San took a careful step forward with his good leg, using his crutches to propel himself toward the entrance of the training facility. His palms were already sore from gripping the handles so tightly.

In front of him stood the place he'd spent years calling his second home. The place he longed for—ached for.

A place that somehow managed to fill him with both excitement and dread all at once.

He stood outside for another moment, taking a deep breath.

Finally, he pushed himself through the automatic doors.

Immediately, the familiar smell of disinfectant and fresh rubber flooring hit him. Somewhere deeper inside the building, weights clanged together. Music echoed faintly through the hallways. Everything sounded the same—yet, everything felt completely different.

This club was one of the best in the country. The best facilities. The best coaches. The best players. The best staff. He used to walk through these doors carrying a soccer ball under one arm, nodding at teammates as they headed toward training.

Today, well, he looked down at the brace locked around his leg. He was here for his worst nightmare.

His stomach twisted.

He wasn't here to train.

He wasn't here to practice.

Hell, he wasn't even here to work out.

He was here to learn how to walk normally again.

The thought alone made him feel sick.

—

When San finally reached the athletic training center, he paused in the doorway, His eyes slowly scanning the room.

He'd only ever been in here for a quick ankle tape before a match...or a bruised shoulder...or one of the countless little knocks that came with professional soccer—never as an actual patient.

He let out a quiet breath. Guess I'll have to get comfortable, he thought to himself.

"...Great."

"San!" A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. 

"My god, bro!" Wooyoung called from across the room. "How are you feeling?"

San looked over.

Wooyoung sat comfortably on one of the treatment tables near the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, one leg stretched out in front of him while the other bounced lazily off the edge. His ankle was propped up, and judging by the way he looked completely relaxed, today's rehab wasn't nearly as miserable as San's was about to be.

San couldn't help smiling.

"Ah...good." He nodded once. "I'm good."

A lie, a total lie—but he'd gotten pretty good at saying it over the past couple of weeks.

He adjusted himself on his crutches, preparing to make his way over.

Then he saw you.

There you were at the end of Wooyoung’s table, sleeves rolled to your elbows, your hands working carefully around his ankle.

His steps slowed.

You looked...comfortable. Comfortable enough that he almost forgot you were working.

Wooyoung was saying something animatedly, talking with his hands like he always did.

You laughed in an unfamiliar way—not the little smile you'd occasionally given San whenever he made one of his sarcastic comments.

Your shoulders relaxed, eyes crinkling.

San realized that he had never seen this version of you before—something in his chest tightened at the sight of you and Wooyoung. 

Maybe it was because he spent nearly every day with you for the past two weeks. You helped him shower, forced him to eat, listened to him complain.

Yet somehow...

He'd never made you laugh like that.

His eyebrows pinched together, his face contorting in irritation before he could stop it.

You happened to glance up.

The moment your eyes landed on him, your expression brightened. "There you are." you motioned toward the empty treatment table beside Wooyoung. "Come on over."

San didn't realize how quickly he started moving until he was already halfway across the room. A little too eager.

He mentally cursed himself. Smooth, Smooth.

He carefully lowered himself onto the table beside Wooyoung, gripping the brace straps to lift his leg up manually.

He hissed quietly through his teeth, silencing the pain.

Wooyoung practically melted beneath your hands. "Ohh, That feels so good."

San looked over.

Wooyoung had actually thrown his head back against the table. A little...too dramatically—too sensually, in San's opinion.

"Seriously," he groaned. "Why are you so good at this?" He cracked one eye open to look at you. "Where have you been my whole life, baby?"

You simply smiled, completely unfazed.

Something about the way Wooyoung looked at you suddenly bothered him.

Not because he was flirting—damn, Wooyoung flirted with everyone. Probably anyone who breathed. It wasn't unusual or something super out of the ordinary.

So why...why was it bothering him now?

"I'll be right with you, San," you called over to him.

He nodded absentmindedly. Truthfully...He hadn't heard a word you'd said, his attention stayed fixated on the midfielder next to you.

On the way he leaned just a little closer whenever you spoke. The way he smiled at you. The way he lightly bumped your arm when he laughed. When you finally finished, you gave his shoulder a friendly pat.

"Alright. The soft tissue mobilization should help. If your ankle starts acting up again, come find me or one of the other therapists, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Wooyoung hopped off the table. As he stood, his hand brushed against yours. It couldn't have lasted more than half a second—completely accidental.

Yet, San felt something tighten uncomfortably in his chest.

He didn't like it. Didn't know why.

Just...Didn't like it.

"See you later, dude!" Woo called to San as he slung his gym bag over one shoulder. "Once you're better, drinks are on me."

San forced a smile. "...Sounds good."

He clenched his jaw tightly as he watched him disappear through the doorway. He didn't even realize he'd been staring after him until your voice cut through his thoughts.

"Hey."

He blinked.

You were standing beside him now, chart tucked against your side.

Your eyebrows pinched together. "How are you feeling?"

He looked up at you. He didn’t say anything.

"Everything okay?" You followed his line of sight before looking back at him. "...You know he's gone, right?"

San blinked. "Hm?"

"Wooyoung."

"Oh."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "You looked like you wanted to fight him."

He let out a quiet laugh. "I don't think I'd win right now."

You looked down at his brace. "...Definitely not. Unless you used your brace as a weapon."

He scoffed.

You wheeled the stool over and sat down in front of him. "So..." you began, reaching for the straps of his brace to unlock it. "How are we feeling today?"

He shrugged. "Nervous, I guess." He looked around, running an anxious hand through his dark hair. “Worried I'm not progressing enough.”

You paused for just a second. "I know," you breathed. “But you’re on the right track. Recovery isn't linear.”

As you unlocked the brace, he glanced toward the hallway again.

"...So."

You looked up.

"So?"

"...You work with everybody here?"

You laughed. "I do now."

"You were with Woo."

"I was."

"I thought..." He stopped, hesitant.

"You thought what?"

"...Nothing."

You smiled, enjoying the expression San was making. "I want to know."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought he was your patient."

You smirked. "He was."

"...I thought I was your patient."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You are."

Silence followed your answer, San’s eyebrows furrowing as he bit the bottom of his lip.

"...My main patient." you added. "I was just helping another therapist for a few minutes."

His shoulders relaxed a little. "Oh."

You took a moment to study his expression—he looked relieved to hear what you said, which was confusing, to say the least. 

He watched you type something into his chart.

"...Do you like working here?"

You looked up, surprised—and also easily distracted by him. "That's random," you murmured.

His expression was a look of curiosity. "I was just wondering."

You shrugged. "I do. It's different."

"...Different good?"

You shrugged. "I think so. But I do miss my old coworkers."

He smiled, happy to know something about you—but also a deep, confusing feeling took hold of him. 

San watched you as you continued to evaluate him, watched you as you walked away to grab something in a cabinet across the room. He looked at you, watched you, as if no one else was in the room.

You pulled up the cords attached to the Russian stimulation unit over beside the treatment table, plugging it into the wall before peeling the backing off the adhesive electrodes.

"Alright," you said, patting his quad. "This part's going to feel weird."

San looked at the machine suspiciously, then back at you, then back to the machine. "...Weird how?"

You pondered, thinking about how to explain it. "Like…an intense grip that forces your thigh to tightly bunch up.” you paused, gently placing the electro pads on him. “It will straighten your knee for you since you can't do it on your own.”

He stared at you, sighing dramatically. "I already don't like it."

"I know." You positioned his leg on a towel roll. "I'm just trying to wake your quad back up."

"I was hoping it'd wake itself up."

You leaned over his leg, one hand steadying his thigh while the other carefully pressed the other pad into place. San stiffened underneath you, suddenly extremely aware of your scent, the lipgloss on your lips, your delicate touch.

San then watched your hands. You had small hands. Strong hands. Hands that somehow managed to hurt him and help him at the same time.

He was uncomfortably nervous under your touch. It made him both excited and terrified. Maybe it was the lack of physicality he’s had for quite some time.

As you smoothed out the pads on his legs, he noticed it.

Your left hand.

No ring.

His eyes lingered for a second longer than they probably should have.

—

You finished adjusting the last electrode before reaching over to switch off the Russian stimulation unit.

"There." You peeled the adhesive pads off his quad carefully. "How'd that feel?"

San looked down at his leg, giving his quad a little flex. "...Strange."

"That's a glowing review."

"I never said it was bad,” he teased.

"I'll take it." You smiled. "Your quad's waking up nicely. That's exactly what we wanted."

"So...good news?"

You smiled at him. "Very good news."

He couldn't help smiling a little as well. "I'll see you tomorrow?" he croaked out hesitantly.

"You'll see me tomorrow,” you laughed, turning toward the door, desperately needing to use the bathroom. 

The rehab gym buzzed with activity outside the athletic training room—a few players were scattered around the weight room, music playing quietly through the speakers while one of the strength coaches counted reps across the room.

Wooyoung was standing near the cable machine, resistance band looped around his ankles as he worked through his exercises.

The second he spotted you walking out of the treatment room, he waved dramatically.

"Y/N!"

You sighed before you even reached him. "...What now?"

"I've got a question," he hollered from across the way.

"I don't like the sound of that," you mumbled, watching him drop the resistance band to make his way over to you.

"It's harmless."

You blinked. "So you say."

"So..." He grinned, leaning up against the wall next to him. "Your husband cool with you spending all day hanging around a bunch of professional soccer players?"

You laughed. "I don't have a husband."

"No?"

"No."

"Huh." He frowned dramatically. "Boyfriend?"

"No."

"Fiancé?" His tone was playful.

You shook your head. "Nope."

"So..." He pointed at you again. "You're single?"

"I am."

Wooyoung looked around the room. “So you're saying I have a chance—”

“Woo, leave the poor woman alone,” another trainer called from across the room, probably equally as irritated as you were. 

Wooyoung gave you a flirtatious wink before turning back around to what he was doing, his fellow teammates giggling like little kids at the thought of you being available.

— 

Back in the treatment room, San sat frozen on the edge of the table.

He hadn't meant to listen, but the entire gym had practically shouted the conversation.

Single.

The word echoed in his head.

He wasn't sure why his shoulders suddenly felt lighter, why he caught himself smiling. But before he could think too hard about it, you walked back into the room, shaking your head.

“Oh!” you raised your eyebrows. “You're still here, I thought you left.”

“I..” he gulped. “I didn't know if I was completely done.” 

“My bad,” you sighed, picking up his brace and assisting him. “I went out to go to the bathroom quickly, but Wooyoung got me sidetracked.”

San peered over at you as you gently clipped his brace back on, watching you bite the inside of your cheek, noticing the hair that falls over your face, and again, the lack of a ring on your finger.

Silence settled between the two of you.

San rubbed the back of his neck. "So..."

You raised an eyebrow. "You got a lot of questions today, huh?” You leaned back against the treatment table next to his, folding your arms.

“Is…Jun...”He looked down at the floor for a second before meeting your eyes again. “Never mind, I’m sorry,” he moved to stand up. “Its not important.”

Your expression softened immediately. "What about him?"

He opened his mouth. "...I said," Never mind."

You laughed quietly. "Bring up my kid and then say 'never mind?"

He sighed through his nose. "I was just..." He scratched the back of his neck again. "You know, wondering."

"About?"

"...His dad." The words came out much quieter than he'd intended.

Your smile faded, though not completely.

“See, this is why I said never mind.” San immediately regretted asking. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that. I shouldn't have said anything."

You looked at him for a long moment before letting out a small breath. "No..." you said softly. "It's okay."

You shrugged one shoulder. "People usually wonder. It was never...that kind of relationship, if you know what I mean.”

San stayed quiet.

"He knows Jun exists," you continued, absentmindedly picking at your fingertips. "He just chose not to be involved."

San looked down at his brace. "...I'm sorry."

You offered him a small smile. "Don't be."

You slung your clipboard under your arm.

"I got the better end of the deal."

He looked back up. "What do you mean?"

Your smile grew—this time genuine.

"I got Jun."

—

San had barely made it back to his apartment before every muscle in his body began protesting.

His first real day back at the training center had exhausted him in ways he hadn't expected. His knee throbbed relentlessly beneath the brace, his quad twitched every few seconds thanks to the Russian stim, and the simple act of walking from the elevator to his apartment had somehow felt harder than rehab itself.

He let out a long sigh as he tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter. "...Food."

That was manageable. Probably.

He opened the refrigerator.

Half a bottle of ketchup. Expired yogurt. A suspicious-looking container of leftovers that definitely should be thrown out as soon as possible.

Luckily, when he crutched over to the pantry, he found a can of tomato sauce and pasta. Believing it was doable, he threw the ingredients underneath one arm, using one crutch to make his way back to the stove. 

Twenty minutes later, he was regretting every decision he'd ever made.

Who knew making pasta required this much standing?

He balanced awkwardly on one crutch while stirring the pot with the other hand, trying not to put too much weight through his bad leg. "So far, so good..." he smirked, pleased with himself despite the occasional throb in his leg.

However, the moment of pleasure didn't last. The pot of pasta sauce began to boil over, spilling onto the burner. The sauce burned against the heat, sizzling and spritzing.

He reached to move the pot, but his crutch slipped slightly, balance completely gone. "Oh, fuck—"

The pot clattered loudly against the stove, the wooden spoon flying across the kitchen. The pan of sauce tipped and splattered all over San, the stove, and directly onto the floor.

San stared, pinching the bridge of his nose. "...You've got to be kidding me."

He carefully bent down to grab the spoon.

…Bad idea.

His knee protested immediately. "...Ow, motherfucker.”

He looked around his apartment.

Sauce on the floor…pasta boiling over. One wooden spoon halfway under the cabinet.

“I’m a fucking mess.”

—

You felt exhausted, knowing the minute you hit your couch, you would probably take the longest nap ever.

Tonight, Jun was staying at your parents’ house, leaving you with some alone time other than when you are at work. You couldn't wait to spend your time taking a nap. Maybe you’d pick up a book. Maybe—no, you wanted to nap, for sure.

As you stood in front of your door rooting for your keys that were somehow in your purse but nowhere near your grasp, the thought of that nap abruptly disappeared at the sound of pots clanking down the hall, followed by a string of profanity, and the smell of something burning.

“Is that…San?” you muttered to yourself, feeling slightly hesitant. Was it him, or were you just thinking about him?

You didn't even bother unlocking your own apartment. Instead, you hurried a few steps down the hall, knocking twice against his door.

"San?"

A muffled groan answered you. "...Door's open."

You pushed it open cautiously. The room felt still, but the smell hit you first—burnt tomato sauce…

"...Oh my God." you looked at the scene in front of you. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the room—red sauce streaked across the stovetop. The pot had somehow ended up crooked on the burner, pasta water bubbling over the sides. The wooden spoon sat abandoned beneath the cabinets.

And in the middle of it all...

San.

Tomato sauce covered the front of his black t-shirt, splattered across one shoulder, his forearm, and somehow even his cheek. He stood frozen on his crutches, staring at the disaster like if he looked long enough it might clean itself up.

He slowly looked over at you. "...Hi." he muttered out awkwardly, embarrassed.

You pressed your lips together.

"What?"

"I'm just…” you bit your lip. “I’m trying really hard not to laugh."

His shoulders slumped. "...It's been a day."

The smile slipped from your face. You'd seen that look before—the look of someone who was simply...tired.

Tired of needing help. Tired of everything being harder than it used to be.

You quietly walked past him and reached over to turn off the burner. "You almost set your apartment on fire."

"I was making pasta."

"I see that," you blinked.

"It was…going well."

You glanced around the kitchen. "...At what point?"

San rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet your gaze. "The first thirty seconds, maybe. If that."

You couldn't help but let out a little chuckle at his words—yes, was he standing in the middle of his kitchen covered in sauce? Was he utterly embarrassed? Yes. But something about the scene made your heart race for him.

Without thinking, you reached up. "Hold still," you mumbled, your thumb brushing gently across his cheek, wiping away the streak of tomato sauce.

He froze, whole body stiffening under your touch. 

"There."

Neither of you moved.

Your hand lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should have, his eyes staying on yours. You peered into his irises, dark as night, and saw freckles of browns. He was beautiful.

You cleared your throat first, stepping back. "I'll...uh, I’ll get something to clean this."

You quickly moved away and grabbed a roll of paper towels from the counter, crouching to wipe up the floor.

A moment later you heard him mutter behind you. "...Seriously?"

You glanced over your shoulder.

He was tugging awkwardly at the hem of his ruined shirt with one hand while trying to keep himself balanced on his crutches. The fabric caught around his shoulders as he tried to take his shirt off. Something deep inside you fluttered, your stomach in knots at his appearance.

Without a second thought, you stepped in front of him. "Can you keep your balance for a second?" you asked him hesitantly, unable to meet his gaze.

"I…think so."

"I need you to let go of the crutch."

He listened to you without hesitation. Carefully, you slipped one arm around his waist to steady him.

His breath caught audibly, and you were certain he could hear your heart beat through your chest.

He was warm. Solid. Strong. You held your breath as you gathered the hem of his shirt, gently moving it upwards over his torso. "Arms up."

He obeyed without a word.

Slowly, you pulled the shirt over his head, careful not to catch it on his shoulders. It snagged for a second—those damn wide, sexy shoulders.

You laughed softly.

"What?" he murmured, eyes wide.

"Your shoulders."

"My...shoulders?"

"The shirt doesn't want to let go."

You finally worked the shirt free, and for just a second...you forgot to move. You'd treated professional athletes before—shirtless wasn't exactly new.

But this...This wasn't the clinic. This wasn't work.

It was just...him.

Standing in his kitchen, hair slightly messy from the shirt, a faint scar peeking along his shoulder, tomato sauce somehow still streaked across his collarbone.

You blinked, forcing yourself back to reality. "I, um..." You grabbed the dish towel from the sink and ran it under warm water. "You've still got sauce."

He looked down. "I missed some?"

"You missed...most of it."

He laughed quietly, but didn't speak. It was as if he had no clue what to say or do.

You stepped closer again, the damp towel sliding gently across his shoulder, his collarbone.

His breathing slowed.

Neither of you spoke. The apartment suddenly felt impossibly quiet. You lifted your gaze, and he was already looking at you.

The towel slipped from your fingers and landed softly on the floor, your bare hand pressing against his chest. You swallowed hard, fighting all the terrible, horny ass thoughts that were spinning through your mind, but it seemed like he had other plans.

His hand came up hesitantly, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind your ear.

His eyes were intoxicating, exhilaration dripping from his expression. Your ears rang with temptation, heat sparking throughout your body. For a second, you were just a woman in a man’s apartment. For a second, you were just…someone who deserved a life of love.

"I..." he murmured, letting out an awkward laugh. He smelled like a mixture of tomato sauce and vanilla, his lips wet from licking them. “Fuck, please forgive me.”

He leaned in, and suddenly, his lips met yours in a soft, hesitant kiss.

Gentle. Questioning. You let your heart choose over your head in the moment, offering a kiss back, your hand finding the back of his head as he kissed you. His lips were soft. Gentle. Obsessive. You felt your body pulse under his touch, his hands finding the small of your back. 

The kiss began to get more desperate—his hand gripped the back of your head, his body falling into yours as he lost balance. He left out a breath of air as he parted his lips against yours, and you couldn't help yourself. Your hands ran down his bare, muscular back, his hot breath tickling your face as he stuck his tongue in your mouth. Whole body chills took over as he pushed you into the kitchen counter, your back hitting the granite countertop, his hand gripping your hair.

But the minute you felt his lower half press against you, reality rushed in.

Your eyes widened as you pulled away. "...San."

His expression fell immediately. He hobbled away, shocked at his actions. "I'm…Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry."

"No..."you took two hurried steps backward.

"Y/N—" 

You grabbed your bag from the counter, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. "I should go."

"You don't have to—"

He stopped mid sentence as he noticed your frantic movements, grabbing his crutches to steady himself.

You reached the door before looking back one last time. "I'll...see you tomorrow, San." you swallowed hard. “Let’s just…uh, this never happened, okay?”

Then you were gone.

The apartment fell silent again.

San stood in the middle of his disaster in a kitchen, shirtless, surrounded by tomato sauce and paper towels.

After a long moment, he looked down at the mess.

But once it fully opened, it revealed the most stunning man you have ever seen in your life.

Choi San stood tall in front of you despite the slight slouch he had over his crutches. His midnight black hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes downcast. His expression was barren of emotion, his lips chapped, the skin around his eyes red. There were shadows under his eyes, and he was sporting a massive, heavy-duty black post-op brace locked at zero degrees. He met your gaze after a few moments, the sparkle in them still present.

“Who are you?” he asked, slightly hostile. He was clearly unaware of you and your position, and you couldn't blame him for his tone. 

It was strange, though. You could say you were partially a Choi San expert—your son always had him on the TV. He was known for his charm. Extremely charismatic, lovable, funny. A bit flirty, too. You remember watching one of his interviews, watching him wink at the interviewer—you didn't admit to yourself that you swooned, too.

But now, with the look on his face, you felt a bit intimidated. 

“I uh,” you swallowed, straightening your posture. “I am y/n, your personal therapist. I was called in to make sure you are okay.”

When he didn't say anything, you cleared your throat. “You should not be alone for twenty-four hours after the procedure.”

He blinked at you, looked down at his leg, and scoffed a bit. “I’m fine. I don't need a babysitter.” he took a step back into his home. “Tell coach you were here—I don't care. Just leave me alone, please.” He is cold, blunt, dismissive. Good thing you knew this situation best—he might think he needs to be alone, but the truth is, he needs someone next to him.

Knowing that maybe you were the last person he wanted by his side—a physical therapist, a literal example of the career he has lost for the time being—you stuck your arm out, preventing him from shutting the door. “Do you…have anyone else to call? I’m sure you don't want me here, I get it, but…” You looked up to his piercing gaze, noticing the look of desperation. “You cannot do this alone. You may think so, but it's crucial to have someone next to you.”

San's jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he was going to argue with you again. Slam the door. Tell you exactly where to shove your concern.

Instead, his grip on the crutch handle shifted. Something flickered across his face.

Not anger. More like…exhaustion. Defeat. 

"I've been alone before," he said quietly. The words weren't defensive—they were matter-of-fact. A statement.

You hesitated before inquiring more. "Before surgery?" you asked.

His gaze snapped back to yours. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

You stared at him. He stared back. And then, right on cue, his face paled.

You recognized it instantly.

The nerve block—or rather, the nerve block beginning to wear off.

You'd seen it dozens of times. It was a rite of passage for injured athletes. They always thought they were fine until they weren't. You knew it best. Knew the feeling. Knew how terrified San must be at this point, despite his demeanor.

The blood drained from his face, his fingers clenched tightly around the crutch, his eyes squeezing shut.

You dropped your bag on the ground. "Oh, for the love of god—"

Before you could finish your sentence, his good knee buckled, a sign of pain, exhaustion. His entire body pitched forward towards you.

You moved quickly, steadying his large, muscular body. His weight fell into you, your arms wrapped around his waist, his forehead bumping into yours.

You were close. Too close. You felt his hot breath beat against your cheek, felt the beads of sweat transfer to your skin. One of his crutches fell to the ground around your feet, the other still tucked under his arm. You held him up with all your might, letting out a sigh of relief as he stabilized. 

He let out a moan of pain, clearly uncomfortable, and you met his gaze in the short distance.

“Are you…Are you okay?” you managed to get out, between the compressing feeling of his body on you and the tension you felt. 

“No, no.” He let out an annoyed scoff, most likely annoyed with himself. “Just peachy.”

You couldn't help but smile and took a step forward. “Let's get in there, big guy. Let’s get you better.”

To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched upward—barely, but it was there.

It vanished just as quickly as it appeared. His expression quickly shifted back to what it was before.

You walked him inside slowly, just far enough to get him to lean against the wall inside so you could grab his crutch. As soon as he had both, he maneuvered his way to the couch inside his living room and eased himself into the corner of the sectional. You watched as he lifted his leg by the bottom strap of his brace, his face contorting in pain, and settled uncomfortably.

You stood still at the entrance of his home, one foot in, one foot out, feeling as though there was a line drawn right down between you two.

“San?”

His eyes lifted. He didn't speak, though.

"Have you eaten?"

A pause. He ran a hand through his hair aggressively. "No."

You blinked. "What time did you get home?"

Another long pause. "Earlier," he said bluntly.

"San."

"What?" he basically hissed at you, grabbing a pillow and wrapping his arms around it as he sat there.

"How long ago?"

He looked away—that was answer enough.

You crossed your arms. You just met this man, but it felt natural to speak to him, even if you were a bit abrupt. "You haven't eaten at all."

He shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

"You are a professional athlete. You are absolutely hungry."

His eyebrows pinched together, but you stepped forward before he could protest again.

"Okay. New plan."

He rolled his eyes. "There is no plan."

"There is now." You pointed inside. "I'm coming in."

"No."

"I'm checking your medication schedule."

"No."

"I'm checking that you have food."

"No."

You crossed your arms. “Listen, I’m here to work. I understand that you think I'm just infiltrating your life, but this is my life, too.”

You stared at each other. Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Finally, he sighed—long, defeated, desperate—like a man losing a battle he didn't have the energy to fight.

"Fine...Five minutes." He blinked. “No more.”

Little did you know— this encounter, your fight to make sure he was taken care of—would be the start of something that neither one of you could avoid.

—

“Oh my god, he is difficult.”

You huffed into your phone, holding it in the crook of your shoulder to your head, your hands busy with getting Jun ready for daycare.

“I’m sure he's not that bad—”

You held your son’s hand as you left the apartment, shutting the door with your foot behind you. “Mingi, it took him to nearly fall over from the pain before he let me into his apartment…even after telling him I was there for work,” you scoffed, walking down the hallway. You smiled at Jun as he skipped down the hall. “Like, I don't want to be here either, but hey, this is how it is.”

Mingi paused. As you got onto the elevator, he spoke again. “I mean, I’m not giving him excuses, but…”

“But what?”

“Well… if someone like you showed up at my door when I was at my lowest, I would be hesitant, too,” he said. “Like, the poor man probably looked and felt a mess.”

You hit the ground floor button to get to the parking garage. “What do you mean, someone like me? I’m just the physical therapist.”

Mingi let out an obnoxious laugh. “Oh my god, y/n. I mean, like, you are super attractive. Pretty. He’s just a guy. Probably feels awful and embarrassed that a pretty woman is trying to take care of him when he should be looking strong and…stuff,” He paused. “Think about it.”

Your mind pondered the idea that Choi San found you attractive. You shook the thought away. “I guess I see your point.” As you trailed off, you looked at Jun, who was sporting Choi San’s jersey today for daycare. He has many different versions of the jersey. His soccer season was coming up soon, so he was all in the soccer spirit. “All right, I have to head out. I’m taking Junie to daycare, and I have to be back here asap for San.”

As soon as his name left your mouth, Jun perked up, looking at you with shining eyes.

When you ended the call, you ran a hand through your son’s hair. “Are you ready for soccer season?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes!” he fiddled with the bottom of his jersey. “What if we asked if… what if we asked San to come to my games?”

You couldn't help but chuckle. “Oh, bubs, we can try.” You knew what the outcome of that would be—a famous soccer star going to his physical therapist’s son’s youth game? His female, single physical therapist? Oh boy, lots of things wrong with that scene. He didn't even know you. Yet, Jun was so ecstatic—he’ll let go of that eventually.

After dropping him off at daycare, which was luckily only a few blocks away from your home, you were right back to where you started, standing in front of his door, heart beating a mile a minute.

You didn't let your thoughts wander, quickly lifting your arm to ring the doorbell. You felt bad that he had to get up to answer the door—with that nerve block most definitely gone, this might be one of the most painful days of his recovery.

You heard the crutches squeal on the other side of the door. He opened the door, and once again, he stood painfully beautiful in front of you. Today, his hair was pushed back, showing his gorgeous face fully. You shoved these thoughts deep inside yourself as quickly as you could, swallowing hard when you noticed that he didn't have a shirt on. 

You forced your eyes upward. “Hi,” you breathed, forcing a smile. 

God fuck, he was divine. Why did he have to look like that?

He nodded. “Hello.”

You stared at him for a second. Then another.

….And then you remembered how to function. That you had to function. This was your job, get it together.

"Okay," you cleared your throat, eyes lifting to meet his entrancing…sparkling…sexual eyes. Fuck. "Good. You answered the door. I was worried you wouldn't,” you tried to joke.

One of his eyebrows lifted—you weren't entirely sure if he was amused or offended. Maybe both. Probably both.

He stepped aside silently, allowing you into the apartment, making his way back to his couch. You watched the muscles ripple in his back as he moved. 

A man should not be allowed to look like that while recovering from surgery. It was against the law somewhere.

Had to be.

You forced yourself to focus.

Professional. You chanted in your brain, your inner thoughts in utter chaos. You were a professional.

A professional who definitely wasn't noticing the way his shoulders took up an insane amount of mass… or the way his dark hair was pushed back today…or most definitely not the way his stupidly pretty face looked without it falling into his eyes.

You didn't even notice that he was settled on the couch now. "You can stop staring now,” he mused.

Your eyes widened, immediately looking away.

"I wasn't staring." Heat crawled up your neck.

"You were."

"No, I wasn't."

There was a moment of silence between you. He sat there, head tilted slightly, looking at you.

"...You were." The smallest hint of amusement reached his expression—it felt like a victory on its own. 

Yesterday, he'd been so detached that speaking to him felt like speaking to a brick wall—today, small, tiny cracks were forming. Little glimpses of a personality underneath all that pain and frustration.

As you walked further inside, your eyes drifted toward the kitchen. Not a dish in sight—telling you that he still hadn't eaten anything. You set your bag down on the kitchen counter that separated the room from the rest of the apartment. The layout was similar to your home—however, it was clearly better funded and a more expensive unit, given the staircase that led to the second-floor loft and the gigantic, one-hundred-inch television spanning across the wall of the living room.

You looked at him, noticing the deep-seated bags under his eyes. You investigated him from where you stood, his position on the couch, his crumpled-up shirt across the room, his bare chest gloriously adorned with muscle—now you were off track again.

“You still haven't eaten?” you asked him softly, concerned.

You watched as his gaze dropped briefly toward the floor, almost as if he were shy.

The realization startled you. Shy? No. No way. That couldn't possibly be right.

This was Choi San. The Choi San.

The man who played in front of packed stadiums. The man who had thousands of screaming fans…and probably screaming women. Screaming without the s, that was probable.

Yet sitting here in his apartment, recovering, looking exhausted and irritated and painfully vulnerable...He didn't seem like that person at all.

He just seemed…young. Lonely, even.

Your chest tightened, your mind drifting back to the past. You swallowed the lump in your throat. Change the subject. "Did you sleep?" you asked gently when he didn't respond to your last question. He didn't need to, though. You knew the answer.

His expression tightened, almost as if he was embarrassed. "No."

You frowned, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "No?"

"I mean, a little." He scratched his head, eyes unable to meet yours.

"What does ‘a little’ mean?” you questioned. "How much?"

He looked away, his jaw flexed. You couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or sheer frustration with himself. You understood both.

The muscle ticked beneath his skin. "I don't know, like...two hours maybe."

You stared at him.

The first twenty-four hours after ACL reconstruction were already hell.

The swelling. The pain and inability to get comfortable. Don't even start with the complete loss of independence. You remembered every second of it. You remembered staring at your ceiling at three in the morning with tears running down your face because you couldn't figure out how to move without hurting. You remember crying and crying because no matter what you did, how you lay, how you did anything, nothing got better. 

You remember having to get yourself up to get fresh air outside; only then did you feel a little better—the only time you could stop crying. 

You remembered feeling trapped inside your own body. Terrified. Lost.

And looking at him now—you knew exactly where he was mentally, even if he refused to admit it.

Your gaze softened. "Did you take your medication?"

Silence was his response.

Immediately, your eyes narrowed. "San."

“I don't like all these damn questions.”

“San,” you said again.

He dragged a hand down his face. "Okay, fine. I don't like it."

You crossed your arms. "The medication?"

His eyes finally met yours, and for the first time all morning, genuine frustration flashed across his face. "It makes me feel weird. Like, really weird."

You groaned in frustration as well. 

And suddenly, despite everything, despite the pain and the fear and the giant brace strapped to his leg—

You found yourself smiling. “You have got to be kidding me.”

In front of you was the nation's best soccer player, but all you saw was a young man lost in a new whirlwind of a setback. 

The realization settled heavily in your chest.

People always talked about athletes like they were different from everyone else. Stronger. Tougher. Built from something that normal people simply weren't. They saw the trophies, the stadiums, the impossible performances, and convinced themselves that men like him existed outside the rules everyone else had to follow. But sitting here now, slumped against his couch with dark circles under his eyes and a brace strapped to his leg, he didn't look untouchable.

He looked exactly like you had.

"You know you have to take the medication, right?"

Immediately, his shoulders tensed. “I know, I know. I just…hate how it makes me feel.”

You pushed yourself off the counter, folding your arms as you stared at him.

"I feel..." He continued, exhaling heavily, clearly hating every second of this conversation. "Out of it. Not myself. I haven't felt like myself in a little while, though."

You nodded slowly. "Okay.” Is all you said.

His brows furrowed. "Okay?"

"Yeah.” you nodded. “Okay."

Confusion flickered across his face.

"I hope you know that if you felt normal, you would be superhuman,” you walked over to him cautiously, watching him turn away from you to look out the window behind him. “Part of getting to the finish line—wait, let me think of soccer terminology…” You paused playfully, sitting down on the couch near him. “Part of getting close enough to score a goal is taking the steps you need to achieve it. You don't just teleport to the goal and score, right?”

He still didn't look at you. However, once again, you saw the facade of his fear crack slightly. 

“You have to bust your ass to score, don't you? Beat the defenders, get back up after you get pushed down. It's all part of the game.”

He let out a sigh now, peering down at his braced-up leg.

"You know..." You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. You were doing quite a lot of talking—man, you hoped he was hearing you. "The first night after my first surgery, I cried nearly the whole night."

His eyes snapped toward yours, surprised that you could relate. 

You laughed quietly at his reaction. "I'm serious. I mean, we can get into my second surgery, too, but that would get too depressing."

His expression practically screamed disbelief. “Two?”

You smiled, looking down at your hands in your lap. "I thought my life was over. It felt over, honestly."

You were a bit hesitant to look at his expression. "I couldn't sleep. Everything hurt. I couldn't move without help. I hated needing people. I hated…being dependent when I’ve spent most of my life independent." You shook your head softly. "I remember sitting outside at three in the morning because it was the only thing that stopped me from crying."

When you looked back up, he was watching you.

Really watching you.

Not waiting for the conversation to end—listening to you. It looked as if he wished to say something with the way his eyes filtered over your face and the way his jaw tensed. He didn't speak at first, though, and you worried that you overshared. You’ve mentioned your history with previous patients—this was not your first rodeo with a grumpy ACL tear, but it was the first time you felt an immense pull to someone—enough to share your hardest moments for encouragement.

"How long?" he asked suddenly. His voice was quiet enough that you almost missed it.

You blinked, shocked. "How long, what?"

His eyes remained fixed on his leg. He pondered for a moment, as if he were fighting his thoughts.

He fiddled with his hands in his lap. "How long until you stopped feeling like…that?"

The question squeezed at your chest. You knew what he was asking—how long it took before you stopped feeling like a shell of yourself.

Your gaze softened. You picked the fuzz off your pants absentmindedly. "It wasn't all at once."

A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, and it hurt more than you expected.

You leaned back into the couch. "I wish I could tell you I woke up one morning and everything was fine again." You smiled faintly. "That would've been nice."

He hasn't spoken a lot, and this was the first actual day you were spending with him, so you couldn't ask for much. You worried if you were saying too much.

“You have to set small goals first.” You looked into his eyes for a moment, then stood up, facing him. “Like, the first time you sleep for more than a few hours. Or like the first time you walk without thinking about every single step." You shrugged lightly. "The victories are stupidly small at first. That’s what gets you to the big goal, though."

When he didn't say anything again, a breath of laughter escaped you. “Oh my god, I need to shut up,” you scoffed, irritated with yourself, slightly embarrassed. but…things felt…different with him. Oddly different. A good different. A frightening different.

“I—” he paused, sitting upright, eyes wide. “No, I—thank you. I feel better.” A smile clearly found its way through his boarded-up exterior.

The sight of it felt oddly rewarding.

You pointed immediately, gasping, unable to control your excitement. "There it is!"

"What?"

"That."

"What?"

"The smile."

It vanished, but you knew you just succeeded. "It wasn't a smile. You’re seeing things."

"It absolutely was."

"It wasn't."

A grin spread across your face. 

The corner of his mouth twitched again before disappearing completely.

You stood there for a moment, looking at him, at the exhaustion still lingering beneath his eyes and the frustration he was trying so hard to hide.

Then your gaze narrowed, realizing that things needed to be done. "Medication." Is all you said.

A groan left him—totally dramatic, like a spoiled little princess.

“Oh, it will be okay,” you whined back. “Now, where do you keep them?”

–

After a fight to get him to tell you where the medicine was, you found yourself tending to him. You got him a glass of water, gave him the meds, and even helped him put on his shirt—thankfully, as he was a terrible distraction to your work. Without even realizing it, you were there already the amount of time you needed to be.

San was sleeping soundly; the medication, despite his disapproval of it, allowed sleep to be an option. You saw this as a good time to pack up and leave him be.

When you stood up from the kitchen table and shut your computer, you heard him rustle from behind you. 

“Are you leaving?” he mumbled grogily, his voice raspy. 

When you turned around, you noticed his position. His eyes were barely open, fighting sleep. The blanket was halfway off him, and the side of his face was reddened by the pressure of sleep.

You walked over to him, reaching down to fix his blanket. “Yes, I bet you’re ecstatic, huh?” you joked, smiling at him before turning away to grab your things. “I will be back tomorrow. We have some important things to get to from now on.”

He didn't say anything, but his hazy look did things to you. You blinked, your stomach flipping, and pushed all the feelings as far away as you could. 

God, you needed to get laid. It's been a while—this had to be the only reason you were so infatuated with this man—that you've been starved of any connection since your divorce. He was also a bit younger than you, too. Injured, distressed—Jesus, there was something wrong with you.

You looked back at him one more time before leaving, and as you left, something inside you called to go back. 

--

The next several days blurred together.

Recovery had a rhythm to it—a really frustrating one. The kind that moved painfully slowly. You knew it all too well.

On the fourth day after surgery, you found San sitting on the edge of the couch with a towel draped around his shoulders.

His hair was damp.

You immediately knew what had happened.

He looked up from where he was sitting.

You looked down at the untouched basin of water on the coffee table, then back at him. You didn't even say anything—he knew what you were thinking.

"I'm fine, I got it."

You sighed. "San—"

"I said I'm fine." his words came sharper this time. You knew, despite the tone of anger, it was more embarrassing for him than anything.

"There's nothing wrong with needing help." You crouched beside the coffee table. “I mean, this is literally my job.”

His laugh was humorless. "Like it's easy to ask for help.”

The words hung heavily between you. For a second, neither of you spoke. The air was thick with tension—his breathing was heavy, his expression pained.

"I can't even wash my own hair."

You noticed the defeated expression on his face—he was trying; you knew it. It was so difficult to break out of the funk of the injury—you could only imagine how terrified he was feeling, as he probably was thinking about how he lost the only thing that gave him purpose. 

You reached for the basin.

His gaze panned over your movements. "What are you doing?"

You sighed. "You can either sit here and be miserable, or let me help."

His stare lingered on you.

Eventually, he looked away first.

That was answer enough.

—

Day five was worse.

You knew the signs immediately—the way he kept looking at the television without actually watching it. He was utterly exhausted mentally. Yet, even though he was clearly in deep thought, he got through all of the heel slides and quad sets for the day—a win.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked him gently.

He sighed, meeting your gaze. "My team leaves next week."

You nodded slowly, watching his expression tighten, afraid of you seeing his emotions.

He looked down at his brace. "I should be there."

You didn't know how to respond to that—so you didn't. You allowed your presence to help him through it. You nodded, understanding where he was coming from. 

He got through the exercises of the day, and before you left, you hesitated once again. You felt like there was progress, but man, you were concerned about him more than ever—more than you've felt your whole career.

—

By the end of the first week, things were finally starting to improve. You were beginning to get a grip on understanding him and adapting your program.

His swelling had gone down a good bit, his quad was beginning to wake up, and the heel slides no longer looked like a terrible, idiotic form of medieval torture.

And most importantly—He had finally been cleared to shower.

You smiled as you reviewed the note on your computer. "Good news."

San looked up from where he was sprawled across the couch. The word good immediately made him suspicious.

You smiled widely. “You can shower now! Well, carefully.”

The silence that followed was strange.

You waited. Normally, patients were thrilled when they reached this point. This was a success for you at the time—and the best feeling ever after not being able to bathe properly.

But San looked like you had personally threatened him.

Your eyes narrowed. "...Why do you look upset?"

He scoffed, crossing his strong arms across his chest. "I'm not upset."

You watched the movement carefully, his eyes refusing to meet yours. He suddenly seemed fascinated by the coffee table—as if it were literally the most important thing in the room.

And then you noticed the way the tips of his ears had started turning red.

And then you realized.

"Oh..." you breathed, understanding him. 

His eyes closed briefly as if he knew you'd figured it out.

The street outside the apartment was bustling. The TV was loud—yet suddenly, all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

"You know," you started carefully, unsure of how to approach this. "I've helped a lot of people through this."

His laugh was quiet. "I know." His gaze remained fixed on the floor, anywhere but you. The muscles in his jaw shifted. "It's…different."

You swallowed. "Different because it's me?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it. You weren't sure what you meant by it, anyway. 

Damn Mingi and his wrong assumptions.

Immediately, his eyes lifted, as if he couldn't believe you just asked that. 

Neither had you.

Great. Fucking fantastic. How professional. You were doing great.

His stare lingered longer than usual—longer than it should. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it was.

He looked away first, which somehow made everything worse. It might have been better, actually. Well, you weren't sure. 

You weren't sure about anything, to be exact. 

You sighed, gathering yourself. "Please don't answer that."

"No, it's not… It's not just because it's you, but," he scratched the back of his neck anxiously. "But…it doesn't help, you know?"

The corner of your mouth twitched. You needed to keep your head straight. "Well, unfortunately for you, I've already seen you nearly cry over pain medication."

His head dropped into his hands immediately. "Oh, my god, please—"

"And refuse to eat."

He groaned. "y/n—"

"And fall into me because you were too stubborn to admit you were hurting."

His face disappeared completely into his hands.

"So honestly?" you continued playfully. "The shower thing doesn't even make the list."

A reluctant laugh escaped him. He let go of his guard for a moment. It was nice. 

You smiled. "You're okay, San."

His gaze held yours, and for a moment, something shifted. The silence felt less awkward, but more…dangerous. Tempting. More dangerous than anything, though.

His eyes searched your face briefly, and then he shook his head. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you? Messing with me?"

You grinned immediately. 

"Oh, immensely."

–

The bathroom was filled with steam, swirling all around you while you made sure his incisions were prepped properly. 

You were kneeling on the ground in front of him, and when you looked up after finishing the bandaging, you surprisingly saw him looking down at you, eyes lost in thought, lip tucked under his teeth. You looked at him for a moment too long, thinking impure thoughts about how delectable he looked.

He stood on his good leg in front of you, his brace off, as well as his shirt and pants. He was only left in his underwear, and by the looks of it, he was still embarrassed despite your encouragement. To be fair, you fought hard against the temptation to run your hands along the ridges of his muscles.

When he broke out of his haze and noticed you looking up at him, a blush flooded his cheeks. You were surprised—you saw him as a flirty, confident man who could have anyone he wanted, but here, you saw a nervous wreck. 

You then realized that it most definitely had to do with the position you were in—on your knees, looking up, closer to his…

You stood up abruptly, clearing your throat.

He looked over at the running water in the shower. In the middle sat a shower chair to help him comfortably get through it. However, he did not budge from his spot. 

"You know, eventually you have to get in."

“I know,” he breathed. 

You reached for his forearm gently—the touch was light. Reassuring.

Still, you felt him still beneath your hand, his eyes dropping briefly to where your fingers rested against his golden skin.

Your pulse betrayed you immediately, but the embarrassed blush across his cheeks was distracting.

He fought hard to find words. "If I fall in this shower and die, I'm haunting your pretty self."

A laugh bellowed out of you, and you forced yourself out of replaying him calling you pretty. 

"Come on," you said quietly, getting back to business.

For once, he didn't argue.

You helped steady him as he shifted his weight, guiding him toward the shower chair. Slowly. Carefully. "Come on, superstar."

His fingers wrapped around yours. "Don't call me that."

You smiled.

"Get in the shower."

—

That same night, you lay awake, mind spinning. 

You kept replaying him in your mind, images of him. His expressions, his eyes. You only just began with him as your patient—quite literally only a week. However, he felt…familiar. You knew he wasn’t; obviously, you’ve never met him in your life before. But maybe it was all the screen time he got in your house. He was always on the TV. Always on Jun’s tablet. His name was on the back of the shirts you bought for Jun. He’s always been around you. 

And now, well, he was right in front of you. 

You always thought he was stunning, but you never had the chance to understand him as a person—he was only an image, an idea. But now, he was so real. Too real. And you were spending so much time with a young, beautiful, sexy man, and you needed to literally touch grass. 

“Ugh!”

You huffed, rolling over to shove your face in your pillow, forcing yourself not to think about him. 

—

A few days later, you found yourself standing outside San’s apartment again.

This time, not because you had to. Your workday with him had ended nearly an hour ago.

The container of homemade pasta balanced in your hands was still warm, and beside you, Jun bounced his soccer ball against his leg as you waited in the hallway.

You frowned at the apartment door.

San had looked exhausted during therapy today—more than usual. When you’d asked if he’d eaten lunch, he’d mumbled something unintelligible and immediately changed the subject. Which, in therapist language, meant no.

Absolutely not.

“Okay,” you told Jun quietly, turning from the door to face him. He stood enthusiastically, holding his ball still in his hands. “I’m just dropping this off, then we’re going home.”

Jun nodded.

You rang the doorbell. When there was no response after a long moment—one longer than usual—you reached to ring the bell again. 

Your concern immediately spiked. 

Okay. He could totally be sleeping. He did have a rough time today. 

“Hold on, bubs,” you mumbled, trying hard to not show your concern. Luckily, Jun simply rolled the ball around his arms, clearly uninterested in anything else. 

You rummaged for your phone in your bag and quickly found his contact and dialed it. 

No answer. 

You weren’t sure about what to do here, but before you could even think about knocking on the door aggressively and freaking out like an idiot, the door finally opened.

San stood there wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his crutches tucked beneath his arms. His hair was messy, eyes looked heavy. And still, somehow, he looked extremely breathtaking.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” you said immediately without a single thought. 

His eyebrow lifted. “Hello to you too.” He looked down at the container in your hands. “…What’s that?”

“Dinner.”

His shoulders slumped. “…You brought me food?” 

The question sounded strangely genuine—as if nobody had done that for him in a very long time.

Your chest tightened at the thought, wondering if you shouldn’t have come over. “It’s leftovers,” you lied straight through your teeth. You made dinner and, you know, specifically made extra to make sure he had some. 

He looked unconvinced.

Behind you, Jun was patiently waiting exactly where you had told him to.

Mostly.

“Mommy.”

“One second, buddy.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“My ball.”

You turned just in time to see the soccer ball slip from his fingers. “Oh no—”

The ball rolled straight between San’s legs, then straight through the open doorway—and of course, directly into his apartment.

The hallway fell silent.

San looked down slowly, and as he did, a tiny head peeked around your leg right in San’s view. 

Oh no. Here we go. 

Jun’s eyes landed on San and immediately widened.

The world seemed to stop, and the soccer ball sat forgotten near the couch.

San stared at your son for a moment, eyebrows knit in confusion, speculation.

The little boy’s mouth fell open, eyes growing impossibly wide. 

Jun could not hold himself back at all anymore. You were genuinely surprised by how long he lasted. “You’re HIM.”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You closed your eyes, taking in a breath. “Oh, my god.”

“Mommy,” Jun whispered loudly, still staring. “Mom!”

You pinched your nose. “... I know, Jun.”

“That’s Choi San.”

“I know.”

“THE Choi San.”

You could not meet San’s gaze. “I am painfully aware of that.”

Jun looked ready to pass out.

Meanwhile, San stood completely motionless—he looked more surprised than annoyed. He didn’t say anything, though. Just looked stunned, some other unknown emotions sparkling in his eyes. 

“You’re my favorite player,” Jun blurted out, smiling so wide you wondered if it hurt him. 

You closed your eyes. There it was.

But when you looked back at San, you noticed the gentle, soft, surprised expression on his face. 

The hard lines around his eyes eased. For the first time since meeting him, you saw him looking at someone without pain sitting behind it.

Jun looked through the doorway at the soccer ball, then back to San, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. You weren’t expecting this to happen, but to be fair, it was your fault for not preparing for it.  

San followed your son’s gaze to the ball, then you saw his eyes wander to the large jersey Jun sported—San’s team. San’s number. San’s name. 

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You play?” San asked quietly.

Jun nodded so hard you thought his head might fall off. “Yeah!”

“What position?”

The answer exploded out of him.

And just like that, Choi San—the brooding, miserable, emotional man who barely spoke—started talking soccer with a five-year-old.

You stood there staring, completely bewildered. Interested. 

Because somehow…the little boy who could barely get a full sentence out around his hero was getting more conversation out of San than you had managed in an entire week.

And for the first time since his surgery, San looked genuinely happy.

As a person who has both lived through injuries and currently treats them, you would have to agree. 

Injuries not only change you—they shape you. No matter what the injury is, the process, the mental games, the recovery—it takes a strong mind to find light at the end of the tunnel. One wrong move, one misstep, one…second. Bam. Life is different.

From running at full speed to lying stagnant—like a forgotten body of water once full of life and movement, now still and untouched. A mind that once felt free now felt compressed, lost, overwhelmed. 

You see it, you've experienced it, you’ve worked so hard to get where you are.

And now you're here. No longer the athlete you used to be, but now using the hard-fought mind to help other athletes through their pain. 

And well, clearly your athleticism passed on to your son, Jun, who was kicking a foam soccer ball around in the living room, acting as though he was a professional soccer player. He mumbled to himself as he ran around, chanting his own name, and when he kicked the ball through two boxes, he cheered and jumped around playfully. 

“Gooooaaaaalll!” He roared, then giggled, and proceeded to grab the ball out of the “net.” The net was quite literally unpacked boxes that you left lying since you haven't found the time to break them apart. At least they had a use.

You just moved into this place about a week ago due to your new job assignment—you were placed with the most popular soccer team in the country, which is just a few blocks away. After the team kept experiencing multiple knee injuries, their management requested a specialist in the hopes of better rehabilitation. You proudly accepted the position, even if it required you to move. 

Your son was young enough, and you did not have ties to your ex-husband anymore. That was long gone, that's for sure. Who knows what he’s doing now. Probably sleeping with anything that breathes…he definitely has every single std that exists. The only good thing that came out of that asshole was Jun. 

You stood at the stove, nearly forgetting that you were making scrambled eggs. You quickly jumped back into cooking action and scraped the bottom of the pan before it burned. 

Jun was still kicking the ball around the room. Typically, you’d be telling him to take it outside—but, well, your current place did not have any outdoor space. He loved soccer so much, how could you not find a way to let him play? A foam ball is what it is for now.

“Jun, honey,” you tried to get his attention. “Come eat, I made your favorite!”

He didn't budge. This time, instead of playing around with the ball, he held it in his hands in front of him, his gaze attached strongly to the television on the wall. His mouth was agape, watching intently.

“Soccer superstar Choi San will not play today, and for further notice, after an apparent knee injury in last night’s game,” the announcer spoke with a tone of disappointment. You watched the TV, then your son, watching him smile as his favorite player appeared on the screen. You were sure that the context of the broadcast was completely disregarded on his part—his eyes only seeing his hero. 

Choi San’s photo appeared on the corner of the screen, his dark eyes glistening, his lips curled up in a smirk. He sported a nasty bruise on his cheek, probably from an elbow, but it made him look even sexier. However, the juxtaposition of the smile and the video playing behind him made you uneasy.

The commentators spoke, but you didn't hear what they were saying—all you saw was the replay of the injury, knowing exactly what happened to him. He planted his right leg, but his momentum took him too far—his knee buckles inward, he screams in pain, and he is carried off on a stretcher. Everyone in the stadium fears the worst.

The announcers took over the screen now, the video behind them, his picture there as well. 

“Well, we have word that he has undergone imaging to define the injury, but we have no word at this point about his current condition.”

Your chest tightened. This was a normal occurrence for you—to feel a sort of…pull in response to an injury. Your mind flashed with memories of your own recovery, the event, the injury, the pain. You shook it all away, turning off the stove and putting your attention back on your son.

Luckily, since Choi San was off the screen now, he gave you the time of day.

“Wow, is he more important than me?” you scoffed playfully while plating his food, adding a few cut-up strawberries. “I see how it is!”

Jun giggled and ran up to you. You scooped him up, groaning jokingly. “My goodness, you’re getting heavy.” You poked his nose. “Soon you'll be bigger than me.”

He smiled. “One day I’ll look like San! He’s so big and strong.”

You ruffled his dark hair, watching him squirm a bit. Setting him down, you grabbed his plate. “Let's eat, and then you have daycare.”

“Pfft,” he hissed, shaking his head. “No, I want to stay here.”

“You know you have to go, bubs.” You settled him at the table and gave him his fork. “It will be over before you know it.” 

He didn't respond to that. He just dug into his eggs like a madman on a mission.

After he finished up, you grabbed an apple, tossed it in your bag, clipped your hair up, and made your way to daycare.

—

Work was still fresh and new to you. You were still settling into the new program and team, learning all of their habits and training protocols. You weren't currently tasked to a specific player, but you understood how things ran at the facility and the routines.

You were setting up your office in the rehabilitation center of the sports complex, feeling as if unpacking boxes was the epitome of your life. After finishing the last box, you tossed yourself onto your office chair, causing it to spin a bit. You let out a big, dramatic sigh.

But just as you started settling in, your boss came up to you, a slight grimace on his face.

“Y/N?” he mumbled softly, knocking on your open door. He stood hesitantly, and you already knew by the look on his face what he was going to ask of you. “So, our center forward—”

“Choi San?” you asked, eyebrows raised, your body sunken in your chair.

He nodded, biting the corner of his lip. “Uh, yeah. Choi San’s MRI results came back. Not good. Not good at all.” He entered your office, reaching out to hand you a folder labeled “Choi, S.” He nodded at the folder. “Take a look.”

I already knew what was going to be inside the folder. As I read it over, I saw the words “complete rupture of the anterior cruciate ligament” and “medial meniscus tear.” It never gets easier seeing those words. Your mind flashes back again, your knee aching as you read, as if you were reading your own diagnosis. You thought about how San was feeling at this point.

You closed the folder. “Does he know?”

Your boss nodded. “Yeah, um,” he swallowed, leaning over the chair in front of him. “He didn't say much. We already scheduled him for surgery. The sooner we get him in, the quicker we can get him back on the field.”

You sat up a bit. “Yes, but, I mean… It's more important for him to heal on his own timeline,” you blinked. “Recovery isn't linear. This will be hard for him.”

To your surprise, he just waved a hand in dismissal. "I have faith in him. And you." He pointed at the folder. "Which is actually why I'm here."

Immediately, you didn't like where this was going.

"What do you mean?"

Your boss pulled out the chair across from your desk and sat down. "After surgery, San's case is going to become your responsibility."

You stared at him. "My responsibility?"

"Primary therapist," he clarified. "You'll oversee everything. His rehab plan, progress evaluations, and return-to-play assessments. The works."

You laughed once, mostly out of disbelief. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was." He leaned forward and folded his hands together. "The club wants consistency. One person handling his recovery from start to finish. Given your specialization, you're the obvious choice."

The obvious choice.

Great. You had barely finished unpacking your office.

You had finally settled into a routine that worked. The center was busy but manageable, your patient load varied enough to keep every day interesting, and for the first time in years, your life felt balanced. You could leave work at work and still make it home in time for dinner with your son.

Now they wanted you attached to one athlete around the clock.

"What exactly does 'primary therapist' mean?" you asked carefully, your mind spinning with the possibilities.

Your boss gave you an apologetic smile. "It means he'll be your number one priority."

You groaned. "Come on."

"I'm serious." He slid a paper across your desk. "He'll be coming into the center every other day once he's cleared for outpatient rehab. You'll also be conducting home visits during the early stages of recovery."

You nearly swallowed your own tongue in shock at his words. "Home visits?"

"House calls. Just until he's able to manage more independently."

You dropped your head back against the chair. You held back an aggravated groan. You didn't even know this man, but thinking about all of the time you might lose with your son, the more you want to tear your hair out.

"Look, I know it's a lot. But San's recovery is important to the organization."

Important. That was one way to put it.

The club's star center forward tearing his ACL was probably every executive's nightmare.

You glanced down at the folder again. Honestly, you couldn't even be irritated with him. An injury like this could be devastating. You knew that better than anyone.

With a sigh, you reached for the paperwork.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah, fine. It’s fine, I’ll do it."

Your boss looked visibly relieved.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah."

After he left, you sat alone in your office, staring at the thick folder.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you thought about your son. If there was one person in the world who would be excited about this, it would be him.

Maybe, if things went well, he'd get the chance to meet Choi San.

The thought made the situation slightly less annoying. 

Well, only slightly.

-

A week later, you received a phone call telling you that San’s surgery went well and he was now at home recovering. You knew firsthand how difficult the first few weeks were adjusting to life after ACL surgery. Today, though, he should be okay. The nerve block would take care of any pain…well, for a short while. 

Your best friend, Mingi, was sprawled across your couch, arms wrapped around the back of it. He sported a backwards cap and a ginormous grin as your son crawled around him like a junglegym. “Do you know that your mommy is working with Choi San?” He gasped playfully, tickling Jun. “Isn't that fun? Oh, you gotta make sure she lets you meet him—”

“Mingi,” you hissed from the table, where you were working on the protocol you received from the surgeon. “He’s recovering from a major surgery. There's no way I’d bring that up. Besides, I’m sure that's the last thing he wants to deal with.” Listen, you loved your son more than anything—but you knew damn well that a hurting, depressed athlete would much rather stay in their own head than deal with a crazed five-year-old fan.

You shut your computer, noticing Jun’s sad expression. “Oh, honey, maybe after he gets better.”

Jun blinked at you. “Is he hurting?”

You nodded. “Oh, yes. But just for now. He’ll be okay and back to playing in no time.” As you reassured Jun, Mingi gave you a knowing look. He knows that this man will not get back on that field for at least 7 months, maybe longer. 

Despite that, Mingi lifted Jun up enthusiastically, standing up from the couch and spinning him in circles. “You hear that? You’ll get to meet your favorite player!”

You couldn't help but smile at the scene. You and Mingi went to the same college. He was in a totally different program—architecture, which was pretty damn cool—but you met during a geography prerequisite during freshman year. You clicked immediately, and the rest was history. You once thought that he would be the one for you. You’ve tried it—it just didn't feel right. 

Just as you were going to join in the conversation again, your phone rang, startling you. A text message popped up on your phone from your supervisor. You had a feeling that this was going to be what greeted you today—the start of your assignment.

The text was split up into multiple messages. The first message stated that your first official visit wasn't at the rehabilitation center but at his home. You already assumed that from the conversation you had with him in your office.

You weren't a caretaker. Physical therapy was one thing. Playing nursemaid was another. But something inside you felt an intense pull to this case—there must be a reason for the home visits besides the obvious.

The next chat bubble mentioned that, according to his discharge notes, he lived alone and would need help navigating the first few days after surgery.

It was hard to believe that a man lived alone. More so, it was hard to believe that he didn't have anyone to take care of him and that he needed home visits.

Your boss then sent one more text. 

Then you froze.

You looked again. And then a third time. "No way."

Mingi looked over to you with a confused expression, an eyebrow raised as he entertained Jun.

The address was familiar…too familiar. The apartment number wasn't even far from yours.

Just a few doors down the hall. 

Of all the places in the city, Choi San apparently lived in the same building as you. You held back, blurting it out to Mingi—he had a big ass mouth and would one hundred percent blab about his location to the entirety of the community—so you replied with a thumbs up and closed your phone.

You start this journey with San tomorrow morning. Your stomach churned just thinking about it. You couldn't tell if it was nerves, irritation, or genuine empathy. Knowing that he was just down the hallway, alone, recovering from surgery, you felt a pull to make sure he was okay. Someone shouldn't be left alone after a procedure like that, right? 

As Mingi messed around with Jun, you opened your phone again to send a message to your boss.

He lives a few doors down from me. Is he alone right now? He should not be alone.

Within seconds, he responds.

He is…

Overtime pay if you go over and check on him?

You furrowed your brows. Looking up to Mingi, you hesitated. Jun would be fine if you went over since Mingi was there. Extra money, too? Why not? Also, no one should be left alone… You sent him a message back, letting him know you were going over. 

Standing up from your spot at the table, Mingi’s gaze whipped over to you. Jun was content with watching soccer highlights on the TV. “What’s wrong?”

You scratched your elbow, pausing before pushing in your chair and going to grab your bag on the kitchen island. “Oh, uh,” you ran a hand through your hair. “I was called in for work.”

Mingi frowned. “Oh, really? It’s kind of late for that.” 

You looked at the clock above the stove. It was nearing Jun’s bedtime. “I know, but I get paid overtime for it.” You nodded towards Jun. “I could get him the new cleats he’s been wanting. Could you put him to bed for me if I’m not back in time?”

You could tell that Mingi wanted to say more. He didn't, though, and nodded. “Yeah, of course. Little man and I are good here.”

You made your way over to him and gave him a smooch on the cheek. “Oh, thank you, Mingi, you’re a lifesaver.” You squeezed his bicep, totally missing the reaction he gave. His cheeks flushed, but you were zooming out of the door quickly, both excited and irritated and, to be honest, every other emotion under the sun. 

You were excited to build a relationship with him for your son. You were nervous about dealing with another ACL recovery, knowing the memories it would bring back to you. And you were irritated that you didn't get to have a glass of wine before bed like you do every Wednesday. You called it Wine Wednesday—it'll probably be ‘whine’ Wednesday today.

You gave your son a big smooch as well, told him to be good for Uncle Mingi,  stepped out into the hallway and made your way toward his apartment.

The closer you got, the more surreal it felt.

You stopped in front of the door, adjusted the strap of your bag, and knocked. A few seconds passed, then you heard slow footsteps approaching from the other side.