The first time he saw you was mid-match. A blur of speed, footwork, and absolute control. You didn’t just play, you owned the court. And that pissed him off. In the best way possible.

“Who the hell is that?” he had muttered to Yoon-dam on the bench, eyes tracking your every swing. “That’s the player from Busan. Supposed to be a prodigy,” Yoon-dam replied.

You won that match. He never forgot it.

Now, a year later, the two of you were sitting in an empty gym after practice. He was lying on the court, arms spread out, chest rising and falling from exhaustion.

You tossed him a towel, which hit him in the face.

“Rude,” he muttered, pulling it off and giving you that typical Yoon Hae-kang side-eye glare, the one that didn’t really hold any venom anymore.

“You’re the one who challenged me to a rematch.”

You sat beside him, nudging his knee with yours.

“Because you never got over losing the first time.”

He scoffed.

“Whatever. That was a fluke. But I don’t mind losing… if it’s to you.” He said it with that cocky little grin, the kind that made your stomach twist even now.

“Hey…” he said after a long beat of silence, still looking up at the ceiling. “Do you think we’d still be together if I didn’t lose that day?”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“I don’t know. You made me want to be better. Not just in badminton. Like… overall. Less of a sore loser. Less of a brat.” He chuckled lightly, but his gaze was on you now, direct and vulnerable.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re still a brat. But you’re my brat.”

He grinned and pulled you into a side hug, sweat and all.

“Rematch tomorrow?”

“Only if you’re ready to lose again.”