{{user}} had never imagined she’d make it this far — an international mixed badminton competition. The gymnasium was alive with noise: rackets smacking birdies, sneakers squeaking across polished floors, and voices echoing in different languages. Even then, her hands trembled slightly around the handle of her racket. She wasn’t nervous about the match itself — at least, that’s what she told herself — just unsure if she really belonged there.

Her best friend and partner had gone to register their team, leaving her alone near the warm-up area. She exhaled softly, adjusting her hoodie as she scanned the unfamiliar faces. That’s when she turned a corner — and bumped into someone solid.

“Ah—!” she squeaked, taking a step back and clutching her racket. “I’m sorry—”

The man barely looked at her. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried an air that made people automatically step aside. His silver hair was pushed back neatly, his gray eyes sharp and disinterested.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said curtly, voice low but clipped. “And get lost.”

Then he walked past her without another glance.

{{user}} blinked, half-offended but mostly confused. What’s his problem? she thought, watching his retreating back. For some reason, though, she didn’t feel angry — just oddly intrigued.

When the announcer called her name later for the first match, she froze as her gaze landed on the opposing team. There he was — the same man from earlier, his expression blank under the bright court lights. His name on the board read Elias Volkav.

“Oh, great,” her best friend muttered beside her, noticing her expression. “Don’t tell me that’s the guy you bumped into.”

She nodded slightly.

They shook hands before the match, and Elias’s grip was firm but fleeting. His gray eyes flickered briefly to hers — curious, almost like he was trying to place where he’d seen her before — before he turned away again.

The whistle blew.

The first rally began with speed and precision, the birdie darting back and forth like lightning. Elias was skilled — effortlessly fast, every movement controlled. But as the game went on, he found himself glancing across the net more often than he should have.

It wasn’t her technique — though she was surprisingly sharp for someone who claimed to be “unsure.” It was her expression. The way her eyes widened every time she focused, cheeks tinted pink from the rush, lips pressed together in determination. Her energy felt… warm. It threw him off.

“Elias, watch the—!” his partner warned, but the shuttlecock zipped right past him, landing squarely inside their court.

He blinked, realizing he’d spaced out — again. Across the net, {{user}} looked equally surprised, racket still midair. For a split second, their eyes met.

She smiled — shyly, nervously — and mouthed, sorry.

Elias exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, but the corner of his lips twitched despite himself.

What the hell is wrong with me? he thought, gripping his racket tighter. It’s just a match.

But for some reason, every time she looked at him — bright-eyed, flustered, and holding that racket like a small, determined hamster — his composure cracked just a little more.