#gamesetattach

Had he not known you were coming, he probably wouldn’t have spared a single look towards the other side of the fence or towards the ledge of onlookers on the balcony. But you’d texted that you were on your way right before he’d begun—so he knew to search for you. 

“It is a beautiful day for tennis, yes, but you have not looked up once,” someone said offhandedly, breaking your focus, the voice edged with amusement.

The figure that had vaguely been watching the court behind you since you sat now shifted to stand beside you. You turned, following the voice, to find a crisp shirt, polo sneakers, and a head of neat, brown waves. Coffee in one hand, the stranger leaned his weight onto the frame of the empty chair next to yours. 

He nodded toward Jannik down at the courts, voice relaxed and smile friendly. “Big fan?”

“Yeah,” you nodded politely as you looked up to him, casting a hand over your eyes to shield the sun. “The biggest possible, really.”

“You have good taste,” he said, then stuck out a hand. “Jules. I usually come for the golf, but when I heard Sinner was hitting today—well, I had to come.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” You smiled and accepted his handing, shaking it briefly and offering your own name. “I honestly don’t come to the club often, but when I do it’s to watch… Nothing more satisfying than Jannik’s strokes against the ball.”

“Yes, yes, the best sound. I agree.” He smiled, nodding earnestly.

With that, the introduction and brief conversation came to a natural end. You both turned to look back down onto the courts, Jules’ one hand still resting on the chair beside you. Tracing the ball moving back and forth across the court, your heads turned in unison as you watched Jannik rally. He moved strong and steady, sharp lines of motion cutting across the court as he slid from one side of the baseline to the other. 

When Jannik delivered the final blow of the rally—the balls ricocheting clean off his strings—a quiet murmur of oohs and ahhs passed through the balcony. You caught eyes with Jules as you gently clapped with the rest of the crowd, sharing another, cordial smile.

“Superb shot.” He said to you, raising his brows, and you hummed in agreement.

Now noticing he was still standing close by, you gestured to the seat by you. “Feel free to sit, also. No one’s sitting here.”

“Oh,” Jules smiled easily, pulling the chair out to sit. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You shrugged. “The more comfortable you are, the longer you can watch—pro tip.”

“This is true. Very good point.” He laughed at that, immediately lifting a leg to rest his calf on his thigh as if taking your advice to heart. “Do you attend many tennis matches, then?”

“Oh yeah.” You gestured to the court and then back to yourself. “Actually, Jannik and I—we’re together. So I travel with him and watch when I can.”

“Ah, really?” Jules tilted his head with genuine intrigue and surprise. “I see—So you are his biggest fan.”

“I like to think so, yes.” You chuckled and he joined in with you.

The rest of the practice consisted of the same casual and comfortable exchange with Jules. Easy to talk to and full of good-natured questions—he asked about your favorite spots in Monaco, if you ever played tennis yourself, what it was like dating someone with that kind of discipline. You enjoyed the idle company, always answering him while continuing the small talk yourself, and Jules was personable and open. One more than one occasion, you made each other laugh with quiet banter and commentary about the tennis play below you.

Of course, Jannik continued through his routine with characteristic skill. Hitting with controlled intensity. His footwork was clean, movements economical—entirely lasered in the game, the way he always was when he stepped on court.

But, in his brief moments in between, he’d still look to you.

When he next paused to towel off, he glanced toward the balcony, out of habit, searching for you. His gaze landed on you quickly, as it did each time—having catalogued exactly where you’d sat as soon as you entered—only this time, you weren’t looking back.

You were angled just slightly away from court, toward someone else. You were still facing forward, but right now you seemed to be looking at the person sitting beside you. Jannik didn’t recognize the man, though you must have been acquainted—you were listening and nodding at whatever he was saying.

Jannik blinked and watched for a moment longer, mostly in hopes of catching your eyes, before shrugging it off. There were a few club regulars that had come to know you by name, and you’d often exchange neighborly conversation when running into each other. And even if it were a stranger, it wasn’t uncommon for bystanders and well-meaning fans to approach you. It was one of the things he appreciated most about you—you took all that came with his career in stride and with grace, never buckling at the pressure of his fame. Even the way you’d taken time out of your own busy schedule to watch his practice from a distance was just one of the many examples of your unconditional support. 

So Jannik transitioned into the next phase of his practice without another thought of it. 

The next stretch of drills was longer, his coach feeding balls rapid-fire as Jannik moved side to side, powering forehands into the corners. Hair tucked under a faded white cap, shirt clinging to his back with sweat more and more, limbs long and focused as he moved across the baseline. His coach and team were off to the side, giving quiet notes between drills, but otherwise letting him fall into his own rhythm. 

He stayed that way, immersed in the regimen all the way up until the next break. 

Then Jannik nodded to Simone’s quick corrections, walking over to the bench again. Reaching for his towel and sitting, he pulled in a breath. His eyes drifted up to the balcony—it seemed that man was still there.

You were both laughing at something this time. Not just a passing, polite smile. Heads tilted in, shoulders nearly touching, you were looking at something on his phone. Whatever was on the screen had you grinning, and when you leaned away it was with a delighted clap.

Jannik exhaled through his nose, but he continued to look up in your direction throughout his brief break. He tuned out the usual banter of his team, not adding into their light conversation. Even when directly asked something, he just barely glanced at them while answering before his eyes strayed back up to you. 

Never once did your eyes meet his, though.

He returned to the line with a huff—dragging a hand over his face, he tried to shake himself out of it. But his concentration was undeniably frayed.

He managed to keep moving for the remaining half hour—serve practice, volley drills, point simulations. But, every so often, he’d glance up. His eyes would dart to you, quick glances at any possible opportunity. And, everytime, you seemed to miss it.

You were watching Jannik throughout, but your trained gaze was split with humoring the charming banter of your new acquaintance—and usually Jannik was your sole focus during these practices. 

In the beginning of seeing each other, you’d bring a book or your laptop with you, but quickly realized you wanted nothing more than to watch him. And only him.

There was something mesmerizing about the silent way he filled the space when he stepped on court, entirely in his element. You knew you loved watching him like this before you even knew you loved him. At first you’d watch the neat angles of his game, the discipline in his repetition, but now you’d come to watch for smaller moments like when his lips twitched with amusement after a particularly difficult shot.

You couldn’t come often, which made days like this rare and sweet. And you knew Jannik just liked knowing you were there—when you could be tucked into his peripheral, it was always a welcome treat. You liked giving him that—your steady support, your ready eyes. He’d always share those stolen glances with you. A flicker of his gaze, the ghost of a grin after. You felt lucky, every time—somehow today, there’d been less of those moments. 

And that stayed true all the way through the rest of practice.

Eventually—after a decidedly rough second half of practice where Jannik missed twice as many balls than usual—the team began wrapping up. The coaches collected the balls and Jannik reached for the rake.

He took his time smoothing out the clay, dragging the mesh across the court then back again with careful, wide lines. A meditative act, Jannik always felt grounded in repeating the motion he’d done almost daily since he was a kid. Familiar and calming, he took the quiet moment to clear his mind. 

But halfway into his sweep, that peace was interrupted—disrupted by one of his favorite sounds. Your laugh. Carrying you down from the balcony.

Jannik froze mid-rake, and his head shot up. At first by instinct and then with frustration, because it wasn’t the polite kind you might have offered a true stranger. It was the real thing. Loose and warm and melodic.

He looked up in time to see you throw your head back, another wave of laughter, that ripple of sound that he could pick out in any crowd with no trouble at all. The man beside you was doubled over in a similar state and when he finally straightened as you wiped a tear from your eye, he set a hand on your shoulder. 

Jannik had to snap his face down, glaring down at the clay as he fell instep again—yanking the rake after him harder than necessary. He clenched his jaw, a tightness taking over his chest, heavy and immovable even as he left the court.

Practice had ended, but that knot in his stomach stayed taut.

---

Jannik, after cooling down in the gym and washing up in the locker room, chatted with his coaches as they headed into the parking lot. You were already by the exit, leaning on the gate, still accompanied by Jules and engaged in his easy going conversation. 

"Anyway," you said, cutting yourself off when you spied Jannik out of the corner of your eye. "I have to go, but it was nice meeting you."

"Of course," Jules nodded with a smile, already stepping towards his car. "It was nice to meet you as well—maybe I will see you around."

"Maybe,” you said with a smile, offering a final wave as you moved to join Jannik. “Take care."

Jannik had watched the goodbye unfold from a few yards away, looking over Simone and Darren. Jannik’s eyes were still trained on Jules when you approached the circle of his team and joined right beside him.

"Hey," you greeted Jannik, nodding to the team with a bright smile. They all exchanged brief, friendly with you before dismissing themselves for the evening, chiming their goodbyes as everyone separated to their respective cars.

"See you next tomorrow," Darren patted Jannik before giving you a warm smile. “And good to see you.”

“You too.” You said as Jannik nodded in reply before he silently unlocked the car. From the other side of the lot, Simone waved goodbye and you called out to him. “Ciao."

Jannik slid into the driver's seat without a word, and you followed suit in the passenger’s seat—though your quiet was unsuspecting and not nearly as loaded. 

The engine was already purring to life when you buckled in and Jannik backed out of the spot soon after without so much as glancing in your direction. The silence between you felt heavy and unprompted in the gentle buzz of early evening.

"You looked great out there today,” you said sincerely before joking slightly, reaching over to pat his thigh once. “Missed some easy ones in the second half, but, still, you looked great.”

He barely nodded, not even acknowledging your affectionate teasing, his tone clipped and neutral. "Thanks."

"How did you feel?" You prompted.

"Fine."

"... Just fine?” You tried. “You were working those corners so hard, I’m surprised the lines didn’t wear down.” 

Silence.

You tilted your head, turning to scan him a bit. "Was that the new technique you were working on with Simone?"

"Yeah."

“Wow,” you laughed softly under your breath. “Getting a lot out of you today."

Again, he didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, jaw ticking a bit.

Sometimes he was quiet after practice—tired and depleted, there were times when his body and mind was so spent that he couldn’t quite carry conversation. Sometimes it was the opposite, and his head and heart would still be rushing with adrenaline even when stepping off court. And even then, he just needed space to decompress, to let the intensity of training settle. Often, he’d go quiet in moments, his focus wandering to his game play. Always analyzing each serve, each movement, mentally replaying every missed shot. 

You’d learned to give him that room when he needed it, trusting he’d come around in his own time. In all other instances, Jannik was a devoted and attentive partner—so when he needed you to, you’d fill the silence. 

And so you did just that, chatting lightly to no one in particular as he drove you both home.

"I actually met this really nice guy while I was watching. Jules. He comes to the club to play golf. He was funny. Super easy to talk to. He was born in Paris, but he’s lived here since he was ten and—get this—his dad worked for the royal family here. He had some crazy stories about that."

You went on. "He said he attended the Monte Carlo Masters in the same box as the royal family when he was a kid. He was in tears the whole time because he hated tennis for whatever reason, but his dad made him sit through it quietly, which only made him hate it more, of course.”

You looked over to Jannik for a second, continuing when you saw he was still unresponsive. “He said he hadn't really taken to tennis until very recently—said you were a big reason for that, actually. But I’ll be honest, I don’t think he’s that into it yet because we talked throughout practice and—"

"I saw." 

The words landed abruptly, cutting straight through your sentence. You blinked, caught off guard not just by the interruption—though Jannik never interrupted you—but by the tone. Sharp, hard-edged, not like him at all.

You blinked, turning back to look at him.

His jaw was set. Eyes forward. One hand flexed a little too tightly on the wheel. 

It clicked.

“Wait…” Your mouth parted slightly. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of your lips. "Jan... Are you jealous?"

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either, and that was confirmation enough.

“Oh my god.” You let out a small laugh, genuinely amused. "You are. Oh, Jannik."

His shoulders stiffened even more, pressing his lips tighter together. "... I don’t see what’s funny."

The way he said it, low and flat, only made you laugh a little more. You couldn’t help it—it felt absurd. Sweet almost, in that the reaction was so unlike his usual self-control. 

It felt harmless to you, but he didn’t say anything more for the rest of the ride…

---

You kicked off your shoes and padded into the hallway, dropping your phone on the coach. Jannik followed a few paces behind, keys left in the dish by the door, tennis bag and jacket shrugged off in silence.

He still hadn’t said a word.

You glanced back at him as you turned on the light. Unimpressed by how long he’d kept up the attitude, you decided to lightly bite back with a bit of your own—the novelty of his jealousy having worn off. 

"You gonna keep pouting forever or are we still making dinner?"

He gave you a look—unreadable—before brushing past you into the kitchen. "I got it."

"Okay... Okay yeah, you better." You followed, leaning against the island as he opened a cabinet to pull a pot out. "Because I’m not sure this silent treatment is conducive to a productive cooking environment… I mean, would you carry boiling water behind me without a word? Because that feels unsafe."

He went to the sink and filled the pot without answering, not taking your bait.

You let out an exaggerated sigh. You cast your eyes to the side and, mostly under your breath, you said, "I bet Jules would have said a dozen things by now."

Still nothing. But you saw it—the small twitch in his jaw, the way his shoulders immediately squared too tight. Too soon, you sucked in a regretful breath. Way too soon.

“Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for…” You wrapped around the island to join him by the sink. “I’m sorry. It was a poor attempt at a joke… One of many, actually...” 

He shut off the water, swatting the faucet down, turning his face away from you. You didn’t have to see him to know that his brows were furrowed and his mouth was set straight.

“Jan. Come on.” You closed the space between you and slipped your arms around his waist from behind, cheek resting against his back. "You don’t have to be weird about it... Or worried…  

He was still stiff in your arms.

“I’m yours, you know that." You said.

And that cracked him.

He turned in your arms slowly, hands finding your hips, and you pulled back a little to look at him. "Say it again."

You cocked your head. "That I’m yours?"

His grip tightened slightly, his eyes cast down and focused on you. He didn’t say anything, but you knew.

"I’m yours." You smiled up at him now. “I’m yours, Jannik.”

He inhaled, a deep breath through his nose. His eyes stared back into yours for a single, loaded beat.

And then he surged down, meeting your lips and pulling you into him—his lips caught yours mid-breath, stealing it from you with the sheer force of it. He kissed you hard, heavy and anything but gentle. One of his hands came up fast to cradle the side of your face, his thumb resting on the swell of your cheek. The other found the back of your neck, squeezing the sides before his fingers threading through the bottom of your hair.

His mouth moved over yours with determined hunger and claim. He tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss, tongue briefly tracing your lip in a way that made your knees weak. Your hands shot to his chest, steadying yourself, then slid around his neck.

When he broke away for air, his breath was ragged against your cheek for just a moment before you pulled him back just as hard, your pulse spiking as the air between you narrowed down to nothing and a low sort of growl left him. Every press of his mouth said what he hadn’t. 

He knew you were his, but still needed to feel it. To prove it.

"No one knows you like I do" he murmured, voice rough.

His hands were rougher now, more urgent, mouth demanding, breath shallow. He tugged off his own shirt before pulling yours over your head, lips only leaving you when they had to. As the fabric slipped away, he stepped away from the sink and backed you slowly into the island, his body pressing flush against yours. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then lower, working along the line of your throat with such a deliberate slowness that it made your breath hitch.

You tilted your head instinctively, granting him more access, and he took it—his lips dragging hot and open across your neck, tongue teasing, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. His hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you in place against the marble’s edge as his mouth moved all around you—along the slope of your shoulder, down to the hollow just above your collarbone where he left a slow, bruising kiss that made your eyes flutter shut. Then lower, dragging his lips along the curve of your chest.

And then retraced his path back up with the same intensity, his breath hot and uneven as it ghosted over the damp, swollen places he'd just claimed—your jaw, the sensitive skin under your ear, the side of your throat now marked with his insistence. 

You felt his hands flexed rough against your waist, as if you couldn’t already feel his passion from the way every kiss seared into you. He wasn’t being gentle. He wasn’t trying to be.

He sucked hard just beneath your ear, another kiss he was making sure would bloom into a bruise, and you felt yourself melt against the counter, knees unsteady, hands curling into his shoulders. He nipped lower, to the crook where your neck met your shoulder again, mouth hot and open, dragging a slow, wet kiss across the skin before biting down enough for you to suck in a sharp breath.

You squirmed, a quiet moan escaping you as he moved again, lips brushing across the top of your chest—he latched onto a spot above your heart, sucking hard and slow until the pressure left another raw and aching mark.

He pulled back for a moment to look at the trail he’d left—faint hues turning deeper by the second. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and sure. Then he dipped again, mouth sealing over your pulse point, sucking as you gasped and gripped his hair.

“You are mine.” He spoke into your skin. “Always.”

Each place he touched burned, and you knew he meant for it to last. He didn’t pause to ask if it was too much. He didn’t need to—not when you were all but pushing him deeper into your neck, moaning at just the thought of how you knew you’d feel him for hours afterward.

You’d barely nodded to agree when his mouth found yours again, in a kiss that was all heat and friction. Even deeper this time—slower, more layered. 

His tongue brushed against yours once, coaxing rather than demanding. A hand came up to cradle the back of your neck while the other gripped your waist, anchoring you as his hips slotted between your legs. You kissed him back eagerly, breath quickening, hands threading through his hair again to tug him closer.

Then his hand drifted lower. Confident and unhurried—he began to work the button of your jeans open. The pop of it coming undone broke the rhythm of your breathing in anticipation, and you gasped softly into his mouth. By the time his hand eased beneath the waistband of your underwear, the heat stirring low and tight in your stomach had been long-awaiting, and you lifted your hips slightly for him. 

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a shaky breath as his fingers first grazed you. 

He stroked you slowly at first, his touch precise and maddeningly slow, just enough to tease. His fingers moved in light circles, brushing over your clit before retreating just off over and over again. Then he’d sweep lower to slide through the wetness he was pulling from you, then come back up, stopping just short of where you were aching for more. Each pass felt like a test, like he was daring you to ask—to beg.

You whimpered, thighs twitching as your hips rolled into his hand, trying to catch more of him. Your breath hitched every time he withdrew, a soft noise slipping from you that only made him smirk against your jaw.

He pulled back a little to watch your reactions. To take in every flutter of your lashes, every rise of your chin. His jaw was tense, but his eyes blown out and almost prideful at the sight of you all flushed and breathless under his touch.

"Look at you," he whispered, sounding just as reverent as he did possessive. "Who else could make you feel like this?"

You shook your head, and barely breathed out a response. “Just you.” 

You bucked into his fingers just then and a moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it, soft and breathy and helpless. The sound made something flicker in his eyes—satisfaction, hunger, maybe both. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing the tail end of your moan. His lips moved hard and sure against yours and you kissed him back the best you could, but it was messier now, shakier—your lips parting against as his fingers kept working between your thighs, unrelenting, Jannik knowing exactly what to do to keep pulling more sounds from you.

It was calculated and intimate and almost cruel just how well he knew exactly what and how to withhold to make you feel everything that much more.

And then he finally slipped a single finger inside you, slowly easing past your walls in a way that made your breath seize. You really couldn’t kiss him back now—not properly, not when you moaned into his mouth as your body clamped down in welcome, greedy for more.

He moved carefully at first and your mouth fully slackened against his when his finger curled just right inside you. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders as your kiss devolved into breathy little gasps. Jannik let you break the kiss, but stayed close to watch your face, the flicker of his eyes sharp on your every expression as his mouth hovered by yours, his breaths and your gasps mixing.

When he slid in a second finger, your hips jerked forward with a choked sound. The stretch was perfect—full, insistent—and his rhythm stayed steady, coaxing and pressing and dragging against that spot that made your spine arch. His fingers moved inside you in tight, controlled strokes, curling expertly against that sweet, devastating spot with every push. And the heel of his palm caught your clit with every movement, sending sparks ricocheting through your body.

You let your head fall forward against his collarbone. Your lips moved but no sound came out at first, your whole body pulsing under the weight of what he was doing to you. You bit out the words. “Please, Jan."

He grinned, low and pleased, you felt the smile from his cheek against your head.

And then he gave you just enough. 

Your body was trembling now, hips grinding into the counter, seeking friction anywhere you could get it. Every nerve ending was lit up, every breath a shallow shudder. Your moans came in uneven bursts, higher-pitched now, and you were barely holding on.

“Jan—”

He growled low in his throat when he felt you pulse around him, and his thumb pressed down just right on your clit—firm, steady, circling in time with every stroke inside you. You cried out, the sound raw and desperate, and his eyes went darker. 

“Jannik.” You moaned his name again, drawn out and wrecked, a sound you couldn’t hold back. 

His hand slid up from your waist, pulling your head from his chest, his fingers wrapped around the front of your neck—not squeezing, just holding, firm and possessive. He tilted your head back with the soft pressure of his palm so he could watch everything, eyes locked on yours, demanding that you stay with him, show him every second of how you fell apart under his touch.

"Again," he breathed. “Say it again.”

You whimpered it this time, more breath than voice, and he rewarded you with a deeper curl of his fingers inside you, his thumb never letting up on your clit.

"Again. Look at me when you say it."

You did—barely opening your eyes, your gaze glassy and heavy lidded as you panted out his name once more. 

His breath caught, something guttural and satisfied tearing from his throat. He doubled down on everything—his pace faster but just as controlled, his fingers thrusting into you with unrelenting precision, curling harder with every inward push to grind against that spot that made your vision blur. His thumb pressed tighter against your clit, circling with more insistence, the rhythm perfectly synced to each thrust of his fingers. Every motion was deliberate, practiced, devastating and you were chasing it shamelessly now. Hips jerking forward to meet every stroke, your hands gripping his forearms, his shoulders, anything you could reach. 

Your moans were louder now, higher, breath breaking in sharp bursts as you writhed against the Jannik, your thighs trembling around his wrist. Your gaze met his in flickering, desperate intervals—barely holding, your lashes fluttering, pupils blown wide. You tried to keep looking, tried to hold his eyes, though each wave of pleasure made your vision blur and your head loll. 

Because just the look on his face—dark and possessive, lips parted just slightly as he drank it all in, every twitch of your mouth, every helpless tip of your chin—that alone was enough to send you over. The way he was watching you come apart because of him, just for him.

"—close. Jan, I’m close," you gasped, your voice cracking as he let your head fall forward against him again. He held you to his chest, a light hand on the top of your hair.

“That’s it. Just like that.” Jannik muttered above you. You felt him dip his face into the crown of your head, breathing in deep.

You were unraveling, the pleasure curling tighter with each second, pushing you closer. The edge of the island dug into the backs of your thighs as you clung to him, gasping his name again and again, broken and urgent. 

And when you shattered, pulsing around his fingers, your mouth was open and his name was still on your lips like a prayer. Your knees buckled instantly, body sagging against him as the wave of pleasure overtook you—all-consuming. You clung to him, legs trembling, gasping against his chest as aftershocks rippled through your core, his fingers now gentle inside you, coaxing out every last drop of your release.

But then you barely had time to come down from the high before he was moving again, further stirred by the feeling of you falling apart under him. 

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, making you shudder at the sensitivity. Before you could catch your breath, his hands were already on your waist, spinning you around with a firm, determined grip. You stumbled slightly from the motion, only for your chest to meet the island a second later, cool marble shocking against your flushed skin.

He bent you over it without hesitation, crowding you forward until your hips bumped the edge. With a strong hand at your lower back, he pressed you down until your torso was flush against the surface, your back in a deep arch and your hips jutting back toward him. 

His other hand slid down to spread your legs just a little wider, positioning you without words, until you were aligned perfectly. You gasped, bracing yourself against the counter as your body adjusted to the sudden new angle. You couldn't help but whimper at his decisive adjustments, just as eager for more.

You heard a rustle as he quickly stepped out of his shorts and boxers and clenched in anticipation. He wasted no time, yanking your pants and underwear down past your knees in one motion.

One hand pressed low between your shoulder blades to keep low as you squirmed, the other sliding over the curve of your ass. Your thighs instinctively parted, your breath hitching as the head of his cock dragged against your entrance. You were still pulsing, sensitive and slick from everything he’d just pulled from you, and the feeling of him lining up behind you sent another sharp thrill through your core.

He stepped even closer behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other guiding himself. And then he plunged into you in a single, fluid thrust.

You cried out at the entrance, fingers gripping the marble edge as your body adjusted to the sudden fullness. 

And then, after only a moment, he set on with a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust deep and fast, his hips snapping into yours with force that made the counter squeak beneath your grip. The feeling of the stretch was heightened in your sensitivity, and every push sent jolts of sensation ricocheting through your limbs. 

Any restraint from earlier had shattered the second he saw you come undone the first time, and now he’d filtered out entirely into possession and urgency. His hand stayed firm on your hip, holding you steady while the other braced against the counter beside you, angling his body so he could drive deeper. Your thighs trembled, your back arched instinctively, and your cheek pressed against the cold surface of the counter as you gasped for air. Every stroke hit hard, thick and relentless, and your breath stuttered into broken moans, louder with each thrust as he filled you just right. The drag and slide of him inside you had your toes curling, fingers scrambling for any grip on the surface. Every time he bottomed out, your whole body clenched around him in response.

He growled behind you, low and ragged, his breath hot on your neck as he leaned forward, grinding his hips to push himself even deeper. "You feel that? You were—" another thrust, harder, sharper— "made for me."

You nodded, whimpering, the sound barely coherent over the slap of skin and the breathless whine that tore from your throat. You didn’t need to say it—your body said it for you, rocking back against him, desperate for every inch, for every rough, possessive thrust he gave you. His hand smacking against your ass as his pace snapped harder and you moaned openly, helplessly, each sound tumbling from your lips without restraint. 

You were soaked and throbbing, your walls gripping him tight, and the way he kept hitting that perfect angle—again and again—had your vision going white at the edges. You couldn’t stay still, hips rolling, chasing him with every motion, trying to take him deeper, harder. Trying to get him impossibly closer.

The noises spilling out of you now were shameless—gasps, choked sobs of pleasure, whines that only grew higher the more he fucked into you. 

And then his hand snaked around your hip and down between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with ease. He rubbed it in tight, firm circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts, the contact sending a shock straight through your core.

You thought you might have collapsed from it, had you not already been flush against the island.

Your body jolted, the added friction so overwhelming it bordered on unbearable. Your moan cracked apart, high and strained, hips bucking wildly beneath his grip.

"Jannik—fuck—I’m gonna—"

"Let go again," he leaned forward to say into your ear, breath hot and ragged. "Give it to me."

His fingers pressed harder, holding the pressure just how you liked it—you rocked forward into his hand and then back into him each time. Your body clamped down around him, desperate and close, and he could feel every gasp, every pulse inside you.

A cry was ripped from your throat—raw, uncontrollable—as another orgasm crashed over you. Your walls seized around him, fluttering in tight, wet pulses that drew a strangled groan from his chest. Your entire body convulsed, legs trembling so hard you nearly lost your footing. You pressed your face into your arm on the counter, eyes squeezed shut, your voice catching in broken gasps and whimpers as the pleasure continued to clench.

Behind you, Jannik's pace slowed abruptly, almost to a stop—his rhythm breaking as he gasped through gritted teeth. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still thick. 

"Fuck, I have to—” He hissed and leaned over you, panting “... I'm close."

As he said it, his hand slipped up the back of your neck to curl into your hair to gently pull you upright with him as he straightened. Your back pressed against his chest, breath still ragged, and he turned your face just enough to capture your lips in a messy, heated kiss. You moaned softly into it, still catching your breath but eager—your body still humming, somehow still open and greedy for more. The feeling of him still inside you, pulsing with tension, only made the urge return faster. You reached a hand behind to clutch at his hip, grounding yourself as he deepened the kiss, groaning softly into your mouth.

Then he pulled back slightly, steadying you with a hand on your waist as he guided you forward and down once more. This time, it wasn’t sudden—it was measured and careful. He bent you slowly back over the counter, one hand keeping your hips anchored while the other hooked under your knee, lifting your leg up and setting your foot on a lower-cabinet handle. The stretch opened you up to him completely and you gasped at tilt, moaning when he slid out then back in with one smooth thrust, hitting even deeper than before. 

The edge of the island bit into your skin and your elevated leg trembled even where Jannik held it in place. The change was immediate—every stroke hit higher, sharper, right where you needed it most. You couldn’t even get out his name, your fingers clinging for the surface as he picked up the pace again—harder, deeper, the sound of skin against skin quickening in tempo. His grip on the back of your thigh tightened, holding your leg steady against the cabinet handle as his other hand returned to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He used the leverage to pull you back into each thrust, fucking you with the kind of force that made you cry out with every slam of his hips. The new angle had you seeing stars. Each stroke devastating in pleasure, making your walls flutter and clench around him uncontrollably. Your mouth hung open, voice cracking under the onslaught of sensation.

Behind you, Jannik was falling apart too. He groaned low and deep, each thrust punctuated by a ragged breath or a curse hissed between his teeth. His pace stuttered once, twice, as your body clenched hard around him, and he choked out your name.

The sound of his hips meeting yours echoed in the kitchen in a wet, slick rhythm. You were soaked from your earlier orgasms and now every thrust was a liquid slap that filled the air.

Your body was trembling, overstimulated and raw and needy—and the new angle was devastating. Your walls spasmed around him, and the squelch of each thrust grew louder with your arousal. And behind you, Jannik cursed low and desperate, burying himself to the hilt with a shudder, his voice nothing but a rasp against your spine.

"You take me so well," he groaned. "Come again. Just for me—come on."

You whined, unable to form words, your jaw slack as another wave of heat coiled inside you.

Your legs shook. Your moan turned into a cry—raw and unraveling—as the pressure inside you surged to a boiling point. Jannik’s thrusts grew harder, more erratic. He was panting behind you, each breath a ragged growl, his teeth grit as he chased his own high through the way your body clenched around him.

His hand on your hip was brutal now, doing all the work as you gave in, pulling you back to meet every snap of his hips. 

"One more," his voice was more of a whimper than a growl now. "Let me feel you… please."

And that did it. Your vision went white, your muscles locking up as your climax tore through you—hot and overwhelming. Your walls clamped down around him in wet, pulsing waves, and you heard a guttural curse behind you just before he thrust deep one final time and then stilled.

Jannik came hard with you, letting out a groan as his body tensed against yours. He spilled into you with a shudder, head bowed between your shoulder blades, breath hot and stuttering. One of his hands curled tightly around your waist, the other still holding your leg up even as it shook in his grasp from the release. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak—just held you there, still buried deep, panting. Jannik’s chest pressed tightly against your back, every inch of him still wrapped around and inside you for a long moment.

Eventually, with a shaky exhale and a kiss on your spine, he loosened his hold on your waist and gently lifted your leg off from the cabinet handle, guiding it back down until it touched the floor again. Even then, he didn’t step away—arms wrapping fully around your middle, peeling you off the island to hold you close.

You both stayed that way, letting your heartbeats slow, and when you finally stirred, Jannik’s arms stayed locked around you, steady and warm.

You turned in them slowly, your legs shaky, your chest brushing his as you shifted to face him. He didn’t let go—just moved his hold so his hands slipped to the small of your back.

You kissed him again, and this time it was soft. Just lips pressing gently, mouths brushing in a tender echo of everything that had come before. 

When you finally broke apart, you didn’t go far—just rested your foreheads together for a beat before slipping into a quiet embrace. You leaned into the island and looped your arms over his shoulders, and his slid up your back as he pulled you flush against him.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin on a slow exhale, tucked into the side of your throat where your pulse still thudded, and you leaned your head to rest against his. You stayed there, tangled and quiet, your breaths syncing as the silence turned soft and golden. His hand pressed you close, and you reached a hand over to the nape of his neck to gently play with curls.

And then he whispered your name softly into your skin, kissing the curve of your neck, his words muffled but clear all the same. “I love you.”

You let it hang in the air for a moment, then gently threaded your fingers through the back of his hair to tug softly, coaxing his face up from your neck. 

His eyes met yours, and all traces of the tension seemed to have melted from his expression.

And you knew—there was nothing more to clear up, nothing more to reassure. Any doubt at all being false and fleeting. You were his just as wholly as he was yours, and he knew that. 

But you figured you’d say as much anyways.

"You know it’s only ever been you for me, right?" you said softly, brushing your thumb along the side of his face. "... You’re not just the only one who can make me feel this way—You’re the only one I want... Ever… Always."

"I love you.” You added, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I’m your biggest fan, and it’s not even close."

His arms tightened around you and he exhaled against you, your words only settling what he already knew. You stayed there like that, the heat of him pressed against you, the love resting in that space between your breaths. 

---

“... You’re still making dinner, right?”

“Is it too late for take out?”

{{{

Added the jealousy plot point in last minute, because who doesn't love that!! Tried my best to make both reader and Jannik faultless despite it... Wanted their relationship to be loving and supportive at its core, and I didn't want either of them crossing any relationship lines and tetering on toxic, you know? Just wanted some tasteful tension and a perfectly acceptable and healthy fight and hot, hot sex with getting dicked down the fuck down against a countertop as a resolution.

Also!! The very last minute additions means that this is not so proofread... apologies

You had been training here for weeks now, preparing for your first F1 Academy race after years spent wrangling cars through unpredictable terrain. The transition demanded flexibility, precision, an entirely different kind of endurance. Your mornings were spent sharpening your reflexes, reinforcing your core, strengthening the muscles that would keep you steady through high-speed corners. It was just you and your trainer, day in day out, pushing a familiar routine, the constant burn in your muscles.

And then, one morning, he was there.

Jannik Sinner walked in with his trainer, Marco, his presence quiet but unmistakable. He was taller than you expected, lean and coiled with the kind of strength you couldn’t quite see, but could feel in that stalky way he would walk. You knew who he was immediately—of course you did—but you reminded yourself that you were too professional to stare. He wasn’t the only high-profile athlete to train here, and you weren’t about to gawk like some wide-eyed spectator.

He didn’t seem to notice you, not at first. He moved through his drills with the same focus you had seen on the court, that quiet intensity. In between his sets though, somewhere between reps and exhaustion, you’d catch a boyish smile or a carefree laugh he’d exchange with his trainer.

For a while, you existed in parallel, your sessions overlapping but never intersecting. You caught glimpses—him adjusting his grip on a resistance band, the sharp exhale as he pushed through a set, the way he raked his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair between reps. And every so often, you felt his gaze flicker over to you, just for a second, just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

The first time you really felt his eyes on you came when you were braced to carry out your neck exercises—not your most flattering state. You had looped the resistance band around your head, pressing against the strain of the taut elastic held by your trainer, the familiar burn settling into your muscles. It was a critical part of your training, one that separated racing drivers from other athletes. The forces your body endured inside a car were unique, relentless. Without this work, your neck would collapse under the sheer weight of the G-forces pressing you into the seat.

Sinner, taking a quick water break, wiped sweat from his brow as he watched you from afar. He gently waved for the attention of his trainer, tipping his chin toward you. 

"È una pilota?” he murmured to Marco, keeping his voice low. A driver? 

Marco followed his gaze, nodding slightly. "Eh, direi di sì. Con quegli esercizi al collo." Must be. With those neck exercises.

Sinner hummed in thought, his attention lingering just a fraction longer before he returned to his set. The moment passed quickly, but the curiosity was left to settle.

---

The next time you saw him at the gym, it had to have been the fifth day in a row and, yet, it was the first time you actually spoke.

You were mid-set, muscles burning through the last reps of an exercise when Marco and your own trainer strayed near one another. Marco caught his eye, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before striking up casual conversation, trainer to trainer—glady exchanging trade secrets, built on years of shared spaces and common understanding. They talked recovery plans, upcoming schedules, the way their athletes were adjusting to routine.

They conversed around you and above you as you finished up the exercise. You were still tied to your set, bound to the mat, committed to finishing the last controlled movements when Sinner, finishing his own set first, made his way over. You faltered a little as he came close. He wiped his face with his towel, slung it around his neck, and drifted closer, slipping into the conversation of your trainers with a natural ease.

“You’re training for a professional sport, yeah?” Marco asked, nodding his head toward you as he spoke to your trainer.

Your trainer nodded, casting a quick glance in your direction. “Yeah. She’s a racing driver.”

“That’s cool,” Sinner said, his voice more open now, engaged. “We had a feeling—saw you making the neck exercises.”

You exhaled through the last rep before finally sitting up to join the conversation, flexing your fingers slightly before glancing toward him. His gaze was neutral, not probing, and even a little… interested. 

“You know your stuff then,” you said, gesturing to your neck. “It’s a necessary evil... Are you a Formula fan?”

“Of course.” Marco cut in. “We are Italian.”

Jannik huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s true, I grew up watching Ferrari.” Then, a pause. “What series do you drive for?”

“F1 Academy,” you said, wiping the sweat from your palms. “Just made the switch from rallying, actually.”

That piqued his interest. “Rally?” His brows lifted slightly. “That’s a bit different, no?”

You shrugged, adjusting the wrap on your wrist. “Yeah, but racing is racing. Seemed like the right time to make a change.”

Your trainer nudged Sinner slightly. “She’s being modest,” they noted to him. “She’s had a great run in rally—Formula è dove girano i soldi.” Formula is where the money is.

Sinner’s gaze flickered back to you, you caught amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. “I get that,” he said. “Still, that’s exciting for sure.”

You gave a small smile. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Just have to train extra hard.” Then, getting up to stand, you extended a hand. “I’m [Your Name], by the way.”

His grip was firm, steady. “Jannik,” he said, though there was clearly no need to introduce himself.

You smirked slightly, dropping his hand. “No, I know.” Then, with a small nod, you admitted, “I don’t follow tennis so much, but I’d have to be living under a rock not to know who you are.”

Jannik smiled at that, easy and genuine. 

The conversation carried on from there, shifting naturally between topics—training schedules, travel routines, the way Monaco had an uncanny way of crossing the paths of athletes from every odd discipline and feild. Marco and your trainer chimed in now and then, but they stuck to their own bubble; leaving you and Jannik to exchange necessary small talk, breaking the ice with the customary explanation of your careers and your lifestyles. 

Then, a gym staff member approached and broke the conversation that had narrowed to just the two of you, all smiles and hopeful energy. “Hi, sorry to interrupt—would you two mind taking a quick photo for the gym’s socials? Just a quick one.”

You hesitated and glanced at Jannik, letting him call the shots. He met your gaze, before shrugging. “Sure, why not?”

The camera clicked. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment, one that would live online long after you both moved on. You nodded to him and returned to your workout after that, taking the photo as a catalyst to break you away from your extended introductions. He did the same.

But when he left a little while later, bag slung over his shoulder, he hesitated just before the door. Just enough to glance back. You think he even waited for a second so that he could catch his eyes, lifting a hand in a casual wave.

---

It didn’t take long for the photo to spread. 

Apparently, that casual snapshot posted on the gym’s official Instagram was just the beginning. It was nothing overly produced or posed, you and Jannik standing side by side, post-workout, both a little flushed from exertion, him with a towel still draped around his neck and leaning down a bit in your direction, you with your arms relaxed at your sides. There was even a significant gap between you two—nothing awkward, just an appropriate distance for two, newly acquainted people. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, just a blip in athletes' routine.

But the internet saw anything but.

They took it and ran. 

First, it was just tennis and motorsport fans recognizing two known athletes in the same frame. Then, it came the speculation—what were you talking about? Did you know each other? Were you training together? Supporting him through his ban? Him through your off-season?

And then, somewhere along the way, the internet collectively decided something else: that you and Jannik Sinner—in this totally unassuming, nonchalant gym photo—looked incredibly good together.

It didn’t help that the lighting was oddly flattering, that your post-exercise glow read more like a happy flush than the result of hours of physical strain. Or that Jannik, with his usual mix of sharp angles and an effortlessly tousled look, had that kind of reserved presence that made the smallest of expressions—like the barely-there smirk he was wearing in the photo—feel more deliberate than they actually were.

The quote tweets were relentless:

okay but why is this kinda a sports power couple?? i don’t even care about tennis or f1 but i CARE about this Formula for the fastest kid alive: they have compatible energies. athletes in their prime, locked in, looking like they’d make an unfairly attractive athletic dynasty.

It was amusing at first. You weren’t oblivious to the way social media latched onto things, how narratives formed out of nothing but a well-timed post. You’d seen it happen with other athletes, random friendships turned into sagas, the media deciding truths before the actual people involved even had a chance to weigh in. Still, you weren’t expecting this level of fixation.

The first time you scrolled through the posts, you snorted, shaking your head as you locked your phone and tossed it onto your bed. Ridiculous. It wasn’t like the two of you had even had a proper conversation beyond the introductions and a bit of light small talk. A photo wasn’t anything more than a photo.

And yet…

You opened Instagram again later, only to find that you had now been tagged in dozens of edits. A few of them were standard—gym recaps, Mclaren social media content, highlight reels. Others, though, leaned full tilt into the narrative people were spinning.

Side-by-side comparisons of your best race shots and his championship moments. Clips of your training overlaid with his on-court movement, the parallels drawn with surgical precision. Some even went as far as to slow zoom on the way he had turned toward you in the photo, like there was some hidden meaning in it, some undeniable chemistry.

Even mainstream sports pages had picked up on it. One account with millions of followers captioned it:

“Two generational athletes, one frame. Tennis x Motorsport crossover we didn’t know we needed.”

Another read:

“Rally on Rally Crime”

You stared at your screen, exhaling slowly, fingers hovering over your phone. There was something surreal about seeing yourself plastered across social media like this, turned into a narrative you had no hand in shaping. It wasn’t overwhelming, not yet, but it was definitely… something. You were new to the attention, the fresh face of Mclaren’s F1 Academy seat—rally races had never amassed as much coverage as it deserved.

You flicked back to the original post, on the gym’s official account, scrolling through the comments again, rolling your eyes at some, laughing at others. It would pass, you told yourself. The internet was fickle. It would move on. But a part of you relished the commotion… that it was a connection to him.

So when you noticed something new, as you refreshed the post, you sat up a little straighter.

“Jannik liked!!”

Jannik had liked the post. He’d seen it. 

You locked your phone immediately, setting it face-down on your nightstand. Don’t read into it. Don’t read into it, be chill. 

You had no reason to believe he’d devolved into all the discussion and attention on the two of you like you had. He’d only interacted with the original post, and of course he had.

… Of course he had.

---

The gym felt the same as it always did—cool air humming from overhead vents, the scent of rubber mats and faint traces of sweat lingering in the quiet. No flashing cameras, no murmurs of speculation, no sign that the internet had turned one candid gym photo into an international talking point. It was just another training day.

At least, that’s what you had to tell yourself. But you couldn’t deny you had an easier time making it to the gym than usual, hopeful to have another run in…

You spotted Jannik almost immediately. He was mid-session, focused, his movements precise as he worked through a set. You caught the briefest flicker of recognition when he glanced up, a nod exchanged without hesitation before he refocused on his workout. His trainer gave you a wave as well. Completely normal. Casual. Just another morning at the gym.

Your own trainer, however, had other ideas.

As you passed by Jannik and Marco on your way to warm up, your trainer chuckled to themself before leaning in, voice just low enough for only you to hear. "Shouldn’t you kiss hello."

You shot them a glare before they could get any further. "Not a word."

They laughed but relented, though you could still feel their amusement in the way they shook their head as you both moved past. It should’ve been easy to shake off, you had media training for this. A stupid internet thing, a momentary obsession that would pass like everything else.

And yet, for the rest of your session, you couldn’t help but be even more aware of him than you had been before.

It wasn’t that you were watching him. Not exactly. But every time you caught sight of him in the mirror, your eyes lingered longer than necessary. The way his shirt clung to his back as he moved through a set, the way his fingers flexed between reps, the sharp lines of concentration in his face before the effort melted into something looser, more at ease. The way he’d lift his shirt to dab at sweat collecting on his nose, revealing the his torso for the briefest of seconds. It wasn’t just that he was attractive—you weren’t that easily distracted, you weren’t gawking—but there was something engaging about watching someone that dedicated, that in control of every motion… that’s how you rationalized it, at least.

And apparently, your "non-appraisal" wasn’t the most discreet.

“Eyes on your form. If you want to watch a tennis player, go to a match.” Your trainer quipped when you zoned out a beat too long before starting your next set.

You rolled your eyes, gripping the dumbbells tighter, determined to redirect your focus. It was nothing. Just heightened awareness. You were an athlete—you respected talent, recognized discipline when you saw it. That was all.

Jannik, on his end, wasn’t exactly faring much better. He wasn’t watching you—at least, not intentionally. But in the way athletes naturally kept tabs on their surroundings, his gaze found you more often than it should have. The way you braced before each set, the push of your muscles under strain, the quiet control in your movements. A few times, when he caught himself watching too long, he forced his focus back to his own workout, but it kept happening. And then, the mirror—

Your eyes met.

Brief, fleeting. Obvious.

You dropped your gaze first, pressing your lips together, exhaling lightly through your nose as you curled the dumbell. He played it off just as smooth, refocusing on his medicine ball. But the next time you risked a look, you thought you caught a smirk growing on his lips.

By the time Jannik finished his session, you were still deep in your workout, beads of sweat dotting your skin as you powered through another set. He and Marco passed by on their way out, both offering another easy wave goodbye.

“See you later,” Jannik said, voice light and natural, and you nodded back in response. 

But just as they passed, you caught Marco’s voice directed at Jannik, low and teasing. "Allora, quando la sposi?" So, when’s the wedding?

Jannik’s laugh was quiet, but unmistakable. As they stepped outside, just before the door swung shut behind them, he glanced back once more. Through the glass, his gaze flicked toward you before he replied, “Ah, dicono che sia già successo.” They say it's already happened.

You barely caught his remark through the muffle of the closing door, but his expression seemed to happily humor whatever offhand comment Marco had made. And you had your suspicions about what it may have been about—or you had your hopes, at least.

You turned to your trainer, who had lived in Monaco long enough to know some Italian. “Did you catch that? Please tell me you did.”

“If I tell you, you have to promise to push the next set until failure. For real, this time.”

“Last time was for real.” You threw a nearby foam roller at them. “Just tell me.”

“Something about marriage.”

“Okay… I knew it! I think I caught that—sposi.” 

“Why ask then, if you know everything.” Your trainer retorted, smirking as they turned their back on you.

“For the love of—just finish. What’d he say back?” You grab their shoulders to spin them back toward you.

“He said…”

“I’ll kill you, I will.”

With another roll of their eyes, your trainer finally indulged you. “Something about how an alleged wedding has already happened.” 

“...Meaning he must have seen the tweets?”

“And the posts and the edits… Yeah, I think it’s safe to say he knows of it.” They sent you an amused look as they handed you a kettle bell the next weight up.

“And he didn’t seem mad about it…”

“That, he did not—not at all.”

And, even while completing your final and most rigorous exercise of the day, you couldn’t stop the grin that slowly grew on your face.

---

The F1 season was on the cusp of beginning, and the next time you made your way to the gym would be the last for many months. Pre-season testing had wrapped, final preparations were being made. You were back in Monaco for a brief period before the first race of the F1 calendar would take place, just a handful of days away. Everything felt sharper, more electric—like the all things around you were bracing for competition.

Much to your luck, Jannik happened to be their during you last visit as well. He approached you during a short break in your workout, a casual but deliberate kind walk up to you. You’d caught him looking over quite a few times since you’d arrived, as if he’d thought about coming up for a while.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice as easy as ever. “I wanted to wish good luck before you leave.”

“Oh—thanks.” You looked up, slightly surprised but not displeased. “Feels like everything’s kind of kicking off all at once.”

He nodded, resting a hand on his towel-draped shoulder. “Melbourne’s always exciting. You can feel it even here in Monaco, the first race weekend energy is always something else.”

“Yeah, it’s chaos honestly. Fans everywhere, nerves, media running at full speed.” You huffed a small laugh, stretching out your arms. “You’re pretty familiar with Melbourne, aren’t you?

“Yes, yeah,” he smiled, a knowing glint in his eye at your allusion to his win streak there. “It’s a special place—it’s also the first major of the season. So Australia is the beginning for us tennis players, too.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” You considered that, then gave a slight tilt of your head. “F1 Academy's start actually isn’t in Melbourne, though.”

It was a common misconception, many long-time F1 fans like Jannik weren’t familiar with the sporadic F1 Academy schedule that went in tandem with F1 itself, but he was quick to respond. Matter-of-fact and faultless, he quickly clarified for himself. “Aah, yes. It’s in Shanghai, no? The week after?”

“...Yes, actually.” His informed answer stopped you for a second, leaving you pleasantly surprised, your brows raising. “That’s exactly right.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “I assume you will be traveling soon either way so I wanted to wish you luck before.”

“Well, thank you,” You hummed, smirking to yourself as you picked up your water bottle. “... Seems like someone’s been looking into the F1 Academy schedule.”

Jannik didn’t skip a beat at the teasing. If anything, his reply was entirely diplomatic, if not a little sheepish. “No, I mean—honestly, I did not know much before,” he admitted. “But I’d like to.”

You shot him a look, playful and curious. “Yeah? Big F1 Academy fan now?”

“Trying to be,” he said, smiling. “I like all racing.”

“Good answer.”

You chatted a little more—about training, about how brutal long-haul flights could be when in-season travel ramped up, about the chaos of Melbourne when the events rolled into town. The conversation was easy, no need for overthinking. Just two people talking about their respective worlds, swapping stories of airports, media days, and all the ways professional sports altered the warped any sense of time zones.

And then, as you were about to part ways, he hesitated for just a second before speaking. “Hey,” he said, shifting slightly on his feet. “Mind if I get your number?”

You blinked once, processing. Athletes exchanged numbers all the time. Networking, staying in touch, all that. It wasn’t necessarily a move. It’s not a move. 

Still, something about it caught you off guard, just for a second. You didn’t let it show. You nodded, and he was already unlocking your phone to hand to you. It’s not not a move.

You took his phone, fingers moving quickly to type in your number into the recipient part of a new message tab before hesitating for just a second over the text. Just your first? Full name? Something stupid and teasing? You settled on just his name, clean and simple—like you did this all the time, like you needed a reminder of who’s number it was this time—before passing it back. 

But when you got back home and opened your phone to the text—Jannik Sinner—you had to check yourself before you jumped up and down in your apartment. Settling on only loving the message, the message you had sent from his phone, you bit back a smile as you saved his number to your contacts.

---

The Melbourne Grand Prix weekend buzzing with energy, you could even tell through the screen—fast cars, packed grandstands, and coverage in every direction. You had the pre-race media on in the background, half paying attention as you stretched out on your hotel room couch, scrolling through your phone between interviews and team meetings.

When the interviewer made their way to Oscar Piastri, you let your attention drift back to the screen and your long-time friend.

It was a casual pre-race chat about his off-season, his expectations, and how he spent his time away from the paddock; fielding predictable questions about his off-season and the new announcement of his multi-year contract. 

“Spent a lot of time here in Australia—Watched a lot of cricket, some tennis. Just had time with my family and my girlfriend, but I’m happy to be back.” He finished the concise summary with his characteristic polite nod, lips pressed into a straight line of a smile.

"We all saw you at the Australian Open—I believe Mark Webber was also there."

"Yup,” Oscar nodded once more. “Mark was there, I was there with my girlfriend Lily. We got to watch Jannik Sinner play in the semi-finals, which was quite cool. He had a great run."

You exhaled a short laugh to yourself. It was no surprise that Oscar mentioned Jannik in his off-season recap, you were surprised he had to be prompted to at all—even you knew of his online fixation on the tennis player. Not that you could claim to be much better. 

The interviewer continued. "Speaking of Sinner—Did you see your fellow McLaren F1 Academy driver was spotted training at the same gym as him.”

You blinked, now fully alert. They were bringing that up?

Oscar smiled a little at that. “Yes, I did see this.”

Your eyes narrowed at the screen. Of course he did. 

"How do you feel about that? That she’s potentially getting more face time with one of your favorite athletes than you are." The interviewer asked playfully.

"Hm, might have to switch gyms now." He deadpanned.

“For Sinner or for [Your Name]?”

"No, I already see enough of her—I mean, we're old friends.” Oscar made a face before huffing out a little laugh. Then, he glanced straight into the camera with a grimace, as if he was addressing you directly. "No offense."

Your jaw dropped slightly, amidst your smile, before a laugh bubbled up. The broadcast had even thrown up that gym photo in the corner of the screen, the very same one that had set the internet off not even a couple of weeks ago.

Grinning, you snapped a picture of the moment on your screen. Behind, the interview carried on as you scrolled through your text inbox to hover over his name. Jannik Sinner. This could be the perfect olive branch, the most organic opportunity you’d get to break the ice and to use his number.

You glance back up at the broadcast. If Oscar mentions Jannik once more, then I have to send it.

“Well, your new contract states that you can visit any sports event or game on McLaren’s dime.” The interviewer had seamlessly segwayed to the topic of Oscar’s newest career development.

Oh, god. You knew what was coming. You asked for this.

“Yes, I’m very grateful. I can catch all the cricket matches I want now…” 

Here it comes—

Oscar continued, “Hopefully, I can catch a couple more games of Sinner's as well. Tennis tournaments overlap with race travel, but it’s definitely in my mind.”

And there it is. You should’ve known. You stared at Oscar’s face through the screen, not knowing whether to curse him or to thank him.

“Well, there’s one way you can get ahead of [Your Name].” The interviewer joked again, dropping your name once more. “Can’t have her winning Sinner over before you can.”

Great. Not only did you hang your source of encouragement to text on the actions of your biased friend on live TV hundreds of miles away, but you were also apparently in direct competition with him as well. According to the media, at least—and they were always right…

You quickly typed out a message to go with the image before you could second guess it again.

You Just so you know, you’ve officially stolen my long-time friend  You I guess Oscar chose you over me

It took less than a few minutes after sending for your phone to buzz. You jumped to read it.

Jannik Sinner Ha just saw that

So he was watching. You hoped he didn’t cringe too hard at the interviewer’s antics, or at Oscar’s. 

Another text came in.

Jannik Sinner His loss

You immediately shut the phone at that, pressing lips together as you fought back a smile. Take that Piastri.

---

Over the past week, you and Jannik had been consistently texting after your initial message. More often than you’d ever expected. It wasn’t anything too committed—just a kind of easy back-and-forth you got to when you could, and it made the monotony of travel days and training schedules feel a little lighter. Normally, you were awful at keeping up with messages. You’d leave people on read for days, sometimes even weeks, as a consequence of your busy schedule once the season picked up. But with him, you found yourself checking your phone more than usual, feeling a little thrill whenever his name popped up on the screen. It was just something new and exciting to keep your attention—that's what you reminded yourself.

As the first race weekend approached, even your text responses to him became fewer and farther between. It wasn’t intentional—you just had too much going on. Track walks, meetings, media, final car setup adjustments. 

And then, after all the commotion and against all odds, you won your first F1 Academy race—as a rookie. Any hope you did have to catch up on your unread texts was wiped as you were surely bombarded with a flux of congratulatory messages, not that you didn’t have many other things to get out of the way first.

The Shanghai International Circuit had been as unforgiving as they say—fast, technical, and full of overtaking opportunities for those who dared. The race started under a clouded sky, humid air thick with the weight of expectations. You had lined up in third, gripping the wheel tightly as you lined up at your box.

The moment the lights went out, the roar of the engines swallowed everything else. The run down to the first turn was chaos—eighteen cars funnelling into a long, tightening right-hander, each driver hunting for space but wary of disaster. You’d held your ground, forcing the car ahead to the outside while defending from the driver behind. The grip felt solid, but you could already tell the track was evolving under the afternoon heat.

By turn six—the heavy braking zone at the end of a sweeping acceleration stretch—you had spotted an opportunity. The driver ahead hesitated, their rear tires twitching just slightly under braking. You took the chance, diving up the inside and committing fully to the move. Your car hugged the apex, and as you powered out, you saw your front wing edge ahead. And then the position was yours.

But that was just when the real fight began.

Shanghai’s layout demanded patience and precision. The long straights gave just enough tow for cars behind to keep pressure on, while the complex middle sector tested every inch of a driver’s technical ability. The car beneath you was strong but jumpy on the exit of Turn 11, forcing you to manage throttle input carefully as you prepared for the long arc of Turn 13 leading into the back straight. You could feel the tires slowly losing grip, the rear stepping out just slightly under acceleration. You’d adjusted, keeping the balance in check, knowing that every micro-movement could mean the difference between holding position and losing it.

With ten laps to go, you had one car left to pass. The race leader was smooth, disciplined, placing their car exactly where they needed to, making sure you never had an easy run. But you’d studied them—watched their tendencies, how they hesitated slightly under braking into Turn 14. It took more than a few laps of preparation, testing different lines, seeing where you could unsettle them. And then, with just a handful of laps left, you’d made your move.

Late braking into Turn 14. Just a fraction later than before. The front tires locked for a millisecond, but you had already committed, already slotted your car alongside theirs. Side by side on exit, wheel to wheel, throttle pinned. You’d kept your foot in it, knowing the next few corners would decide everything. The grip held. Your car edged ahead.

The final laps were pure adrenaline—every braking zone, every corner exit, every defensive maneuver was a test of nerve. But when the checkered flag waved, it was your car that crossed the line first.

Your first race victory.

The radio erupted with cheers from your team, their voices overlapping, a mess of excitement and disbelief. You barely had time to process it as you pulled into the pitlane, hands shaking slightly as you unclipped the wheel.

Then came the podium. The rush of stepping onto the top step, trophy in hand, the national anthem playing. Champagne sprayed across your suit as you laughed, blinking through the sting. Cameras flashing, faces blurred by the lights. It all felt distant, like a dream happening to someone else.

Only when you sat in an icebath, in the quiet at the back of McLaren’s garage, did it really start to hit.

A flood of congratulations came from everywhere, wherever you went—team strategists, social media admin, engineers, chefs, mechanics, rival drivers, and that onslaught of messages pinging your phone from people back home who had been watching. You’d tried to skim them, but still didn’t have a moment reply. You’d get to them later.

You still had to head to McLaren's motorhome for a post-race debrief. As soon as you stepped in, Lando Norris was already grinning up at you. "Look, here comes the race winner. Only took you one try."

"Yeah, mate, took the both of us at least a season." Oscar reached up to firmly clasp your hand and nodded in agreement, his voice warm by his standards. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, smiling at the gesture. "Well… some of us learn faster than others."

Lando clapped you on the back as you sat down. "Seriously, though—hell of a drive. That last overtake was insane."

Oscar leaned forward. "Yeah, we were watching from the garage, and even I flinched when you went for it."

“He jumped, [Your Name], he jumped.” Lando said, comically widening his eyes when you met his gaze.

You laughed at that. "Wow, I can’t even imagine. I broke Oscar Piastri’s mask."

The banter eventually settled, and then the debrief began. The purpose was clear, there wasn’t much time until the F1 race now—you had to provide all relevant insights for Lando, Oscar, and the engineers. The track conditions, tire performance, and any major takeaways they could apply to their own races. 

The strategists pulled up detailed telemetry, analyzing how the track surface had evolved throughout the weekend. Shanghai’s long straights meant lower downforce setups were favored, and the heavy braking zones into Turn 6 and Turn 14 made front tire management crucial. You all discussed track temperature fluctuations and rubber buildup, and how the track evolution was steady but tight. 

The strategists noted that teams who pitted early had struggled with graining, while those who extended stints found better traction toward the end. 

"Your exits in Sector 2 were really strong," one of the strategists noted, highlighting how you had found better traction out of Turn 11 than most of the grid. "That’s probably what set you up so well for the final overtake."

Lando, with focus that always surprised you, leaned in. "Shanghai's such a weird track for braking. One lap it's fine, the next you're sliding through Turn 14 like it's a drift comp. Was the wind messing with you guys today?"

"Well see here? I lost a couple of tenths through Turn 9 in the earlier laps—could be setup-related, or an adjustment thing, but it felt like wind at the time."

Oscar hummed. "From the garage, it looked like a few people were getting caught out. Back straight was catching people late on the brakes—looked like one of those days where you think you’ve nailed it, and then suddenly, nope."

You nodded. "It wasn’t too bad early on, but by mid-race, it felt like the front end was getting lighter. I was imagining it at first, but it got trickier through the long corners. Something to keep in mind, for sure."

The discussion continued, touching on how the cooler temps had made the rears a bit sketchy toward the end and how some teams were struggling to keep heat in them. The strategists flagged possible drizzle in the afternoon, debating whether it would be light enough to just make the track greasy or if it might actually justify a switch to inters. And then the engineers gave final notes before wrapping up.

As everyone started filtering out, Oscar reached for the phone on the table—only to pause. He squinted at the screen, turning it over in his hand.

“This isn’t mine.”

You frowned, glancing at your own empty hands and patting at your pockers.

“Oh, it's mine,” you said, reaching for it.

Just as you did, the screen lit up with a new message.

From Jannik Sinner

Oscar raised his eyebrows, glancing between you and the phone before tilting it just out of reach. "What’s this?"

You huffed, narrowing your eyes. "Give it back."

But Oscar wasn’t done. He gave you a look after skimming the notification, and then deadpanned, "So, what kind of gym is this exactly?"

You rolled your eyes, making another grab for it, but he sidestepped easily. "Oscar—"

"Maybe I should look into it." He turned to Lando for support. "I’m seriously considering."

You finally snatched the phone from his grip, shaking your head as you unlocked it. "Sounds like someone’s jealous."

"Oh, I'm devastated," he said sarcastically, still smiling when he tried to look over your shoulder. "What’d he say?"

When you glanced down at the message, all your indignation melted into something a bit more bashful.

Jannik Sinner I’m sure you are busy Jannik Sinner But wanted to wish you a congratulations on the win Jannik Sinner First of many  

Your lips pressed together, but you couldn’t fight the way your ears warmed slightly.

"That’s a face.” Oscar watched you for about half a second, exchanging a look with Lando who still hovered nearby. “So what did he say?"

You exhaled through your nose, still smiling as you read it over again. "Just… 'Congratulations, first of many.’ That kind of thing.”

“Isn’t he in Monaco?” Lando made a thoughtful noise, then glanced at the time. "Because your race was at like… 3:30 in the morning there."

You blinked, looking up at him before looking back at Oscar. "He probably watched it later."

Oscar gave you a look, “Even if he only finished watching now… it’s still 6 AM there."

A wide grin settled on your face in realization, but you tried not to look too smug when you replied “... Well, he did say he was trying to get into it.”

Oscar folded his arms, rolling his eyes and patting your back as he walked away. "I think I might be further behind in this race for Sinner than I thought."

---

HOW did I get so carried away. You don't even want to know how much I wrote that I deleted... Sooo much unnecessary, technical stuff. Uh but here it is... Way later than I said, whoops

Also again with the texts and the tweets and the, you know. Still figuring out the best way to format that. Because it is an inevitable part of a modern romance, and so I must learn how to include it properly. And, if you think about it, the gym crush to number exchange to the fun texting arc is honestly a fucking rom com by todays standards... Most unrealistic part is that he triple texted to say congratulations after getting temporarily ghosted... So

Also I'm a rally-truther. It's objectively way more entertaining than F1, but we're not ready for that convo Also there aren't as many divas in rally, well there are but not itn the same way

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you. 

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

 "Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked. 

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after. 

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus. 

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players. 

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be. 

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor. 

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic. 

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer. 

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout. 

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything. 

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight. 

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around. 

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name… 

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead 

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort. 

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win. 

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand. 

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head. 

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh. 

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.” 

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered,  "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Three and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally. 

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudged toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—nearly four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion. 

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached out, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile. 

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case—”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer. 

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did. 

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help but fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck. 

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words still on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth. 

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct. An undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch. 

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.  

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance at him when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it.

It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite. 

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation? 

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

Tonight, you crawled over him slowly, letting your palms roam his chest, his ribs, the low plane of his stomach. His head tipped back, lips parted, already panting though you'd barely touched him.

"So needy tonight," you murmured, smiling a little to yourself, brushing your nails up the inside of his thigh.

He whimpered—quiet, desperate. Eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

“Use your words, Jan.”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need you.”

Your smile curved slow. "That’s better."

You leaned down, kissed his collarbone, nipped lightly just to feel the way he twitched under you. Your hand slid beneath the waistband of his briefs, fingers curling around him with careful pressure.

“So hard already,” you cooed, stroking him slow, watching the way his hips bucked despite himself. “Just for me?”

He nodded—fast, flushed. “Of course.”

You tightened your grip. “Say it.”

“For you. All for you.”

You kissed him again, softer now, as your hand worked him harder. You whispered praise between each stroke—how good he looked, how well he took it. How much you liked to watch him, to hear him. 

When you finally sank down onto him, slowly, the head of his cock slipping into you with a single, silken motion. His mouth dropped open around a broken moan. His eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the sheets for a moment before fluttering near your thighs—unsure, searching.

You stayed still for a beat, letting him feel the full stretch of you wrapped around him, the way your body clenched in welcome. He bucked up into you, involuntary and needy, but quickly restrained himself, and you couldn’t help but smile at his preemptive obedience.

You leaned forward, pressing your palms to his chest to feel the rapid thud of his heart. Then, slowly, you started to move—rolling your hips in firm, controlled circles that dragged a cry from deep in his throat.

His hands hovered again, fingertips brushing your thighs, hesitant. You reached for them, laced your fingers through his, and guided them to your hips.

“Right here,” you whispered. “But let me do the work.”

He nodded quickly, lips parted, and did exactly as he was told—his grip almost timid around you.

You kept the pace slow but deep, grinding down in a way that had him gasping, the tip of him hitting just where you wanted—right up into that sweet spot that had your whole body tightening right along with him. 

And then, you picked up the rhythm, riding him harder, faster, letting your weight sink down each time until the slap of skin echoed in the room. He cried out, hands clutching firm on your hips for a second to drive you down onto him.

You nudged his hands off with a tsk and his head fell back against the pillow, flushed and overwhelmed, mouth open around ragged moans. You fucked him through it—hips driving fast and firm now, your hand on his chest keeping him pinned in place as his body writhed beneath you.

"Look at you. All I have to do is give it to you a little harder…" You plunged deeper wheb you said it, panting as he unraveled. "And you can't even breathe."

He moaned—loud, guttural—entirely at your mercy. His stomach clenched, thighs shaking, and you could feel how close he was from the way he throbbed inside you, how he couldn’t stop whimpering your name.

His eyes met yours—wide, pleading, desperate for release. And you didn’t stop. You rode him rough and fast, your grip moving to his throat, applying just enough pressure to make his voice break as he gasped.

“Are you going to come for me?” you breathed against his ear. “Just like this?”

He nodded furiously, eyes glistening. “Please—need to—”

But, selfishly, you didn’t want to let him have it. Not yet.

Not when you were enjoying feeling him fall apart beneath you.

So you slowed your hips suddenly, then lifted off him just enough to break the pace, holding yourself there while he squirmed under you, his breath catching painfully.

"Not yet, okay baby?" you murmured, dragging your fingers down his chest, watching the desperation spark wild in his eyes. “You don’t get to come until I say."

He gasped, full-body trembling now, his cock twitching beneath you, aching with the denial.

You moved down—just barely, but it enough to get him back to the edge. Then you stopped again. And then again, and again.

Each time you brought him close, you eased back at the last second, watching his face twist in frustration, in pleading.

"You're doing so well," you whispered, kissing his jaw as he whimpered. "Holding it in for me. "

"Please…” His voice cracked. “I can't—"

“You can,” you said, firm, and he held on for a little longer as quietly as he could. After all, he knew as well as you did, he’d done this for you before.

Then, when you finally gave in—when you let yourself sink down fully and moved without mercy—it was all the more explosive. His release ripped through him with a strangled sob, hands fisting into the sheets, body jerking beneath you as he came harder than he ever had.

And all the while, you held his throat, kissed his lips, praised him until he melted under you, undone in every way.

You laid flush against him for a long while after that, not bothering to lift off of him. You listened to his heartbeat slow down, feeling the rise and fall of his chest stabilize, and smiled when he pressed a long kiss on the crown of your head.

Eventually, after sitting in that haze, you could feel him start to stir again—still sensitive, but hardening, twitching with the faintest need inside you.

You giggled before tilting your head to press a kiss against his cheek. “Ready again, already?”

He nodded, eyes barely open, lifting his head to catch his lips in yours. You smiled into the kiss when he moaned into your mouth as you rose off of him.

You slid down his body, kissing along his chest, nipping gently at the flushed skin of his stomach. When you reached his cock, already half-hard and twitching, you didn’t hesitate.

You wrapped your lips around him slowly, savoring the soft groan he gave you. He was overstimulated, hips wavering slightly, but you held him firm—one hand at his hip, the other gently stroking as your mouth worked over him without any rush.

You wrapped your hand around the base and started stroking in sync with your mouth—tight and slow, dragging every sound from him, from soft whines to broken moans. You knew his body by now, knew how to suck just a little harder when his breath caught, how to twist your wrist just right to make him lose his mind.

You flattened your tongue under his tip, took him deep, letting your throat tighten just enough. He gasped—every flick, every slow pull, made his hips jump and his breath stutter.

With unhurried care, you pulled off, licking along the underside of his shaft, slow and teasing, feeling him jolt against your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks and took him deep again, then pulled back with a wet pop, letting a thin string of saliva stretch between your lips and his tip.

His thighs trembled, propped up on his elbows above you to watch, and his fingers clutched harder at the edge of the sheets.

“That’s it,” you murmured between strokes, voice low and warm. “Let me take care of you.”

He moaned at your words and his head fell back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes closed. He took in a deep, broken breath before his eyes fluttered open to meet yours, half-lidded, glassy and fervent, pleading without a word.

You pulled off just enough to murmur, "You gonna come for me again, Jan? Give me one more?"

He nodded quickly, hips jerking into your mouth as you took him again, deeper, faster now. Your nails dragged lightly down his thighs, grounding him as his hips lifted up, desperate and undone.

You didn’t stop, wanting all of it. And when he came again—loud, trembling, voice raw—you swallowed every drop, only pulling off when he was gasping for air, his whole body shivering beneath your hands.

You kissed your way up his stomach and chest, but instead of settling beside him, you straddled his chest with a knowing look.

His eyes fluttered open, still hazy and blissed. But they widened slightly when he realized where you were, the spread thighs just below his face, the heat of your arousal fanning warm air by his mouth.

"“Would you…?” You asked, smiling as you trailed off in voicing the question you knew you didn’t need to ask, dragging your fingers gently through his hair. 

He nodded—weak but eager. Always eager.

You lifted yourself onto his mouth slowly, just enough for your slick to graze his lips. His breath stuttered, and you felt the soft moan vibrate against your skin as his tongue darted out, tasting you.

You let out a pleased sigh. "That's it. Just like that."

He obeyed without hesitation. Tongue firm, slow and precise, lapping at you like he hadn’t been spent just moments beofre. His hands lifted to grip your thighs—and, in your state, you allowed it.

You ground against his mouth, hips rolling, letting your weight sink into him with each pass, chasing your own release while he worked into you. His mouth was earnest, pliant, desperate to please. Every time your breath hitched or your thighs trembled, he only redoubled his effort, moaning into you, encouraging you to keep going.

One hand grasped the head board and you dropped the other to tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan as you rocked against him harder. "Don't stop, you're being so good for me."

He didn’t. Not even when your thighs clenched around his head, and especially not when you cried out his name as you came against his mouth—loud and shaky.

You shivered when little ripples of the pleasure continued to move through you before easing off, panting as you slid down beside him at last.

He sighed softly and shifted to lay his head on your chest.

---

He looked up at the sound of your footsteps and cracked a slow smile, one that made chest constrict a bit. You’d last seen him too long ago—slipping out of his room early sometime that same day, just a little past midnight—but you felt something in you ease when you saw that his face was just as bright in seeing you as it was then. Ease in knowing that he didn’t deem last night as a momentary lapse in judgement, in knowing that all he’d said still held true. 

“You look like you rolled out of bed five minutes ago,” you said, tossing your bag to the bench and reaching up to place a light hand over the crown of his head to rustle his hair with his hood. 

“I did,” he replied, unapologetic, but chuckling as he nudged your hand off of him. “I’m always sleeping to the last possible minute.”

You rolled your eyes in response with a slight smile playing at your lips as you moved to turn back to your bag, but he gently held you in place with the hand he still had on your wrist. He stepped closer and, in a hushed voice, added, “But I think I have good reason to sleep in after last night…”

You swatted his shoulder immediately, looking over both of yours to make sure no one heard, but you couldn’t help the grin growing on your face.

“Alright. Don’t start.” You muttered, flushing and shaking your head to yourself as you yanked your hand from his already light grasp. He just chuckled under his breath at your reaction, bouncing a ball off his racket and stepping onto the court.

Chris and Darren stood just outside the court fence, Chris nursing a coffee, Darren flipping through notes. Behind them, Simone stood further back on talking with both yours and Jannik’s trainers and physios. And all of them paused to just watch the way you and Jannik moved with each other—laughing, teasing, shoulders bumping during dynamic stretches.

They looked on in silence for a bit, amused and in shock at the stark contrast from how you both were just the day before. Sure, you two had got on well initially, but that dynamic had done an obvious 180 for the semi-finals. Yet now, it seemed there had been yet another full flip overnight and the energy between you very clearly read as something even closer than before.

A knowing look passed amongst all of them. Darren, Simone, and the rest of Jannik’s team chuckled with each other, turning away from you both to fully do so, and Chris shook his head with a smirk towards your physio and trainer.

“How’d you pull that off?” Darren nudged Chris, leaning in to ask, tone half-impressed, half-mocking.

“Just told her she had to talk to him,” Chris shrugged, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sort it out.”

“Well, it’s definitely sorted.” Darren chuckled down at his feet.

“And—yeah, I’ll say it—it seems like they did more than just talk.” Your trainer called out from behind.

Both teams flat out laughed at that, but schooled their expressions when you and Jannik approached. Whatever happened between you two last night—it wasn’t their business, and it worked. And none of them were about to mess that up.

The coaches briefed you both together, with you standing shoulder to shoulder with Jannik—as a unit, as a team. You hugged your racket to your chest, and your shoulder brushed against his arm. He seemed to lean into the contact, not moving to step away when you touched. You bit back a smile and just vaguely nodded at the directions Chris relayed your way.

The warmup went on without a hitch. Clean and fluid. No hiccups, no awkward pauses.

It began with your usual sequence—groundstrokes first, trading balls down the middle before easing into crosscourts. And, even early on into the prep, you could already tell you were working together seamlessly. In sync once more.

By the time you switched from start-up drills, your coordination was seamless. He anticipated your angles, and you read his pace. The small adjustments you’d given each other showed up right away—his net coverage tighter, your backhand heavier. You both moved around each other like there was no friction at all—like there never was.

After a long rally practicing strokes back and forth on opposite sides of the net, you motioned for him to meet you in the middle at the net. At this point, so close to the match, both your teams trusted you as players to work on whatever it was that you felt was needed. The last 15 minutes both your coaches had just been standing on the sidelines without any sort of intervention—there wasn’t any reason to today, you were both clearly in the right headspace and hitting well. Playing well, together.

So, you proposed the next phase of the warm-up to Jannik yourself.

"Wanna try drop shots? I’ve got a few tips I can teach you," you said, twirling your racket as you approached the net.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning onto the tape. "You’d give away your secrets to me?"

"Not all of them—don’t get too excited—just enough to help us get the win."

You demonstrated a few sequences, showing him how you shifted your weight on your left foot, holding the racket at a concealed angle, disguising the shot until the very last second. He nodded, studying your grip, your stance, before practicing a few dozen drop-shots himself. You stood beside him as Simone fed him balls to hit, giving him hushed pointers and adjustments every now and then. He picked it up pretty quickly, which was to be expected, but his delight was clear after he executed a handful of floaty volleys in a row—all of them clearly marked with your personal, signature style.

“Not bad, Sinner.” He turned to you beaming, and you placed a hand on his shoulder with a grin of your own. “Not bad at all.”

You both moved to the baseline to hit crosscourt forehands side by side after that, concluding the warm-up’s net work, walking back with lingering smiles. Chris stepped in diagonally across the net to hit balls for you as Simone did the same for Jannik, but after a few reps Jannik signalled for both of them to pause. 

“I show you something?” He asked, already walking over to you.

You nodded to him and so he stepped close, his hands landing at your waist to guide you back to a semi-open stance—not rough, but fingers firmer than necessary. His hands then dropped ever so slightly to hold your hips, and his thumbs brushed a little too slow at the top of your skirt’s waistband. 

“Try to get more power from here, like this,” he said, his voice lower now, the warmth of his body unmistakable against your side. He shifted your hips for you to come square to the net before pulling them back again to repeat the motion. “You’re already there and doing it, but just snap faster. Feel that”

Your brain was just a little delayed in filtering his words, focusing on his touch more than anything—you followed what he was saying well enough, but the contact had sent a spark skimming straight up your spine. And when he spoke, the press of his chest just barely grazed your shoulder. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Feel that?” He asked. You finally turned your neck to nod towards him and saw, though his voice sounded neutral and matter-of-fact enough, he was smirking at you.

You weren’t about to let him have it, so you blinked away your dazed state and nodded sensibly. “All in the hips, got it.”

His grasp lifted just the slightest bit so you could practice the pivot motion without his guidance, though his palms still hovered over your hips, radiating a heat onto your waist that seemed to travel down between your thighs. He was close enough that you could feel his nod of approval.

“Just like that.” He said and you swallowed, but at the same time, you had to roll your eyes. He knew. 

He knew what he was doing—not that it wasn’t working… 

You glanced up and saw your teams weren’t looking in your direction at all, they were huddled around Chris’s phone watching something intently, maybe avoiding you both on purpose. So you decided it was safe for you to leave Jannik flustered now, and tilted just enough so that you grazed up against him. You heard his breath stall a little and smiled, arching back ever so slightly to apply just a little more pressure for a moment, teasing, before straightening to come up out of the open stance entirely.

“Just like that.” You said as you turned to face him, smiling innocently, his hands still on you. “Thanks Jannik.”

He smiled, but his voice came out dry. “Of course.”

You raised a goading brow at him, still smiling, and he shook his head at you as if to say well played. He lingered there for a beat longer before retreating back with a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, just as the coaches stepped on court to feed balls once more.

“Your coaching methods may be questionable,” you called after him, smirking. “But it is good advice, I’ll admit."

His head stayed facing forward as the balls started coming towards you both again, but you heard him laugh as he shuffled to hit a forehand. “I try.”

Your grin mirrored his and, as you struck the incoming balls, you did actually try to implement the tip Jannik had so generously offered. You felt the momentum of the snap carry over to the strength of your ball-strike, applying the technique more and more effectively with each shot.

And then Chris hit over the last ball in the basket beside him. You stepped in, pivoted fast, and struck.

It cracked off your strings, sharp and clean. A textbook winner that seemed to span the length of the court in the speed of light, easily the fasted topspin you’d ever managed on a forehand

Chris whistled, loud and delighted from across the court. “That’s the one!” he called out. “Perfect!”

You barely had time to grin before Jannik’s voice came from beside you, praising and smug at the same time.

"That was great," he said, simple and sincere, his tone only slightly lilting with self-satisfaction as his hands ghosted around your hips again for the briefest of moments. “See? All in the hips.”

“Thanks for the lesson.” You shot him a look as you walked towards the bench, small smile gracing your lips both at the power you were able to generate and the way Jannik seemed to be matching your usual cheekiness.

He followed you off court so you could both wrap up the warm-up, stretching out and hydrating while listening to a few last technical notes from your teams. The sun had climbed higher, the buzz and the energy around the facility sharpening as the tail end of the tournament approached.

It wasn’t long before the time came, before you were called onto court for the mixed finals. Rackets bagged, extra grips tucked away. The coaches dispersed toward the stadium, and you and Jannik met up again at the tunnel after your individual pre-match prep in the gym—side by side again, you stood quieter now with less banter than during the warm-up, with the required focus of the match starting so soon, but the silence between you this time was comfortable and relaxed.

The final was set in the larger of the secondary stadiums, a much bigger arena compared to where you’d played the earlier mixed rounds on. The crowd was already buzzing, seats filled to the brim despite being before noon, an off time for the less popular category—fans were showing out for their favorite players, and their newest, favorite duo.

Jannik being the number one and playing as well as he did, as well as he always did, made it so the spectators started off in high spirits and large numbers. You were newer to the scene, but already a fan favorite with your trademark theatrics—so though your persona may have been polarizing, those who loved you loved you.

But the two of you together, that had become the show in itself. 

Your last few rounds playing together had amassed quite the chatter, seeing you mixed doubles matches had been nothing short of spectacular so far—even the disastrous semi-final was a spectacular failure that barely managed to end in a win.

So the noise of the crowd surrounded you, drowning out even your own, loud pre-match thoughts as you stood beside Jannik at the opening of the tunnel. But then his shoulder brushed yours and you looked up to find his eyes were already on you, gaze as calm as ever. It was like none of it touched him. The stable hum of his presence radiated off of him and washed over you, settling in your chest—steadying the thrum of your heart and deafening the spiral in your head.

“Ready?” he asked, his face was passive but his eyes and voice were warm.

You gave him a slow grin, nodding. “Let’s find out.”

And then your names were announced.

The cheers immeadiately peaked—sharp, layered, and overwhelming. And it wasn’t just a hum of excitement like other matches, but a full-force roar. Whistles, clapping, the deep swell of crowd energy moving in waves. The kind of volume that hit your chest before your ears, that buzzed through your sneakers into the bones of your legs. Flags waved in the stands. Cameras flashed. Your name and Jannik’s echoed in pockets of cheers as you stepped into the light.

You were ready for it though—taking it in, not in fear, but in scope. This wasn’t just another match. Wasn’t just some show. This was the finals. 

The word redemption flashed across your mind. Redemption for the last match, for your performance and for your poor sportsmanship. Today you were to play with Jannik. As a team.

The introductions, the photos, it all passed by you. Unconscious, routine motions as you readied your headspace. The coin landed in your favor, and you just nodded at Jannik—you were both on the same page. 

Your grip on your racket tightened by instinct as you walked to your place on the court, a flicker of healthy, familiar pressure curling in your stomach. Jannik placed a hand on your shoulder as he passed, gentle and brief, a silent message. We’ve got this.

Your breath evened out, all else in view but the court seemed to blur in your periphery and the sounds of the stadium seemed to dull as the ball was bounced for service. 

Then the match started. 

And that rhythm? Between you and Jannik? It was back. And it showed instantly.

---

From the first point, the crowd energy pressed in from all sides—constant, crackling, alive. Each bounce of the ball sounded sharper against the sea of low murmurs and rising anticipation. You could feel every collective breath held, every gasp when a rally extended longer than expected. When a point ended, the cheers surged so loud it felt palpable.

You and Jannik moved through each game like a sort of tide—a natural push and pull. Your first rally alone had the audience teetering forward in their seats. His serve snapped through the air, and you exploded forward at the first read of the return. You called your switches with sharp, clear commands. He responded with instinct. When he stepped in for a volley, you already knew which angle to cover. When you rushed the net, he anchored behind you, ready to absorb the return. Your communication crisp, your synergy undeniable.

The rhythm persisted—muscle memory and instinct compounding with chemistry and skill. His serve set up your poach, your drop shot teased out their desperation, his lob chased them back. Point after point.

And the crowd was loving every moment, and they were sure to let you both know.

Every now and then you’d tune in to their sound and it made your chest buzz, adrenaline rushing so fast you heard it in your ears. Then you’d look to Jannik, amidst whatever celebration you were doing that had the crowd shouting, and he’d smile—and that seemed to fuel you more than anything. 

You were playing as a pair again. A unit. Your teamwork unfolded in sharp, stunning detail.

And this time, it wasn’t just some pleasant surprise. You’d worked for it—lost it, then fought to repair what you could, ending up with a connection better than you could have ever hoped for. Maybe promise to be deeper than you would have ever thought.

When you’d come together to quickly discuss strategy and position—leaning close, words concealed behind your hands—you didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered. The way his eyes flickered back and forth from one of your eyes to the other, taking in your expression, your concentration. The way they’d drop to your lips, for the briefest of moments, when you’d smile before breaking to jog back to position. And you were watching him carefully enough to know that he’d walk back wearing a smile that looked a lot like yours felt.

Those smiles carried over as you both walked over to the bench after dominating and winning over the first set. Towels draped around your necks, you knocked your knees with his as you took a long sip from your water bottle, still breathless, heart pounding. Jannik leaned back beside you, tipping water onto the back of his neck with a small exhale, facing towards you.

"Let’s keep playing this way, okay? For the second set?" He asked, nodding towards you. “Just need to keep it up.”

“Yeah, agreed—we’ve got that.” You grinned, wiping your face with the edge of your towel before turning his way to offer the slightest wink. "You’ve been looking good out there, by the way."

“Thank you,” Jannik only shook his head, turning his face forward and away from you though a small smile was beginning to grace his lips once more. “You've been playing great, too.”

“Thanks—” You said sincerely, before laughing to yourself at his infallible manners. “And same to you, but… your game play wasn’t what I was referring to…” 

“... I know.” He ran a hand over his face and huffed a quiet chuckle, one that quickly grew to join in with your ongoing laughter. "No, I know."

“Wow. You’ve really been media trained that well, haven't you?” You placed a hand on his shoulder, pouting with exaggerated severity. “It’s okay, Jannik. This bench is a safe space.”

Jannik rolled his eyes, but made no move to push off your hand and he was still smiling. “You’re wasting our two minutes—we should be discussing strategy.”

“Wasting is a strong word.” You cocked your head. “In fact, I would even say I’m enhancing our two minutes.”

He gave you a pointed look, though there was still that affectionate glint behind his eyes, and you shrugged with a smile—silently agreeing to discuss more pertinent things, giving in easily after having had your fun.

“Okay, next set—you take the baseline, I’ll take the net?” Jannik took advantage of your concession, jumping into game tactics immediately, stretching his arm out to rest on the bench behind you.

“Yeah, that can be our default position.” You matched his rationale easily, already on the same page. “But if anything compromises that arrangement, just go for what feels right. Does that sound okay, or is it too loose of a plan?”

“No, that’s good. We’re doing good reading each other already.” Jannik moved to stand, grabbing a new racket and nodding at the chair umpire as they called time. “If for some reason you can’t go for the ball, I’ll come for you.”

You split into a grin at his last few words, pausing your motions of lacing up your shoes for a moment. “You’ll what for me?” 

Jannik furrowed his brow, looking over at you in confusion as he repeated himself. “I’ll come for you?”

You flash him with yet another wink, leaning just slightly towards him as you reached for your racket. “Yeah you will.”

You shrugged and gave him one more flash of your smile, before jogging onto court, and Jannik groaned as he registered where your amusement was coming from, shaking his head with a smile for what seemed like the dozenth time within the short break itself. 

He followed you onto court, stopping by you to bump your outstretched fist. As you split ways, you to the baseline and him to the net, he heard you call out one more thing before the umpire spoke. “Don’t worry, Jannik. You know I’ll come for you, too.”

And he knew how you must have been grinning without needing to look back, and you could somehow see his smile even as he crouched for your serve—catching that unmistakable, charmed shake of his head from behind. You were beginning to love the reactions he gave you, the reactions you could get out of him.

“Love all.” The umpire called out and, feeling warm and encouraged, you tucked the thoughts of Jannik away to the back of your mind, trusting that the harmony you’d been playing with so far would kick in as the set began. 

So you bounced the ball—once, then three more times—and started the second set with a blistering ace.

You gave the crowd a little wave as they roared in astonishment, catching Jannik’s approving glance back in your periphery as you moved on to the next serve without much fanfare—aiming to capitalize on the momentum the ace gave you.

That first serve seemed to set the tone for the rest of the match, because you two played even sharper than the first half. Every shift in position, every decision to poach or drop back or switch—it all landed, you made virtually no mistakes. The few errors that were made, either you or Jannik gracefully compensated for the other in an instant. And both of you were showcasing skills like never before. New ones, too.

Midway through the set, Jannik executed a perfect drop shot—one you recognized instantly as a direct lift from the lesson you’d walked him through that morning. The disguise was flawless, the touch feather-light, and it spun just out of reach of your opponents.

But it didn’t come easy. 

The point leading up to it was a war of attrition—twenty-plus shots deep, both pairs scrambling, countering, resetting. You’d retrieved a deep overhead with a lunging slice that barely made it over the net. He kept you in it with a stabbing half-volley that stunned even the crowd into silence. And just when it seemed like the rally would never break, Jannik saw an opening. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, disguised his grip perfectly, angling his wrist to execute the softest, most devastating drop shot you’d seen from him yet.

The ball bounced once, then died. Before either of the opponents could even run for it.

Gasps erupted across the stadium, followed immediately by deafening applause.

You turned toward him, already laughing in disbelief. He wore a stunned look of pride, half-shrugging like he couldn’t believe it either. You met him at the center with both hands raised. He lifted his own hands to clap against your palms, clasping his racket-free hand with yours after, leaning into you with a grin.

“Incredible shot, Jannik. Incredible.” 

“What can I say…” he started, flushed and a little breathless, “I had a good teacher.”

“You’re too humble.” You nudged him with your shoulder, after remembering to untangle your hand from his. “As much as I’d like to take full credit, that was all you… Okay, maybe eighty percent you.”

He huffed out a small, pleased laugh, and gave one last shake of his head before turning back toward the net. “Eighty percent?”

“Fine, sixty percent.” And, as he laughed again, still walking off, you reached out and tapped his butt with your racket when he passed you.

It was brief, done out of reflex and adrenaline—affectionate, playful, almost thoughtless—but the crowd didn’t miss it. When they whooped louder at the contact, delighted, you stilled a little, feeling sobered by their reaction. Too far?

You glanced back at Jannik, trying to read him—only to catch that the action only had him smiling wider, hand brushing over his mouth as he laughed, shoulders shaking with amusement.

And when he looked back at you, his smile was wide and real.

Your relief rushed in even quicker than the initial doubt did, easing into something softer when you caught yourself smiling back—bright and uncensored. You didn’t have to shrink or temper yourself—not for him, not on court, not anywhere. Jannik liked you as you were, and so could his fans. It wasn’t worth your worry, you reminded yourself as you readied yourself for one of the final few games of the match. 

It was the other side’s service game, you focused in as they bounced the ball before their serve. You leaned low between your knees, shifted to the side in a semi-open stance. Then the opponent tossed the ball for their serve—flat, fast, and stinging off their strings. With such power that it should have made you back up. Maybe before, you would have given space and played safe. But, here, you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Everything slowed in your head. You could hear your own breath. Hear Chris’s voice echoing from earlier tournaments about absorbing pace. Hear Jannik’s voice from just that morning, his hands guiding your hips. You’re already there and doing it, he’d said, just snap faster.

You exhaled.

The ball shot towards you, but before the bounce could even peak, your body reacted. You rotated through your hips, stayed low, let the racket swing with the momentum.

The crack was immediate—startling. The ball launched off your strings like a cannon, low and blazing across the net. A return so fast, it seemed to render the opponents motionless. They barely twitched before it landed and bounced again, untouched.

The entire stadium took a second of silence before erupting in audible shock. 

You stayed frozen in your return stance, arm still extended, eyes wide. You hadn't even expected to strike the ball that hard, that well. But it just came to you. The pivot, the contact, the follow-through. It was a textbook forehand, exactly what Jannik had taught you that morning—your form near-exact to the correction he'd made hours ago.

When you looked toward him, he was already staring at you in awe, grinning wide, hands on his hips. You smiled back, before looking to your box to see your entire team on their feet, clapping.

You had to yell. “Come on!” 

“Yes!” Chris shouted, his full upper-body leaning off the barrier. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

You pointed your racket at him in celebration, giving him a dramatic salute, before throwing your arms up in exaggerated triumph. 

Impossibly, the crowd cheered even louder. You spun slowly to engage with the entirety of stands, one hand to your ear and the other beckoning the crowd, as you made your way towards Jannik. 

He was still watching you.

Not just looking, but watching. With a kind of heavy gaze that was quiet and wide and still. Like he was taking a full snapshot of you in that exact moment—vibrant, ferocious, alive—and imprinting it somewhere deep and permanent in his mind.

When you finally approached, he took your hand to shake it with almost laughable solemnity.

“I think that return was faster than the serve.” He said, voice earnest, no trace of any teasing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“All thanks to your demonstration earlier.” You laughed, stepping closer, enjoying the hushed moment with him even amidst the continuous applause. “All in the hips, right?”

“Right.” His eyes practically twinkled down at you when he chuckled. “Just like that.”

You laughed, pointing a finger at him, because now it was your turn to shake your head. He grinned as you bumped fists one more time. “Let’s finish with this power, yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.” He nodded, before backing up towards the net once more. “Come on.”

“Forza.”

Every point seemed to build off the last, threading tighter and more assured. At 4–3, Jannik stretched into a full lunge to dig up a sharp angle volley. He was too far forward to cover the return, but you read the ball as it left the racket and sprinted across court just in time to send back the shot with a strong forehand. The shot landed just out of your opponent’s reach with a thud near the sideline.

You didn’t celebrate immediately—and Jannik just turned back and grinned at you, panting. “Thanks for the help—nice shot.”

You laughed, the sound quiet but bright. “You know I’ve got you.”

At 5–3, you took your time bouncing the ball before your serve, eyes flicking to his position in front you. He flashing fingers behind his back, and you called out an easy yeah just for him to hear—confirming his non-verbal plan. You served flat and fast, drawing the opponent’s return straight into his forehand zone. He met it mid-air with a well-placed swing volley, the ball just zipping past the net player’s shoulder.

The crowd exploded.

You jogged toward him, already smiling, and he met you halfway—his hand warm on the small of your back, murmuring praise and strategy back and forth.

“Okay, time to close this,” he said into your ear as you wrapped up your plan for the final game.

The last few points really spoke to your partnership, your team work. You both gave it your all, playing with instinct, aggression, and trust. You anticipated the angles before they unfolded, trusting his coverage behind you, and he trusted your reads at the net. You faked a poach to bait a lob, and he was already backing up to intercept it. You lunged and flicked your wrist for a short angled volley, and he followed it in to cover the middle.

At deuce, you both moved on the same breath. Your opponent fired a fast return down the middle, and both of you split your coverage—he cut left, you shifted right. The moment they made the next play, you shouted "yours" and Jannik pounced, slamming the ball into open space.

You turned with wide eyes and let out a sharp cheer, reaching your hand back without even looking. His palm met yours, and the sound of the strike cracked across the court. A current passed between you, though that was constant throughout the game. Thoughts understood with just a moment of eye contact, with every breath. It was almost like playing with a single mind split between two bodies. 

And the crowd continued to feel it. They rose with you, point after point, enthralled by the synchronicity.

At 30–15 in the final game, you two orchestrated one of your cleanest points yet. It started with a deliberately heavy return from you, high and spinning deep into the backhand corner. Jannik stepped in at the net, faking a dropshot that pulled the opposing net player out of position. The ball came back low, but you sliced it down the middle. Jannik rotated instantly, switching court sides with you like a sort of dance—graceful and precise. He got the short ball, angled it wide, and when the opponent’s desperate lob went sky high, you were already sprinting back to meet it.

Without needing to call for it, he peeled off to the opposite side, predicting your movement. He got out of the way just as you launched into a full-body overhead smash that rocketed down the line. The crowd lost it. Jannik turned, breathless and beaming, and held up both hands before waving them down as though he was bowing to you.

“Oh please,” You chuckled, knocking into him to block the motion. “I only got that thanks to your gift of a setup.”

He just shook his head and bumped your shoulder. “And you say I’m too humble.”

“We’re both saints, then,” you grinned, rolling your eyes but flushing with pride all the same.

Then at 40–15—match point—the crowd fell into that electric hush, the absence of noise somehow made the pulse thrum in your ears that much louder. Jannik served. You slid toward center. The return was aggressive, but you were already moving, already sensing where it would land.

Together, you closed it.

He sliced the angle of his wrist for a clean volley. You covered the opponent’s quick reply at the net, right beside him. He slid behind to cover you in the meantime, and dipped to drive a final backhand up the line—clean, perfect, final.

It was yours. The mixed doubles title. The two of you had done it.

​​But you and Jannik didn’t erupt right away. The final point so clean, the win so expected, that it almost didn’t make sense to celebrate with any sort of leaping or yelling—you turned to him, and he was already looking back. You smiled, tired and genuine, and just exchanged a slow, mutual exhale followed by a quiet nod.

"That’ll do," you said, voice light and warm, knocking your shoulder with his as you came together to walk towards the net.

He gave a quiet chuckle, nudging you back. "We make a good team."

You shook hands with your opponents, then the umpire, both interactions steady and respectful. Then, as you split off to your respective halves of the court, you looked to Jannik again—returning to court to receive the ongoing applause from the crowd.

Jannik waved up at his box, then his fans, before meeting your eyes with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I’m serious," he said quietly, leaning in. "We make a good team."

You laughed, your fingers curling into the soft, slightly damp sleeve of his shirt to pull him in. The hug was short, but firm. And entirely gratifying. Your arms looped loosely around his shoulders, his palm pressing to the center of your back. 

“I know, and I agree.” You said as you pulled away.

And then you both drifted from each other, engaging with different sides of the spectators. You raised your racket toward the spectators, clapping slowly onto the strings with your free hand, and Jannik did the same, the two of you phasing through the different angles of the onlookers. They responded in waves, cheers swelling, people rising from their seats. 

Your eyes met, across the court this time, and you each raised your racket once more, this time to each other. A moment just for each other, personal and genuine—a quiet kind of triumph that seemed to celebrate more than just your win on court.

---

The crowd was still roaring when the organizers ushered you and Jannik toward the podium hastily placed onto court. The gilded cup and plate gleamed beneath the midday sun atop it, and the press camera circled around, their shutters clicking in constant rhythm. You stepped up beside him, leaving your racket on the bench, the residual adrenaline of the match amplifying your every sensation.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Jannik while the tournament organizer began their speech—thanking the sponsors, the arena, the fans. You tilted your head towards the speaker—actively listening, or trying to, at least. You nodded at the right times, smiled when prompted. But your awareness was split clean down the middle—he was standing so close.

Jannik’s elbow was brushing yours, you could feel how even the fresh jacket he changed into clung to his still-damp skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the flex of his hand as he curled his fingers of one hand into the clasp of his other. 

It was only when your opponents stepped forward to accept their trophy that you broke out of your state to applaud warmly for them. The organizer’s introduction was long over and you, having zoned out of most of it, now listened in for the runner-up speech. They both took turns speaking into the mic, and their voices rang proud despite being a little labored from exertion. They took their loss in stride, and spoke of it with humor.

"We really thought we’d have a better shot," one of them said with a playful shrug, glancing over at you and Jannik. "After watching their round before this and seeing the, uh… the discordance between these two, we figured there’d be a lot of openings for us to work with."

Chuckles rumbled through the stands, almost drowning out the tail-end of the player’s words and only settling down when the other teammate leaned toward the mic.

"Yeah, we thought we’d be able to fight back a little better. Especially after seeing you both literally collide with each other," she said, emphasizing the word with a joking look and the stands laughed along with her, "Today, we expected to take advantage of a little… confusion."

The crowd cracked up again. You felt your face warm as you chuckled along good-naturedly, hearing Jannik’s own, quiet laugh rumble beside you. The other player nodded, sending a smile towards you and Jannik before speaking.

"I don’t know what changed overnight,” The player said, entirely innocently, but you smirked and ducked your head slightly because your thoughts were anything but casual at the mention. “But you played completely in sync—which maybe surprised us, yes—but you both earned this win. Congratulations."

Polite applause followed and, as you clapped, you exchanged a look with Jannik, catching the slight crease at the corner of his mouth, the subtle twist of amusement written in his eyes. You then stepped forward to shake hands with the opposing team once more with a gracious smile and Jannik, who knew the pair better than you did, even hugged them both.

And then it was your turn, you came forward to receive the winner’s trophy together—your hands brushing Jannik's briefly at the base, fingers curling inward as the cameras flashed. You nodded at him to speak first, but he gestured for you to go ahead so you smiled at him and stepped up.

"It’s true. We, uh... we definitely didn’t make it easy on ourselves. You all saw as much yesterday," you began, drawing laughter already. "I mean, at least now I can say—" you glanced back at Jannik with a smirk, "—I can say I was on top of the World Number One, so… Sure, it wasn't in the most graceful way, but how many players can say that?"

The stadium howled and Jannik let out a small, bashful laugh beside you, shaking his head.

"So yeah, there were some slip-ups along the way—on the court, and with the press, too, yeah… But today," you continued, smile growing at the chuckles around you, "I’m proud of how we came out of that. We played some good tennis out there, and we played that way together. And, of course, a lot of that is thanks to our teams—Our coaches set this up to begin with, and I’d say I’m very happy with how it turned out." You nudged Jannik with your elbow, and he stepped up to the mic.

He cleared his throat, blinking down at you and then up at the crowd. "I think... we learned a lot from each other this week," he said, voice steady. "About skill and technical things, yes. She made me better at the net. I think I helped her a bit at the baseline… But also we learned a lot about rhythm… and about trust. We might have looked a little bit—a little bit rough, for sure, but it’s really been nothing but progress."

He looked back at you, taking a moment to smile when you nodded at him before continuing. “We have come to read each other, we get into good positions together. Always switching, knowing when to give control and take control. Even if your close, as a partner, it’s important to be able to pull out at the right moment—”

You had begun giggling behind the palm of your hand soon into his words, unable to help it. If he heard you, he’d ignored it and furthered on anyway, but now a wave of laughter from the crowd cut him off. By the time he looked over to you, smiling but lost, your shoulders were shaking with laughter.

He hummed in confusion towards you, but his voice still projected into the mic. "I’m not saying good things? They’re true, no?"

The laughter of the audience escalated at that. Your hand could only move your hand up to clutch your bridge of your now, and you shook your head amidst your amusement. When you finally dropped your hand to reveal your expression, face flushed but grinning uncontrollably, he narrowed his eyes. He knew that look.

You could see him replay his own words, and you saw right when it clicked.

His neck flushed red, the warmth creeping up to his face . He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck before apologizing into the mic, words sheepish but bubbling with mirth. "I—Sorry, guys." 

“I guess maybe my antics are contagious.” You quipped, quickly poking forward to say into the mic before stepping back again.

The crowd roared, and you laughed harder, doubling slightly when Jannik joined in again. He took a breath, rubbing a hand down his face, you heard a muffled o dio slip past his lips to himself as he tried to compose himself once more before trying to recover the speech.

“Thank you to the great fans and to my team, and the organizers. And our opponents for making such a good match.” He paused for a beat, glancing sideways at you, and his voice softened just slightly and the look he gave you  was so sincere that your lingering smile faltered a bit . "Also, I have to say, I feel lucky to play with one of the fiercest players of today—always playing so sharp and unpredictable. All fire. And, of course, I’m wishing her all the best later today in her semifinal."

You blinked, brows furrowing with emotion as you looked up at him. You had no words, moved by his genuine, public expression of praise and support, though the applause of the crowd would have drowned out whatever you had to say anyways. Instead you mouthed thank you towards him as he stepped back in line with you, and he just nodded with a small, knowing smile.

The cameras flashed around you as you both hoisted the trophy above your heads, smiling at eachother beneath it. The ceremony transitioned fully into the necessary photo-op then, the organizers herded you first into formation with the runners-up holding their sterling plate. The tournament staff flocked around you, the poses all practiced and easy, though your lips twitched a little wider every time you and Jannik leaned in to murmur something under your breaths.

You nudged his side lightly with your elbow as you stood shoulder to shoulder once the others dispersed and the photographers pulled you two aside for duo photos. Now you were both kneeling on the court, the cup set on the floor by the tournament's logo between you. "Good positions? Switching and taking control?... Pull out at the right moment? It's like you were following a erotic script, honestly.” 

“No dai… Che figura," He groaned to himself, before sneaking a glance at you. “So much for media training… and it took me so long to realize.”

“It’s okay,” you laughed, patting him with your hand that already rested on his back for the photos. “It’s only right we both have a foot-in-our-mouth moment.”

“Smile please, smile.” A photographer called out, no doubt needing to pause their burst of photos for Jannik’s regretful and pained expression.

“Sorry,” Jannik replied back to them, before continuing his conversation with you from behind his smile. “I didn’t mean it like that, obviously—it’s like everyone has their head in the wrong place. Hanno tutti la mente sporca…”

You couldn’t quite catch the last bit that he muttered in Italian to himself—they all have dirty minds, he’d said—but grinned all the same. “That’s what I said. Now you know how I feel.”

The photographers gestured for you to stand to your feet again, and Jannik shot you a look as he bent down to grab the trophy for you two. “You’re the worst one.”

“Hey—” You retorted and narrowed your eyes at him in jest, knowing that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

He stayed facing forward, but you could see his smile grow wider with amusement at the feeling of your stare. Your own lips pursed with an incoming laugh, but you had to peel your eyes back to the lenses at another prompt from the photographers for you to look forward and smile.

In front of you, one of them signalled to you both, rattling off quick instructions in his native language—no doubt suggesting another pose. You both stared at him, a little puzzled but trying to understand, before he waved a hand and switched to accented English. “Kiss, kiss.”

The photographer gestured between you two, as if to punctuate the request. Your eyes flicked to Jannik, not quite processing the context, and a smile teased at your lips when he met your eyes with equal bewilderment. “Uh…”

"The trophy—He wants you both to kiss the trophy!"

You both let out matching, breathy noises of understanding and everyone laughed at the deer-in-headlights moment. 

“Ah, yes. Okay.” Jannik smiled at his feet before shifting the trophy to be in between you, at your eye level.”

You nodded, chuckling a little before you both leaned forward and kissed opposite sides of the cup—flashbulbs went off in quick bursts, and then someone voiced that you’d done enough of that pose. When Jannik lowered the cup again, you both shook your heads at each other, sharing secret smiles once more.

Then your teams surrounded you, given the green light to join for a few shots. Chris clapped Jannik on the back with an exaggerated nod. "Beautiful dropshots," he said, eyes shining. "That one in the first set looked real familiar."

Jannik chuckled. "I just learned from the best."

Beside him, Darren and Simone both congratulated you with open arms.

"Your returns were ridiculous," Darren said. "I’m having a hard time believing you ever needed help on your baseline strokes."

Simone nodded. "I want to frame a still of that forehand."

You just laughed, a little overwhelmed by all the praise, but basking in it nonetheless. Everyone gathered in tight around the trophy for one wide shot—arms around shoulders, heads ducked into the same plane.

Through the smiling, Darren leaned slightly toward Chris and murmured, "Chris, we might have just orchestrated the best pairing to ever happen to tennis."

Chris chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "You’re not wrong."

Soon after, the photographers got all the shots they needed, and the organizers waved the court clear of most other personnel, leaving just the two of you behind. You and Jannik made your way toward the edge of the court, where the crowd had already begun to gather. Fans leaned over the rails, programs and giant tennis balls and visors outstretched in hopes of a signature.

You signed as many as you could, moving down the line beside Jannik, who nodded repeatedly in thanks, his autograph just as tidy and efficient in between posing for the occasional selfie. The two of you chatted quietly between fans, and with them—taking joint photos, exchanging light conversation as you signed.

But then your team caught your eye near the tunnel, Chris motioning subtly at his watch. You gave him a small nod before turning back to the remaining fans still holding things out, your smile apologetic.

"I’m so sorry," you told them, reaching out to sign one last cap. "I’ve got my semifinal soon—I have to go and prepare, but thank you all so much. Seriously."

There were good-natured groans, but mostly more cheers. You turned toward Jannik then, and your grin softened.

"Congrats again," you said, stepping in for another hug. It was brief and chaste, but the crowd collectively cooed at the gesture.

You laughed quietly into his shoulder, pulling out of the hug but stayed close, murmuring to him with a pointed look. "We’ll talk later?"

“Yes, of course.” He nodded, steady. “But don’t worry—you just focus on your match."

You smiled at him one more time—more than a little reassured by how easily he answered—before turning to jog to your team. He called out good luck after you, and gave him another wave, the cheers rising again as you disappeared out of the tunnel.

---

It was only a few hours later when you stepped back onto the court again—this time for your singles semifinal. Your first one ever. In fact, it had been a fair amount of tournaments since you’d even made it to quarter final rounds. There was something about this one that had you laying out all you had on court, it seemed.

You should’ve been tired. You anticipated crashing from the earlier high of winning, expecting the adrenaline from the finals with Jannik to wear out. But instead, it cooled off and transitioned into a productive calm and confidence.

So, as you stood at the baseline, ball in hand, scanning the crowd now gathering for the match, all you felt was ready.

More than that, even—for the first time, you felt complete.

This tournament had seen you every year of your pro career so far, and this time around had held some of your most thrilling wins laced with some of most hair-pulling errors. But something about the past week had undeniably changed the way you moved throughout the space. You felt sharper—more assured. Not just in your instincts, but in your presence. You'd been tested under a different kind of pressure, and instead of cracking—though you came very close—you'd expanded. Absorbed the impact, and learned.

Just as Chris had predicted, doubles had forced you into improving. It had done what endless drills or game planning couldn’t. You could feel it in the way you’d been made to adapt mid-match. React, without needing to overthink. To believe in your shots as they were happening, before they happened. 

That had come from playing alongside someone with rhythm and vision, someone who’s skills worked in tandem to your own. 

And now, standing across from one of the top seeds in the tournament—a player few expected you to take a single set from—you were hungry for more than just damage control.

You were here to win.

The first serve came hard. Your return came harder.

And then the match unfolded like a test of controlled chaos. From the start, your opponent tried to dictate pace with ruthless efficiency—striking hard, flat shots that skimmed the net and pinned you to the corners. But you absorbed them, letting your legs do the work, your core holding you steady as you stayed grounded, tethered to your intent.

At 2-2 in the first set, a thirty-shot rally unfurled like a merciless battle. You danced laterally, catching her inside-out forehands with crosscourt retrievals, then took over with a low-slice backhand that skipped just above her knees. She tried to fake you out with a surprise drop shot, but you’d already predicted it and you were there before she even moved forward. This return wasn’t particularly fast or hard—it didn’t have to be-–it was angled so tight that it kissed the very corner of the lines.

The crowd was up at their feet for that one. You gave them a twirl and tapped your tacket against your thigh, grinning wide, soaking in the energy before focusing back on the match.

Later, you drew her in with a deep looping forehand to her backhand, then lobbed her with feathery precision. She got there, barely, and you waited just long enough before wrong-footing her with a fake backhand and flicking a forehand the opposite way.

Your dropshots—already the most infamous ones on the tour—were working more in your favor than ever. Early in the set, you baited her wide with a backhand drive and then feathered one just over the net, so fine it rolled and died before she could even finish her sprint. You heard a gasp from the crowd before they even knew to applaud.

And now, you don't have to rely on light touches alone. You knew you could count on your other shots, too.

The very next point, you stepped in early on the return and rocketed a fast topspin off your forehand, inside-out, deep into the corner. The crowd thundered and you mimed a curtsy, before standing with a wink and a nod toward your team’s box. Chris shouted with approval, and you pumped your fist in his direction as you walked back to the baseline. Even your opponent paused longer than usual before resetting, as if stunned by the variation.

You continued to celebrate boldly. Pumping your fist. Yelling and twirling. Every time you hit something especially outrageous, you allowed yourself to let out a roar—and the crowd would join in with you.

The first set went to a tie break. Your chest heaved with every serve, sweat running down your back, but your head stayed in it despite the exhaustion. You countered three straight set points before finally clinching the set with a slicing forehand. Everyone watching was on the edge of their seats. You’d come far, sure, within this tournament itself—it was plain for everyone to see. The way you’d played with Jannik in the morning had proved you’d be able to hold your own with the top seed, but now you were winning.

There was no telling how long you could keep the lead, though. And the next set would be the most telling.

The second set was demanding, both you and your opponent weary from such a physical first one. She started hitting flatter, taking the ball earlier, pushing up into the court to steal time from you. You had to counter with everything—your footwork tightening, your court sense stretching to cover angles that seemed impossibly narrow. She served with venom, hitting her spots with expert precision. It was at this point that most players succumbed to her skill. But, somehow, you withstood it. 

You withstood it, and then some.

At 2-3, you played a deuce game that lasted nearly ten minutes. You saved four breakpoints. One with a drop shot that hugged the net, another with a backhand half-volley that skidded just over the line. On the final point, you chased down a short ball and flicked a forehand past her down the line, letting out a loud yell as the stadium erupted.

You scrambled for impossible lobs, chased lines, cracked flat returns with shoulder-loaded precision. And then the set was even, and you were matching the top seed at 4-4. 

She attacked your second serve with a blistering backhand return, stepping in to take time away. But you reacted instantly, blocking it back low and wide, then following it in—closing the net before she could reset. She tried to dip a passing shot around you, but you leaned left and knifed a sharp volley into the open court.

The crowd exploded.

“Come on!” You yelled, not holding back. You held a fist up toward your team before dropping your head back toward the sky. When you walked to your towel, you were still wearing a grin, a little breathless from the thrill.

You were still fighting back, and still winning.

At 5-5, she held two break points. You erased one with an ace out wide—your fastest serve of the match—then turned to the crowd with a dramatic bow, drawing laughter and cheers. Then came the next point, a return that caught the line by centimeters. She challenged and the crowd held its breath, so did you. The replay showed the ball just clipping the edge. You stood still, hand on your hip, heartbeat in your throat.

The call stood and the point was yours. You looked toward your box and pumped your fist.

She hadn’t come this close to losing all year, and you weren’t even in the top 20 yet—your opponent was rattled, and it showed. 

So you worked her corner to corner—match point was made up of a stunning rally made up of over twenty-four shots, most of them baseline drives that demanded precision on a knife’s edge. She tried to end it with a short-angle forehand. You sprinted, slid, got your racket just under it—and flicked the ball right by her. She lurched to return it, overextending as she slide, her back turned to the net. The ball came back your way, but it landed well out of the line…

And that was it. You’d won.

You fell back slightly on your heels, arms raised, chest heaving. But even as the crowd roared and your team jumped to their feet, you stood still, staring right by the baseline where the ball had just bounced out. Your breath caught—chest still heaving, limbs still braced for another point. For a second, you didn’t move. It didn’t feel real.

When it started to click, you let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh. Your eyes flew wide, and you dropped your racquet, hands to your head as your mouth fell open. You staggered a step backward, overcome. And then, as the weight of the moment crashed over you, you spun once in a dramatic circle, threw both arms in the air and let out an exhilarated yell that echoed into the stands.

You’d done it.

You’d won, and it felt like the culmination of everything you'd been pushing toward. And, with all the improvements you’d made, it really felt like you earned it.

You earned your very first final.

---

The hours that followed your singles win passed in a blur of congratulatory handshakes, rapid-fire interviews, and many, tight hugs from everyone on your team. You moved from the court to cool-down, to press, answering the same questions with the same answers with a wide smile because, for once, you didn’t mind the repetition. You were in your first final. 

You hadn’t gotten tired of hearing that yet, of repeating it to yourself. You weren’t sure if you ever could.

Chris clapped you on the back every chance he got, often pulling you into his chest soon after. Your physio joked that you were banned from doing anything other than stretching and eating, and your trainer even agreed. You soaked in every comment, every cheer. It was the kind of dizzying joy that made your chest feel buoyant and your steps just a little lighter, like the ground had softened beneath your feet. Even as your body registered the exhaustion, the wear from two separate matches, your mind replayed the semi in vivid detail—the angles you'd carved, the points you’d clawed back, the crowd’s roar cresting with every bold shot. You tucked away all the missed opportunities in the match, forever remembering the errors more easily than the winners—you knew you and Chris would discuss areas for improvement at length soon. You knew to still be focused and grounded, yes. You wanted to start visualizing points for the final already, but decided that, for now, you should allow yourself to soak in the bliss of the achievement.

You carried that weightlessness through every moment after, floating on adrenaline and the unmistakable hum of pride. Because, above it all, more than any impressive shot you made, you felt uplifted with how you conducted yourself on court. You didn’t bother dulling your edges or softening your presence, and instead you doubled down on it—leaned into your instincts, your style, your voice. You felt like you won not in spite of your identity, but because of it. And, for that, you felt stronger. Fuller. The ache in your legs didn’t bother you—not when your head and heart were still spinning.

Your team was buzzing, too, matching your high. They’d planned a low-key dinner for you—and it was nothing heavy or fancy. Just enough to cap the big day and let you sleep early. You were laughing with them as you finally made it back to the hotel, still carrying your bag, having gone straight to eat after finishing up your obligations at the tournament facility.

And that’s when you saw Jannik again.

It seemed him and his team were leaving for dinner right as you and yours arrived back. Jannik was just outside the elevator bank, talking with Darren and Simone—smiling as soon he spotted you.

"There she is," Darren said first, clapping once. "Queen of comebacks."

"Incredible match," Simone added. "Great tennis."

You thanked them both, still flushing despite having heard the same sentiment dozens of times over already. They continued to share praise around you, relaying compliments to your team, and you listened idly—nodding and smiling along, your eyes flickering over to Jannik often. 

And his gaze never left you—face steady, intent. Darren and Simone clocked it instantly, and your team had noted your weighted silence from the get go; they all exchanged knowing. Chris, standing just behind you, smirked faintly and gave a barely-there shake of his head, like these two. Your physio turned just in time to catch your eyes returning to Jannik and bit back a grin.

Your team offered their own brief words of appreciation with Jannik’s, coming together with them and hanging back—giving the two of you space with a mutual, unspoken understanding. Darren and Simone shared a smug glance with Chris as you both noticeably took the opportunity to split from the group.  Quietly, the two teams peeled away even further, chatting amongst themselves and throwing the occasional not-so-subtle glance in your way, not that either of you noticed.

He walked you to the elevator, or you both sort of drifted in that direction, not rushing to get out any words. He just looked at you with that quiet clarity of his for a moment, and then smiled before saying, "Congrats. That game was just crazy.”

“Thank you, Jannik.” 

“That forehand in the tiebreak? And all the times the ball landed just a little bit in the line? I mean…” Jannik gestured the small margin by which your balls were in with his fingers, sucking in air through his teeth like wow. “And, the dropshots, of course—beautiful as always."

You blinked before chuckling, a little startled by the specificity. "Wow. You really watched, huh?"

“Of course.” He shrugged casually, like it was a given. "From start to end, of course."

“I—thank you." You ducked your head, flattered. "Really. That means a lot.”

Jannik smiled, shrugging once more, and there was a beat of silence. Not awkward, but full.

The elevator dinged behind you.

You glanced at the opening doors, then back to him, lifting your eyes. He waited quietly, sensing you had something to say and giving you time to get it out. "...I know you’ve got your semis tomorrow—and I’ve got the final still—but... I would really like to talk at some point… Because..."

You trailed off but his gaze held yours, only moving to hold the now-closing elevator open, patient as ever.

You shrugged, your lips curling ever so slightly, rushing the next bit out as fast as you could. "Well, because I think we’d work just as well off court as we do on it."

You held your hands up in mock-surrender. There, I said it, clear and light in your expression. A smile broke across his face—one that read like he knew what was coming, but that he was delighted all the same. He nodded once. "I agree."

You beamed at his words. “... Okay.”

"Okay…" he said, chuckling at how fast you brightened, leaning in just slightly before straightening when he saw your team approaching. "We’ll talk—but, for now, go rest. And good luck for the final."

"Yeah, I’ll see you." You said, biting down the full extent of your smile as you stepped away and into the elevator. “Good luck to you for tomorrow.”

He nodded again, bidding goodnight to you and your team as they filled the lift around you. When the doors closed, you were still giddy—unable to help your wide grin.

Chris threw an arm around your shoulders, nodding at your expression with an exaggerated squint. "You want to tell the rest of us what that was about?" he asked, already laughing with the rest of the team. "You look like you were about to float straight through the ceiling."

You shrugged, but your smile only deepened. “Can’t a girl exchange a few words with her doubles partner.”

“Oh, is that the cover we’re going with?” He chuckled, shaking his head and pushing you slightly. "Don’t ever forget I’m who got you the number one, okay?" 

You groaned, but your eyes sparkled. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

{{{

I fear, and also am excited to say, an Insinrection may be upon us. A sinvolution? Idk, neither of those quite work, but, all to say: What do you mean Jannik has a week before his ban is up, and all of a sudden he launches a girlfriend and a foundation for children. I mean those are the two greatest achievements any one man could ever have, I assume—beside being tennis number one, which… So yeah, be afraid. I am, and the ATP player should be and also I am so excited. Well not so much about the gf part but whatever.

Also, had a moment, because his new girlfriend allegedly went to the same uni as me, and I found that she follows my college landlord’s kid. Which feels like the most random connection ever, but like the fact that there’s any connection at all is just crazy to me. She prob was in the same year as them or something normal anyways, but my moment was me being like: Damn, we really can all be just a few degrees of separation from any given person. Crazy. 

Okay, also, back to the plot. Literally. This is technically the final part of In Sync. But I plan to expand on this specific pairing’s evolution in the future, I’ll put out more about that later. I really like this particular reader and you can prob tell by the way I lowkey write more about her herself than her with Jannik, whoops, and I’ve had a lot of you express the same. So, yes, I left it off on like an almost—mostly because only a week has technically passed since they met and that felt the most natural and right—but don’t fret, there will be more.

Does anyone read these post-fic notes? I can’t say for sure, but I do know I kinda go haywire in these so… And this one is especially long... it's been a while, okay Formatted with a new "bracketing" }}} --- {{{ system bc I was rereading a fic of mine and was like, wow I kind of bait readers into thinking there's more to the story but actually it's just a dump of my bullshit. So, I'm sorry if relevant info or story gets lost amidst all my other riveting? thoughts.

Anyways, here you are, the long-awaited part 3. Thanks for your endless patience!!!! xx

But to truly contend with the best of the best, you needed more firepower from the back of the court. A heavier serve. More control from the baseline. 

"You need to flush out the rest of your game," he’d said after your narrow third-round win in Toronto. "Let’s get you in doubles at the next tournament—force you to challenge your reactions off return a bit. Build your movement patterns, and give you more reps on serve under pressure."

You didn’t argue, despite being apprehensive about experimenting in doubles when you never had before. You’d moved up 70 spots in the rankings since working with him—he’d been right about everything so far.

And after your easy agreement, the only next step was to find you a worthy doubles partner. Chris was dead set on scouting a player whose game could push you and complement your strengths, and you knew he was always one to exceed both your expectations.

But there was no way you could have predicted that he’d come back with Jannik Sinner.

---

You were sitting on a bench for practice when Chris entered just slightly late, looking a little stunned.

"Okay, so—this is a little out of left field," he said, handing you a ball can. "I just ran into Darren Cahill—you know? Sinner’s coach?”

You nodded in response. You vaguely remembered the name, but had no idea where your coach was going.

“We worked together at ESPN back in the day. Caught up for a second.” He continued, running a hand through his hair. “I got to explaining the whole doubles plan for you—how it’s meant to help you build your baseline game—and Darren was… Well, let’s say intrigued…"

"...Yeah?" You blinked at him when he trailed off without picking back up. “I don’t get it, is that the story?... Was that him complimenting your coaching method or…?”

“Just listen.” Chris flicked your visor off at your mocking tone. “He said he hadn’t ever thought about doubles as a way to make gameplay more holistic before, and then…”

“Oh my—.” You threw your hands up humorously as he paused yet again. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

He ignored your antics and carried on, apparently deciding that was enough suspense. “And then Sinner walked over and joined. Darren explained the approach to him and they kinda exchanged this look, and then he just—”

Now your coach threw his hands up in the air. You stared up at him, shaking your head in confusion. “He just what, Chris?”

Chris placed his hands on his hips, blowing air from his lips. “He offered. Just like that.”

“... What?” You were still lost. “Offered what? Who did?”

Chris moved to place his hands on your shoulders, bending down slightly. “Jannik Sinner offered. He offered to play as your doubles partner.”

You almost choked. 

"Jannik Sinner?” You moved to stand, throwing Chris’s hands off your shoulders. “Jannik fucking Sinner? Number one in the world?"

“Is going to play mixed doubles with you, yes. This coming tournament." Chris nodded at you slowly, like he was still wrapping his head around it himself, and all you could do was stare at him.

"I guess he likes playing doubles, but just doesn’t often get the opportunity. And after, Darren was saying our plan actually could make a lot of sense for Jannik too—his volleys need work in the way your serves and baseline shots do." He offered some sort of explanation, but your mouth was still agape.

"But we’ve never even spoken to each other."

"He knows who you are."

You shook your head, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "He must really want to work on his net game."

Chris chuckled. "So it’s a yes, then?"

“Of course it’s a yes. Let’s do it.”

---

The Canadian Open arrived fast.

D.C. had been a blur. Hot courts, gritty points, and matches stacked back to back—exactly the kind of momentum you needed this time of year. But it had also meant your schedule was packed to the brim. No room for any activities or even thoughts outside of your game play, and so even the anticipation of your impending mixed doubles campaign fell onto the backburner—as it often would for players who focused on singles.

Jannik, on the otherhand, had made a deep run at Wimbledon a couple months before. He’d made it all the way to the final. After all the grass stains and pressure and heartbreak, he’d chosen to rest after, skipping the post-Wimbledon wave most players dived into. No Atlanta. No D.C. Just a full reset. 

And the Canadian Open was his return, and it was safe to say the doubles hadn’t really been on his mind up until then either.

So, no, you hadn’t trained together. Even your teams had barely exchanged messages outside of some scheduling logistics and a couple polite acknowledgements. There were no chemistry checks, no practice sets. Not even a five-minute hit around the net.

There just hadn’t been the time.

The mixed doubles partnership very much was—and was always going to be—a massive leap of faith.

---

Match day had its own rhythm. Especially when you had your singles match and a doubles debut to account for.

Your team was already two steps ahead—your coach had coordinated the time slot, your physio had your warm-up planned down to the minute, and someone had already dropped your racquets off for stringing. You’d done your pre-practice mobility in the fitness center, eaten your usual carb-heavy breakfast in the player restaurant, and checked in with your support staff. And Jannik’s team was just as efficient—Simone had confirmed everything with Chris the night before.

So now, for the first time ever, both of your teams were now standing just outside the practice block, together, chatting while the two of you got ready to begin.

When you arrived at the court block for your 45-minute warm up slot—a quick turn around after the singles round you’d won just earlier that morning—you were already a little tight on time and energy. Not tense, exactly, just... worn. 

Jannik was already on court when you walked up.

He was shadow-swinging near the baseline, looking well-rested. Shirt fresh, not sweating just yet, only beginning to break in his movements.

He caught your entrance out of the corner of his eye and turned toward you. He gave you a brief nod and smile as you set your stuff down, before his face went back to that famously unreadable expression.

You dropped your bag beside the bench and straightened, suddenly very aware of your own posture. You weren’t usually shy. But this felt different. Jannik wasn’t just any player. And despite your rising success, it was hard not to feel the weight of stepping into his space.

"How are you?" he asked once you made your way, his voice polite and welcoming.

"Good. Sorry I’m a little late, I’ve been running around," you replied, laughing a little at yourself. “How are you doing?”

“No problem—congrats on the win.” He said evenly, shaking your hand after you’d approached, it was firm and not too long. “I’m good, it’s nice to finally meet you."

"Thank you," you said, dropping your hand. "And yes, yeah, same here. Been a long time coming."

He offered a little chuckle in agreement, but a lull in conversation came soon after. 

A beat passed, and you pressed your lips into a line at the stiffness.

"Shall we?" You broke the awkward silence with a nod toward the court. 

He nodded, comfortable again now that tennis was the topic at hand, and moved to one side. "Let’s warm up groundstrokes first?"

You hummed in agreement, and he started to back up to the baseline while spinning his racket in circles with one hand. You stayed put for a second, flipping your racket into your non-dominant hand to tug a hair tie from your wrist. Then you wedged your racket gently between your thighs as you reached up to pull up your hair, twisting it up quickly, fingers moving on autopilot, elbows lifted high. 

The move revealed the curve of your nape and the afternoon light catching on your jawline, and Jannik, still only a few paces away, watched the whole motion unfold like it had caught him mid-step. 

His gaze followed the line of movement from behind—the way your thighs held the racket in place and the slow lift of your arms as you gathered your hair, exposing the length of your neck, the quiet strength in your posture. He tracked the moment with an almost unconscious focus, eyes lingering on the curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth as you pulled the tie taut.

His stare wasn’t intrusive, it wasn’t even intentional. He just… he couldn’t seem to turn away.

But when you glanced up and behind, briefly, his eyes darted away like he’d only just realized he’d been looking. He cleared his throat and turned—shaking the image from his head as he gave you space when you walked over to join him on the baseline.

As he suggested, you two started with groundstrokes. Side stepping back and forth down the line as you returned the balls hit by your coaches from the other side of the net. And, even as you moved on to different sequences of the warm up, both you and Jannik worked with and around each other with a certain rigidity. 

It wasn’t that either of you were cold to each other, but the quiet between you had a chill to it. Not exactly awkward, either. Just measured and unfamiliar. 

You thought you could even feel him holding back—careful in the way he didn’t say too much, didn’t push to make small talk. And you matched his restraint, reigning in your usual forwardness—not wanting to seem overeager or, worse, underprepared.

Yet, somehow it almost felt like, under the surface, there was a spark of something there... 

Attraction, yes. On your part towards him, at least. But you always knew that—you'd always been a fan in more ways than one. And so you knew to shake away the thoughts as soon as they came. You couldn’t afford to get distracted and ruin your first impression.

But you could’ve sworn that every time you glanced at where he was standing on court, he was already tracking your movement—you wrote it off as him studying you as a tennis partner, and you tried your best to do the same for him. 

You worked through cross-courts, then volleys. Quick transitions at the net. No one said much, but your rhythm was solid. And after a while, you started to learn him and his moves better. Every time he adjusted his swing or repositioned after a rally, you mirrored without thinking. No instruction, just well-timed instinct.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, you started thinking to yourself as the time went on.

When the session wound down, your respective coaches stepped in with clipboards and towels, casually breaking down a few tactical things. Where to serve wide to give you time to rush the net. How to bait a hit without revealing it. Chris spoke mostly to you, Darren and Simone mostly to Jannik—both groups huddled with your respective teams, but not far from each other on court. 

As Darren explained something about court positioning, Jannik's eyes drifted. Just momentarily, nothing rude or intentional, because the sight of you standing just slightly staggered behind Simone distracted him. Jannik gazed past Simone’s shoulder to settle on you as you leaned in for Chris’s instruction, towel looped around your neck, hair re-tied up haphazardly and sweat beading at your hairline. You weren’t looking at him, and it was something about that focus of yours that made his falter.

All the while, unbeknownst to either of you, the coaches caught the look, your own coach’s eyes tracking Jannik’s brief glance over. Darren and Simone both turned to follow Jannik’s gaze, flashing a knowing smile to Chris before exchanging a smirk between each other—one of those quiet, veteran acknowledgments that didn’t need words. And as the time for feedback wrapped up, the coaches knocked shoulders about it once more when you and Jannik made your way to the bench for water, with shared half-smiles and a small shake of their heads.

You both sat down on the bench wordlessly, without such cheer, draining your water, catching your breath, bouncing your knees...

And the silence stretched.

His knee brushed yours for a second—subtle, fleeting. Maybe accidental, maybe not. But neither of you moved away. If anything, it felt like he angled a little closer, elbows on knees in a way that made the bench feel smaller. You stole a brief glance at his profile, only to find he was already looking at you. He looked away quickly, but you saw the flush just beneath his ears.

You turned your gaze forward as well and exhaled through your nose, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. And when you reached for your towel again, it was slow and careful, like speeding up might make the moment burst. 

Every shift of his body, every inhaled breath—it all felt amplified. He still hadn't said anything, and neither had you. But the charge between you on that bench could only come from the mutual, acute awareness of how close you were sitting—something passing between you in the silence. A low hum neither of you acknowledged, but both of you heard.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, cap pulled low over his brow. You sat upright, towel tucked beneath your chin, the water bottle cooling in your palm, and your arms just barely brushed when he adjusted just slightly to turn his head back to look up at you.

Capping his bottle, he spoke, the first to break the silence. "You played in Washington, no?"

You nodded, a little startled to be addressed amidst the blatant tension. "Yeah. Only finished up three days ago. It was non-stop in D.C."

“I saw you made it to the semis.” He hummed in acknowledgment. "It was a great run, beautiful drop shots.”

You looked at your lap with a bashful smile at his words, mouthing a thank you though no sound came out. It stayed quiet for another beat, and he took the initiative to break it once more.

“This is my first one back, I took some time off after Wimbledon." He said, just because, as if no one had noticed the World No. 1’s brief absence. 

"Good call.” You glanced over. "Yeah, that final was... a lot."

He offered a tight smile, and you didn’t press.

Another pause and, for a second, you let yourself really look at him.

He reached up and pulled off his cap, running a hand through his flattened curls to shake them loose as you leaned forward to set his bottle back on the ground between his legs. You watched without meaning to—the slow way his fingers pushed through his hair, the way the curls clung damp to his forehead before falling back into their usual shape. 

It should have been a normal thing. Unremarkable. How many times had you watched your peers do the same?

But something about the motion, about the way he did it—something about him. It caught you.

Your eyes traced the line of his cheekbone, the shape of his mouth, the way his shirt clung to his back as he leaned forward. You noticed more than you meant to. Maybe more than you should have.

It was a subtle glance—nothing overt—but when your eyes flicked back to his, you found him already watching you.

That seemed to be a pattern, now.

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth flickered upwards, and his gaze glinted like he knew he’d seen more than you meant to reveal.

In an effort not to linger in getting caught, and to move past your subsequent, growing embarrassment, you broke this silence.

"Thanks for agreeing to this," you said, rushed and sheepish. "I know doubles probably wasn't on your radar."

“Ah, of course.” He gave you a crooked smile, and you willed yourself not to look at his lips. “I take it as a privilege. And my team and me—we think it will make improvements for me, too.”

“That’s the plan.” You screwed your own water bottle shut, giving him a smile back with a shrug of your shoulders. “But, I guess we’ll find out later today if it actually works out that way.”

“I guess we will.”

---

The sun had just started to dip behind the stands when you two were up for your first round to begin, and it cast a golden wash over the court as you and Jannik stood behind the entrance gate of the court, waiting for your names to be announced. 

Your warm up session with Jannik—your first meeting with Jannik—was only a handful of hours ago and now you were hoping forty minutes of light hitting, a bit of target serving, and the overwhelming tension between you two was enough to carry you through the first round. Doubles may not have been your main priority, and having Jannik beside you might have muddled your head, but that didn’t change the fact that you hated losing. You planned to play to win. You always did.

Jannik stood beside you, bouncing side to side slightly on the balls of his feet. He was focused and calm, and you seemed to absorb his energy without realizing, stretching out your shoulder one last time.

"You ready?" you asked, glancing sideways at him.

He nodded with a smile that widened when he spoke. "We’ll see."

“We’ll see?” You laughed, before turning your head back to face the gate. "That’s convincing."

He let out a breath of a laugh. "I mean... you said it before, at the warmup. We can only find out on the court, no?"

"It’s true." You glance back at him once more. “Even if we don’t manage to sync up, maybe it’ll be a fun disaster.”

You heard him echo your words to himself with a laugh as you stepped forward to exchange a polite nod and handshake with your opponents—a solid pair from France who had already played together before. Jannik joined beside you to do the same, giving them a quick smile and an easy smile, as you continued a little banter with them. 

It seemed the energy of doubles was a little lighter than the matches you’d played, but the bleachers surrounding the court still had that electric thrum. You could feel the pulse of the crowd as the walk-out music played, your names echoing through the speakers. The response to Jannik’s name was deafening, and your brows raised a bit when the cheers to yours wasn’t far off. In the time that had passed since this pair up was first established, since your initial disbelief, you’d forgotten how big a deal it was to be playing alongside someone of Jannik’s caliber. He seemed to sense your hesitation, and the resurgence of nerves, and he gave you a small, encouraging glance as you both waved to the fans and stepped onto the court.

Mixed doubles games were almost always played on the smaller courts on any tournament facility, but the sheer volume capable of even the smaller crowd seemed to close around you. All the pre-game procedures passed by like a blur. Jannik had to set a hand on your shoulder after the coin toss to pull you back in. You blinked back up at him before agreeing with his choice, the first service game was to be his.

Despite the serve not being a natural weapon of yours in game, the two of you settled into the match dynamic with surprising ease. You bounced the ball slowly at the baseline, breathing in the buzz of the stadium. On the first point, you landed a sharp kick serve out wide to the deuce side. The return came high and loopy, giving Jannik time to slide left and pounce on it with a clean forehand that thudded just inside the baseline. A one-two punch. Easy. Lucky.

Second point, you sliced the serve into the body. The returner tried to thread it down the middle, but you were already at the net, knees bent, eyes locked. With a firm backhand volley, you angled it short cross-court, well out of reach. You felt the crowd hum as you straightened. Jannik gave a subtle nod. No theatrics, just clear recognition—a stark difference from the usual displays you were known to put on, but typical for Jannik’s quiet celebrations.

At 30–0, the returner adjusted. You mixed in a flatter serve and got back into ready position quickly. The ball came hotter, dipping low. Jannik fell back to the baseline, ready to absorb pace, and you moved forwards to cover the empty front. The rally extended. Jannik played it cool, alternating heavy topspin with flatter drives, moving the opponents side to side. You hovered at the service line, reading their body language. At the first sign of hesitation, you darted in to poach—your signature backhand volley cut across the net to end the point.

And then, 40–0. You stepped up with confidence and tossed your serve high. The return clipped the tape and fell dead.

Game. Jannik and you tapped rackets in an easy and casual congratulations, and you shot a grin at your box as you registered the cheers of your team. Both you and Jannik had managed to turn every one of your serves into a point so far, a feat you were rarely able to do whilst alone—it was one of the weaker aspects of your game. So maybe doubles would help fix that, just as Chris had predicted.

Now the next service game belonged to Jannik and, as expected, his first serve was whipped past like a rocket. The second point, he kicked it out wide, drawing a stretch return that you intercepted cleanly mid-air and angled out of reach. The third went on to be a rally, playing longer this time. You kept tight at the net, as you did best, tracing the ball, ready for any flick or dip. He stayed deep, well behind the baseline, letting his forehand do the work, pushing the opponents until they just couldn’t return anymore. They hit the ball into the net.

Game.

Two games in, and you both knew exactly where to be—playing where you were most comfortable. You up front, cutting, reading, and pressing. And Jannik behind you, steady, strategic, and powerful. Those roles were defined and known, and they kept the rhythm sharp.

But then it was time to turn those roles upside down. After all, that’s what the whole doubles trial was supposed to experiment with anyways.

Your coaches had agreed from the start: this mixed doubles pairing wasn’t just about a fun variety, it was about sharpening your edges. Covering any weaknesses.

You needed more reps at the baseline. Jannik needed to get more comfortable at the net. And this game, with all its speed and improvisation, was proving to be the perfect environment for that.

And so the real fun, the real challenge, began. That had been the whole point, after all. 

It was early in the second set when you switched things up for a return game, Chris giving you the signal from the corner of your eyes. You dropped behind the baseline and Jannik crouched forward, shadowing the net.

And, immediately, things got messy.

The first point was a disaster. You were still adjusting to the angle, the depth, the speed of the serve from your new vantage point at the back. It came in flatter and faster than you expected—kicking off the line with a sharp bend that threw your timing. You moved to meet it too late, your weight still mid-transfer, and your strings caught it at an awkward angle. The ball skidded off your racket with a loud, resounding thwack and shot sideways, ricocheting into the sideline signage. A few gasps, and more than a couple laughs came from the crowd. You winced, and your hand came up to cover your mouth as it slowly grew into a disbelieving smile.

Jannik turned, raising an eyebrow over his shoulder with that careful mix of concern and dry humor, his own laughter bubbling underneath. "That was... different."

"Just–uh—” You let out a laugh and waved him off jokingly. “Just give me a second to settle in back here.”

But the next point, the origin of chaos just flipped from you to him. A short return floated to Jannik mid-court. He had time to set up for an easy volley, maybe too much time. He moved in, racket already back and wound up, clearly going for a statement shot. But instead of a measured finish, he flattened the racket and wound up too far. The ball exploded off his strings, he’d struck it with excessive power and it sailed high and long, landing well behind the baseline. 

An audible oof rippled through the crowd.

He stood there for a beat, looking at the spot where the ball had disappeared, and then placed a hand on his head in disbelief. He shook his head to himself as he retreated back to position, a smile of mild embarrassment gracing his lips.  

"I mean... that was definitely a shot." You called out, biting back a grin. “We’re trying to aim for the inside of the court, remember?”

"Ah, is that why there is a line there?” He looked at you with an exaggerated deadpan before breaking into a wide smile.

But you both shared a chuckle, coming together for a quick fist bump as if to say we’ll get it next time. 

And, after a few hiccups, you did. 

You both started to find your footing. You knew this was where the growth was meant to happen, well outside your comfort zone. Your coach’s voice echoed in your head, and you reminded yourself to enjoy the chaos—that’s when the good stuff begins.

On return, you lowered your center of gravity, starting to anticipate better. You began using your legs more effectively, letting the ball come to you instead of rushing it. One point, you got just enough on a forehand return to send it deep and off-kilter, and followed it up with a smooth cross-court drive that earned a quiet cheer from your box.

Jannik, in the meantime, let his own instincts adjust as well. Instead of trying to muscle through volleys, he started trusting his hands. He took pace off returns and played them deep with placement rather than force. 

And after one particular shot of his, things really started to spark. 

It was a brutal rally—long, twisting, each shot heavier than the last. The opponents were relentless, dragging you both side to side, changing pace, slicing low, lobbing high. Jannik stayed patient, blocking at the net with short steps and a lowered center of gravity. You kept feeding balls deep, looping them high to reset until finally, one of their forehands clipped the net cord and sat up just past the service box.

Jannik moved like he’d been waiting for it.

He lunged forward, knees bent, hands soft. The ball was dropping fast, low and spinning, but he met it gently, guiding it over the net with a feathered touch that felt almost impossibly delicate. It bounced just once and curled inward like a magnet to the sideline—the other side didn’t even get a chance to reach for it. 

You let out a gasp along with the crowd before they erupted in applause.

Ecstatic after witnessing such a point, you rushed him with full, unfiltered enthusiasm, practically bounding across the service box. Jannik looked up to you just as you reached him and his eyes widened, but he didn’t back away. You half-jumped into him and he let out a surprised laugh—your arms flinging loosely around his neck, racket still in hand. He held you easily, strong hands steadying your back. 

The crowd whooped, the energy spiking again. Jannik laughed into the side of your head, the both of you breathless from the exertion. You felt it in his chest. He was just as amped as you were, even if he was better at hiding it. 

The embrace lasted a second too long—maybe a few too long—before you remembered yourself. You stepped away with a dazed smile and sudden self-awareness, his cheeks red and your eyes wide.

"Come on," you said, putting an appropriate distance between the two of you again while reaching low to high five his hand that had just pulled away from your waist, your voice a little rough and giddy with passion. "That’s what I’m talking about."

He cleared his throat, but looked down with a crooked grin and a simple shrug. "I learn from you."

“Well you pick things up fast, then.” You couldn’t help but grin at his deflection and sweet humility. “Let’s hope I learn from you, too.” 

You returned to your places and, from there, the points got sharper. The initial unsteadiness gave way to grit and feel and, as Jannik improved before everyone’s eyes at the net, you started faring better than okay at the baseline—striking powerful, long shots back to your opponents. 

One of the points started with a wide serve that forced you off balance. You rushed back to hit a deep return to just barely stay in the point, and the opponents immediately pounced, turning defense into offense. The rally that followed was a blur of angles and pace—groundstrokes traded with growing ferocity, each shot tightening the margins.

Jannik tracked one down wide on his forehand, slicing it defensively cross-court. You recovered into position just in time to absorb a sharp backhand that skipped off the court, nudging it back with topspin.

And then the lob came.

High, deep, well-placed. Way over Jannik’s head.

But you didn’t hesitate.

Your legs were moving before you could register it. You sprinted back, racquet already raised. The ball dropped low and fast, teasing the baseline. You dropped your weight, coiled, and unleashed a blistering topspin forehand that screamed down the line—a clean winner.

The crowd stilled for a second. And then they were up on their feet, a wave of cheers following.

Jannik turned slowly from the net, lips parted, blinking like he hadn’t quite processed it. His mouth curled into a dopey, stunned grin, and he shook his head slightly, still looking at you like you'd just rewritten all the known laws of physics.

You smiled wide and threw your arms up, pandering the crowd, soaking in their energy as they roared louder.

You made your way up to Jannik to tap rackets, but he reached out a hand instead. Clapping his hand in yours with an impressed shake of his head. 

"That—" he started, voice hushed and oozing with admiration, "—was unreal."

And his hand was still on yours, thumb resting lightly against the back of your hand as the buzz of the crowd surged behind you. He seemed to realize it at the same time you did, blinking once like he’d just caught himself, and then the two of you gently pulled apart—both of your quiet laughter and bashful smiles covering a beat of that tenison that seemed ever-present. That chemistry.

And, as the game kept going, it was like it kept growing.

Kept building up between you—something just past the clean points and tight reactions. It was the way your shoulders bumped at changeovers, the glances you traded after surprising yourselves, the glint in your shared smile every time the crowd roared for a point that impressed even the two of you.

You didn’t need the scoreboard to show that you were winning—you could feel it.

When match point landed—a volley from you after a deep return from Jannik that clipped the baseline—the two of you turned into each other immediately, rushing at one another. You met at the middle with a shared high-five that lingered with a brief hand hold, wide grins adorning your faces. A far from flashy celebration, but honest and special.

You were still gushing about the last point with Jannik as you walked over to the net to shake hands with your opponents. He mentioned something about your backhand winner in the second set, and you countered with how outrageous his drop shot had grown to be within the span of a single game. Even the opposing team smiled at your enthusiasm as they waited against the net, and you all nodded warmly as you passed handshakes and congratulations both ways.

And when heading back to the bench, you were both still riding the high. You toweled off, giggling mid-sip of water as Jannik retold his perspective of a particularly ballsy shot of yours—one that whizzed right passed his face. Jannik clutched his ear in jest, miming the speed the ball grazed him with, and you doubled over with laughter at his story and the way he acted out. And at his openness—his humor pleasantly surprising you. 

The on-court interviewer found you like that, coming down from the joke, and they shot you both an amused smile before gesturing towards the court. You nodded and followed to the service line, feeling Jannik close behind you as you stepped forward in sync, the energy between you still thrumming. 

The first question—and maybe it was to be expected—wasn’t even about the score or the outcome.

"What a match! You two were dynamite out there. What was going on?"

You both opened your mouths to reply at the same time, only to pause, glancing at each other. Jannik gestured for you to go first, a smile playing on his lips.

You grinned at him before turning back towards the mic. "Honestly—well, speaking for myself at least, I guess—I just had so much fun.”

You turned to look up at Jannik, smiling a bit when you saw him watching you and listening with his own smile, before continuing, “I had almost no expectations for doubles—and obviously Jannik and I have never played together—but I really do feel today was one of the most entertaining matches I’ve ever played… and we happened to play pretty well, too, I’d say.”

“And if you’re saying this is one of the most entertaining matches, then it really must be. We all know your matches can be pretty… showy.” The interviewer punctuated his words with a pointed look, and you laughed with an innocent shrug towards the crowd. Next to you, Jannik chuckled along with the audience.

Pointing the mic towards Jannik now, the interviewer turned the question on him. “And Jannik? Was it fun, do you agree? Because the next round will be kind of awkward if you don’t.”

“It was okay...” Jannik laughed, and the stands followed suit as you exaggerated a grimace, though he immediately shook his head, his voice light and easy. “No—I’m just kidding. This was—it was incredibly fun, yes, and we make a good team, obviously. She made it easy to enjoy.”

There was a ripple of cheers from the crowd and you smiled down at your feet, rocking back and forth on your toes as the rest of the interview continued—and all the while, you tried not to fantasize about your next match together.

---

Despite all the build up you’d felt for it, you and Jannik didn’t talk at all before the second round together. 

Not because you didn’t want to. Your first game with him—him in general, really—ran through your mind throughout most of your free moments. It’s just that there weren’t very many of those. You hadn’t even run into Jannik in the hallways behind the scenes in the facilities, as you sometimes did before you’d even met him. 

Your schedules once tournaments began had little to no give. Advancing in singles while getting through media obligations made things packed enough, and the mixed doubles agenda had to be wedged in whatever small spaces that worked. Just the previous day, the both of you had your respective singles matches, managing wins that left you sore but satisfied. 

But that didn’t stop you from reminiscing about that first doubles round in the lead-up to the second, and you found yourself raving about Jannik and the match to your team without meaning to more often than not. 

Your coach had clocked it immediately after the first one with Jannik. You’d barely made it into the locker room before launching into your post-match high, recapping every detail—his returns, your volley angles, how you moved together like you'd practiced for months. And even when the day passed, you’d continued to spout details about the surprise of it, about how much fun it was, about him. 

"Okay, okay, we get it. He’s perfect." Chris had laughed, holding up both hands. “And we saw the match, remember?”

You’d rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. "I’m just saying—we worked together. Like, really worked. That never happens first try... Right?"

"Darren says he’s been saying the exact same thing about you, by the way," Chris once allowed, casually.

"What?” Your head had snapped around. “What did he say? Like, exactly—word for word."

Chris laughed harder. "I don’t know, something about you having ‘insane hands at net' and 'feeling really in sync.'"

You’d tried to play it off with a shrug, but Chris laughed again as you clearly turned away to cover a smile—one you couldn’t get rid of for the rest of the day.

So when you met up with Jannik for the second time, forgoing a warm-up because of your long match earlier that day, you’d beamed at him when you spied him at the end of the tunnel. And this time the walk-out felt easier, though your energy felt almost impossibly elevated from the first time.

"I’m already sore from my match today,” you told him as you zipped off your jacket, turning to send him a quick wink. ”So let’s make it quick?"

He gave you a slow, crooked grin. "You read my mind."

And the match itself felt like a continuation of a rhythm already found. From the moment you stepped onto the court together, there was no need to recalibrate. No awkward stutters, no overlapping spaces. You split the court effortlessly, reading each other's body language with minimal words. He fed the other side with soft volleys and you’d counter any deep hits with skillful flicks and cut angles; with any looping balls hit to either of your forehands being snapped back with a controlled whip of a swing.

The first rally said it all. You served down the T, and before the ball even came back, Jannik was already shifting behind you to cover the open court. You didn’t call it. You didn’t need to. His instincts slotted right into your own, like gears catching mid-spin.

Every shift in positioning came naturally. When you dipped in for the poach, he read it and dropped back. When he slid wide to take a forehand on the run, you angled inward without thinking. It was more than coordination—it read like well-oiled intuition. You knew where he’d be and what he planned to do, and he knew the same of you.

The first set was peppered with plays that felt almost telepathic. On one return game, he slid in for a short volley and you were already crashing the net behind him, catching the reply with another, reaction volley that drew a clean winner. You turned and beamed at him. He just gave a small, satisfied nod, eyes shining, pumping a fist in your direction. 

And between points, you murmured adjustments, barely louder than your breath. You stepped toward him, your footsteps soundless on the hardcourt, the heat of your body pulsing with adrenaline. Jannik mirrored you—close, quiet—and the distance shrank until he was right there.

He dipped his head, the curve of his jaw brushing just past your temple. The brim of his cap even casting shade on you. You could see the freckles dotting the higher angles of his face, feel the faint stir of his breath fan across your cheek. The space between you was barely more than that breath, and yet it didn’t feel tight or uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like all things outside of you two had suspended, like the rest of the court had gone still.

"On the ad, I’ll go early," you murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched yours, close enough for you to see the flecks of amber just beyond the olive green, to notice the furrow between his brows soften.

"I’ve got your wide if they switch it up," he said finally, voice low but not rushed. Really hearing you, really taking you in.

His cheekbone brushed your hairline as he nodded, and neither of you moving until the umpire called time. You stepped back at the same moment, falling back into gameplay like the heat of being near him wasn’t still radiating through your body. 

The scoreboard moved quickly from there, the two of you almost dictating every moment. You weren’t just winning points, you were full on orchestrating every back and forth.

When you started serving, you had a hold secured within four points, thanks to your newly developing, reliable spin and Jannik’s court coverage. Then he held with three consecutive winners. By the time you reached the end of the first game, the scoreboard read 6–2, and even your usually well-equipped opponents already looked defeated.

You rested your racket between your knees as you reached for your water. You bumped your shoulder lightly into Jannik’s. "Think we should pretend to struggle? Keep it interesting?"

He chuckled, not even bothering to reply and just shaking his head with a faint, fond smile your way before you both stepped back on court—the second set flying by even faster. 

The two of you leaned into the rhythm—Jannik creeping forward more often, surprising the opponents with well-timed net rushes, while you settled at the baseline with a new level of confidence. Your returns had weight, purpose. Power you hadn’t quite gotten to before. He caught onto your shifting stance and adjusted his movement accordingly. It wasn’t just some subliminal communication anymore, or silent chemistry—it was trust.

Midway through the set, your opponents tried to lob you both. Jannik was already backpedaling by the time you shouted "yours” and he snatched it out of the air with a running overhead smash that kissed the back of the line. You laughed in delight from the service line, already moving forward for the next point.

In another moment ,a wide serve from the opponents sent Jannik sprawling out of position. Without missing a beat, you slid cross-court to cover, skidding to pick up the return with a forehand slice, and transitioned forward immediately, as if daring them to pass you. They tried and failed, the ball slinging into the net right in front of you. 

And when Jannik finally recovered to join you at the net, he bumped your shoulder, grinning. "You don’t even need me."

"Not true.” You spun your racket in one hand with a cheeky smile. “I just like showing off."

He moved to serve for match point after that, passing you to get to the baseline, and you were still smiling.

"You want a trick shot?" he asked crossed you, while you got down to crouch at the net.

“I think we’ve made enough of those.” You grinned up at him. "I want the point."

He chuckled into his nod, walking over to the ball kid and bouncing the ball with a smile still on his face. And the final point came fast—a second serve kicker from him, a shaky return, and you intercepting mid-air with a crisp backhand volley that landed just inside the tramline.

You quickly exchanged polite words with your opponent before turning to the crowd with both arms raised, basking in the cheer that followed. Spinning on your heel, you flashed a grin toward Jannik and motioned for him to join in the celebration. He chuckled under his breath and followed you toward center court, mimicking your energy with a looser, almost shy sort of smile.

The crowd loved it. They weren’t used to seeing Jannik so animated—his usual composure being quiet and almost clinical even in his victories. But beside you, he let himself laugh, let himself be pulled into your exuberance.

You grabbed his wrist and raised both your arms together, laughing when that earned an even louder wave of applause.

"See how much they love it when you humor me," you teased, barely loud enough for him to hear over the crowd. He leaned in to hear you properly, his ear by your lips.

"You’re dangerous," he replied, shaking his head before rising back the his full height, but the warmth in his voice undercut any protest.

---

Even amidst that mixed doubles excitement, your singles performances’ still stunned.

You were pushing through the draw with confidence, finding your rhythm early in matches and closing them out with textbook precision—implementing improvements prompted by your doubles matches almost immediately. A straight-sets win over a top-seeded player in the second round had been the talk of your section of the draw. Commentators noted how your net game had somehow grown even more exact, and how your footwork had never looked sharper. You’d even been serving better, hitting your spots with a newfound aggression no one missed, and stepping into returns with a calm that belied the stakes. 

In short, it seemed your game was peaking—and the growth didn’t look like it’d be slowing down soon.

Jannik, as expected, was cruising through the rounds. He hadn’t dropped a set yet, and his movements like liquid gold—each point played with the economy and edge of someone fully locked in. His confidence radiated, though his demeanor remained as steady as ever. People had referred to him as the favorite to win before the tournament had even begun, and he never batted an eye at the pressure.

But it seemed no matter how much you both achieved individually, the press couldn’t help but circle back to your unique, out-of-nowhere doubles pairing.

At your post-match press panel following your third-round singles win, a reporter shifted the topic to discuss Jannik towards the end. "Obviously another great performance today against Zheng. We’ve observed a lot of progression in your game since playing at the Toronto, and you’ve said previously that you attribute a lot of that to your doubles campaign with Jannik Sinner—Can you talk a bit about what’s made that pairing work so well so quickly?"

You shifted in your seat, already smiling at the mention of his name. "I think it’s been a fun and light new thing, first and foremost. And, of course we’re both super competitive, but we’re also kind of opposites on court in terms of energy and skill. So it… I don’t know, it just balances well. He’s calm, and I’m..."

"Expressive," someone from the room offered, calling out from the sea of journalists, and the room chuckled.

“Yeah, that.” You laughed. "But no, seriously—he’s just a smart player. He’s the number one for a reason, and I really feel playing with him has pushed me to improve.”

The reporter nodded when you wrapped up your answer, thanking you as they passed the mic on for the next question. “Like you say, you and Sinner have a great dynamic on court. What did the preparation leading up to you two playing together look like?”

You laughed to yourself, sipping some water before twisting the mic to sit in front of your mouth again. “There literally was none. Absolute zero preparation—we met the day of our first match, actually.”

“How would you explain the success of the partnership, then?” The reporter followed up with a laugh.

“I honestly don’t know.” You paused for a moment, looking down to think. “I mean... Like I said, Jannik’s a very good player. He’s very intuitive, he’s learned how to play with me very quickly... He feels me out especially well, and knows just when to go hard and soft, and—”

You stop when a ripple of laughter passed over the reporters, and freeze when you hear what they did in what you said .

"On the ball," you said quickly, hands raised in mock defense before covering your delayed, mortified expression. "Hard and soft on the ball—and on court. Obviously."

“You also said he ‘feels you out well’?” One of the journalists you were more familiar with called out with a smile. The laughter only continued and you buried your face in your hands for a second more before looking up again, cheeks warm but smiling. 

"Oh god… No one quote any of that, okay?" You shook your head to yourself, uncapping your water to chug more water than you needed. “Uh, next question?”

Another reporter stepped up, mercifully offering you some sweet relief. “You seem to switch from your usual area of comfort when playing doubles, with you back at the baseline and Sinner up at the net—that’s not Sinner’s speciality either, how does that feel?”

“It feels great—uncomfortable at first, but ultimately great, yeah.” You nodded. “We started playing in our comfort zones the first game, but I think where we really got excited is when we flipped. Obviously, Jannik is really good at hitting it from the back, so I like having him behind me, but—”

You pause when a loud, forced cough from somewhere in the back broke your train of thought, and the loaded silence in the crowd that sat after it was deafening. Soon after, it broke when concealed chuckles slowly started popping up around the room.

You look around in confusion, before rerunning what you’d just said to yourself. And, as soon as you got it, you placed your head in your hands—feeling a sense deja vú all too soon.

“Wow. I’m just saying everything wrong today, aren’t I?” You moved your palms to press into your eyes, letting out a dry laugh. “Either that, or this is just a room of some very perverted journalists—god.”

They all only increased their laughter at that, and you joined in good-naturedly, though you were already dreading what was to come as soon as you stepped out of the conference room…

And, just as you predicted, the reaction was exactly what you'd expected—and kind of feared.

It started with one clip, and within the day it spiraled into compilations, reaction videos, slowed-down edits with swapping between the you and Jannik behind dramatic and sensual music, “hard and soft” trending on Twitter with replies that racked up dozens of likes before you could even blink. It seemed everywhere you turned, there were those lines followed by your face of realization and subsequent embarrassment.

When your team met you in the cafeteria for a meal, it was like they’d been rehearsing the line for hours just to recite it from memory. They teased you endlessly.

"You realize it's going to be on a t-shirt by next week, right?" your physio said, grinning as he plated some pasta from the buffet.

"And it’s gonna be on posters at your next match," Chris jumped in, barely looking up from his tray. "Front row. Full of glitter..."

"Screaming hard and soft at the top of their lungs," your trainer added, and nearly choking from failing to hold in their laughter.

You groaned, dragging your hoodie up over your head. "I hate all of you."

"You love us," your physio sing-songed. "Just not as much as the way Sinner feels you out, apparently."

"... It’s obvious in the full context that I’m talking about our game style.” You glared at her from the side of your hood. “It wasn’t even that bad… Right?”

"Of course not," Chris nodded solemnly. "Classic tennis terminology. In fact, I think we should start using it in practice. Next drill, I’m going to call it out so you can mix up your pace: go hard and soft, hard and soft—"

“Oh my god,” You tossed a napkin at him. “Stop, I’m begging you.”

And when your team continued to giggle, you flicked bits of your rice towards them, but you couldn’t help but smile at their enjoyment, despite your sincere and growing regret at what had left your mouth at the panel. You shook your head to yourself, shoveling your food with unnecessary aggression.

After a brief reprise in teasing, when everyone put their heads down to eat and fuel up, you broke the silence and brought it back up yourself. “You guys don’t think he’s seen it… do you?”

They exchanged a look, but your trainer spoke up after dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “I mean, maybe. But would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” You set your tray down. “Yes. One hundred percent, yes. It would be... It took him a second to warm up to me, and I just know it’ll go back to being awkward if he heard.”

“I don’t know, kid.” Chris said, shaking his head at your irrational worry. “I feel like he took to you pretty fast.”

“It was pretty stiff in the beginning. I broke through to him by some miracle, I don’t know.” Now it was your turn to shake your head. “I feel like he could think I overstepped and act all distant—and, honestly, I might be awkward, because I have no idea—no idea—how he’s taking it… If he saw it, that is, which…”

You trailed off, lips pressing together in wary disbelief as you replayed the scenario you imagined was his reaction as you and your team stood up to leave. Because, as happy as the public was to run with the suggestive comment, there was a side of tennis fans that was always quick to say you were too much. And now, after the press conference, those same people had taken to saying your words were vulgar and violating—despite clearly being a mistake. What should have been a funny mistake, too.

Even with all your years of learning to ignore it, you couldn’t help but wonder if Jannik would agree with them...

Your physio threw an arm around you, sensing your spiral. “It could be a little awkward, yeah, but so what? You’re both adults and professionals. It shouldn’t matter.”

You nodded, knowing they should have been right, and your trainer chimed in. “Yeah, so what? You don’t even have to see him after a few days—doubles will wrap up by the end of the week.”

“...Right.” You said, yet somehow the words were far from comforting.

---

Part two, Part three

Made reader a dramatic over-thinker, and I actually think that it's a vicious and common and underrated combo so... Wasn't initially planning to make this one angsty, and it's lowkey not even going to be, but it kind of just happened this way. It's just the way this dear reader is, okay?

Also, I hella glazed both reader and jannik's game play here, sorry. They're overpowered, yes, maybe, but let them live!! In this fantasy world and the real one, Sinner is king…

Wasn't planning on making this two parts, but it's literally so effing long already for no reason that I was like: it's for the best. So long that i didn't super edit btw

You were perched on the bench, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, while Jannik sat below you, his body still humming with pre-match energy, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your thigh as he leaned back against your legs. He looked relaxed, though you knew better. He was conserving his energy, but his mind was already running through every point, every potential scenario for later.

Then, out of nowhere, he shifted, turning toward you with a look you knew all too well. His eyes had taken on that slow, contemplative glint, like he was considering something—and you had a feeling you weren’t going to approve of whatever thought that had just crossed his mind.

“What?” you asked, warily.

Jannik didn’t answer right away, his fingers just slid a little higher on your leg, his touch featherlight. "Just thinking."

You arched a brow, and nudged him with your knee. "About?"

He didn’t answer right away, just shifted, turning more toward you, his voice dipping lower. "I want you."

Your breath caught, not at the words themselves—you’d heard them from him a thousand times—but at the sheer intensity in his gaze. Especially given where you were.

You let out a soft laugh, though it came out shakier than intended. "Excuse me?"

He looked completely unbothered, still in that lazy sprawl, though his fingers had moved to hold your wrist and they tightened just slightly. "You heard."

A short laugh bubbled out of you, incredulous. "Jannik, you have a match in—"

"Later," he dismissed, his fingers brushing higher along your arm, his other hand resting warm against your thigh. "We have time."

"You’re being crazy." You narrowed your eyes at him, though the effect was slightly lost with the way heat was already creeping up your neck. 

He tilted his head, considering. "Not really."

"Just—Completely ridiculous."

"You say that, but you haven’t moved away."

You opened your mouth to argue, but other his hand pressed slightly firmer against your thigh, his eyes locked onto yours in that slow, half-lidded way that always made your stomach flip. It was unfair, really—how he could go from focused and collected to this and then right back in the span of a few minutes, how he could be so composed in every other part of his life, but when it came to you, when he wanted something, there was a quiet insistence to him that was impossible to ignore.

“Jannik, we’re in the locker room—,” You inhaled sharply, heat pooling low in your stomach, but you still managed to summon some semblance of logic. "Anyone could walk in."

"They won’t."

"You don’t know that."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, his breath brushing against your skin as he leaned in. "You think I’d risk it if I wasn’t sure?"

The worst part was that he had a point. Jannik was calculated about everything—his matches, his training, his schedule. If he was suggesting this, it wasn’t some impulsive thought. He had already weighed the odds, considered the logistics.

And yet, it was still insane.

You exhaled, shaking your head. "I can’t believe you right now."

He lifted his head so his lips brushed against your jaw, hovering by your ear. "Just give me five minutes."

Your body betrayed you before your words could—your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders, your breath hitching just enough for him to notice.

Jannik hummed, pleased. "That’s what I thought."

Any resistance you had left was quickly dwindling—or the restraint you pretended to have. Especially when his hands were already slipping beneath the fabric of your pants, his fingers teasing against your skin, coaxing, convincing.

A quiet, reluctant gasp left your lips. "You’re impossible."

"Is that a yes?"

His breath was warm against your throat as he pressed a lingering kiss there, and you lifted his head up to eye level. Kissing him firmly, sighing to his lips, you nodded once at him after you gently pulled away.

And with that, and a smug smile, he lowered himself, sliding between your legs, the heat in his eyes making your breath catch.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing slow, teasing circles against your skin as he looked up at you, waiting for another sign of permission he already knew was his. The moment you exhaled shakily and leaned back against the bench, he smirked and hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, dragging them down with agonizing patience.

His lips followed, pressing soft kisses along your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin. You bit your lip to keep quiet, every sound caught in your throat as his mouth moved higher, inch by inch. He was savoring it, taking his time despite the urgency in his grip, in the way his fingers pressed into you like he was already imagining how you’d feel when he finally gave you what you needed.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, he dragged his tongue over you, slow and warm, his groan vibrating against your skin as he tasted you.

Your head tipped back against the lockers, fingers flying to his hair, the other hand clutching at the edge of the bench, gripping tight as he set a devastating rhythm. His tongue flicked and circled, alternating pressure, every movement precise and calculated, like he was studying every reaction, provoking every soft whimper he could.

“Jannik—,” you breathed, barely able to keep your voice steady.

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure rolling through you. His hands tightened on your thighs, keeping you spread open for him as he worked you over, his tongue dipping, teasing, his pace just slow enough to drive you crazy.

Your legs trembled, and your thighs clenched around him, the heat building fast, the tension coiling in your stomach unbearable. Every time you squirmed, he held you tighter, grounding you, his tongue stroking deep, relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You couldn’t help letting out a sharp cry of his name as you bucked up into his mouth.

“You need to be quiet,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to press a kiss against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

Jannik smirked before diving back in, this time with more intensity, more purpose. He flattened his tongue against you, his pace quickening, the pressure perfect and constant. You bit down on your lip, your fingers tightening in his hair, your body arching against his mouth as the pleasure crested.

The end hit fast and hard, your entire body shaking with the effort of keeping quiet. Jannik didn’t stop, his mouth working you through it, his hands keeping you steady, holding you together while you came undone beneath him.

Only when you were completely spent did he pull away, his lips glistening, his breathing uneven as he looked up at you, pleased with himself. He pressed one last kiss against the inside of your thigh before straightening, his hands gripping your waist as he leaned in to capture your mouth in a deep, fervent kiss.

“Told you I only needed five minutes,” he murmured against your lips, smirking when he felt the way your body still trembled in his hold.

You let out a breathless laugh, your forehead resting against his. “You are insufferable.”

“Just add it to the list,” Jannik grinned, brushing his nose against yours. “What you said earlier? Crazy, ridiculous… what else?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond, still too dazed to do anything but kiss him again, your fingers sliding up the back of his neck to hold him there.

Your breathing steadied, but you were still tangled around him, one leg over his shoulder, no space between you. Jannik still looked entirely too pleased with himself. His thumbs traced circles along your hip, his other arm reaching for a towel to gently clean you up.

“You better play the best damn tennis I’ve ever seen today.”

Jannik smirked and looked up at you, leaning in for another kiss. “I try my best—it’ll all be thanks to you.”

You smiled into his lips, fingers playing with the hair at the back of his head. When he broke the kiss too early, you frowned a little, but then you had to scoff and roll your eyes when you saw the look on his face.

“If I win… then we should probably make this a tradition... For good luck, no?"

“Oh, shut up.” You lightly smacked the back of his head, but it did nothing to wane the self-satisfied grin that adorned his face. “I thought you weren’t superstitious.”

---

“What?” he said, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth as he dropped the towel and reached for a pair of briefs.

"Nothing” You shrugged, smug. “Just thinking you’ve been acting a little cocky lately."

"Cocky?" He shot you a look. “Me?”

"Yeah," you said, leaning into the bit, you set your book down open-faced to really look at him. "Winning matches—What is it? Like five in a row now? In this tournament alone? I worry pretty soon you might walk around like you own the place."

Laughing, he crossed back over to the bed, still shirtless, and braced one knee on the mattress beside you, setting your book off to the side.  "Like I own the place?"

You nodded solemnly, but tilted your head back for him as he leaned in closer.

"I think you’ve got it all wrong," he murmured, brushing your hair off your neck, "I have good reason to be so confident. I’ve had you with me all week."

You lifted a brow. "So this is about me?"

"Everything is about you."

It should’ve sounded cheesy, and it might have made you laugh in any other context, but from Jannik—warm and understated, said as his fingers trailed lightly up the side of your thigh—it made your breath hitch.

You curled your legs under you as he shifted to hover above you, pressing a kiss just below your jaw.

"I’ve been thinking," he murmured into your skin, voice low and edged with amusement. "I wonder what my winning streak with you would look like?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You laughed a little at his obscurity, and reached behind his head to bury your fingers in his hair.

He took a second to answer, kissing you long and deep before he did. “I want to see how many times I can make you come tonight."

You scoffed a laugh, it dissolved into a shiver as his mouth moved lower, but you managed to scarf out a little quip anyways. "You’re talking big, Sinner."

"I mean it," he said, already moving like he planned to prove it.

You looked up at him through your lower lashes. "What? Should I take this as a challenge?"

“Maybe,” he smiled against your collarbone. "If that’ll help you keep up."

The heat building so quickly made you squirm a little, but you chuckled despite yourself. “Well, I don’t know the rules here, but I’m going to win.”

And just like that, your book long-forgotten on the nightstand, your body was arching into his touch as the teasing melted into something deeper, steadier—something intentional, and driven.

---

The first time was unhurried—familiar in the way he touched you, each brush of his fingers was part of a blueprint he already knew by heart. He began by easing your thighs apart, settling between them with a kind of reverence that never stopped making you feel undone. His hands gripped just beneath your knees, holding you open, steady, as he leaned in to kiss the soft skin at the top of your thigh.

His mouth was warm and slow, trailing slowly from one leg to the other, then up—closer. When his lips finally met you fully, you gasped, back arching just slightly, the heat of his tongue and the slow pressure of his mouth sending sparks up your spine. He knew just how you liked it—how to circle just right, when to press firm, when to pull back and let the absence drive you wild.

Your fingers found the edge of the sheets, gripping hard, and your breath turned stuttered, uneven. He glanced up at you briefly, eyes dark and focused, before settling back in with renewed purpose. One hand slid up to hold your stomach gently in place, while the other traced your hip, grounding you as your thighs began to tremble.

When he lowered that hand to slip two fingers inside you, soft and sure, curling just slightly as he moved in rhythm with his mouth, the moan that escaped you was sharp and sudden. He hummed and adjusted instinctively, drawing another sound from your lips. Your heels pressed into the mattress, your hips chasing more, and he gave it—gave all of it, murmuring softly between strokes, coaxing you closer.

The tension built fast, coiled tight inside you until your whole body strained against the pressure. And when it snapped—steep and fast—he didn’t stop. He rode the wave with you, his hands holding you together and apart all at once, his mouth slowing only as your cries faded into broken sighs.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, more of a peck this time, his hands gentle as they released their grip. You felt his breath against your skin, steady and dutiful, like he needed a moment too.

The second came quicker—less careful, more heated. You were still catching your breath when he moved up your body, coaxing your legs around his waist, his skin warm and slick against yours. His hands were everywhere—anchored behind your knees, tracing your ribs, smoothing over the arch of your back as he pressed closer.

He kissed you like that was all he needed—mouth hot, tongue slow, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make your hips buck in response. You clutched at his shoulders, grounding yourself in the pull of his body against yours, the way he filled every space you gave him.

When he finally sank into you, you both stilled. Your breath caught—his did too. His forehead rested against yours for a long moment, one of his hands sliding beneath the back of your knee, lifting your leg just slightly to shift the angle. You gasped when he moved again, a rough exhale escaping him at the sound.

"Too much?" he murmured, but he didn’t need the answer—not when your hips rolled to meet his, not when your nails dug into the planes of his back like you were trying to hold the moment in place.

He found a rhythm quickly—deeper now, surer. Every thrust was a full-body motion, his hands adjusting to where you needed him most, holding you open and close. The wet slide of skin, the way he groaned low every time your walls clenched around him, the soft, desperate sounds you couldn’t suppress—they filled the room so thick that even the whole world seemed to just narrow to the two of you.

The wave crested faster this time. When your body arched again, chasing friction, he met you there without hesitation. So it crashed through you before you could warn him, your body bracing tight, head thrown back, another unrestrained cry slipping out. He didn’t slow—he held you through it, one hand tangled in yours by your head, the other gripping your waist, chasing his own release just behind yours.

You were still coming down when he collapsed beside you, hand never leaving your thigh, thumb stroking idle circles into your skin as you caught your breath.

The third time unfolded more slowly again, but with a deeper, more intimate heat. You were still catching your breath, muscles loose and limbs heavy when Jannik shifted beside you. He didn’t speak—just leaned in and pressed his lips to your shoulder, his hand trailing down the dip of your waist.

You felt the heat radiating off of his hand before he even touched you there fully, his fingers trailing between your legs. And when he found you still sensitive, still warm and pliant, he sucked in a breath.

You turned your face toward him, lips parting as your eyes met. "Again?"

"You’re not done," he said simply. "I can feel it."

And then he was kissing you—slow, inebriating kisses that deepened as his fingers moved lower, parting you with practiced ease. He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them upward until your hips twitched in response. His palm pressed flat against you, thumb brushing steady circles over your clit, gradually building pressure as your thighs instinctively tensed.

Your gasp caught between your lips and his, a sharp intake of breath as your hands clutched his forearm. He adjusted—curling his fingers just right, angling his wrist to drive the sensation deeper. Every stroke sent a jolt through your core, your body arching into him, leaning into pressure.

His thumb never faltered, dragging over you in constant, coaxing circles, synced with each movement inside you. He was quiet, attentive—watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, waiting for every reaction, every shiver, every breathy moan that spilled past your lips.

His mouth dropped to your neck, hot and open, teeth grazing gently as he murmured low praise that vibrated into your skin. He spoke softly into your skin, not in full sentences this time but fragments—your name, how good you felt, how much he loved seeing you like this.

"Don’t hold back," he said, and then you couldn’t anymore.

The third orgasm rolled through you like a slow-building wave, different from the ones before—less of a crash, more of a flood. Your body arched into his hand, thighs tensing around his wrist as your hands flew to his chest, fingers pressing hard against him as if to anchor yourself.

He kept going until you whimpered, until the tremors subsided and your head lolled back into the pillow, boneless. He slowed, then stilled, brushing a kiss to the center of your chest as you blinked up at him, dazed and flushed.

He kissed your temple and murmured praise that blurred into your hair—steady, grounding, full of awe. He cradled you close, his hand stroking up and down your arm, his breath warm where he tucked his face into your neck as your body hummed, every nerve of yours drawn taut. 

"Still okay?" he’d murmured, and even when you nodded, he took a long moment to restart. He let you settle, his lips finding yours in a slower rhythm.

You pushed him back for a second, at his lack of pace, and kissed his jaw, murmuring, "One more."

"You’re still trembling," he whispered, but a smile was growing on his face at your eagerness.

“Thought you weren’t one to give up so easily, huh?” And you pulled his hand down, immediately gasping at the contact, but sticking with your adamance. 

Jannik was outright grinning now, and you both let out a little laugh at your visceral reaction—his, low and amused as he looked at you splayed out and blissed-out, and yours, breathy and disbelieving. But when his fingers fluttered where you’d placed them, you didn’t stop him—and when your eyes rolled shut at the touch, he leaned in with a kind of hunger that replaced all hesitation.

This time, he guided you onto your stomach, one hand sliding under your hips to pull them up gently, elevating you just enough for him to settle behind. His body pressed against your back, his weight grounding, comforting. The hand beneath you moved slowly at first, fingers slipping through your slick folds with practiced care. He circled your clit with the lightest touch, drawing a breathless sound from you as your thighs clenched instinctively.

Then he pushed two fingers inside, angling his hand so that every stroke dragged upward, catching a spot that made your hips rock back into him with a soft, broken moan. He picked up on it instantly—adjusting, driving deeper, curling his fingers deliberately while his thumb found a rhythm against your clit that had you all but biting into the pillow.

His mouth pressed hot against your shoulder blade, and you felt him smile into your skin as he moved. "So sensitive," he murmured. "Like I just have to touch you here—"

He curled again, just right, and your entire body jolted.

"—and you can’t help yourself."

You tried to speak, to answer, but your voice cracked into a moan. He stayed steady behind you, his body firm along your back, one arm braced beside your shoulder, the other still working you open with maddening precision.

And then another crept up—your breath hitching, your hips jerking back against his hand, your thighs starting to tremble again—the fourth wave slammed through you. You cried out into the pillow, body bowing, and he held you through it—his hand never leaving your body, his voice soothing against your ear, calling you back down with each gentle stroke.

When your body finally stilled, he kissed the base of your neck and whispered, "Still with me?"

And you nodded, barely able to find your voice through the haze. He pressed gentle kisses to your forehead and to the side of your mouth as he laid beside you, whispering praise as his hand smoothed along your rib cage until your breath returned to normal. He didn’t reach for more, ready to wind down, but then you tugged at his wrist.

He shifted beside you at the signal and murmured, "More?"

When you blinked yes with a dazed smile and single nod, he smiled, too. Soft and wicked. "Come here."

That fifth time was slower still—him lying back and drawing you over him, letting you set the pace. He guided your hips with hands warm and steady, not directing but encouraging, thumbs brushing your waist as you sank onto him, inch by inch. It took you a long moment to adjust, as stimulated and shaky as you were.

You exhaled a shivering breath, the stretch still so full despite how many times he’d already had you tonight. He groaned softly as you settled against him, hands resting low on your back. You moved tentatively at first, still sensitive, still aching in the best way, but Jannik met each roll of your hips with a low hum of pleasure, eyes half-lidded and focused entirely on you.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "There you go," he murmured. "Just like that."

Each grind drew out a new sound from your throat, your body stretched over his as you built the rhythm. His hands didn’t stop moving—one trailing up your spine, the other cupping your breast, brushing his thumb softly over your nipple until you gasped and shivered.

You leaned down to kiss him, sweet and soft, your hips never breaking pace. The kiss turned hungry fast—teeth grazing, tongues tangling—as your body leaned into the growing friction. He matched it with soft groans against your mouth, his hands tightening just slightly every time you clenched around him. 

It was when he finished, with a choked groan into your ear and the faltering of his hips, that you felt yourself close again. You buried your face in his neck, moaning low as your body trembled from head to toe. He held you there, letting you shake apart over him, murmuring your name for the nth time that night. You whimpered into his shoulder, clutching at him as the wave crashed through you one last time.

You collapsed against him, flushed and glowing, and he held you there, kissing your shoulder and stroking slow lines up and down your back. Letting the silence of the moment settle between your breaths.

By now, the night had melted into early morning, you lay tangled in the sheets, breathing ragged, his fingers trailing lazily down your side. Every part of you ached, in the best way. Your skin buzzed, sensitive and flushed from everything he’d given you. The sheets were half-kicked off, your legs tangled with his, your cheek resting against the bare skin of his chest where it rose and fell with each slow breath.

Neither of you spoke for a while. He just held you close, fingers sketching idle shapes into your back. Occasionally, he would press a soft kiss to your hairline, the bridge of your nose, the slope of your shoulder—each one slow, quiet, unrushed.

You eventually shifted slightly to move just partially off of him, draping an arm across his stomach, your voice muffled against his skin. "I feel like I won that—just for the record."

He chuckled, low and warm. "Won what?"

“The challenge,” you sighed dramatically, stating the obvious. "You almost stopped short a couple times there… and you would’ve, had I not intervened."

 “No—I for sure won.” He grinned into your hair and gave your hip a playful squeeze, pulling you in tighter. “Tell me, how are your legs feeling?”

"... I’m going to be useless tomorrow."

 "Exactly." He chuckled, low and warm. “So, I won.”

"I say we call it a draw," you whispered, starting to fall asleep with each breath, your voice soft with exhaustion but a smile tugging at the edges. Jannik pulled you closer, tucking his chin onto the top of your head, and smiling as you mumbled one last, barely conscious line before drifting off. “Can’t let you get too cocky on me...”

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