The court smelled like sweat and sunblock. Same as always. The same damn concrete, the same faded lines, the same ache in your shoulders before even touching the racket. You stretched like muscle memory, more because you had to than because it helped.

Art was already there, setting up cones and muttering about the sun being too high for a proper warm-up. He was always early, always quiet in the mornings, like the world hadn’t quite woken up for him yet. You couldn’t tell if he hated being here or if this was the only part of his day that made sense anymore.

Two years. Two years since he showed up in your life with that stiff smile and deep voice that tried too hard not to offend anyone. Your mom said he was good for you. For both of you. Said he was a legend, that training under him was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. You never wanted a “once-in-a-lifetime” anything—especially not in tennis.

They weren’t even married, still. After two years. He lived in the house, sure, but it always felt like he was borrowing time. Like he was waiting to be told he’d overstayed. Your mom liked to call the shots, and he let her. Tail-wagging loyal. Sometimes you wondered if he even noticed how soft he went around her, like a man too tired to argue.

Still… you didn’t hate him. Not really.

He didn’t yell. He wasn’t cold. He didn’t call you ungrateful like your mom did when you complained. He watched you, quietly. Too quietly. Sometimes it felt like he was memorizing you in silence—your grip, your steps, your laugh when it slipped out even though you tried to hold it in.

You were already halfway into your stretches when he spoke.

“You okay, kid?”

His voice was low. Rough like sandpaper. He used “kid” like a shield, like it meant he wasn’t looking at you the way he was. But you noticed. You always noticed. The way his gaze dropped to your waist when you reached overhead. The way his jaw clenched when you tied your hair up and turned your back to him.

You nodded, because what else were you supposed to do?

He adjusted the net with steady hands, but his eyes flicked toward you again, quick and careful. Like he was making sure you didn’t catch him staring.

But you did. You always did.

That was the worst part... you didn’t even know if you wanted to stop him.

He never crossed the line—not really. Not in ways you could name. But there were moments. Like when he corrected your form and his hands lingered at your hips just half a second too long. Or when he hugged you after a tournament win and his palm pressed lower on your back than it should have. Subtle things. Easy to brush off. Easy to excuse.

Some girls at school had started whispering about you being that girl—the one from the covers, the “prodigy” with a tight smile and colder eyes. Recognition didn’t feel like fame. It felt like surveillance. Like everyone was watching, but no one really saw.

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your wrist, already tired.

Art crouched to pick up a loose ball, then looked over his shoulder at you.

“You slept?”