Rome is beautiful this time of year, but you haven’t noticed. Not really.

The Foro Italico buzzes, the crowd’s thick with energy, and clay sticks to the soles of your shoes. You win again. Third round, clean match. You should feel alive. But your chest is heavy — not with fatigue, but with something unnamed that began the moment you got off the plane and saw him waiting in arrivals.

It should’ve been a relief. Jannik, back on tour. Back to you. But he’s quiet in a way that isn’t gentle.

When you lie in bed beside him at night, his breathing is steady but his shoulders are tense. When you reach for his hand, his fingers twitch, then go still. You try to laugh like before, but your laugh feels too loud in the hotel room.

You didn’t realize how many walls had gone up while he was suspended. How much ground needed to be retread now that you’re in the same place again.

Tonight, it breaks.

You’re getting ready for dinner. A casual one — team stuff. You ask if he’s coming. He shrugs.

“Maybe. Dunno.”

You look at him, leaning against the window, arms crossed. The sun’s setting behind him, casting him half in light, half in shadow.

“You’ve barely looked at me in two days,” you say quietly.

He scoffs under his breath. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the same.”

You’re still in your socks, hair slightly damp from the shower. You cross the room slowly, unsure of how close you’re allowed to be anymore.

“I didn’t know how to be with you,” you admit. “When you were gone, when you couldn’t play, I didn’t know what I was allowed to do.”

He frowns. “You could’ve just been my girlfriend.”

“It wasn’t that simple,” you say, voice cracking without breaking. “The press asked more questions about you than about my matches. They wanted reactions. Statements. They wanted me to explain what you felt when I barely understood what I was allowed to feel myself.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going, quieter now.

“I thought about flying back between every tournament. But you weren’t allowed to train, or hit with anyone. If they saw me with you, would they accuse you of using me as a sparring partner? I was scared of making it worse for you. So I stayed away.”

Jannik closes his eyes, jaw tightening.

“I called when I could. I tried to be light, normal, cheerful—because if I sounded sad, it made you sadder, and I couldn’t carry both.”

“You didn’t have to carry anything,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “I did. I love you. That means I carry it, too.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“Every time I picked up the phone,” you say, “I second-guessed myself. Was it better to talk about my matches or not mention them? Was it fair to laugh about the cities I was in when you were stuck alone?”