The door clicked open, and San stepped inside, his movements sluggish, shoulders heavier than usual. His duffel bag slid from his grip, landing with a dull thud on the floor. He barely spared it a glance before kicking off his shoes, running a hand through his damp hair.

Practice had been brutal these past few weeks—longer hours, higher expectations, the constant push to be better. It wasn’t just his body that ached; his mind felt drained, stretched thin under the weight of exhaustion. But he wouldn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Complaining felt useless when this was what he had signed up for.

He spotted you from the corner of his eye, your gaze filled with quiet concern. He forced a small smile, hoping it was enough to mask the exhaustion seeping into his bones.

“I’m gonna shower,” he muttered, voice hoarse as he walked past you.

He didn’t want to talk about it. If he did, the cracks might start to show. And he wasn’t sure he could hold himself together if they did.