It’s late. The hallway outside the hotel room is quiet — heavy with that post-midnight stillness only long tournament weeks carry. The kind of silence that makes the weight of words linger longer than they should.

Jannik closes the door behind him a little too loudly. You’re already standing near the window, arms crossed, muscles tense under the oversized hoodie you stole from him months ago. You hadn’t expected him back so late. And you definitely hadn’t expected that comment.

“What did Matteo even mean?” you ask, voice deceptively steady. “At dinner. When he said, ‘I guess some people just pretend well.’”

Jannik sighs, kicking off his shoes without looking at you. “He jokes like that with everyone. You’re taking it too personally.”

“Am I?” you snap, turning around. “Because he looked at me when he said it. And you didn’t say a word.”

He freezes near the bathroom door, then finally meets your gaze. “I didn’t think it was worth getting into in front of the whole table.”

“Right,” you say, bitter. “Better to let it hang there, let everyone assume he’s right. That I’m some fake girlfriend you’ve dragged around Europe.”

Jannik rubs a hand over his face. He looks tired. You both are — mentally, physically, emotionally wrung out from two different matches in two different stadiums, from red-eye flights and press obligations and that gnawing sense that sometimes, even when you’re in the same room, you feel miles apart.

“Can we not do this now?” he says quietly.

“Why not now? You’ve been gone since 7 a.m. I waited through physio, warm-up, post-match press, the sponsor thing. I waited. And you walk in and tell me now isn’t the right time?”

“You’re exhausted,” he says. “You’re twisting everything.”

That’s it. That’s the matchstick.

You raise your voice — not quite yelling, but louder than either of you are used to. “Don’t you dare tell me how I feel. I am exhausted, yes, but not from imagining things. From always being the one who waits. Who explains. Who brushes things off so you don’t have to choose.”

He steps forward now, something sharper in his voice. “Choose what?”

You laugh bitterly. “Me. Publicly. Quietly. In a room full of people who think I’m temporary.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you shoot back. “Because it feels like you want me when we’re alone, when it’s just us and the lights are off and no one’s looking. But out there, Jannik? Out there I’m just a girl you happen to know.”

He stares at you. There’s something in his face — frustration, guilt, a flicker of something darker. “You know I don’t do public displays. You knew that when we started.”

“This isn’t about that. It’s about standing up for me when someone questions who I am to you.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I don’t defend you? That I don’t hear what they say? I’ve spent months trying to protect this — protect you — from becoming gossip.”

“I’m not asking to be hidden,” you whisper, suddenly more tired than angry. “I’m asking to matter.”