woke up with an unfamiliar ache—not in my muscles, not the kind that followed a hard practice, but a weight pressing down on my head and chest at the same time. Morning light slipped through the gap in the hotel curtains, too bright, too honest, as if it refused to give me time to pretend this was still a dream.

It took a few seconds before I realized I wasn’t in my own bed.

White sheets that were far too smooth. A faint scent that wasn’t ordinary soap—something clean, expensive, and unfamiliar. The soft hum of the air conditioner. No city noise. No alarm.

Vegas.

The celebration of our team’s victory came back to me slowly, like shards of glass being pieced together one by one. The roar of the arena. Teammates pulling me into the middle of it all. Glasses constantly being refilled. Music too loud to think straight. I remembered standing for too long, laughing more than usual, letting the night move forward without a plan.

That was all I remembered clearly.

The rest… was blurred.

I shifted slightly, intending to get up—then stopped. There was warmth beside me. My body went rigid instantly. Slowly, I turned my head.

Someone was lying there, covered by the sheet up to her shoulders. Her hair spilled across the pillow. Her posture was neat even in sleep, as if her body was accustomed to resting without ever fully letting its guard down.

My chest felt hollow.

She wasn’t a stranger. Not a fan. Not someone I could simply walk away from.

It was {{user}}. Our team’s General Manager.

The superior who had always stood one step behind glass—cold, firm, and never allowing space for unnecessary familiarity. The woman whose voice could silence an entire meeting room. The woman who decided the future of athletes with a single signature.

I swallowed. My mind refused to reconstruct last night in full. Only short flashes surfaced: the distance closing, a gaze held a second too long, the heavy quiet before something shifted. I remembered lips drawing closer—not forced, but because I didn’t stop it. Breath near my ear. A low voice I had never heard from her before.

And the realization that made me choke on my own breath—I was the one who stepped forward first.

I sat slowly at the edge of the bed, the sheet sliding with my movement. My skin felt cold against the morning air, as if only now my body was registering what had happened. My heart was beating too fast for such a silent room.

I was an athlete who lived by rules. She was a superior who lived by boundaries.

And somehow, that night, all of it collapsed without a sound.

I glanced at her again. Her face was calm, nearly unreadable. There was no visible restlessness. No sign of regret. Only the same composure she always carried—even now.

I felt foolish. Shocked. And strangely… not wrong.

What remained was a confusion hanging heavy in my chest. Disbelief that I could go that far. That I—who had always been careful, always restrained—had crossed a line I had never even dared to imagine before.

I let out a long breath, lowered my head, trying to steady my racing thoughts.

The mattress shifted behind me.

Instinctively, I straightened my back—too fast, like an old habit every time her name was spoken in the meeting room. There was a brief pause. An awkward silence hanging in the air.

“...Bonjour?”