Her room smelled faintly of clean sheets and night air.

The window was open just enough to let in the quiet sounds of the neighborhood — distant cars, wind brushing the curtains, the world slowing down.

Yaku sat on the edge of her bed with his back straight and shoulders tense, like he was still on the court.

Practice had been brutal. Sweat still clung to his hair, damp strands sticking to his forehead. His shirt was loose, but his posture remained sharp, alert — as if he might need to dive for a ball at any second.

{{user}} stood behind him.

“You’re too stiff,” she said softly.

“Tch. I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue. She placed her hands on his shoulders.

Yaku flinched at first. Not because it hurt — but because he hadn’t realized how much he needed it.

Her thumbs pressed gently into the tight muscles along his neck. Slow. Careful. Patient.

“…You don’t know how to relax,” she murmured.

“I relax,” he said.