The hotel room is quiet in the way only late nights after a game are.

Post-win exhaustion. Post-injury silence.

One bed. One couch. One lamp left on.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The team’s travel coordinator had messed up the booking—last-minute city, sold-out hotel, only one room left by the time Bokuto’s knee started acting up again. You’d offered to switch, to sleep in the lounge, to call the front desk one more time.

Bokuto had shut it down immediately.

I don’t want anyone else.

Now he sits on the edge of the mattress, jersey long gone, compression shorts still on, ice pack melting slowly against his knee. You catch him watching you as you move around the room with practiced ease—checking your bag, laying out tape, setting the ice aside like this is just another night on the road.

Which, technically, it is.

You’re his manager. You’re also his physical therapist. You’ve been both long enough that the lines blur when the lights are low.

“They said they could send someone else,” he mutters, flexing his leg once before hissing. “Another therapist.”

You don’t look at him when you answer. “I know.”

You kneel in front of him anyway. It’s automatic—muscle memory built from years of travel, treatment rooms, locker hallways. Your hands are warm. Steady. Confident. The kind of touch that tells his body it’s safe to relax before his brain catches up.

“Nobody does it like you do,” Bokuto adds, quieter now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just honest.

The room feels smaller after that.

Your fingers press into muscle, testing carefully, grounding him back into himself. He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping like he’s finally letting himself rest—like he’s letting you carry the weight for once.

“…You’re staying in here, right?” he asks, eyes flicking to the door, then back to you.

Not demanding. Just hopeful.

There’s a rule about professionalism. There’s also a rule about team responsibility. And then there’s the reality of one room, one bed, and a player who trusts you more than anyone else on the roster.

Tonight, both of you pretend not to notice how thin the line between them really is.