It’s late. The court’s empty. The lights overhead buzz with that low, tired hum, casting long shadows across the floor. You should’ve gone home hours ago — he should’ve sent you.

But you're still here.

Your shirt clings to your back with sweat, strands of hair stuck to your forehead, breathing heavy from the last drill. He’s pacing, jaw clenched, trying so hard not to look at you the way he does when you’re not watching.

Except now — you are watching.

"You don’t listen" he mutters, tossing the towel down, walking toward you with something darker in his eyes. “You keep pushing. Testing.”

"And you keep letting me" you shoot back, voice soft but sharp. "So which one of us is worse?"

He should walk away. He should.

But instead, his hand finds your jaw, rougher than it should be, tilting your chin just enough to see the flush on your cheeks. Your lips part, and there’s no going back after that.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me” he breathes, like it’s a confession torn from his ribs. “You think this is a game?”

“No” you whisper. “But if it was… am I winning?”

That’s when he snaps.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it, years of restraint shattering between teeth and breath. The kiss is unforgiving — all heat and regret and need — and when he finally breaks it, foreheads pressed together.

The air is thick with tension, with years of loneliness and all the things he was never allowed to want. His hands are on your hips now, anchoring you in place, his voice quieter now but still shaking:

“I shouldn’t be doing this… But God, you make it so easy to forget what’s right.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Because in this moment, neither of you is innocent.