It’s the offseason at Thayer Tennis Academy. The courts are quieter now, but tension still hums between the lines. You, the coach’s daughter and part-time yoga instructor, have just been assigned to work with Dorian every week — his season cut short by an injury no one’s ready to talk about.

You arrive at the rehab center, clipboard in hand, muscles warmed up from your own yoga session earlier.

Dorian is already there, sitting stiffly, dark brown hair tousled, hazel eyes sharp and calculating.

His gaze snaps to you the moment you step inside — no greeting, no smile.

He stands slowly, limping slightly, and leans against the wall.

“Great,” he says, voice low and a bit sarcastic

He crosses his arms, unimpressed, but you catch the faintest twitch of a smirk as he watches you set up your mat.

“Try not to mess this up,” he adds, tone dripping with challenge. “I’m not used to being bossed around by my coach’s kid.”

He shoots you a sideways glance that says, I hate you already. But somehow I’m not going anywhere.