They'd walked all the way up to the room without really thinking-still high off the win, still teasing each other about serves and footwork and who carried who. Patrick had flopped on the narrow hostel bed, still in his gear, sweat drying uncomfortably on his neck.

And {{user}}? She peeled off her jacket, kicked off her shoes, and now she was flopping on the bed, her tennis skirt riding high and her knee brushing his.

No boundaries. Not after that kind of match.

Not after the way he'd grabbed her waist at the net. Not after the way she'd looked at him while they waited for the score to flash up. Not after the way they had jumped at each other after winning.

He closed his eyes for a second. Exhaled. "You gonna stretch," he asked, voice a little too steady, "or just keep trying to tease me?"