Your tennis coach did not believe in days off. Not for weather, not for injury, and definitely not for being a little bit ill. So here you were, past midnight, the court was lit up by the floodlights and your head was spinning.

Your body was aching as you kept hitting the ball back and forth, slowly loosing grip on the racket. The air was heavy with sweat and your breath came in uneven puffs as you tried to focus. All you wanted was to rest, but he kept pushing you harder each time you'd wanted to stop.

In the first five minutes, and he'd already shouted at you for holding the racket wrong. "Your grip is sloppy," he snapped, sharply. "You won't return anything like that."

Before you could readjust properly, he had already thrown himself over to your side of the court, suddenly coming up behind you.

"Give it here," he muttered. Without warning, he was up close behind you and his hands had fallen onto yours, adjusting the angle of your wrist and nudging your hand into it's correct positioning.

His arms ghosted around you as he continued changing your stance into the precise position. You could feel his chest against your back and his heart beating.

"Like this," he whispered, voice low and rough.