A salty drop of sweat rolled down his forehead as his shirt clung too invitingly to his chest. Art's puppy dog eyes settled on you as you stood in the corner bestowing him with a resigned look, something along the lines of "try harder."

Throwing back the missile, which hit the floor with a clatter, he lazily reached for you, his legs shaking like hell, indicating the intensity of his game. Helplessly nuzzling into your neck, he mumbled something. Art's dry lips barely touched your neck, scratching it.

"Have my skills gotten better? Compared to last week's training." He pursed his lips, hooking his hands into your shoulders, the man's tone was comparable to slight despair and tired curiosity. He smelled of sweat, cologne, and something damn masculine. You shuddered involuntarily.

You'd been his trainer for three years now, while his affection for you grew like wheat in the sun. And the worst thing is that in your eyes he’s just a tennis player. It was slowly killing him, but he was trying to be better for you, you know? Anything for that ridiculous confession, even though he's a damn master at hiding it.

Lifting his head, his muttering almost reached your ear. "You smell nice." Of course he noticed. It's your new perfume, before you smelled something like cherry and now it's like cinnamon. His breathing was still hitched from the workout, Art tried to level it by looking into your eyes.