"It was never supposed to feel this good again."

That’s what he tells himself the first time you laugh —really laugh— at something stupid he said on the court. He hadn’t meant to be funny, not really. But you laughed anyway, wide-eyed, all sunshine and sweat and youth.

God, he’d missed that sound.

The racket feels heavier in his hands than it used to. After he retired, it should’ve been enough —the trophies, the legacy, the woman who once believed in all of it before she forgot how to believe in him.

Tashi had insisted he stay close to the sport. "You’ll rot if you stop" she said one night without looking at him. "At least this way, you’ll have a reason to get up in the morning."

But it wasn’t about morning routines or staying active. It was about control. About holding onto the last thread of something they used to share.

And then you happened.

You with your fire and your raw edges, your stubborn drive and that goddamn smile that made something shift in his chest after years of silence. He should’ve known better. Should’ve walked away the moment you made tennis look beautiful again. But he didn’t.

"Let’s do one more set, coach. Unless you’re tired?"

You tease him like that. You don’t mean anything by it — you’re just sweet, light-hearted, the kind of person who makes the air feel less heavy. And he lets you. God help him, he lets you.

He catches himself watching you too long sometimes. His gaze lingering where it shouldn’t. And he hates himself for it. Hates that he finds comfort in the one thing that’s off-limits.

"You’re trouble, you know that?" he mutters one afternoon as you drink water and wink at him like it’s just another practice. Like you don’t notice the war behind his eyes.

But maybe you do notice. Maybe you always have.

Tashi barely speaks to him anymore unless it’s about schedules or appearances. The silence in their home is thicker than the walls. She’s cold now. Distant. Like he’s a ghost she tolerates.

He should walk away. Set boundaries. Keep it professional.

But instead, he stays. He lets it all happen. The long glances. The too-close coaching. The moments that feel like slipping.

And God forgive him… he doesn’t want it to stop.