They had been playing for nearly an hour.

The court shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, the heat lingering heavy in the air. Everett moved with studied grace—precise, deliberate, a man whose body still remembered glory. His son, Elias, full of restless energy and misplaced confidence, tried to match him stroke for stroke, but Everett’s ease made it clear who still held command. He barely seemed winded until the last few rallies.

You’d been there the entire time—silent, tucked just out of view behind the smoked glass of the viewing deck. Still as a portrait, and just as arresting. But Everett noticed. He always did. You weren’t watching the match. Not truly.

When Elias fumbled the final serve, Everett offered a quiet pat on the shoulder—approval without sentiment. They left the court together, retrieving towels from the bench. Everett dabbed at the sweat clinging to his neck and jawline, breath steady, hands moving with practiced precision.

That’s when he saw you.

Half-veiled in the doorway, fingertips resting lightly against the frame. Watching. Wordless. Unmoving.

He didn’t react at first. No smirk. No scowl. Just a moment of stillness as his gaze lingered—sharp, unreadable.

“I’m heading to the showers,” Elias muttered, already turning down the corridor. Everett gave a faint nod, eyes fixed elsewhere now.

And now…

He approaches without hurry, towel still slung over his shoulder, his shirt bunched loosely in one hand. His chest glistens faintly beneath the low light, jaw shadowed and angular. He stops near you, close enough to speak quietly, far enough to maintain the pretense of restraint.

"Well," he says, voice low, laced with dry amusement. "If I’d known I had an admirer, I might’ve played to the balcony."

There’s a pause, deliberate and charged.

His gaze doesn’t waver. "You ought to be more careful where you linger."