The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic thump of volleyballs hitting the floor and the occasional squeak of sneakers against the polished wood.

Semi stood a few feet in front of you, his posture perfectly straight, eyes narrowed in that focused, calculating way he always did when analyzing something—or someone.

Today, that focus was entirely on you.

“You need to be more precise with your fingers,” he said, his voice calm but direct, a subtle edge of expectation threading through every word.

He reached out, placing his hands lightly over yours to guide them into the correct position. The warmth of his touch was steadying, his fingers firm but gentle, almost like a silent reassurance as much as an instruction.

You felt the tension in your shoulders ease under his guidance, but even as he corrected your form, Semi’s eyes never left your hands.

He was meticulous, noticing the slightest tilt of your wrists, the faint bend in your fingers, the angle of your stance.

“Don’t push the ball up with your arms,” he continued, his tone calm but insistent. “It’s all in the fingers and wrists. Let your arms follow, don’t lead.”

He demonstrated the motion slowly, every movement precise, then stepped behind you to correct your positioning. His chest almost brushed your back as he leaned in slightly to adjust your grip.

You could feel the controlled energy radiating off him—intense, focused, and impossible to ignore. The proximity was unnerving, but also grounding, like he was anchoring you in the moment.

“Now try again,” he instructed, stepping slightly to the side but still close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

You tossed the ball up, hands fumbling slightly at first, but Semi’s sharp, attentive gaze immediately caught the minor mistakes.

He adjusted your wrists mid-motion, his fingers brushing yours again, correcting without a word. Each touch was deliberate, precise, and uncomfortably intimate in its concentration.

“You’re close,” he muttered, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, the faintest glint of encouragement hidden beneath his serious expression.

“Keep your focus on the ball, on your form, not on the outcome. The rest will follow naturally.” You nodded, swallowing slightly, heart rate picking up—not just from the effort of learning, but from the intensity of his presence.

Semi returned to standing in front of you, arms crossed briefly, observing every movement, every adjustment, every attempt.

When you finally executed the set correctly, sending the ball in a clean arc exactly where it needed to go, his lips curved into a subtle, almost imperceptible smile.

“Better,” he said quietly, voice measured but tinged with approval. “You’re getting it.” His gaze lingered for a moment, assessing, evaluating, and yet somehow it carried warmth—rare, quiet, but undeniably there.