speaks up. “Doc’ll come in around the end. It’s her mom’s birthday so she’s out for most of the afternoon, but she’ll be back for the last half an hour,” he says casually, not really expecting to turn around to see Minghao looking at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

“H-her—” Her mom? Minghao wants to ask but something stops him from saying it. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re not here. Something feels wrong. “That’s fine,” he mutters, pursing his lips before looking at the ground.

He can feel Jeonghan’s curious gaze burning into the back of his skull, but Minghao only doesn’t move as he keeps quiet. They soon fall into the regular pattern of starting off with mobility exercises before doing a check of his range of movement.

It’s nearing the final hour of his session when Jeonghan excuses himself for a moment. Only two minutes passes before there’s a knock at the door, and then some footsteps leading in.

“Good afternoon Minghao,” you greet softly upon walking in. The man glances up at you, eyes widening when he takes in your figure.

“Oh—uh, hey.”

Minghao wants to bash his head into the wall. Hey? Seriously? That’s all he could muster up? Hey?

“Jeonghan gave me the rundown,” you tell him, looking away as you lift a clipboard and squint to read the tiny text. “No more sharp pains … returning mobilily …”

You hum slowly as you read off the notes your assistant left for you, not meeting Minghao’s gaze. He wonders if that’s what you intended. “Seeing as things are going smoothly for now, we’ll continue with the low-risk exercises and—”

“I’m sorry,” Minghao blurts out. He wonders what compels him to do it, but when you finally meet his gaze, he realizes that he just wanted you to look at him.

“Mi—”

“I’m sorry for how I acted last time. I shouldn’t have said that stuff to you. I was frustrated and took it out on you, and that wasn’t okay. I’m sorry.”

Your lips are pursed by the time Minghao is finished. He’s said enough, but when he peers up at you, his eyes speak a story of their own.

“It’s okay,” you respond with no hesitation, before turning back to your clipboard, scanning over it a few more times and then setting it down.

You smooth your hands over your lab coat, and for a moment Minghao wonders what it would feel like to have your palms run down his neck, pressing into his skin so gently yet with such fervor, fingertips ghosting over—

Minghao shouldn’t think like this.

“Jeonghan told me that it’s your mom’s birthday,” he finally breaks the silence. It’s the first time either of you have actually brought it up, and the reality of it all—fuck, it’s hitting you so hard that there’s already tears pooling in yout lashline.

You silently curse yourself for forgetting to tell Jeonghan not to tell Minghao anything. It’s okay, it isn’t like he knew any better, you tell yourself as you blink rapidly, trying to shoo away the tears.

“Mhm,” you hum, hoping he doesn’t probe any deeper. You aren’t sure what you should say.

You’re silent, and Minghao itches to reach forward, to rest his hand on your shoulder, to smile at you, to say all the things he’s been thinking about you but he just can’t. All he can manage is to clear his throat, causing you to look up at him expectantly.

Fuck, what should he say? “I’m um—I’m glad. Glad that she’s uh—that everything worked out.” That’s fine, right? There’s nothing wrong with that statement, Minghao’s almost sure of it so … so why in the world are you crying?

Shoot, did he fuck up? You’re sitting in the chair right next to him, head in your hands as you cover your face and turn away; your cries are soft but just loud enough for Minghao to hear over the rush in his ears, just loud enough for him to feel the ache, just loud enough for him to get the message.

Oh.

The first time you meet Xu Minghao, you’re in middle school. Seventh grade and walking into Algebra, going to sit down on your regular seat. Five minutes into class and a new boy walks into the room, handing your teacher a slip before being directed to sit down at a spot a few tables over.

He’s got short, dark hair, cat-like eyes, and a bit of tall, lanky figure as he slinks down into the chair. Your teacher claps her hands together and announces that there’s a new student in class. His name’s “Xu Minghao,” she said.

You don’t really remember his name at first. It isn’t uncommon for there to be new students on campus. He’s not in many of your other classes you realize as the day goes on, and so he slips your mind. Maybe you work with him for a few assignments throughout the year, but not enough for you to wave at each other when you pass the other in the hallways.

Five years later and you’re in your final year of high school. Time has passed, you have changed, Xu Minghao has changed, but what remains the same is what you are to each other. Strangers.

You’re paired with a stranger for your final senior Literature project.

“Do you want to write a paper, or do the poster?” you ask as he sits down next to you once the pairing assignments. Your teacher had given you two options on how to go about the project. “I don’t really mind either or,” you admit.

Minghao hums, setting his copy of Macbeth on the table before turning to you. “Poster? I think I’ve done enough writing in this past year to last me a lifetime,” he tells you with an obvious sigh.

“Yeah,” you laugh. “Were you in Biology?”

He nods. “Regretfully.”

“Oh so you also had to write that whole research paper. Damn, that thing had to have shaved at least ten years off my life.”

“Ditto,” Minghao grumbles, running his hands over his face. “Oh god, just thinking about it is making me queasy. I’m so happy we’re in our final semester.”

“So we agree on no paper, just the poster?” you finalize.

Minghao agrees, “Yeah, that’s great.”

One week later and Minghao is at your doorstep. “Cool set up,” he notes, stepping into your room, looking down at the poster splayed out with markers all over.

You grin. “Thanks—I kind of like being artsy and stuff sometimes so I was pretty happy to do this when you said you also wanted to do the poster.”

“Seems like I made a good choice then,” he replies, sitting down on the opposite end of the poster and pulling out a notebook and his book. “I did some work and got a bunch of lines that we could use as citations in different parts.”

“That’s great,” you say, picking a pen. “Let’s get started then?”

You two get straight to work, and all goes smoothly. Minghao is a good worker, you’ve noticed. His friends are quite fun—you’ve seen him with them in the hallways sometimes—but you start to realize that Minghao doesn’t let himself sacrifice his work ethic for fun.

You make quite some progress over the next hour or two, and you’re just about to bring up one of your ideas. “So over here, I was thinking we could write out the context of the play and then—” You’re cut off by the voice of your older brother at your door. He’s looking down at his phone with his lips pressed into a tight line as he speaks.

“Mom’s starting another cycle of chemo this Thursday so—oh, sorry,” Beomgyu says quickly upon looking up and seeing you have a visitor. “Come to my room when you’re done,” he mutters before turning on his heel.

The silence that envelopes your room is deafening.

You don’t say a word as you take a deep breath and pick up a different colored marker. You clear your throat. “So back to what I was saying …”

The next time you work on the poster, it’s at Minghao’s house.

You wear a blue gown at graduation. It’s a sunny day in June, and you’re sweating a little through the silk fabric, but it’s okay.

Your father and Beomgyu are there in the stands, but your eyes can’t help but be pulled to the empty seat next to them. Your mother said she’d try to make it, but broke the news last night that it was a dream too high up to reach.

It’s okay, you had told her, but as you clutch your diploma close to your heart, all you can think is, no it’s not, no it’s not, no it’s fucking not.

You sit through the rest of the ceremony with a silence and all around you, you see your peers’ smiling faces, the encouraging words of the dean, the cheers of the crowds, and somehow you feel so lost in it all. When you’re finally dismissed, everyone claps and revels once more, but somehow you can’t find the voice in your throat to join them.

Slipping through the crowds of people who line up to take pictures with their friends, family, and all the sort, you slip out of the small stadium and into some hallway.

“Fuck!” you finally cry out, raising your hand up and whipping it forward towards the brick wall. You wince, bracing yourself for the pain, but the sting never comes. Something warm envelopes your wrist, and when you finally blink your eyes open, you see a stranger.

“I don’t understand what you’re going through,” Minghao finally says. “I won’t pretend I do either, but it’ll be okay.” He hugs you and your face is pressed into Minghao’s own blue gown that is about to turn a few shades darker.

You cry. You cry harder than you think you’ve ever cried before.

You don’t know what it is about the way he speaks. Maybe it’s the way he holds you. Maybe it’s the way he smells. Maybe it’s everything, but whatever it is or isn’t, you don’t stop crying and for a gracing moment, you bask in catharsis.

And then, you hear Beomgyu’s voice calling for you from a nearby hallway, so you pull back. Minghao presses his lips together and lets you go, hands dropping to the side as you wipe away the tears. There’s a darker blue splotch in the middle of his chest, but he says nothing of it.

You don’t say a word as you step back—the only communication you share is a nod, but you swear on every last star in the sky that he has said more words to you in that moment than anyone has told you in your entire lifetime.

You don’t see Minghao’s face until it’s seven years later and he’s plastered on the screen as SECTOR’s newest recruit. He’s got phenomenal potential as an F1 racer—greatest new talent in a while—you hear the host of the channel say, but as you look at his picture on the screen, all you see is the face of a stranger who’s held you tighter than anyone before.

The last time you saw Minghao, it was through tear-blurred vision as you scurried out of Room C—you had to tell Jeonghan through broken sniffles to wrap up the session with Minghao—that the weight of the day had gotten to your head and that you needed to take a breather.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. You retreated to your office soon after, staring at the photo of you and your mother that sat at the corner of your table, and then you cried a little more.

It’s the next day when you’re back in the office. Two patients had just finished up, and you’re sitting in your office, filing through some emails when you hear the familiar ringing of the front door opening. You furrow your eyebrows to yourself, not recalling having any other patients scheduled for at least another two hours.

Had Jeonghan and Seungkwan taken their break earlier than you thought? No, that can’t be possible because they always let you know when they’re heading out and—

“Doc!” you hear Seungkwan’s voice call out to you from down the hall. “Could you come here for a sec’?”

Frowning, you close your laptop and stand up, walking out the doorway and down the hallway towards the front entrance of the clinic. “What is i—oh.” The question dies on your tongue when you see Minghao standing in the reception.

Something in your stomach churns at the sight of him—eyes slightly blown out, lips parted but somehow curved downward in a way that has your own lips frowning. The events of the past few days crashes down on you, and you bite down on your bottom lips in hopes that it’ll ground you in reality.

Seungkwan stands behind the main desk, looking at you with some sort of awry expression, and you catch Jeonghan coming down from the other hallway to catch the odd situation. Minghao doesn’t seem to mind though, eyes zoning in on you.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. You feel Seungkwan and Jeonghan’s gazes burn into the back of your skull.

Glancing at them, you point to the door. “You guys can take your lunch break now,” you tell them before turning your attention to Minghao. “Let’s go to Room C?”

He follows you in an instant, slipping into the seat that he always does as you close the door behind you and walking up to stand in front of him.

You can hear the words already coming together on his tongue—I’m sorry—and so you open your mouth before Minghao can even say it.

“I’m sorry,” you say, breaking the silence. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”

“No, I—I shouldn’t have said anything. I had no idea you—” Minghao stops himself. He doesn’t know how much is too much.

It’s funny; Minghao’s whole career is about being in the driver’s seat but somehow when it comes to you, he doesn’t know when to press on the gas or hit the brake.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he says. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since graduation.”

“Me too,” you respond in an instant. “I see so much of myself in you,” you tell him.

“Stop, I—our situations aren’t comparable and—”

“Let me be the judge of that, yeah?” you cut him off with a small smile and through tears, cupping his face. The skin over his cheek bones are soft when you run your thumbs over them. “When everything is going wrong and you’re so angry, and you’re blaming all the wrong people but you can’t help it, and it makes you feel worse and there isn’t a thing you can do about it.”

“Yeah.”

You inhale steadily, feeling hot water meet your hands and trickle down to your wrists. Minghao is crying, and suddenly you are hit with waves of deja vu. “I get it, okay?” you tell him, even though you know that Minghao already knows. You get it better than anyone. “It’ll be okay.”

The echo of his words from all those years ago crashes down on you, and suddenly Minghao pulls your arms down causing you to hunch over so your face is right in front of his.

“I’ve thought about you everyday since then.” The words come out of your mouth in a soft whisper. “Even when she passed away a few months later.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, eyes closing and head titling forward so that your foreheads press against each other. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, stroking his cheek. “You don’t have to be sorry—you were right. Everything’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“I—I’m sorry, I just—”

Something about the way Minghao says the word sorry not from his throat, but from his stomach, has your mind twisting in ways that you can’t comprehend. The sound is so guttural and heart-wrenching, and this time you want to cry because he’s got nothing to be sorry for. Not a thing.

And so you kiss him.

You kiss Minghao because he is no longer a stranger. Because he is crying for you and you might as well cry for him. Cry for him, but you have done enough crying to last you a lifetime and so you kiss him instead, because they speak the same words: I love you.

And his lips are soft, his tongue warm, his hand ghosting over your arm is gentle, and you can hear it. You hear it in the way he moves against you—he understands and you want to cry again because he’s always understood, and so you don’t cry but only kiss him deeper.

“I made you something,” he admits. “It’s in the car.”

You’re thankful you sent your two coworkers out when you did, sparring all four of you the awkwardness when you and Minghao slip out of Room C and out the clinic towards the parking lot and to his car.

He pulls a blanket out from the passenger seat. It’s hardly big enough to cover your lower half but it’s bright and blue and warm, and somehow you feel your eyes well up with tears that you can’t seem to stop this time.

“Did you—did you make this?” you choke out as Minghao stands in front of you, handing the cloth over as you run your palms over the loose threads and yarn that poke through.

“Crocheted it myself,” he tells you, standing from a couple inches above, as you marvel over his work. Minghao thinks he’s done a poor job—you could probably do better—but you clutch the blanket with such vigor that he doesn’t have the heart to tell you. “You’ve helped me so much,” he says instead.

“Fuck,” you mutter over harsh breaths. “Y-you made this.”

“You taught me,” he corrects, and that’s when the dam breaks.

And this time Minghao hugs you, and you can tell he’s being careful about his neck and in all your frenzy you almost want to push him away and say, “Don’t move so much!” but then his arms fold in on you like a blanket of their own and you crumble.

You crumble into happiness because through everything you’ve ever been through, Minghao still holds you tighter than one holds onto life itself.

“I don’t think I can come here on Sunday next week,” you tell your boyfriend as you peer down at your phone. You’re leaning over his kitchen counter going between looking at some emails and glancing at the screen.

Minghao groans, and you bite back a smile. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Yes I’m serious,” you huff, rolling your eyes playfully. “My brother’s visiting town for a bit.”

“And I can’t meet him, why?” Minghao asks with a raised brow.

You laugh. “Good point. I haven’t told him I’m dating yet though. Might be too big of a ball drop if I tell him I have a boyfriend right away. A boyfriend who’s SECTOR’s best racer, might I add,” you say, pouring yourself a glass of water from the fridge before joining Minghao on the couch.

“It would be a good surprise though, right?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah yeah, whatever floats your boat,” you shoot sarcastically. “But seriously. I’ll see if I can get you two to meet, but I really can’t see you on Sunday. I have to pick Beomgyu up from the airport.”

“Got it,” Minghao agrees, shuffling closer to you as you both focus on the TV. A live interview with Kim Mingyu plays on the screen, the young man talking about his recent rise in recognition. You two sit in silence for a couple of minutes before Minghao speaks up.

“I fucking hate not being able to do anything,” he groans, shifting onto your shoulder slightly. His condition’s gotten exponentially better in past couple of weeks, but you instructed for him to wait at least two more weeks before fully getting back to training.

He’s been restless ever since, you’ve started to notice. “Do I really need to wait?” he mutters, lips close to your ear as you cuddle into his embrace.

You pull back slightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yes! I told you—it’s a part of the process.”

“Fuck the process, I wanna drive again!”

“Too bad I guess,” you say with a shrug, turning your attention to the TV. The channel moves on from the interview to talk about some updates, and eventually somewhere in the mix, Minghao’s name comes up, and you hear the man next to you curse under his breath.

Chewing on your tongue, you debate for a few moments on what to do before reaching for the remote to shut the TV off.

“Hey! I was watching th—”

“Do you ever stop complaining?” you huff, stepping out of his embrace much to Minghao’s dismay. “Stop moving,” you order him, sliding down onto your knees in front of his legs.

“What are you do—oh.” You hear the words dry on his tongue when you nudge your body between his thighs, inching closer to his groin.

“You’re so restless,” you hum, trailing your fingers from his knees, over his thighs, and finally let the ghost over the growing tent under his sweatpants. “Let me take care of you, yeah?” you suggest, toying with the elastic waistband of his pants and boxers.

“O-okay,” Minghao agrees, and you grin at the way you see his cheeks flush pink when you inch the fabric off of his pants. His cock springs out, hardening under your gaze as it slaps against his lower adobe that’s still covered by his shirt.

You think for a moment to help Minghao out of his shirt too, but with the pretty pearl of precum dribbling off his slit, veins pressing up all against the length of his cock—all of him aching just for you—you start to feel your mouth water, forgetting about anything that isn’t having Minghao’s cock in your mouth.

“Careful with the right arm, ‘kay?” you tell him, a sly smirk tugging at your lips when you bring them down, dragging them over the base of his length all the way up to the glossy tip where you place a wet kiss.

“Y-yeah—fuck baby,” Minghao grunts when you envelope your lips around his throbbing tip, tongue swirling over the slit at the top as you do so. His left arm makes its way into your hair, fingers digging into your scalp when you pull back to take a deep breath.

Saliva drips down the corner of your lips, and as you look up at Minghao with wide, glossy eyes, he thinks he might bust in on the spot. “Go on baby,” he murmurs, using his firm grip on your head to nudge your lips closer to his pink tip. “Put it in …” he instructs, and when you grin and open your lips wide once more, Minghao knows he’s too far gone to be saved.

“You’re so hard Hao,” you whisper against him, tongue tracing constellations over the base of his cock when you reach to cup his balls, massaging them under your palms.

“Fuck, just like that baby,” Minghao moans, and the sound is so guttural it has your own pussy clenching around nothing. Your skin burns when you take him into your mouth again, cock sliding further down your mouth than before.

He’s so thick, and you feel every last curve of his cock, every last vein, against your cheeks, pressing against your tongue—Minghao is all you can taste, and you might go drunk on the sensation alone.

And he isn’t faring quite well above you either—his hand in your hair has got a firm hold but if anything, Minghao is losing touch with reality. Your mouth is so soft and so warm, your tongue so meticulous with the way it’s swirling around his tip when you slip off his cock before pushing your mouth back down on him—he’s going fucking crazy.

“Baby—oh baby,” the words rumble at the base of his chest, egging you on. With every bob of your head, you start to take him down further until his fat tip is battering against the back of your throat and yeah, it’s got tears pricking at the corners of your eyes but he’s moaning and grunting and squirming all for you and you just can’t seem to fucking stop.

“Shit, shit, shit—baby, ‘m gonna cum if you keep doing that,” he warns when you deep throat all of him, your nose nearly pressing against his pelvis as you press your eyes tight and revel in the sound of his moans, the feeling of his hands in your hair.

You take his slice of warning as a token of advice, pulling back for only a breath before attempting to do the same thing again, shoving his cock into your mouth and down your throat, rubbing whatever you can’t with your palms as wetness smears all over your lips and cheeks.

“Oh—fuck, I’m—”

When Minghao cums, it’s with his chest singing your name. Breathy moans—calls for you—as you suck him through the high, hot white painting the inside of your cheeks and tongue. You pant heavily when you finally pull yourself off of him, swallowing all that is left of him in your mouth, and then he looks at you with flushed cheeks and you both grin.

And when you climb up, Minghao hugs you. He hugs you like a blanket—like the blanket he made you, the blanket you taught him to make—and you two bask in this moment because Minghao is no longer stranger, but he is here and he is in your arms and you are in is, and there isn’t any other place you’d rather be.

a/n: mika ramble time! whatever demonic sickness has been haunting me for the past 5 days will NOT get the best of me. i have been aching to get this fic out since like september and it was initially supposed to be posted on hubbie's bday but :/ unfortunately i was a bit late bc life gets in the way ;c overall i'm really happy w it! personally, i think this is among the most emotional fics i've written, and i am extremely proud of myself for some parts of this so !! yea !! if u enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it, pls feel free to leave comments / reblogs >_< they mean the world to me ^^

#seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #svt smut #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen angst #svt angst #minghao smut #minghao x reader #xu minghao x reader #xu minghao smut #xu minghao fanfic #xu minghao angst #minghao angst #the8 x reader #the8 angst #📝 writing #flight of the stars

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charlieluver · 2 months ago

Text

Physiotherapy

(Ben Shelton × physiofem!reader) Word count: 740 Warning: lil steamy, suggestive

💋⋆˙ᝰ.ᐟ

Shifting from being a physiotherapist for women tennis player to men's was a big change. Change in necessity, massage movement, pressure points, sexual tension.

So when you were appointed as Ben Shelton's physiotherapist, not to mention the only female on his team, you were a little nervous.

You are around Ben's age, to make it more easier awkward for you. You stuck to your professionalism while Ben stuck to making you feel flustered. He loved how you squirmed at every flirtatious remark, how your eyes would go wide when his sigh during massage of the thigh almost sounded like a moan, how your face reddens when he asks you if he is hot. Everything about you drove him crazy.

But what he also noticed was your dazed face when you saw him shirtless, the lip bites you would do when you thought he wasn't watching, the way your hands will slide up a little higher along his thigh during sessions. The unspoken sexual tension was thick, and both of you knew it.

And it was bound to snap.

A gruelling 5 setter semi final was finally over in Ben's favour. He required a comparatively longer session with you, to prevent injuries from the 4 hour match. You started the usual stretches, along his back, shoulders, his toned biceps in the physio room. You stopped yourself from blushing when you faced towards him on the bench, massaging his arms, as his gaze held on your face. "You look pretty like this", he spoke, his voice low. "Like what?" "You in between my legs," he whispered in your ears, faces inches away. "Ben," you look at him, nose almost brushing against his. "How bad would it be if I kissed you now?" his brown eyes stared into yours, his breath falling on your lips. "I-I could lose my job, its against my contract, and-" "So you don't oppose the idea of us making out? he chuckles, hand now resting on your hips, pulling you onto his lap. "Ben, i-its wrong" "Why so? No-one needs to know about this." "Ben," You look at him, lips parted, your heart racing. "Fuck this" , he grabs your face with his hands and smashes his lip on yours. He puts his yearning and pent-up frustration into the kiss, his hands travelling to your thighs, as he grabs it. You melt under his touch, hands sneaking up behind his neck, fingers pulling his locks. Lips moving against each other, the air filled with his gasps and your whimpers. He grabs your hips, tracing his fingers over your flimsy skirt as he puts his flexed thigh against your core. A gasp left your lips even before you realised what happened, hips bucking involuntarily. Ben smirks. "You like that? You like grinding on my thigh? Knowing that anyone can walk up on us right now?" Your thighs tighten around his, your core throbbing from the pressure Ben's thigh applies on your clit. You let out a moan, your hand trying to cover your mouth. You hear him groan. He lets you grind on him, flexing his thighs further, hands trailing under your shirt to your chest, kneading your breasts through your bra. You hold his shoulder for support, whimpering. "Knew you weren't so innocent" Ben smirks against your skin, his lips prepping kisses down your neck. Your movements are desperate , grinding faster and Ben senses that you are close to your high. He captures your lips into a rough kiss as his hand finds your clothed clit. His touch makes you quiver, you moan into the kiss. His fingers toy with your clit, making you moan louder with every flick he does. "Ben I'm close-" "I got you." his raspy voice was the last straw. The orgasm washes over you, heart pounding your chest, blood rushing to your ears. Your arousal glistened on his thighs. Ben caresses your hip till your breathing becomes normal. He was mesmerised by the sight in front of him, you on his thigh, your cheek flushed, lips swollen and red from the kiss. A knock on the door flinches both of you.

"Are you both done?" his manager says, behind the door. "Y-yeah just a minute, last set left" You yell back, barely steadying your voice. "Wrap it up quickly." You hear footsteps becoming fainter. You look back at Ben, who is staring at your face. "What?" you ask. "Still care about the contract?"

💋⋆˙ᝰ.ᐟ

my first steamy ish fic 😬 (he is so cvnty with the tongue sticking out welp)

masterlist

#ben shelton #ben shelton x reader #ben shelton fic #tennis fic #fanfic #ben shelton smut #smut #tennis fic smut #ben shelton x you #ben #fanfiction writing #ben shelton imagine #ben shelton tennis #shelton

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aboutchriss · 1 year ago

Text

Bed bugs

Pairing: Idol! Chan x fem! reader

Genre: smut, fluff, maybe crack idk

Warnings: slight choking (just a hand on the neck, nothing more) (f! receiving), dry humping, oral sex (m! receiving), make-out session, cuddles, mention of Chan's room.

Author notes: when I first started writing "Physiotherapy and Coconut Oil" back at the beginning of October, I was convinced to write it as fluff, mainly because I can't write smut; after a couple of weeks, I left it in my drafts, and leave it there till the first two weeks of December, I was under heavy medication bc I had a painful surgery on my foot, and the only thing that helped to go through insomnia caused by the pain was writing that story, I wrote and wrote day and night, and it helped so so much, that's why I was shocked when @ardef38 asked for a pt 2, so here you go love, I hope you like it.

(Kinda proof read, it’s 1:40 am as I’m ’reading’ this so, be patient I’ll correct any mistakes later)

Fun fact: I do really ride motorcycles since I was 17 (and yes I may be reckless).

Word count: +4k (I got carried away I’m sorry)

Thank you so much, I really, really appreciate all the feedback, I love you all.🩷

Sincerely Glo

As always, requests are open!

-✉️

I'm so insecure about my English. As I said, it's not my first language, and I'm always scared to make mistakes or stuff like that. So, if you find mistakes, please let me know. I'll be thankful, and my English will improve!

-✉️

Part one is here

"Stop moving. I'm trying to sleep."

he mumbles on your back

"I can't, I'm sorry."

You mumble

"Why? What is happening, baby?"

he asks, hugging you tighter

"Uhm, I'm sorry my insomnia is bothering me, I-i don't know why."

"What can I do for you? A cup of tea? cuddles?"

he asks

"I don't know either, honestly, usually I stay in bed and stare at the ceiling."

"It's a common thing?"

he whispers, almost like he doesn't want to be heard by someone

"What? That I can't sleep? Oh yeah, definitely.”

you say, turning yourself towards him

"Mh"

"You should be tired, you know that? after a full day of work and after what we did."

he says

"I know, Channie, but my brain can't shut down."

"I have an idea."

he says, hugging you tighter, your head on his chest with his hand between your hair

"What?"

you ask, looking at him

"Shhhh, just close your eyes and relax, okay?"

"Mh, okay. I doubt that whatever you're about to do, you'll make me fall asleep."

"Shshhh"

close your eyes

go to sleep

know my love is all around

dream in peace

when you wake

you will know I'm still with you

He repeats the verse over and over until you don't hear him anymore.

You know that you fall asleep because of his voice and the lullaby that he was singing, and the way he was stroking your hair gently, but mostly because he's warm; one time, someone said that he's like the feeling of walking in a warm room after spending the whole day out in the cold. It's true he really is like that domestic feeling.

"Good morning, ray of sunshine. How did you sleep?"

he asks you when you walk into your kitchen

"Oh, good morning. I thought you were already gone and good. I don't know which magic you've put in your cuddles and voice, but I haven’t slept like this in months."

you say

"Gone? No, I had to make you breakfast since I've slept over and used your bathroom to shower. I also used your body wash. Now I know why you smell so good."

he says while working on something at the stove

"That's why the bottle is half empty."

you giggle, hugging him from behind

"I'm sorry. I'll rebuy it for you."

he says

"Ya, it's okay, you don't have to. you smell like me now,"

"Yep, and trust me, I love it."

he says

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm"

"Aaah, you're warm, Channie it's freezing today even if it's mid-summer."

you say, hugging him from behind

"It has rained all night, we didn't notice because we were...umh...busy."

he says, turning towards you

"Busy...yeah...Chan, oh my god, it was...did I do these?"

you ask, touching his neck and chest

"No, no, it was a bed bug."

"Ehi -you slap his chest- I-god, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too. we got carried away, didn't we?"

he says, touching your neck and making you shiver

"Definitely, but I'm going to be honest I don't mind it and I don’t regret it.”

you say, smiling and kissing him on his naked chest

"Chan...-you say, sniffing around- something is burning."

"NO THE PANCAKES!"

he quickly turns towards the stove, swearing and mumbling against the burnt cakes

"Fuck, i-i wanted to make you breakfast."

he pouts, looking at the burnt pancakes

"It's okay, Channie -you giggle- thing like this happens when you're distracted."

"So you're saying that is your fault?"

he asks, looking at you, one of his dimples popping out

"Yeah, definitely."

you laugh

"Okay, put something on. I'll buy you breakfast."

"No."

you say

"Yes."

he says

"No."

"Yes."

"I said no."

"And I said yes."

"Channie, you don't have to"

"But I want to"

he says

"But-ugh, what if people see us around."

you say

"You're part of the staff, and we can go to the JYP cafeteria, the one inside the building."

"Mh, okay, but with one condition."

"Which one?"

he asks

a smirk appears on your face

"I don't like that smile."

he says

"I'll take you to the building with my motorcycle."

"You-you can ride?"

he asks

"yeah, I thought you liked it when I did it on your-"

"Shsh, don't-shut up, okay, okay."

he says, covering your mouth with one of his hands

"You're not reckless, aren't you?"

he asks with a worried tone

"Me? Reckless? absolutely not."

you smile

"That smile...I don't trust you."

"Not my business, Channie."

10 minutes later, you are in the elevator, and funny to say, but both of you choose a black hoodie (mostly because you have to cover your hickeys and not to catch a cold since the air is fresher)

"You copied my outfit."

you say, looking at him

"Do it look like I'm wearing Doc Martens and leggings?"

he asks, looking at you

"No, even if you would look good in leggings, but your outfit is total black, just like mine."

"I always dress like this."

“I aLwAyS dReSs LiKe ThIs”

You mock him

“It’s true, my whole wardrobe is black.”

"Yeah, but you still copied my outfit."

you smile, walking outside the elevator, Chan being by your side

"Jagiya.."

he says

"Mh?"

you say, not paying attention to the feeling that you felt in your stomach after that nickname

"I'm scared."

he says, looking at his feet

"About..?"

you say opening your garage door

"I've never been on a motorcycle."

he says shyly

"It's okay, Channie. There is a first time for everything. I'm going to explain everything, okay?"

"You-fuck, you can drive this thing?"

he asks

"Yeah, she's my baby."

"Baby? it's huge, how can you manage to drive this?"

you shrug your shoulders, looking at him

"I just do it, just trust me okay?"

"I do trust you."

he says

"Yeah?"

you ask, looking at him, and he simply nods

"Okay, big boy, put this on."

you say, giving him one of your motorcycle jackets

"I hope it fits; one of my friends gifted it to me, but she took three sizes bigger than mine, and I couldn't return it."

"It's a little bit tight on my shoulders."

he says, closing the zip

"It fits perfectly; you have protections, so it has to be tight."

you say, zipping your protective jacket

"It's weird. I'm not used to tight things."

he says, putting his backpack on his shoulders again

"Now, move, I have to take the motorcycle out of the garage. Can you grab the two helmets there? and when you're out, close the door, please."

you say, pointing at a wood cabinet. You press the clutch and move backward with the motorcycle; when the bike is in the correct position, you press down the stand.

"Okay, give me these."

you say, taking the helmets from his hands

"I'm going to put the helmets on you, okay, and I'll explain everything."

you say, putting the helmet on him. You do the same with yours

"Does it feel loose?"

you ask

"No, it's perfect."

you can see him smiling even if half of his face is covered

"And now -you press the inter-phone button- can you hear me?"

"Oh yeah, it's like you're inside my head."

he giggles

you turn on your bike, leaving her roar

"Damn, it's loud."

he giggles

"Okay, so -you say, straddling the motorcycle pushing the stand up with your foot- use that thing to get on and sit here."

you say, patting on the small sitting place for him

"Are you sure you can-?"

he asks

"Yes, trust me, Chan, I've been riding since I was 17."

you smile at him

he sits behind you, getting more comfortable once the bike is stable

"See? You won't fall; both of my feet are on the ground."

"Keep your feet there when we're on the road, don't put them on the ground at a red light or a stop sign. You have to put your arms around me tight or on the tank, especially when I brake; you'll feel it, so don't worry. When we take a turn, you have to follow me with your body. You're basically my shadow, or even better, my backpack, so follow every movement I make, okay?"

you say

"Yep"

"Now, arms around me."

you say, waiting for his arms

"Hold on tight."

you say before pressing the clutch with your left and putting the first gear with your left foot

"Here we goooo."

you say

"Oh my god, we're moving, ahah wow."

"Hold on tight, Channie."

you say, patting on his hands

"That's-wow, oh my god."

"You want me to go faster?"

you say once you're on the road

"Fuck yes"

he says

and you do as he said. You accelerate and shift gear; the sun has been out for hours, so the road is dry now.

"How does it feel?"

you ask him

"It's like, I don't know how to explain it."

"Freedom?"

you suggest

"Yeah, yes, that's the right word."

he says

"That's why you do it? I mean, that's why you drive?"

you hear his voice through the inter-phone, and you simply nod.

"Can you go faster? I wanna feel free."

he says

"Of course."

you giggle, and you shift once again the gear, the two of you speeding in the streets of Seoul, zig-zagging between the buses, cars, and taxis

"Oh my gooood, too fast, too fast"

he almost screams

"Ahahah, just hold onto me, and you'll be fine, Channie. Trust me."

the grip of his arms around your waist getting tighter

"You're crazy."

he says

"I know"

"And reckless, and oh my god, I want to do this every day."

he says

"I know -you laugh- should I pick you up tomorrow?"

"Oh, I—I'm not that brave. God, you have a big pair of balls to drive a thing like this. I could never."

"Oh, you could, and you would look so hot in one of these, with a compression shirt on-ush what a vision."

you say

"Are you fantasizing about me?"

he asks

"I mean, yeah, you as a biker? damn, Christopher, I would be on my knees."

you say, teasing him

"You were on your knees for me yesterday, and definitely, I'm not a biker."

he says, teasing you back

"I- you- uh- I hate you."

you say

"Yeah, yeah, it was clear with all the 'oh, ah' that you were whimpering against my ear last night."

he says, placing one of his hands on your thighs

"Oh-you-shut up"

you say, glad that he can't see the color of your cheeks

"Here we are person that I absolutely hate, and it's banned from my house."

you say braking and turning off the motorcycle once you're in the proper park

"Oh c'mon, I was joking -he says, taking off his helmet- I'll never mention cute whimpers again."

he pouts

"Shhh, are you crazy talking about this here?"

"Right, 'm sorry, where do I put this?"

he asks, lifting his helmet

"Oh, just bring it with you."

you say

"So...umh, breakfast?"

he asks, breaking the silence between the two of you

"Yeah, breakfast."

you sigh, looking at him, his hair messed up because of the helmet

"Ladies first"

he says, opening the front door of the building for you

"Oh, what a gentleman."

you say, walking toward the elevator, bowing to the person who just stepped out of the elevator

"Yeah, gentleman."

he mumbles, pressing the number three, and once the elevator doors closed, you talk

"What you're mumbling about?"

you look at him

"Nothing"

"Chan, c'mon, you can't do this after what we did."

"I'm -he sighs- I let you go first to look at your ass in those stupid leggings, so I'm not a gentleman."

he crosses his arms

"Oh, well, I'll make sure to put them more often."

you say, shrugging your shoulders

"You're not mad?"

he asks

"that you look at my ass when you can? No. You literally saw me naked, so that's nothing of this -you point at your whole body- that you haven't seen."

"Mh, good to know."

he smirks, and once the lift doors open, he goes

"Ladies first, of course."

he winks at you and you can do nothing but laugh at him.

after a couple of minutes of indecision, his indecision actually, he brings to the table two tall cups of cappuccino and a piece of cake for him

"You sure that you don't want a bite?"

he asks, offering you a piece of pie

"Hundred percent Chan"

you smile at him

"Do you have to work today?"

he asks

"Uhm... no, I don't think so, actually. I'm here just for breakfast—you giggle—why?"

"I have to meet with Han and Binnie for some fixes on a new song and do the usual Sunday live, so...would you mind coming with me?"

"I- you- you want me in your studio?"

"Yes"

"The one where no one is allowed?"

"Mhmm"

he nods, sipping on his cappuccino

"The one where the darker aura Christopher works?"

"Yes, that one."

"Mh, okay, if you... don't mind having me there."

you shrug your shoulders

"I don't mind it. You have a relaxing effect on me."

he says

"Interesting"

you say, sipping on your coffee

"The boys are already there. Should we go?"

"I follow you, mister dark aura."

"Oh, shut up."

he says, looking at you

"Hello everyone"

he says, entering in the studio

"Hi Hyung"

the bandmates say at the same time

"Oh, y/n? Hi, what are you doing here?"

"I-uh, I saw him in the middle of the street, he was like an abandoned puppy."

"Hey"

he says, sitting down in his working chair

"So I offered him a ride on my motorbike, and to pay me back, he offered me breakfast."

you laugh nervously

"You ride a motorcycle?"

changbin asks

"Yes? why does everybody find this weird."

you say

"I don't know, you don't look like someone who rides a motorcycle."

Binnie says

"But I am."

you laugh, sitting on the couch in the studio

The three men start working on the new song. You're not paying too much attention because

1. you're too distracted by the way Chan gets so severe when he's at work, so bossy but at the same time gentle with his members

2. you're working too, on your phone, but you're working, planning all the appointments with the members and the artists of JYP

"Oh, looks like someone had fun last night."

you hear Han's voice, and you're head snaps toward his direction so fast that you hear a crack in your neck

"Yeah, you weren't home last night. Where were you last night, Chan?"

Changbin says

then you notice that Chan took off his hoodie, revealing all the hickeys and bite marks on his neck

"What?"

he asks, looking at them

"Your neck Chan, what the fuck? What did you do?"

Han asks

"Uh, bed bugs."

he says, typing and clicking on his computer, not paying too much attention to them

"Yeah, a big one."

Han says

"One with human teeth"

Changbin laughs

"Oh shut up, the two of you."

Chan says, his cheeks turning pink

"Who is she?"

asks the two gossipy men

"No one, it was a bed bug."

he says once again

"Do you know anything about this?"

Changbin asks, and both of them turn toward you

"Uh, bed bugs are big these days."

you shrug your shoulders

"Mh, yeah."

they look at each other with a smirk

after a couple of minutes, they stopped asking about his marks and focused again on their work, recording some chorus, laughing when someone went out of tune, and listening over and over again at the song till it was perfect

"Aaaaand we're done."

Chan says, stretching up his arms in the air and clapping at the work of 3racha

"Aaaagh, I'm hungry."

Changbin says

"Me too."

Han says

"Hyung, y/n wanna join us for lunch?"

"Oh no, I must go now, maybe next time."

you smile at them

"I have to do the live so."

chan says

"Oh, okay."

they say

"Bye Hyung, Y/N see you on Tuesday."

Han says

"Bye guys, see you."

you smile

"Hyung, see you at the dorm and make sure to eat, or you get nervous, little bed bug…See you on Tuesday."

Binnie says, smiling at you and closing the door behind his back

"HOW THE FUCK DID HE?"

you say, covering your face with your hands

"He's not stupid."

Chan says

"But don't worry, they won't spill anything to anyone, that's for sure."

he gets up from his chair, locks the door of the studio, and walks toward you

"Ugh, are you sure?"

you ask, your voice muffled by your hands

"Yes, I trust them with my whole life. They're nosy, I know, but we have a rule: what happens or what we say in the studio stays in the studio."

He says, sitting next to you.

"Are you sure? I- I loved hat we did, and I love our bond, but I don't want to lose my job, Chan, I've worked so hard to be here, and I don't want to ruin everything because I had sex with you."

you say, looking at him

"Ouch"

he says

"No, no, I don't want you to think that I'm using you because I'm not okay? I loved our friendship way before what happened last night."

"I get what you're saying, y/n, don't worry, it's just that you're...I don't know…after what we did, I don't know what are we? friends? Best friends? friends with benefits?"

he looks at you

"Friends with..."

"Benefits, you know, two friends that have sex occasionally but remain friends."

"Yeah, Chan, I know what friends with benefits are."

"So?"

"What?"

you ask

"Friends with benefits? it will be our dirty little secret."

he says

"Mh, friends with benefits"

you nod

"Let's start this thing from now, yeah?"

he says, pulling your face towards him

"Yes, fuck yes."

you say, breaking the distance between the two of you, kissing his plumped lips again

"The door is locked, and we have about thirty minutes."

he says between the kisses

"Ugh, not enough time."

you say, pulling back from him

"We can go back to my place after the live, yeah?"

he nods, kissing your lips again, more roughly this time. You shift your position, straddling him, your legs on the side of his thighs

"It's not-that simple to- touch you with these stupid- mhpf yoga pants."

he says, kissing your lips

"You said that you loved them."

you say

"Yeah, and now I hate them; I can't touch you properly, which frustrates me."

He says, pulling you closer to him. You can feel his bulge against your clit

"It's okay, we don't need to take our pants off."

you say, smiling at him

"What- why? c'mon, I wanna see that pretty pussy of yours."

he says, frustrated, leaving his head against the headrest of the couch

"Mh, not now."

you say, starting to grind on his hard bulge

"Oh shit, what- do it again, please,"

he says, placing his hands on your hips, guiding you back and forth against him. You kiss gently his neck, trying not to bite him or suck his soft skin because his neck is already a mess.

"You- god"

he tries to say, one of his hands traveling around your body, grabbing one of your breasts under the hoodie

"Uh? you're not wearing a bra?"

he says

"Nope, free the nipples, Christopher."

You laugh while looking at him, poor guy, he looks desperate

"Fuck, full access all this time? Why didn’t you tell me? God, y/n, you're going to drive me crazy."

he says, kissing your lips. You laugh in his lips and keep grinding on his hard cock

"Please take your hoodie off, I want- at least I want to see your boobs."

"Uhm, so needy, aren't you?"

you ask, and he simply nods

you take off your hoodie, shivering, not because you're cold, no it's way too hot in the room, but because of the way that he looks at you; it looks like he wants you to eat you alive, literally. He licks his lips, looking at your boobs at then looking at your face, his eyes jumping between your two twins and your eyes

"What?"

you ask, looking at him, moving a clump of hair from his face

"I want to suck them."

he simply says

"Then do it. Don't be shy, Christopher."

"Oh, don't call me like that."

he says, looking at you, his eyes darkened

"I know that you like it, just admitted."

you whisper to his ear

"Mphf, if you don't stop grinding on me, I'll cum in my pants."

he says

"And? there's no shame in cumming in your pants, I love to see you so desp-shit"

you say, trying to find any other word to say, but your brain is short-circuiting, his tongue is moving around one of your breasts, sucking on the nipple, while with one hand, he pays attention to the other one

"I wanna live here."

he says, sucking and biting your nipple

"Mhpf, in the studio?"

you tease him even if you know what he meant

"Mh -he breaks off the contact between his mouth and your breast- between your boobs, I want to live here, they're-fuck, they're like a warm marshmallows."

you laugh

"I'm dead serious, y/n"

he looks at you so seriously that you have to cover your mouth not to laugh. You kiss his lips, making him smile

"You're going to be late, so let me do something for you, yeah?"

you say, shifting position and getting on your knees in front of him

"Oh fuck"

he says, pulling his pants down, revealing his hard dick

"You're going to drive me crazy, you know that?"

he says, caressing your face

"That's the point, Christopher."

you say, kissing one of his naked thighs

"Please, jagiya, please."

he says in a desperate tone. That nickname again, heavy like a rock on your chest, just friends with benefits, correct?

So you do what a good friend would do, you take his boner with your hands, stroking him up and down a couple of times, licking the tip, focusing on that particular sensitive part, making him whimper.

You take all of him in your mouth, breathing through your nose; you look up at him, his head on the headrest, his eyes closed, enjoying every moment, one of his hands in your hair, scratching your scalp gently.

You keep working with your mouth and tongue, adding once again your dominant hand, just because you can't take all of him in your mouth.

"Jagi...fuck."

"Uh, language, please."

you say, taking him out of your mouth without stopping working with your hand.

"How am I supposed not to say bad words when you're on your knees sucking me off?"

he asks, looking down at you

"You're dramatic."

you say, retaking him in your mouth, you know that he's about to cum because he's throbbing in your mouth

"Baby, i'm-i'm about to."

he can't even finish the sentence that a load of fluid goes into your mouth, you swallow it all the way.

You clean the corner of your mouth with your fingers and stay on your knees, looking up at him with a stupid smile on your face.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He says, pulling his pants up

“I’m not looking at you in any particular way.”

“Yes, you are, come here.”

He says, patting the place next to him

“Thank you”

He says when you sit next to him

“You don’t have to thank me, Channie.”

“I have to, I told you that you have a relaxing effect on me. And I’m talking generally, not when we...do other stuff, you know, even when we do them, but..."

“I get what you’re saying, Channie.”

You giggle

“Aagh, come here.”

He says, placing a hand on your neck and pulling towards him

“No, wait, I’ve just…”

“I don’t care, y/n, just kiss me, please.”

You sigh, and you kiss his lips, it’s a quick kiss, almost as if you did it every day

“You’re going to be late.”

You say, touching his forehead with yours

“I know, but I have to do it, it’s a safe space for me, and stays.”

“I know”

You say, pecking his lips once again

“I’m in my studio, I wait for you there, okay?”

You say, putting your hoodie on

“Mh, okay, thank you y/n, really.”

He says, kissing your cheek

“That’s what a good friend would do.”

You smile at him

“Yeah, good friend.”

He echos you

“Bye, bed bug.”

He says when you unlock the door

“Bye, Channie -you giggle at the nickname- don’t forget to put your hoodie on.”

“I won’t, thank you.”

He says, smiling, dimples on full display

Good friends, right?

A friend that has marked you all over your body

A friend you would go to live with just to have breakfast ready every morning

A friend that makes you feel butterflies,

A friend that fucks you till your brain short-circuit

A friend who makes you fall asleep while singing and cuddling

Maybe he’s more than “A friend”

A/N: me after writing this 🏃🏻‍♀️💨

Tag list: @paboswriting (because of the mention of biker Chan, we have an obsession about him)

#chansshands thoughts #skz #bang chan #stray kids #skz scenarios #stray kids bang chan #bang chan fanfic #bang chan smut #christopher bang chan smut #bang chan x female reader #bang chan x y/n #bang chan x reader

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sugurizz · 1 year ago

Text

(SMUT/ NSFW +18 - minors DNI!)

𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭.: Joo Jaekyung x F! reader

𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐀𝐒𝐊. (Not a Pt. 3 if you're wondering )

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Dark content ahead!, explicit/ graphic content, very DUBCON! , Free use, power dynamics, authority, TOXIC! behaviour (it's Jaekyung DUH), Dom/sub dynamics, unprotected/ vaginal sex, rough/hardcore manhandling, creampie.

𝐉𝐎𝐎 𝐉𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆 − 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

A steady furious stream of punches resonated through the training room as you tuned in for your weekly physiotherapy service.

You stepped into a tense and silent room, all eyes darting at the sheer power team Black's stallion ruthlessly displayed.

His eyes beaming and gaze set dead on the sandbag facing him, his fists clenched in his almost torn bandages and jabbed at it brutally, bending the tough material right at its gravity point.

He stopped for spilt second, chest rising and falling ardently. His tank top glued stuck to his flexing abdomen, further highlighting the chiseled muscles.

− Joo would've seemed bitter and emotionless to any stranger who would've obeserved his intensive training sessions. But to all teammates and yourself it was a known fact that he pretty much lived for it.

He doesn't really love. He dedicates himself and conquers it. And that's just his own way to be into something.

He doesn't hate the responsibility weighing down on his shoulders, no matter how heavy it gets with every match he aces. He's busied and restless, and it comes with him being a world class champion in his own right, but he takes it well anyways.

He wakes up every morning just to fulfill the Martial Arts prodigy he aspires to be, for as long as he can, and as long as he keeps breathing... −

He walked around the sparring area, rough and hotheaded, jaw clutched and wrists wiping his heavily damp forehead.

Your eyes meeting his from across the room caught you off guard. You weren't scared by any means, but the authority and superiority he naturally exuded weren't to be questioned. And you clearly had yet to get used to it.

You turned around and pretended to rummage something into your bag, avoiding him at all costs. And truthfully your plan almost worked.. if it wasn't for hearing some footsteps barging into your closest space, and a familiar hand wrapping around your wrist...

'I'm taking the locker room for the next 30 minutes. It'll be locked.' The raven-haired athlete uttered loudly before heading to the room, pulling you along the way.

He dragged you in and shut the door closed. Slammed you against the cold metal, arms hooked onto the locker's top.

He towered over you and flipped you around. The tightness in his boxers had you guessing what was on his mind, sending a feral wave of heat straight between your legs. Your glossy folds instantly clasped, not knowing if it was in fear or just a dreaded arousal.

He pushed himself against you, covering you in his bold scent. His musky, sweaty chest pushed on your back.

'Hold on tight. and keep the moaning low. bite down on something if you fucking have to. Got it?'

He's cruel. And it clearly upsets you. He couldn't give two shits about what how feel, just viewing you as another punching bag in the gym. Only one that's soft and grabbable, easy to rile up and fit his needs at any given moment.

His stature and height standing over you is daunting. He's got power over you, his gaze is lustful and bruised up hands being overly touchy compared to how he usually is.

He slid into your desired hole as a sob escaped your lips, hidden by Jaekyung's demanding tone.

'Quiet.' He hushed through gritted teath, struggling to hold his own groans. The time was tight and so was your pussy, squeezing his fat length to a bursting limit. But how are you even the one to blame? The round, fat tip of his cock streched you, feeling every bit of him in your ridges.

He ignored your tears rolling down to the floor, head irked down and brain short-circuiting on repeat.

'A-hh..s-slower, Mr Joo, please-'

You accidentally moaned his name, slamming your palm over your lips in shame. He caged you in a tight headlock and cursed, arms nearly breaking your bones. His sweaty musk, pungent and insolent, mixed with his strong everyday cologne, assaulting your nostrils as he pushed a deep 'fucking tight'.

'Fuck, relax..would ya? you keep fucking squeezing your pussy!'

'S-Sir, p-please...if you could just...be gentler...just a bit'

You looked up and faced him in tears, nose runny and lashes sticking together, and he stared you down and grunted. The meaty roughed-up fingers squeezed your lips, violently crashing them onto his.

You flinched, heart throbbing at the rather − affectionate − gesture. Having his tongue down your throat in a locker room was the last thing you expected Jaekyung would do to you. Yet both your teeth clashing together, lips rubbing each other fervently and your tastes mixing with one another confirmed you were in no delusion. You tasted him full and whole on both ends, and the more he filled you the harder it became for you to deny him.

He bottomed down and bulged inside your tummy, his bulky knees bent into your shaky ones, dumping the thickest load of his cum in your womb.

'I'm off to the training room. Don't stay here for too long and wrap it up quick.'

You leaned against the frigid surface, breath hitched as his distant footsteps exited. The merged sounds of the teammates slowly slipped through the door, snapping you back into reality...

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐤𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠?

𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆.

#joo jaekyung #joo jaekyung x reader #jinx #jinx mingwa #jinx manhwa #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #jjk imagines #jjk headcanons #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #toji x reader #toji x you #toji smut #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk

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obvithe-bestsoph · 2 months ago

Text

the most impatient patient.

masterlist requests word count: 4.3k

a/n: this took so long and i just know it's gonna flop omg 😭 i hope you enjoy! it's another one that has the possibility for chapter two, but it also works on its own. let me know! genre: kinda angsty but not really, fluff? warnings: a singular swear word, pedri has low self esteem for some parts but nothing graphic, grumpy pedri.

You pull into the area you’ve been told to park in and take a few deep breaths before getting out after shutting the engine off. Here you are, your first day at your dream job. The pristine grounds of Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper are bathed in the early morning Barcelona sun, making the whole place seem even more special. The four years you had been spent studying physiotherapy, you had been dreaming of today. And now it’s here. Mierda.

It’s ridiculously exciting, but also, there’s a lot of pressure on you. Being one of the youngest of the physiotherapy staff, just 22 years old, but now a part of one of the most important and relied upon medical teams in European football. And being the youngest comes with the added pressure of having to prove yourself to the seniors of the physio team as well.

One of the seniors, Pablo, actually comes out to meet you in the carpark so he can show you where to go. You spend most of the morning just shadowing him and other more experienced physios until Pablo comes to you as you’re taking a coffee break, a clipboard in his hand.

“Good news, you’ve already got your first patient.” he smiles and hands you the clipboard, briefing you a little as you look over it.

“You’ll be looking after Pedri’s recovery sessions from this afternoon onwards, his injury isn’t too serious, some muscle issues in the quad, but he’s out of action, and he’ll be your main and only patient for the next few weeks until he’s back out on the pitch again,” Pablo explains.

Pedri González. The Pedri González as you’re first ever patient. Talk about throwing you in the deep end.

Of course, you know who he is. You’ve watched him on TV, and seen him in action a few times, moving across the field in a way that almost makes it look easy, getting through defenders like they aren’t even there. Now, he’s your responsibility. Just thinking about it makes your stomach flip. You nod and smile at Pablo who leaves you with the clipboard and walks off again. It’s gonna be a big day.

When you enter the recovery room at 3 PM, the scheduled appointment time, Pedri is already there, sitting on the treatment table with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. His dark hair is damp from what you can assume to be a shower, and he looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and slight frustration.

“Are you my new therapist?” he asks. His tone is polite but distant, clearly he’d rather be anywhere else.

You take a deep breath and nod, forcing confidence into your voice. “That’s me. My name’s Y/N… you seem to be a very impatient patient, relax a little, sí?” you introduce yourself with a smile.

His lips twitch ever so slightly, like he’s trying not to smile at the little comment, but he doesn’t argue against it either. “I hate sitting out,” he murmurs, flexing his upper leg, “I feel fine. I could probably even train tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, glancing at his file on the clipboard you had been given. Minor muscle strain, it’s nothing serious, but rushing recovery could make it worse.

“Yeah, you think you feel now, but if you push yourself too hard, too soon, you’ll be out for way longer than necessary,” you reply firmly, crossing your arms too, “And I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy that. So, a few weeks of careful rehab, or even longer than that watching from the sidelines?”

He huffs at your words but for the first time since you walked in, he really looks at you. There’s a hint of something in those brown eyes of his, respect, maybe? Or maybe he’s just surprised that you’re not intimated by him or put off by his slight grumpiness.

Pedri exhales, relenting. “Fine, but only if you make this as un-boring as possible.” You smirk slightly, grabbing some massage balm off the shelf, “I think I could make that happen.”

Pedri’s recovery sessions begin the next morning, and from the second he walks in, it’s obvious he already hates this.

Although his expression doesn’t show much, his body language pretty much speaks for itself. His shoulders are tensed, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his training shorts, and when he sits on the treatment table, he bounces his knees up and down impatiently. He clearly doesn’t want to be here, he’d much rather be out on the pitch, with a ball at his feet. Something which you decide is fair enough.

“You’re early,” you note, putting your things down next to your desk before sitting down and turning on the computer, looking over his file once more and then standing up to get the resistance bands out.

The man simply shrugs a little, “My mamá taught me it’s rude to be late. Plus, the sooner we start, the sooner I’m back.”

You sigh, already knowing this is going to be a difficult process. Athletes hate being told to slow down. Their whole lives revolve around this sport that they love so much, and now, they have to spend weeks, or however long, doing exercises and taking things carefully.

In Pedri’s eyes, you’re the person standing between him and the game he loves. He’s so fed up with injuries that he just wants to be back and be back for good.

“That depends,” you reply, kneeling beside him to check how much he can comfortably move the muscle, “If you actually listen to me, we’ll get you back faster. If you ignore my instructions, we might as well cancel your next couple of games now.”

It’s silent for a moment before Pedri gives you a look, one that’s half amused and half skeptical. Just like the previous afternoon, something flickers in his eyes - surprise. Maybe he expected you to be quiet, and easily pushed to the side. But you aren’t here to be ignored. You’re here to get him back on his game and stay on it.

Starting with a few simple stretching exercises, guiding him as he goes, it’s not long before you notice that he’s doing literally everything with a bare minimum level of effort like he’s pushing the boundaries to see how little he can get away with.

“You’re holding back.” you huff, watching his form. Pedri smirks ever so slightly and shrugs, “Maybe you’re just making it too easy.”

“Oh, really? Is that what it is? Let’s make it harder then, superestrella.”

You change his band to an even tighter one, challenging his stability, and it only takes a few moments before he’s actually working. The cocky attitude he had put on just minutes ago disappears as he really focuses, muscles tense, breathing controlled and calm.

On a particularly tough set, you watch his jaw tick in frustration and you gently stop him to take a break.

“I know you’re used to winning,” you say, handing him a water bottle, “but sometimes you have to have to lose a few times before you can win. You know the saying, there has to be rain for there to be a rainbow?” “Yeah, but I hate losing. It’s not really my thing.” “Then let’s win this recovery, hm?” Pedri looks up at you again, something shifting in the air - it’s small but important. In this moment, he realises that maybe you aren’t just another therapist, but instead, someone he can trust.

Throughout the next few weeks, Pedri’s morning and afternoon rehab sessions become apart of your routine. You see him nearly every day, working through various stretching drills, resistance training and strength exercises. His progress is moving along nicely, but he has very little patience.

“You’re holding me back,” he grumbles one afternoon after you gave him a firm instruction to ‘slow down’.

“No, I’m making you don’t hurt it more. Yes, you’re an elite athlete, but you’re not a superhero. Your body needs time, and if you want it to keep serving you to the level you need it to, you have to respect that.”

He breathes out harshly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I just feel useless sitting out on so much training and so many matches.”

You stop for a minute, simply watching him. He hasn’t admitted how much this is weighing on him before. You can hardly imagine what it’s like, the fans and media constantly talking, the expectations, the pressure to always perform at the highest level. No one likes being injured, but for Pedri, it’s more than frustration. It’s almost some sort of insecurity.

“You aren’t useless,” you say in a gentler tone, “you’re in rehab. Injuries and physio is a part of being a footballer just as much as playing is.”

And he listens. He doesn’t say anything else, or even smile, but the look in his eyes tells you that he’s grateful for your words.

Since that afternoon, there’s been a lot less tension between the two of you. He stops arguing and fighting everything, instead starting to trust your process more. The way you do things is a lot different to any physios he’s had in the past, so he’s hoping maybe your new approach will help with this constant battle he seems to be having with injuries.

One morning, during a particularly intense session, he slumps back against the may and closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh. “This is torture.” You chuckle, “No, it’s progress.” “Laughing while I’m basically dying over here makes it seem like you enjoy watching me suffer.” he groans.

“Maybe a little. But that’s only because I know it’s working.”

He opens one eye and smiles at you, a real smile. Not the usual polite, almost ‘media’ smile he usually gives.

One evening, you both stayed later than usual and despite the fact that the session is over, he isn’t at all in a rush to leave.

“Did you always want to do this?” he asks out of the blue, fiddling with a resistance band. “Physiotherapy?” You nod, pausing your tidying. “Yeah. I wanted to help athletes recover. There’s something rewarding about it, you know?”

“Why a physio though? Why not a doctor? Or a coach?” You laugh softly, “I like being the person that keeps people at their best you know, not just watching from the sidelines.” He puts the band down, and looks up at you as you continue moving around, packing things away and wiping down equipment. “I guess I’m in good hands then.”

You can’t figure out what it is, but there’s something about the way he said it like he was inadvertently saying that he trusted you.

He said his good night, collected his stuff up and left the gym. The room is silent again, and you start to realise something dangerous.

You’re starting to care about him.

A few days after that rather tough session, the air between the two of you feels different. It’s a subtle change, but your conversation are not just about football and recovery now. There’s some sort of casual friendliness there. Now, when he comes in in the mornings, you usually greet him with a smile, getting one back and making a few jokes here and there, without the strict physio and patient tension.

That afternoon, having just finished some strengthening exercises, Pedri looked out the window at the gloomy clouds hanging over the pitches outside. “Looks like it’s going to rain, " he said.

Glancing at your watch you nod, “I saw that on the weather this morning, good thing we’ve finished a little earlier than usual then, hm?”

He collects up his bag, but doesn’t leave yet, “I was thinking of walking home, but I suppose it’s not exactly the nicest condition outside.” You look up and outside as well, the rain now pouring heavily, “I can drive you?” you offer casually, typing away at his file.

He turns around, clearly surprised. “Really? It’s probably out of your way. Are you sure?”

Switching off the computer, you turn around on your swivelling stool and stand up, “I’m sure. I’ve been meaning to try and leave earlier anyway.”

The car ride feels relaxed and comfortable, when it goes quiet, it isn’t tense or awkward but more just comfortable and open. Pedri talks a little about his past experiences recovering from injuries, how much he hates being away from the game, and the constant pressure that comes from being such a high-performing athlete.

“You know, sometimes, I kinda just wish I was ‘normal’ again, you know?” he admits quietly, gaze fixed on the raindrops that slowly make their way down the window. “Like, I could go out somewhere without people noticing me or taking photos.” “That’s fair enough,” you sympathise, “it must be hard living the way all you football players do.” He chuckles slightly, “Sometimes not exactly all it’s cracked up to be, no.”

It goes quiet again.

“I really appreciate you driving me, you know. It was stupid of me not to check the weather before deciding to walk today.” you see his head turn to look you out of the corner of your eye.

You nod, a silent ‘you’re welcome’, and surprisingly, he speaks up again. “You’re actually, uh, pretty cool to hang out with, you know?” his voice is a bit softer and a bit shyer than before. Your smile grows. “Thanks, Pedri, you’re, um… pretty cool too.”

The days pass as usual, and you and Pedri’s relationship continues to change. You know a decent amount about how he got here, and what he’s like outside of football, all about his dog and his family and many other random bits and pieces. At first, it was subtle jokes and smiles, him opening up about how he’s feeling about physio and the pressure he feels in everyday life. But one thing’s for sure, it’s getting harder and harder to keep it 100% professional around him.

It’s been a long day of strength exercises and Pedri leans against the wall, drinking water, his body clearly having worked hard today. The banter that you’ve become used to isn’t there, the air is almost… tense, and you’re waiting up on his terms.

“Do you ever get tired?” you look at him, his expression unreadable and tone quieter than usual.

Surprised by the question, you raise an eyebrow. “Tired of what?” “Of all this,” he gestures around the small gym, “of being around players with patience thinner than a spider’s web, of the constant pressure of trying to fix everyone else.”

You’re caught off guard because that was definitely not what you were expecting him to ask. But despite your surprise, he stares at you, waiting for an answer.

“I guess I don’t really think about it in that way,” you admit. “I kinda just focus on doing my job, but I can see how some people might find it stressful.”

He nods, the unreadable expression turning into a small smile. “You’re good at it - helping people, that is.”

Your expression changes to somewhat surprised, and you chuckle, unsure how to respond, but you don’t have to, because he speaks up again. “I mean, you’re always so calm and focused, even when I’m being an impatient dickhead.”

His words settle for a minute before you realise that maybe he also doesn’t just see you as his physio anymore, but instead as someone who genuinely wants the best for him.

“Well,” you start, taking a deep breath to think about what you’re going to say, “it’s not always easy, but I try.”

Pedri’s face softens. “You make it look easy.”

The gym falls silent for a few moments, neither of you really knows what to say. Instead, Pedri just moves to start collecting up his things and you go back to wiping down the bench he had been using. You feel a gentle hand being placed on your shoulder from behind. “Gracias, Y/N. See you in the morning.” Pedri smiles, removing his hand once you turn your head and show him your attention, but just give him a quick “Adios.” before turning around again, hiding your pink face.

That night, lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling, just thinking. What if the lines between patient and… something else have already started to blur? And how much longer can you pretend you haven’t noticed?

On the Monday of the next week, Pedri arrives at the morning session without a smile, instead, it’s an expression of his that you’ve become familiar with, frustration, masked as indifference. He doesn’t speak much and just goes through the motions of rehab, but the focus he’d gained in the past couple weeks isn’t there, and his movements are more careless than usual. Something’s up with him, and you don’t miss it.

“Something on your mind?” you ask, careful to keep your tone neutral.

He grumbles and shakes his head, “Nothing. Just a rough weekend.” Instead of pushing, you just let him go through the routine, but the more he does, the more irritated he seems to get. His patience is running even thinner than usual. His last straw is when he messes up a simple drill, throwing the resistance band on the floor in front of him and mumble curses under his breath.

“Alright, that’s enough,” you say, crossing your arms. “Talk to me. What on earth is going on with you?”

Attempting to not yell, cry, or throw something else, Pedri runs a hand through his hair. The muscle in his jaw ticks, and he snaps back at you. “You really want to know?” His voice is even sharper than usual, his anger clear. “I’m sick of this. Sick of feeling so genuinely unhelpful to the team. Sick of the way people talk about me like I’m some broken thing that needs fixing.”

You take a step closer, and speak in a firm tone. “Pedro, look at me.”

His brown eyes flick up to your face.

“No one thinks you’re broken.”

He gives you a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Come on, you see it too. More than anyone else. You just don’t say it.” The way he looks at you as if he’s challenging you to tell him he’s wrong, makes your heart ache. You’ve seen athletes break under pressure before, but this is different. This is something personal inside him.

You sit down on the mat next to him, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re frustrated, I get it,” you say softly, looking into his eyes once more, “But this? This isn’t about your injury, is it?”

His expression falters. He looks away, sighing heavily, his shoulder sagging forward like he’s too exhausted to keep up the front anymore.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice quiet, “Just, everything that’s usually so simple and easy feels so out of my control. And the only time I feel properly like myself at the moment is here. With you.”

His words are definitely unexpected, and they hit you hard. Your heart stumbles in your chest and for a moment, you don’t know what to say at all. Pedri doesn’t look away this time, not trying to hide or cover up what he said. Unsure of how to comfort him, you just pull him into your side for a hug.

The truth is hanging in the air now.And the scariest part? You don’t quite know what to do with it.

You know you should say something, anything, but your brain is muddled, your heart confused.

You look down at him, his head resting on your chest, those beautiful brown eyes already looking up at you. “Pedri…” you start, but hesitate, because what do you even say? You’ve spent weeks keeping a fairly professional distance, attempting to convince yourself that whatever flickered between the two of you was just a passing moment, just a small moment formed through the fact that you have been spending so much time with each other.

He sighs, shaking his head, sitting up straight again, “You don’t have to say anything, I just-” he pauses, running a hand over his face, “I just needed to be honest.; Because whatever this is, it’s been messing with my head, and I can’t keep pretending it’s not there.” Your heart pounds. He’s told you his side, and now he’s leaving it up to you to decide what happens next. Your logical brain tells you to shut it down. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. You’re the physio, he’s the patient, messing with that could make a lot of things a hell of a lot more complicated.

But there’s another part of you, the one that remembers every time you caught him staring at you, every time you felt your cheeks turn pink from him smiling when he walked in, how butterflies appear in your stomach every time he touches you.

“You’re not imagining things,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper.

His head snaps up, eyes looking into yours, a flicker of relief in his expression.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s simple,” you add quickly. “You know that, right?”

Pedri nods, “I know. But I don’t really care, honestly.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You should.” “I can’t,” he admits. “Because when I’m around you, it’s one of the only times I feel like I’m not just ‘Pedri, the player’. And if I lose that… then I’m trapped as Pedri the player all the time, and I don’t want that for myself.”

Your chest tightens at his honesty. He’s not kidding around and bantering now. He’s not asking for something causal either. He’s telling you his feelings, trusting you with something that not many other people get to see.

For the first time, you allow yourself to really think of him in a way that is more than a patient. It’s terrifying. It’s complicated. But it’s honest, and it’s real.

And you don’t think you can ignore it anymore.

The air is thick with tension, and Pedri’s words continue to echo through your head, your own confession feeling like a weight lifted and a burden gained all at once.

You know what you should say. ‘This can’t happen. This is too unprofessional, too complicated, too risky.’ You should remind him that your job is to help him recover, not to fall for him.

But then you look at him. The way his dark hair sits so perfectly, his tanned skin, the stubble that covers his cheeks, chin and upper lip, his long eyelashes, and those brown eyes. They’re always the killer.

“Pedri…” You take a slow, deep breath, trying to calm yourself, “If we do this, we have to be careful.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, surprised. “So you’re saying..?”

You hesitate, but there’s no point in denying it now. “I’m saying that I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel this anymore.” For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s making sure he heard you right. Then, his mouth slowly grows into that smile, the one that you’ve spent far too long pretending didn’t affect you.

“I was really hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs, shifting closer.

You shake your head, trying to keep your thoughts straight despite the heat spreading through your body. “This is going to be complicated.” “I really don’t care.” “You really should. This is technically wrong, you know. I’m not meant to have ‘romantic interactions with patients.’”

“Maybe, but I don’t.” His voice is steady and certain. “I’ve spent the last few weeks learning how to be patient, how to take things one step at a time. This?” He gestures between the two of you. “This is no different.”

You laugh breathily once more, despite the mess in your head. “You’re comparing us to his recovering.” He grins, a proper grin, and it’s the most genuine one you’ve seen from him in over a fortnight. “If it works, it works.” You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. How did a professional relationship turn into late-night thoughts of him, lingering glances, and this undeniable thing you’ve finally acknowledged?

You both stand up, and Pedri’s closes the distance between the two of you, pulling you against him by the waist.

This is the moment you stop fighting it. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, watching you carefully like he’s waiting for you to take it all back, change your mind, and shove him away. But you don’t, and he speaks again. “I don’t care how complicated this is. I just want to be with you.”

His genuine words make you shiver because you feel the same way. You have done for a while now, but you were always too cautious to admit it. He gives you another chance to pull away, but once again, you don’t. He closes the distance completely, resting his forehead against yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you realise this isn’t just about desire - but instead everything you’ve been holding back.

“You’re really bad at keeping things professional,” he teases playfully, his voice low as he looks into your eyes.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re the one who confessed first.”

“Yeah, but you let me,” he points out, grinning.

You roll your eyes although you don’t argue. Because the truth is, you don’t regret letting him. Not at all.

There’s so much to figure out, so many conversations to have, rules to work around and risks to consider. But right now? None of that matters.

Right now, all that matters is his soft lips against yours.

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