It starts with a question he hadn’t meant to ask. Not then. Not like that.

They’re in Rome. The hotel is too cold for May, air conditioning louder than it needs to be, and there’s a slight tear in the curtain that leaks pale citylight across the bed. She’s half-curled against him, her hand resting warm just above his ribs, fingertips twitching every now and then like she’s still halfway in a dream.

And Jannik—he’s awake. He’s been awake for over an hour, mind skipping between strategy for the next match and the thing he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks.

So he says it, stupidly, softly, into the dark:

“Why don’t you ever talk about your family?”

She doesn’t move for a second. Then her breathing stutters. Just barely.

He feels her hand stiffen against his skin.

“I just don’t,” she says, voice quiet. “Not with anyone.”

“That’s not true,” he replies, before he can stop himself. “You talk with Andrea all the time. I’ve heard her ask you about your childhood.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“She’s my coach, she knows me since I’m fifteen.”

Jannik exhales, sits up slightly. “You know everything about mine. About Sexten. My brother. My parents. Everything.” He pauses. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who… opened the door.”

She’s quiet again, but it’s a louder kind of silence this time. The kind that fills the whole room. He sees her fingers twist the corner of the duvet. Then, slowly:

“You have good memories.”

The way she says it makes his stomach sink.

“I told you the hard things too,” he says. “Not just the nice ones.”

And it’s true. He told her about the loneliness. The pressure. The long hours in boarding apartments when he was too young to understand the way the world could stretch around ambition like a trap. But she just shakes her head.

“It’s not the same.”

And that’s it. She gets up then, padding barefoot across the room to the minibar like she needs something—water, distance, space to breathe. But she doesn’t open anything. Just leans on the counter, her hands pressed flat against the cold marble.

He watches her in the mirror. Watches the tight line of her shoulders. The way she looks like someone bracing for impact.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he says gently. “But I don’t want to be in love with someone who’s always running from me.”

She turns sharply. Her eyes are too wide, and her voice cracks.

“You think I’m running?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No—no. Jannik, I’m trying—”

“Then let me in.”

She stares at him like he’s broken something. Like he’s cracked open a door she never meant to even touch.

“I don’t know how,” she says.

He’s quiet now. So is she.

Outside, Rome breathes, distant and ancient. Somewhere far below their hotel, mopeds speed past cafés. A siren wails softly and fades.

Finally, she walks back toward him, slow and uncertain, like every step is a decision she isn’t sure she’s brave enough to make.

He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed when she stops in front of him, bare knees brushing his.

“Jannik,” she whispers, voice trembling. “There are things I’ve never told anyone, barely Andrea.”

“You can tell me.”

He doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t pull her in. Just sits there, steady and open, waiting.

She drops her gaze. Her fingers close around his. Tight. So tight