miureiz

[miureiz]

the picture in the bush ; J.S

summary : when you find a mysterious photo at the park, you keep it without knowing why. you never expected a simple photo that you tucked away and forgot about would have such a lasting effect on your life. pairing : fem!reader x jannik sinner warnings : none this is the fluffiest of fluff

you were 9 when it happened.

it was a warm afternoon in san candido, italy. While the late spring sun made everything in its path golden, you were busy playing tag with the other kids. your sneakers had dirt all over them, your shirt stained with some sort of juice you had a couple hours before.

you didn't mean to find the picture at all. you could hear the kid that was 'it' running towards you, and in your hurry, you stumble, chasing into a cluster of trees not too far for you to be in danger, but tall enough to cover your frame. all in one breath of something that consisted of a giggle and a inhale, you saw it.

half tucked beneath a bush, there it was—waiting to be found : a photo.

it had clearly been lost. A little wrinkled at the edges, rough from time but soft enough from the rain of yesterday. But the image was clear : a young boy with bright red hair, shirt slightly too big, holding a tennis racket almost as tall as him, and smiling like he'd just done something amazing. There were specks of what you suspected was either dirt of clay on his knees, like he had fallen before the photograph, or won whatever he was doing.

you stared at the picture in your hands. you didn't know why you looked at the picture for so long, maybe it was the grin, maybe it was the eyes, or his crazy red hair that was longer than your own at the time. You didn't know him, but something in your stomach felt warm.

warm enough for you to slip the picture in your pocket and tell nobody about it. You didn't think too much of it, only that it was a secret little treasure.

At first, you'd take it out sometimes at night. When the house was quiet, and the loudest thing was you carefully unfolding the picture, just to look at it.

then, years passed. The photo lived in a keepsake box, then on the cover on your wallet, then on the side pocket of your carry-on bag, and by then, the photo was worn soft at the edges, colors a bit faded, paper thinner.

Until you forgot about it, the way people forget lyrics of a song they once played on repeat.

You met jannik when you were in your early 20's. long after the photo had lost its place in your mind.

An ordinary afternoon at a coffee shop near your apartment. The barista had messed up your order, and you were too tired to argue, so you turned around with a sigh—and bumped into someone?

"Sorry," he said without hesitation, voice carrying a distinct italian accent.

you looked up

tall. red curly hair. kind hazel eyes. His large hand immediately steadying your side, helping you regain composure; while the other hand carried two identical cups.

your expression flickered as you saw the cups in his hands. "wait—is that—" you tried to get the sentence out, but the italian must've already connected the dots, cutting you off with a 'ah—' then handing you one of the cups.

"are you sure this is mines?" you questioned.

"hmm, not sure actually. i think she panicked." he replied, gesturing his hands towards the same barista who had messed up your order.

god, he was so italian

"if it's not yours, you can take it anyway, i don't like caramel." the italian jokes, letting out a boyish laugh along the way.

you politely laughed back, surprised. "then why did you order it?"

"i didn't. i ordered something boring," he said, holding up his cup, "like me, no?"

you raised an eyebrow. "you don't seem boring."

he gave a small shrug. "i would give it time."

you laughed, a soft giggle escaping.

he shyly smiled, happy that his joke landed well, swaying so gentle.

you had realized that you were standing in front of him, holding your drink, not moving.

"well, uhm, thanks for 'rescuing' me," you managed to say.

"hm, well, it was not that dramatic i would say."

"no, really, i would've cried just now."

"then i'm glad i was here." he replied quietly.

there was a pause. A strange, light silence. before you could nod and go on about your day, he held out his hands.

"jannik," he offered. then, in a playful tune, "and you?"

you told him your name. he repeated it softly, like he was trying it on. neither of you knew what had just started.

you didn't plan to see him again.

it was supposed to be a passing moment, you thought—one of those odd, warm moments life throws your way, then takes it back before you even realize. But the universe, apparently, had other plans in mind.

a week after the interaction, you had walked into that same café after work, craving coffee, a sweet treat, and maybe a little peace. when you spot him. sitting in the corner, hood pulled up, reading and scrolling on something on his phone.

he looks up right as you spot him.

you waved, instinctively. he gave you a quiet smile—surprised, but not startled— and raised his cup like a toast.

you had told yourself to not read into it, but your stomach did a somersault, and something in your chest fluttered anyway.

you got your drink, hesitated for a half second, then sat across from him.

"still drinking boring things?" you questioned.

he grinned at you, in a oh-so-familiar way, but you couldn't place your fingers on it.

"americano. no sugar. wanted a change from the cappucino today."

you snorted. "jesus. and i thought the caramel thing was bad. this is just another level of unusual."

"unusual," he intervened, "but effective." raises his cup, and does a terrible attempt at a wink so bad it makes you laugh and shake your head.

jannik was warm and easy to talk to. funny, in a questionable way. The kind of funny where if you weren't paying attention, you would miss the joke. He asked thoughtful questions, really listened to the answers, and carefully state his understanding of your answer. His voice was slow, deliberate; he was careful with his words, sometimes forgetting what the english word for something was, leading to you guys trying to figure it out for 5 minutes.

you didn't know much about him, not yet. just that he was from northern italy. that he was often tired. that he seemed a little older than you, but not in years—rather in experience. Like life had tried to toughen him and knock him down in one breath, but hasn't quite succeeded.

you started bumping into each other on purpose after that.

coffee once turned into coffee again. then coffee and a walk. then coffee and hours in the corner of the café talking about everything and nothing. you learned he traveled a lot. you learned he played tennis, but he brushed it off as something unimportant. you only found out he was Jannik Sinner—capital letters, tennis star—when you accidentally saw his face on the back of someones ESQUIRE magazine on the train.

when you asked him about it. he seemed embarrassed.

"i didn't want that to be the first thing you know about me."

"well, it wasn't," you had replied, smiling. "the first thing i knew about you is that you don't like caramel."

he grinned, soft and crooked. "still true."

you fell for him quietly.

it was a slow kind of love—the kind that builds in conversation between plane rides, ‘i made it’ text from the hotel rooms, in quiet diners where he leaned in to hear you better. you had learned quickly that he wasn’t what people made him out to be. behind all the fame and headlines, was a shy and thoughtful man who didnt know how to sit or stand still and had a tendency to overcook pasta.

to you, he wasn’t “Jannik sinner. the wimbledon champion”. he was the guy who leaves sticky notes on the mirror for you to find when he goes away for a tournament. the guy who text you the same, after a win or loss. the guy who laughs at your bad joke and falls asleep with his head in your lap on off-days. the guy who hates caramel and refuses to try any drink you give him involving it.

you loved him, all of him.

your story with jannik was slow, careful, filled with shy glances, long calls when he was on tour, and gentle forehead kisses after a long day. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, and listened when you couldn’t speak. something in him that felt like home.

you had learned, over time, that jannik loved in ways people missed.

he didn't shout it, he didn't post it, he loved you in the details

he remembers the exact way you take your coffee, no matter what country you were in. how’d he leave his hoodie behind for you because he knew how comfortable you felt in them. how’d he call you just before bed even if it meant setting an alarm for 4 AM in shanghai.

You never rushed each other. The love unfolded slowly - not dramatic or volatile, but something warm and rooted. It came in Sunday mornings with tangled legs under the blanket, in shared playlists on long car rides, in him watching you out of the corner of his eye like he couldn't believe you were real.

One night, during a rare few days off, he took you to a quiet mountain in the south of tyrol.

it was autumn. the leaves had started to turn colors, crisp gold and deep red. the air cold and sharp in your lungs. jannik had found a tiny cabin with windows that looked out to miles of nothing.

you didn't know he had it then.

you didn't know how long he’d been carrying it with him—how many cities it had traveled through in his duffle bag, hidden between sweatshirts and string dampeners. waiting.

he made dinner—an overcooked risotto you both pretended to love. you both played cards by the fire, he lost dramatically. hurling up together by the fire, his arms wrapped around you like a seal.

it was quiet.

broken by him. saying your name, softly.

“yea?” you uttered out.

before you could turn your head to face jannik, he pulls out the ring from the side of his pants.

he held the box out, getting on one knee.

and before he could even ask the question. you whispered the only thing that couldve made sense.

"yes."

you married him on a spring morning, tucked away in the dolomites. Just a small wedding—family, close friends, the scent of flowers in the air.

you wore white. he looked at you like the world stopped spinning just to watch you walk down the aisle. everything was perfect.

later that night, still in your dress, you dropped your shoes off by the bed, and dropped yourself on the bed. Jannik was humming to himself the tune of 'forever young' by alphaville by the suitcases, moving to unpack your stuff. as he got to your overnight bag, something dropped on the floor.

a wallet.

your wallet.

it flipped open while it landed, revealing the small plastic window inside. the old photo, faded now with age, was still there.

he picked it up and froze.

you were pulling off the dress when you heard the stillness.

"wait," jannik turned, holding the photo between his fingers. "where did you get this?"

you walked over, eyes widening when you realized what he was holding. "Oh." you replied, flat. "that? i just found it. when i was 9. in a bush. I don't know why i kept it, i guess i thought he was cute? it felt special in a way."

he blinked, stunned.

"that little boy, thats me."

you had laughed. not believing him at first. But then he reached into a drawer and pulled out and old photo album, flipping pages with speed and certainty, until he lands on a nearly identical picture—same tennis racket, same muddy knees, same wild red hair, and the exact same cheeky smile.

"i remember this day. it was after a junior tournament. my mom took the photo and gave me a copy. i put it in my pocket, we stopped by a park before going home and i must've dropped it." he murmured, eyes soft. "i cried after."

you stared at him. then the photo. then back at him.

"no way."

he smiled, soft and crooked, same as the photo

you felt the room spin.

"that's you?"

he nodded.

you gasped. covering your mouth. sitting on the edge of the bed. "are you kidding me right now?"

jannik stood in front of you, still holding the photo.

"guess i really was your first love," he teased, gently.

you stared at him, completely dazed. "i married the boy in the bush."

"you married the boy who lost his favorite photo." he whispered, brushing your hair back behind your ear. he gave a small, breathless laugh. "i guess you could say you met me years ago."

you laughed, full and stunned and disbelieving. "no way, thats insane."

"so tell me," he leaned in. "was i your first love then?"

you rolled your eyes, grinning. "i guess so."

"you were mine too."

© made by zweiism

authors note ! first jannik sinner fic so this might suck but its okay cause thats MY italian goat. please leave requests teehee im getting the sudden surge of motivation..... i think for like 5% of this fic i wanted him to put that lavazza sponsorship to use and got you a custom lavazza coffee creation.... or omg i wanted to do a little tennis commentary part where the guy is like "looks like our italian ice man is melting"and honestly you guys i'm gonna be honest him proposing is short cause i cringed myself out thinking of it #sorryyyy gahhh okay long asf authors note bruh but thank you if you read this through the end this means a lot!!! and also i wrote this at 1 AM and finished around 4:39 so if anything is written wrong thats all me lol also the wink just imagine that as his wink towards alcaraz

heavily inspired by this pic i saw on pinterest :)

[miureiz]

boyfriend reveal

[miureiz]

Hello, I loved the picture in the bush so much! and I just read that your requests are open and no pressure but the US Open doubles pairing of Jannik and Emma sparked up a thought:

Maybe reader and Jannik have been selected to play together for the US Open Doubles and they have been amicable to each other for some time. They also always speak really highly of each other and support each other ( as friends ofc 😏) to the media and so everyone is really excited to see these two together maybe even some harmless shipping from the media?? and both try to ignore these (very true) comments from the media and focus on their tournament.. Buuuut over the course of their training they just cant hide their feelings for each other aaaand……. i‘ll stop now sorry for rambling

oh anon you're such an angel thank you for this request

Double trouble ; J.S

summary : what happens when you—top tennis player Y/N L/N, tennis's sweetheart—get paired up with italian iceman, jannik sinner, for the U.S open mixed doubles tournament? well the tennis world was about to find out. pairing : fem!reader x jannik sinner warnings : none !

It all began with an announcement. an unexpected headline that shocked tennis fans and players around the world.

"italian iceman, jannik sinner, reportedly PAIRED UP with tennis's sweetheart [Your name] for the U.S open mixed doubles tournament! could it be written in the stars? or turn out like Stefanos Tsitsipas and Paula Badosa? fans wonder. Swipe to read more!"

the article racked up over hundreds of thousands of views in under 2 hours. By the end of the day, it seemed as if every sports outlet had picked it up—from ESPN to even F1 gossip accounts (??) the internet and comments about it were ruthless.

@/tennisgossipofficial: pairing up TWO wimbledon champions together. whoever did this needs a raise.

@/ynlnfan81: already know my queen is gonna carry

@/tennisnews: i can smell the slowburn

@/janniksinnerloverr: the shade towards stefanos im dead

@/tennisdaily: medvedev must've wrote that last part cause what

you were in the middle of a pre-practice stretch, when your phone rang.

before you could start the call with a greeting, your best friend howled. "How could you have NOT told me about this?!" her tone in absolute shambles and confusion.

you stood there, holding the phone, just as confused as she is.

"what are you talking about? did something happen?" you replied, trying to remain a neutral tone.

a gasp could be heard on the other side of the phone. "you don't know?! don't tell me you don't know."

"okay sorry to disappoint, but i don't. i don't know."

she read the headline out to you.

it made you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion. it makes you laugh at the shade towards stefanos and paula.

and just in time for it all. here comes your coach, and—your manager?

your coach began opening his mouth.

"listen. i know we didn't tell you, i know its last minute, but—"

judging from the shock on your face, your coach had gathered the information that you know exactly what he's gonna say.

before you could argue against him, what seemed like a yelp and multiples 'sorry" left his mouth.

"we thought you could use the tournament toward your ranking! and if you think about it, jannik is the perfect partner for you. okay? just please listen to us."

well. you have no choice but to accept it.

"fine. okay? just no matching kits. or anything of that sort."

"well—" he began

unbelievable.

the practice court was quieter than you expected. Tucked behind one of the larger stadiums, mostly empty except for some social media admins, other players, and some devoted fans.

you were chatting about strategy with your coach to calm yourself.

it wasn't the nerves that shook you up.

but you definitely couldn't say it was a prime factor in your nervousness.

you glanced at your phone. then the gate.

"ciao."

you turned—and there he was.

Jannik Sinner, curls tousled and messy from the wind, racquet bag slung over one shoulder, no smiles—yet, at least— walking towards you.

"Hi." you said. short, simple, effective.

he gives a small nod and—oh there's the smile okay— eyes scanning the court before landing on you again. "you ready to play?"

"ready as i'll ever be."

the first practice feels like something out of a rom-com.

you started with short-court drills. easy, clean, efficient.

you and jannik are weirdly in-sync. communication not so perfect, but it didn't need to be. the glances, the little nods, the shared smiles and smirks when a point goes perfectly. it all worked so well.

the first few rallies passed with barely a word. then he finally spoke.

"you're quick." he said.

you glanced up, "you're taller in person."

that earned a faint smirk from him. and after that. things loosened. you moved through the warm-up with ease.

at one point, jannik tries to call a lob yours, but you don't hear it.

so you both end up chasing it.

you collide. Not hard—just close. a little too close.

he reached out his hands to steady you by your waist. it made you freeze up for a second.

"well, i guess we'll have to work on our spacing, no?" shaking your head and letting out a breathless laugh.

a boyish laugh escaped Jannik's mouth. "guess so." hands reaching out to fix a couple loose strands in your ponytail. "one more time?"

you huffed, "sure. one more."

fans caught on immediately.

a blurry 15 second video of you and jannik after the collision, and the hair fix afterward reached the internet. fans quickly jumped into conclusions and theories.

@/sinnerloves: wait why do they look so good together?? just me??

@/y/nserves: someone make a 5k worded fan fiction about the hair fix NOW.

@/tennisnews: i've seen enough give them the trophy

@/tennisgossipofficial: id pay for a documentary, @/netflix step up

@/ynlnaced: god if you can hear us please [Your name] and Jannik versus Carlos and Emma final pleasee

the internet was ruthless with the ship comments. and you had no idea that that was only the beginning.

media day was other wordly.

you're sat on a stool, black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of nike shorts. jannik is in a similar placement a couple courts away.

the journalist tosses you a unexpectedly very straightforward question.

"some fans online are already shipping you and your mixed doubles partner, jannik sinner, any thoughts, confirmations, or denying of the rumours?"

you blinked, mouth agape. "well, i didn't know that was a thing."

the journalist laughs and pulls out some printed tweets about you two. your eyebrows raised, followed by a slight laugh, followed by your hands reaching out to grab said tweets.

the keywords of the tweets consisted of 'tennis soulmates!' and 'slow-burn excellence'

you groan into your hands.

"well, jannik is someone i can admire," you said, quickly turning your head and shooting out "on court. of course."

other journalists surrounding you let out murmurs of 'right' and 'sure'

"i've always admire jannik's game, from across the net. to be on the same side as him is very steadying. i trust him a lot out there already, and that was the first practice, so i'm confident in our abilities to win the tournament. or make it very far."

another reporter chimes in. "seems like there's good energy between the two of you. did that surprise you in any way?"

you shrug slightly. "it's not very forced i would say. jannik is very easy to read—in a good way. i think we work very well together. honestly, i'm excited."

that's all you gave them. but the tone says more than the words.

across the grounds, jannik is also surrounded by eager journalists and reporters.

everyone knows he's not someone who enjoys long answers, but when they ask about you? his whole posture shifts.

"so jannik, the first practice with [Your Name]," a journalist says, voice light. "how was it?"

jannik leans forward a little. his accent makes his words sound calm, deliberate, filled with purpose.

"she's intense, i would say." he says first. "in the best way. she's very focused on the court. which is something i admire. she doesn't waste time.

there's a slight pause before he speaks up again.

"she's very fast. and a quick adapter, i noticed it right away." he's quiet once more, then adds, "i feel very lucky to have someone like her as my partner."

the press leans into it. one of them smiles.

"high praise, it sounds like you are very impressed."

jannik nods, slowly. "i am."

a clip from the two interviews makes its way onto twitter within minutes.

the clip of jannik saying "she's very fast. and a quick adapter, i noticed it right away."

the clip of you going "i think we work very well together. honestly, im excited."

the internet melts down in awe.

@/ynlnlover: he sounds SO sincere about her i'm going to cry.

@/forzajann1: they're not even denying the rumors im sick

@/tennisgossipofficial: hopefully its not stefanos and paula 2.0

@/sinnerloves: [Your Name] smiling as soon as a question is about jannik. WHO is she fooling

on the walk back from media. you bumped into jannik.

you fall into step with him, both heading out to the court for a second practice. it wasn't planned, your coach had said that the next practice wouldn't be for another couple days. but you and jannik read others mind.

"that was nice." you broke the silence. trying to conceal the fact that you rewatch the clips three times already.

jannik hummed in response. "what was?"

"media liked you today, you sure do have a way with your words."

he shrugs. "i just told them the truth."

you nudge his arms. "you didn't have to say you're lucky."

he laughed, "i meant it."

you're a little shocked on how casual he is about this. it nearly makes you trip on your foot.

he glances down at you, slightly amused. "what?"

sucking in your bottom lip, you managed to say, "nothing."

"you said some nice things too, no?"

you chuckle at him raising your hand to attempt to argue back. your fingers brush in the motion.

neither of you had the heart to acknowledge it.

and before either of you noticed, you were already at the courts.

the sun was still beaming high in the afternoon.

the court was much quieter and much less crowded than usual. most of media had cleared out, just the two of you and the rhythm of balls echoing between the court and tennis racket strings.

match by match. something changed.

not publicly. not in interviews or post-match debriefs.

it changed in small things.

in the way he started waiting for you before walking on court. how you stopped checking if you lost something because jannik had everything in control, how your hand stayed in his for a couple seconds too long after a high five.

it was all unspoken. until the semi final.

when you won the third set tiebreak, you didn't even think—you just turned and ran straight to him, arms around his neck before you could stop yourself.

jannik picked you up in one slow motion, then a tiny little spin. held you tight, then stepped back slowly

the crowd was still cheering, but for a second, the only sound you could hear was jannik's laugh.

the camera replayed the hug and spin in slow-motion on the screen.

the lights at the stadium felt brighter at the final.

you stood shoulder to shoulder with jannik behind the baseline, ball in hand, the racquet loose in your grip. sweat sliding down your spin beneath the matching navy blue kit. the crowd chatter and claps.

it was you and jannik, versus emma raducanu and carlos alcaraz.

you start fast and sharp, but they start explosive and calculated.

carlos is everywhere. emma's returns are other wordly. you and jannik fell behind. he nets his routine backhand, and within 40 minutes, the set is gone: 6-3.

you sat beside jannik during the changeover, chest heaving, mind heavy, and sweat dripping from your jaw.

he's staring straight ahead, calm as ever. but you can notice how fast he's tapping his left leg.

"you okay?" you asked.

he glances at you. "i don't like, losing."

a quiet pause.

"then lets change that.

second set.

it's yours from the start. you step into every return, take the net early. jannik is focused—pushing alcaraz on his forehands, sneaking backhands past emma like he had always meant to.

but it's not just the tennis.

it's you two.—the way you move, cover, sync, without needing to speak.

this set went by quicker than the last. 6-4, you and jannik won the set.

the final set is pure chaos.

each point is slightly messier than the last. emma struggles with the coverage, carlos dives for volleys, you're scrambling, and jannik is flying.

tie break. 6-6. tiebreak to 10.

you've never heard the stadium so loud. the whole crowd sits on your shoulders.

you take a deep breath before stepping up to serve. 6-5 . jannik walks up behind you, just close enough for his voice to reach you.

"whatever happens, this has been my favorite part of the tournament."

you turn slightly. "the match?"

he meets your eyes. "you."

your heart stumbled.

then you serve.

ace. 7-5

two points later, its 9-8. championship point.

carlos serves. jannik returns. emma picks it up on the half-volley.

the ball floats high—not deep enough.

you charge at the net, tightening your grip, the stadium on its feet.

and it's one final swing, you put the volley away clean.

the stadium erupts. 10-8, you win.

you freeze, then you turn.

jannik is already looking at you—like he knew it would end this way.

he walks to you slowly first, then jog.

and then you're in his arms, pressed against his chest. hands cradling the back of your neck. you're shaking with adrenaline, heart pounding.

"we did it" you breathe.

he pulls back slightly, eyes scanning yours.

"we really did."

in the heat of the moment—without thinking—you pull him by the curls to give him a kiss.

its soft, quick—but sends the stadium wild. and when you pull away, laughing in disbelief, he's smiling like he's never smiled on court before.

you lace your fingers through his, and for the first time, you don't mind the cameras.

the trophy ceremony was less serious than the match.

carlos and emma are giggling and laughing besides you, towels draped over their shoulders, clapping as you both lift the trophy.

carlos walks up to the mic for his speech, emma follows behind.

"well, i wanna start off by saying—nice kiss, by the way—" turning his body and unraveling his hands to jannik.

jannik lets out a breathless laugh. "thank you carlos. i've been waiting."

you laugh so hard you nearly drop the trophy.

when it was your turn, you kept the speech honest and brief.

"we came here to compete," you began, "but somewhere along the way, we just clicked—on and off the court—"

"i've always trusted her game," jannik adds. "i guess i trust her with other things too, now.”

© made by zweiism

authors note ! my first time doing a request! im sorry if it didnt fit whatever idea you had in mind anon😭 thank you for the request!!! the tennis part is so bad cause i trult have no idea how to comment on tennis plays💔 thank you for reading if you made it this far teeheeeee!! the hardest part of the fic was coming up with the username for the internet… truly lost my mind trying to be creative. felt so evil with the stefanos and paula comments…. first time doing anything w/ social media/comments so sorry if its baddd

[miureiz]

au where Jannik is a cook in his parents restaurant and you two meet there while you're visiting Italy

Compliments to the Chef | J.Sinner

synopsis: thankfully the charming italian chef doesn’t judge from first impressions

pairings: chef!jannik sinner x f!reader

author’s note: this ask!! chef’s kiss hehe. i love this alot and that red dress was the first thing i imagined reader wearing, it fits the vibe. please enjoy!

words: 1,071

The air in Florence smelled like fresh bread, stone dust, and summer. You’d been walking the narrow streets for hours already—sore feet and a heart full of paintings, sculptures, and centuries of beauty. Your little Italian phrasebook was tucked into your small leather bag, pages dog-eared and notes scribbled in the margins. The study trip had already begun to feel like something more than academic; it was turning into a quiet love letter to the country itself.

That night, your group had reservations at a tucked-away family-run restaurant near the Arno River, one recommended by your professor for its authentic cuisine and warm atmosphere. The kind of place locals loved and tourists only found if they were very lucky—or very lost.

You arrived just before sunset, wearing a red chiffon dress that fluttered around your thighs and caught the attention of the golden light. It had a rose-shaped twist at the bodice, and you wore it like it was armor—feminine and bold, foreign but confident. A few locals outside the restaurant glanced up. You felt their eyes, but not with discomfort—just the self-aware thrill of standing out a little in a city full of effortless beauty.

The waiter, a young man with slick hair and an accent that danced, approached with a smile. You attempted your order in your best Italian—your accent faltering but hopeful.

"Questo piatto è... disgustoso!" you said cheerfully, gesturing at the pasta.

The entire table went still.

The waiter blinked. His smile faltered.

You watched his face tighten, confused, until he gave a small, tense nod and walked away quickly. Your friend leaned across the table and whispered, “You just told him the dish is disgusting.”

Your heart sank. "No, no—I meant... like, amazing!"

“Delizioso,” your friend corrected.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to die here, aren't I? They're going to chase me out with breadsticks.”

A few moments later, the kitchen door creaked open. Out stepped a tall man in a white apron, flour still dusting his forearms. He had ginger-blond hair slightly tousled, eyes a soft green, and shoulders that suggested he knew his way around heavy stockpots. He wasn’t smiling.

He looked at you.

And then stopped.

Completely.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t exactly model-perfect—he had a quiet charm, understated and entirely real. He opened his mouth to speak but didn’t seem to know where to land his gaze. His eyes darted from your dress to the table to the floor.

“I… I am very sorry,” he said stiffly. “If there was something… wrong… with the food.”

You blinked at him. Then the realization hit you all over again.

You shot up in your seat, cheeks burning, and fumbled through your bag. “No! No, wait—I said the wrong word.” You pulled out your little phrasebook, flipping through pages frantically like it was a holy text that could save your soul. “I meant to say delizioso. It’s delicious. I swear. Your pasta is the best thing I’ve ever tasted, I promise.”

You looked up.

He was still staring at you—this time, stunned for an entirely different reason.

Your sincerity. The panic in your eyes. That ridiculous phrasebook. And yes, probably the way the light hit your dress like a Renaissance painting come to life.

He laughed—quietly, awkwardly—and scratched the back of his neck. “Ah. Okay. Then… thank you. I cooked it, actually. That’s… good to know.”

“Well, in that case,” you smiled nervously, “compliments to the chef.”

He finally looked you in the eyes. And smiled.

You didn't see him again for two weeks.

•

You weren’t supposed to go to the boat party.

It was a last-minute thing—a group of friends from the university had made connections with some locals and wrangled a small riverboat, just big enough for music, laughter, a few bottles of wine, and a scattering of students who wanted to feel more Italian than they actually were.

You climbed aboard just as the sun dipped behind the roofs of Florence, casting peach-colored shadows on the Arno. You wore a breezy white blouse this time, and sandals that still made your feet ache, but you didn’t care. The water lapped gently against the boat’s edge as laughter rippled through the group.

And then—him.

Leaning casually against the side rail, a beer in his hand, hair messier than you remembered, he turned. Jannik.

Recognition dawned on both your faces at the same time.

“No way,” you said, eyes wide, approaching him slowly.

His grin was crooked. “You again.”

You laughed. “Let me guess. You’re here to make sure I never destroy the Italian language again.”

“I was hoping to,” he said, stepping closer, “but then I forgot my phrasebook.”

You both laughed, and suddenly the memory of your first meeting didn’t sting anymore. He looked at you—really looked, this time—and you saw it: the warm admiration behind his awkwardness.

“Do you normally attend boat parties full of random art students?” you teased, leaning against the rail beside him.

He shrugged. “I was invited by a guy I went to school with. Didn’t know anyone else would be here. Especially not you.”

“Well, I go where the wind takes me.” You looked at him sideways. “And by wind, I mean free wine.”

He chuckled, rubbing his palm over the condensation on his bottle. “You’re not from here.”

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” you laughed. “I’m just a normal art student with a love for Italy.”

He paused, then nodded. “And I’m just a normal guy with a passion for cooking and a family restaurant I want to own one day.”

Something flickered between you then. A kind of mutual understanding—simple, but genuine. You both weren’t special in the traditional sense. No fame. No headlines. Just two young people, one enchanted by beauty, the other by flavor, meeting in a city older than time itself.

The boat drifted. The conversation followed.

You spoke of small things: your classes, his favorite recipes, your clumsy Italian, his dreams of running a kitchen with his own name above the door.

When the stars finally bloomed over Florence, you stood beside each other in comfortable silence. Close, but not touching.

"Next time," he said quietly, "if you want to compliment my cooking, just say ‘Sei un artista.’ It means, ‘You’re an artist.’"

You smiled. “I’ll write it down.”

But you didn’t.

Because you knew you’d remember it.

Just like you’d remember him.

[miureiz]

thirty men in front of his hotel room door tonight

[miureiz]

CUTEEESYY i love fic like this !!

the picture in the bush ; J.S

summary : when you find a mysterious photo at the park, you keep it without knowing why. you never expected a simple photo that you tucked away and forgot about would have such a lasting effect on your life. pairing : fem!reader x jannik sinner warnings : none this is the fluffiest of fluff

you were 9 when it happened.

it was a warm afternoon in san candido, italy. While the late spring sun made everything in its path golden, you were busy playing tag with the other kids. your sneakers had dirt all over them, your shirt stained with some sort of juice you had a couple hours before.

you didn't mean to find the picture at all. you could hear the kid that was 'it' running towards you, and in your hurry, you stumble, chasing into a cluster of trees not too far for you to be in danger, but tall enough to cover your frame. all in one breath of something that consisted of a giggle and a inhale, you saw it.

half tucked beneath a bush, there it was—waiting to be found : a photo.

it had clearly been lost. A little wrinkled at the edges, rough from time but soft enough from the rain of yesterday. But the image was clear : a young boy with bright red hair, shirt slightly too big, holding a tennis racket almost as tall as him, and smiling like he'd just done something amazing. There were specks of what you suspected was either dirt of clay on his knees, like he had fallen before the photograph, or won whatever he was doing.

you stared at the picture in your hands. you didn't know why you looked at the picture for so long, maybe it was the grin, maybe it was the eyes, or his crazy red hair that was longer than your own at the time. You didn't know him, but something in your stomach felt warm.

warm enough for you to slip the picture in your pocket and tell nobody about it. You didn't think too much of it, only that it was a secret little treasure.

At first, you'd take it out sometimes at night. When the house was quiet, and the loudest thing was you carefully unfolding the picture, just to look at it.

then, years passed. The photo lived in a keepsake box, then on the cover on your wallet, then on the side pocket of your carry-on bag, and by then, the photo was worn soft at the edges, colors a bit faded, paper thinner.

Until you forgot about it, the way people forget lyrics of a song they once played on repeat.

You met jannik when you were in your early 20's. long after the photo had lost its place in your mind.

An ordinary afternoon at a coffee shop near your apartment. The barista had messed up your order, and you were too tired to argue, so you turned around with a sigh—and bumped into someone?

"Sorry," he said without hesitation, voice carrying a distinct italian accent.

you looked up

tall. red curly hair. kind hazel eyes. His large hand immediately steadying your side, helping you regain composure; while the other hand carried two identical cups.

your expression flickered as you saw the cups in his hands. "wait—is that—" you tried to get the sentence out, but the italian must've already connected the dots, cutting you off with a 'ah—' then handing you one of the cups.

"are you sure this is mines?" you questioned.

"hmm, not sure actually. i think she panicked." he replied, gesturing his hands towards the same barista who had messed up your order.

god, he was so italian

"if it's not yours, you can take it anyway, i don't like caramel." the italian jokes, letting out a boyish laugh along the way.

you politely laughed back, surprised. "then why did you order it?"

"i didn't. i ordered something boring," he said, holding up his cup, "like me, no?"

you raised an eyebrow. "you don't seem boring."

he gave a small shrug. "i would give it time."

you laughed, a soft giggle escaping.

he shyly smiled, happy that his joke landed well, swaying so gentle.

you had realized that you were standing in front of him, holding your drink, not moving.

"well, uhm, thanks for 'rescuing' me," you managed to say.

"hm, well, it was not that dramatic i would say."

"no, really, i would've cried just now."

"then i'm glad i was here." he replied quietly.

there was a pause. A strange, light silence. before you could nod and go on about your day, he held out his hands.

"jannik," he offered. then, in a playful tune, "and you?"

you told him your name. he repeated it softly, like he was trying it on. neither of you knew what had just started.

you didn't plan to see him again.

it was supposed to be a passing moment, you thought—one of those odd, warm moments life throws your way, then takes it back before you even realize. But the universe, apparently, had other plans in mind.

a week after the interaction, you had walked into that same café after work, craving coffee, a sweet treat, and maybe a little peace. when you spot him. sitting in the corner, hood pulled up, reading and scrolling on something on his phone.

he looks up right as you spot him.

you waved, instinctively. he gave you a quiet smile—surprised, but not startled— and raised his cup like a toast.

you had told yourself to not read into it, but your stomach did a somersault, and something in your chest fluttered anyway.

you got your drink, hesitated for a half second, then sat across from him.

"still drinking boring things?" you questioned.

he grinned at you, in a oh-so-familiar way, but you couldn't place your fingers on it.

"americano. no sugar. wanted a change from the cappucino today."

you snorted. "jesus. and i thought the caramel thing was bad. this is just another level of unusual."

"unusual," he intervened, "but effective." raises his cup, and does a terrible attempt at a wink so bad it makes you laugh and shake your head.

jannik was warm and easy to talk to. funny, in a questionable way. The kind of funny where if you weren't paying attention, you would miss the joke. He asked thoughtful questions, really listened to the answers, and carefully state his understanding of your answer. His voice was slow, deliberate; he was careful with his words, sometimes forgetting what the english word for something was, leading to you guys trying to figure it out for 5 minutes.

you didn't know much about him, not yet. just that he was from northern italy. that he was often tired. that he seemed a little older than you, but not in years—rather in experience. Like life had tried to toughen him and knock him down in one breath, but hasn't quite succeeded.

you started bumping into each other on purpose after that.

coffee once turned into coffee again. then coffee and a walk. then coffee and hours in the corner of the café talking about everything and nothing. you learned he traveled a lot. you learned he played tennis, but he brushed it off as something unimportant. you only found out he was Jannik Sinner—capital letters, tennis star—when you accidentally saw his face on the back of someones ESQUIRE magazine on the train.

when you asked him about it. he seemed embarrassed.

"i didn't want that to be the first thing you know about me."

"well, it wasn't," you had replied, smiling. "the first thing i knew about you is that you don't like caramel."

he grinned, soft and crooked. "still true."

you fell for him quietly.

it was a slow kind of love—the kind that builds in conversation between plane rides, ‘i made it’ text from the hotel rooms, in quiet diners where he leaned in to hear you better. you had learned quickly that he wasn’t what people made him out to be. behind all the fame and headlines, was a shy and thoughtful man who didnt know how to sit or stand still and had a tendency to overcook pasta.

to you, he wasn’t “Jannik sinner. the wimbledon champion”. he was the guy who leaves sticky notes on the mirror for you to find when he goes away for a tournament. the guy who text you the same, after a win or loss. the guy who laughs at your bad joke and falls asleep with his head in your lap on off-days. the guy who hates caramel and refuses to try any drink you give him involving it.

you loved him, all of him.

your story with jannik was slow, careful, filled with shy glances, long calls when he was on tour, and gentle forehead kisses after a long day. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, and listened when you couldn’t speak. something in him that felt like home.

you had learned, over time, that jannik loved in ways people missed.

he didn't shout it, he didn't post it, he loved you in the details

he remembers the exact way you take your coffee, no matter what country you were in. how’d he leave his hoodie behind for you because he knew how comfortable you felt in them. how’d he call you just before bed even if it meant setting an alarm for 4 AM in shanghai.

You never rushed each other. The love unfolded slowly - not dramatic or volatile, but something warm and rooted. It came in Sunday mornings with tangled legs under the blanket, in shared playlists on long car rides, in him watching you out of the corner of his eye like he couldn't believe you were real.

One night, during a rare few days off, he took you to a quiet mountain in the south of tyrol.

it was autumn. the leaves had started to turn colors, crisp gold and deep red. the air cold and sharp in your lungs. jannik had found a tiny cabin with windows that looked out to miles of nothing.

you didn't know he had it then.

you didn't know how long he’d been carrying it with him—how many cities it had traveled through in his duffle bag, hidden between sweatshirts and string dampeners. waiting.

he made dinner—an overcooked risotto you both pretended to love. you both played cards by the fire, he lost dramatically. hurling up together by the fire, his arms wrapped around you like a seal.

it was quiet.

broken by him. saying your name, softly.

“yea?” you uttered out.

before you could turn your head to face jannik, he pulls out the ring from the side of his pants.

he held the box out, getting on one knee.

and before he could even ask the question. you whispered the only thing that couldve made sense.

"yes."

you married him on a spring morning, tucked away in the dolomites. Just a small wedding—family, close friends, the scent of flowers in the air.

you wore white. he looked at you like the world stopped spinning just to watch you walk down the aisle. everything was perfect.

later that night, still in your dress, you dropped your shoes off by the bed, and dropped yourself on the bed. Jannik was humming to himself the tune of 'forever young' by alphaville by the suitcases, moving to unpack your stuff. as he got to your overnight bag, something dropped on the floor.

a wallet.

your wallet.

it flipped open while it landed, revealing the small plastic window inside. the old photo, faded now with age, was still there.

he picked it up and froze.

you were pulling off the dress when you heard the stillness.

"wait," jannik turned, holding the photo between his fingers. "where did you get this?"

you walked over, eyes widening when you realized what he was holding. "Oh." you replied, flat. "that? i just found it. when i was 9. in a bush. I don't know why i kept it, i guess i thought he was cute? it felt special in a way."

he blinked, stunned.

"that little boy, thats me."

you had laughed. not believing him at first. But then he reached into a drawer and pulled out and old photo album, flipping pages with speed and certainty, until he lands on a nearly identical picture—same tennis racket, same muddy knees, same wild red hair, and the exact same cheeky smile.

"i remember this day. it was after a junior tournament. my mom took the photo and gave me a copy. i put it in my pocket, we stopped by a park before going home and i must've dropped it." he murmured, eyes soft. "i cried after."

you stared at him. then the photo. then back at him.

"no way."

he smiled, soft and crooked, same as the photo

you felt the room spin.

"that's you?"

he nodded.

you gasped. covering your mouth. sitting on the edge of the bed. "are you kidding me right now?"

jannik stood in front of you, still holding the photo.

"guess i really was your first love," he teased, gently.

you stared at him, completely dazed. "i married the boy in the bush."

"you married the boy who lost his favorite photo." he whispered, brushing your hair back behind your ear. he gave a small, breathless laugh. "i guess you could say you met me years ago."

you laughed, full and stunned and disbelieving. "no way, thats insane."

"so tell me," he leaned in. "was i your first love then?"

you rolled your eyes, grinning. "i guess so."

"you were mine too."

© made by zweiism

authors note ! first jannik sinner fic so this might suck but its okay cause thats MY italian goat. please leave requests teehee im getting the sudden surge of motivation..... i think for like 5% of this fic i wanted him to put that lavazza sponsorship to use and got you a custom lavazza coffee creation.... or omg i wanted to do a little tennis commentary part where the guy is like "looks like our italian ice man is melting"and honestly you guys i'm gonna be honest him proposing is short cause i cringed myself out thinking of it #sorryyyy gahhh okay long asf authors note bruh but thank you if you read this through the end this means a lot!!! and also i wrote this at 1 AM and finished around 4:39 so if anything is written wrong thats all me lol also the wink just imagine that as his wink towards alcaraz

heavily inspired by this pic i saw on pinterest :)

[miureiz]

Fake It, Keep It.

› Pairing → Jannik Sinner x Female Reader.

› Summary → One fake anniversary, one free dessert, and one tennis player who ends up meaning every word he pretended to say.

› Word Count → 1.3k.

— They’d spent most of the afternoon walking along the quiet parts of Monte Carlo — the ones tucked between sharp cliffs and sun-bleached walls, where tourists didn’t think to look and the sea whispered instead of roared.

That was always the plan, unwritten but understood: follow the winding streets behind the harbor, drift through the silence of residential corners and little stone stairs too narrow for crowds.

It made Jannik feel human again — not Jannik Sinner, pro athlete, but only a boy with too-long limbs, curls that wouldn't lie flat, and a tendency to hold her bag when her shoulder got tired.

They were sun-slick and slow-moving when he paused in front of the café — small, seaside. Vines curling around its windows like an embrace, pink cushions faded by salt air, and in the glass display? A slice of mille-feuille so obnoxiously delicate it almost glowed.

“That looks dangerous,” she murmured, peering closer.

Jannik squinted at the price tag beside it and audibly winced.

“That’s seventeen euros,” he said flatly. “For one slice of pastry.”

She grinned. “You can afford seventeen euros, you know?”

He side-eyed her. “That’s not the point. It’s the principle.”

She stepped closer to the entrance, teasing. “Then go in and ask them to lower the price. Tell them you’re famous.”

“I’d rather die.”

She giggled, the sound sweet and playful. But when she glanced back, he was staring at the door with a small frown.

Then it came — quietly, half under his breath — “We could pretend it’s our anniversary. I think they give free dessert for couples.”

Her eyebrows lifted almost as instantly as her face flushed. “You’re joking.”

“No,” he said, too quickly, then added, “Maybe a little.”

She blinked. He was already red, fully blushing — ears, neck and all. “You don’t have to,” he rushed. “I just– It’s stupid, I know. Forget it.”

She tilted her head at him, hand on her hip. “You want to fake date me…to avoid paying seventeen euros?”

He was silent for half a second before the answer came. “No– well, yes– but also it’d be funny. You’d be good at it.”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Unless that’s weird.”

“Wildly weird,” she replied, then smiled softly. “Come on, let’s go make the world’s most ridiculous lie.”

Inside, the café was cool, quiet and no one noticed them but the waiter — middle-aged, cheerful, and a little too eager to make conversation.

Jannik stood awkwardly behind her at the counter for a beat before he took a deep breath and finally stepped forward.

“Bonsoir,” he began, accent soft. “We were just…wondering if, um– do you still do the complimentary anniversary dessert?”

The waiter’s face lit up. “Oui, of course! You’re celebrating today?”

She turned slightly, barely able to bite back a grin as Jannik nodded once, bravely.

“Two years,” he informed. “Together.”

He reached for her hand like it was a reflex. Their fingers touched in a brief, featherlight manner, but even that made his breath hitch.

“And she still puts up with me,” he added, smiling nervously. “Which is…a miracle.”

The waiter beamed. “Ah, young love…sit anywhere you like! I’ll bring something special.”

They sat under a vine-draped corner table, half-shaded from the sun. She looked at him across the table, elbows propped on the surface, face caught between fondness and amusement.

“You panic-lied so fast.”

“I was trying to commit,” he mumbled. “Did it work?”

“You’re very charming when you’re panicking.”

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You literally play in stadiums packed with people and this is what makes you flustered?”

“This is different,” he answered truthfully. Then, hushly, “It’s you.”

Her smile softened, feet nudging his under the table, deliberate. “You’re lucky I like cake...”

There was a pause.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she added, way too casual, eyes darting away the second the words left her mouth.

The silence that followed was gentle, before the waiter returned — triumphant, with a glistening mille-feuille slice and two tiny forks. “For the beautiful couple,” he announced, placing it between them.

Jannik let her have the first bite, waiting for her verdict with a kind of boyish hope in his eyes. When she moaned dramatically, he grinned.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “Maybe it is worth seventeen euros.”

“You’re not getting out of the lie that easy, amore mio,” she teased.

He choked slightly, eyes wide, then smiled down at his fork, cheeks warming again. “If I’d known you liked it when I said that, I would’ve done it sooner.”

“You did say it sooner. Multiple times. Every single one made me blush.”

“Still does.” he whispered, glancing up at her.

She was now quiet, holding his gaze, the fork frozen between them.

And maybe it didn’t matter if the dessert was free or overpriced, if they were lying or not. Because the air between them was thicker than pretend — sweeter than sugar, and undeniably real.

When they left, the waiter waved. “See you next year!”

Jannik smiled at her, hand brushing hers again. “Maybe next year we won’t have to lie.”

She looked at him then — really looked, heart blooming in her chest.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “next year you’ll bring the flowers.”

— It began with a text sent at 11:48 a.m. — a year later.

'Happy fake anniversary! 💞'

He saw it immediately, of course. She knew because three dots danced in the corner of her screen before she even locked it again, but no reply ever came.

And maybe that was the reply.

She figured he was training, napping, or still not used to being someone people wanted — that strange off-court rhythm he always kept during his downtime, like he was catching up to his own heart.

She didn’t exactly expect the knock at her door less than an hour later.

He stood there, looking awkward, sun-drenched and so impossibly hers — white t-shirt a little too soft from overwashing, curls damp at the ends from a shower, and in his hands a pastry box alongside a bouquet.

She blinked, stunned.

“You really brought mille-feuille?” she asked, already smiling.

Jannik ducked his head, bashful. “It felt right.”

She reached for the box automatically, but he held out the flowers instead.

“These are for you,” he informed, then quickly added, “It took me forever to pick them.”

Her hands hesitated.

They weren’t roses, nor anything cliché, really, but rather unusual picks — a bundle of delphiniums in moody ocean blue, scattered between soft baby’s breath and tiny white daisies, and something pink and trailing she didn’t recognize. Fresh, but wild. Messy in the way real things are. Beautiful in a way she could never arrange herself.

“I went to three shops,” he explained sheepishly. “but none of them felt like…you. They all had orchids and calla lilies and that kind of hotel lobby stuff. Perfect, but not enough.”

She was still staring at the bouquet, fingers grazing a soft blue petal.

“So I walked to this little corner place, and the florist there asked me what I was looking for. I just said–”

He paused, eyes searching for hers.

“I said I needed something that looked like sunlight when it touches skin.”

Her breath caught at that.

“And also something soft– brave, not too polished, like…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Like the person I’ve loved for a while now.”

She was quiet for a full beat, then another.

“You dork,” she finally whispered under her breath, stepping forward to kiss him.

It wasn’t rushed nor theatrical — just her hands curled into his shirt, his nose bumping hers and both of them smiling mid-kiss, like they were still learning each other and liked what they were finding.

When they pulled back, she cradled the bouquet to her chest.

“You know,” she started, “now we have to celebrate this day every year for real.”

He nodded solemnly. “Already marked it in my calendar.”

She giggled, beaming. “Under what?”

He grinned. “Real Anniversary of the Fake One.”

She opened the door wider to let him in. “And the mille-feuille?”

“I paid for it this time.” he replied, mock-proud.

She smirked. “Even though it’s seventeen euros?”

He handed her the pastry box. “Some things,” he said, eyes soft, “are actually worth it.”

[miureiz]

Jannik was not a late bloomer people are just brainwashed

[miureiz]

Game, Set, Panic | J.Sinner

synopsis: after sharing a bed and very oblivious mutual pinning, you and jannik are driven by carlos to face your blossoming relationship head-on.

pairing: jannik sinner x f!tennisplayer!reader

author’s note: hello my loves! this is part two of optimal proximity, after the overwhelming love and demands for a part two, here it is! more jannik and reader being the cutest idiots in love, carlos being the greatest wingman of all time + a bonus scene with holger (justice for him honestly) please enjoy!

words: 1,977

It was ridiculous how obvious it had become.

Everyone knew.

Carlos knew, of course—he had known for ages, operating in the background like a subtle matchmaking puppet master. Holger knew, though he pretended to be annoyed by it. Even random staffers and ball kids had started whispering about it. You and Jannik weren’t exactly subtle anymore.

And still, somehow, Jannik couldn’t quite believe it.

He was walking next to you after a match when you reached for his hand without thinking—laced your fingers through his like it had always been yours to hold—and he still had to mentally walk himself through the fact that this was real. That you liked him. That this wasn’t some dream conjured up by his anxious brain.

You had already fallen asleep on him once. You’d already wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, called a cactus "Jannik-coded,” and worn his hoodie for three days in a row. But he still looked at you like you might vanish if he breathed wrong.

It was endearing, really. Painfully so.

And you? You weren’t exactly composed either.

Every time he looked at you—really looked at you, with that soft, intent gaze like you were the only person in the room—you started smiling so hard your face hurt. You bumped into a doorframe once because he called you by a nickname he didn’t even realize he was using.

You knew he liked you. He knew you liked him. But neither of you had said it yet.

And that left Carlos Alcaraz, permanent member of the “Push These Idiots Together” committee, teetering between fond amusement and emotional exhaustion.

It all nearly came to a head one afternoon at a training event, when you were chatting casually with another player—a guy around your age, friendly, a little too confident. He wasn’t flirting outright, but Carlos saw the signs: the extra laughs, the subtle shoulder touches, the way the guy kept leaning in toward you like you didn’t already belong to someone else.

Carlos saw it. So did Jannik—who stood frozen by the lockers, holding a protein shake like it had personally offended him.

Before Jannik could spiral into the void, Carlos was already crossing the room, sliding an arm around your shoulders and flashing a disarmingly charming smile at the other player.

“She’s spoken for, hermano,” Carlos said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Try someone who’s not dating a six-foot-two ginger with a deadly backhand.”

Your head whipped toward him. “I’m what?”

When you realized what Carlos was trying to do, you quickly agreed—which left Jannik short-circuiting near the bench.

“Say it back,” Carlos mouthed before disappearing.

You found Jannik outside near the practice courts, sitting on the grass with his knees pulled up, staring out at nothing.

You sat beside him, close enough to touch. He didn’t flinch this time.

“Carlos said I’m yours,” you said softly.

Jannik swallowed. “He says things.”

“He says true things.”

He looked over at you then, and the expression on his face nearly broke you—like he wanted to believe it, but couldn’t trust himself with the possibility.

“I just don’t get it,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. “I’ve never been the guy people fall for. I don’t say the right things. I don’t know how to—”

You leaned in before he could finish, pressing your forehead to his.

“Jannik,” you said, smiling, “you don’t have to know how to do it. You’re just… already doing it.”

He let out a breath, soft and stunned.

“So… you like me?”

“Since Monte Carlo,” you confessed, laughing a little. “And I really thought you didn’t notice.”

Jannik blinked. “I literally forgot how to hold a fork around you. I think I dropped my racquet five times in one match because you were watching.”

You laughed and kissed him. Just a quick press of lips, but it still made him freeze like his brain had blue-screened.

“Was that okay?” you asked, teasing.

“I—I think I’m dying, but in a nice way,” he replied, eyes wide.

•

The team was back together for a charity exhibition: doubles matches, photo ops, sponsors watching. Carlos had, unsurprisingly, talked someone into letting you and Jannik play together. He claimed it was “for fun” and that “everyone wanted to see it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. He didn’t even pretend to look innocent.

From the moment you two stepped onto the court together, it was a disaster—in the most adorable, syrupy, heart-eyes way possible. The draw had you and Jannik up against Carlos himself and some talented, flirty, French player.

You couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Couldn’t make eye contact without bursting into laughter. Every time one of you scored a point, the high fives turned into hand-holding, then back to blushing apologies, then giggling into towels during breaks.

At one point, you dove for a drop shot and landed a little too close to Jannik, your chest nearly colliding with his arm. He reached to help you up, but instead of grabbing your hand, he grabbed your wrist, missed his footing, and nearly fell on top of you.

You both hit the ground, tangled and flustered.

Carlos, on the other side of the net, covered his face. “Ay, Dios mío…”

Holger, watching from the stands with a Gatorade in hand, groaned out loud. “Do they even know we can see them? This is disgusting. And also… kind of cute. Ugh.”

When you finally won the match—by some miracle—you jumped into Jannik’s arms without thinking, legs wrapping around his waist. He caught you, staggered a little, and held on tight like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The crowd cheered. Carlos mock-bowed. Holger looked like he needed a moment of silence.

•

Later, you and Jannik sat on the edge of the court, sweaty and still catching your breath. You leaned into his shoulder, letting your head rest there, and he let out a soft, stunned breath like he was still figuring out how to hold this—how to hold you.

“I really like you,” you said quietly.

He looked down at you, lips parting like he didn’t expect to hear it out loud. “Even when I panic over serving?”

You grinned. “Especially then.”

He smiled, the kind that made his whole face soften. “Okay. Good. Because I’ve liked you for a long time. Even when you ramble for ten minutes about the most random things.”

You shoved him gently. He laughed, then caught your hand before it dropped, lacing your fingers together.

And maybe the timing had been messy, and maybe you both had fumbled every step of the way—but right there, with the sun sinking behind the stands and your hands intertwined, it didn’t feel late.

It felt right.

And Carlos, watching from a distance with his arms crossed, nodded to himself.

“Finally,” he muttered, then turned to Holger, who was pretending to gag. “Bet you ten bucks they’re married by the next tournament.”

Holger rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Because for once, everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

Two idiots, hopelessly in love—blushing their way through every step of it.

And finally, finally, on the same page.

•

Holger had no idea what he was walking into.

He thought it would be casual. Chill. A simple post-practice hangout. You had messaged him earlier that day:

"We’re getting food and watching something dumb later. Join us!”

So he said yes.

Because food? Excellent.

Dumb movie? Even better.

Low-effort socializing? Sign him up.

But this—this was not what he signed up for.

He walked into the apartment and immediately regretted every decision that had led him there.

Jannik was on the couch. You were curled up beside him, legs thrown over his lap like that was just your default position now. You were sharing a bowl of popcorn—sharing, meaning you were both picking at the same time and occasionally bumping fingers and pretending not to giggle about it.

Holger stood in the doorway, frozen.

“Hey!” you greeted cheerfully, like you weren’t in the middle of living out a soft indie love story. “We already started the movie but we can rewind!”

“No, it’s fine,” Holger said stiffly, slowly lowering himself into the armchair like it was a trap. “I’ll catch up.”

Jannik looked over. “There’s pizza too, if you’re hungry.”

“Where?” Holger asked.

Jannik pointed. “Kitchen counter.”

He got up to grab some—mainly to escape the couple’s radiating vibes—and returned to find you had now shifted, blanket wrapped around both you and Jannik like a human burrito of shared affection.

Holger sat with the slice in his hand, unmoving, watching as you turned to Jannik mid-movie and whispered something that made him blush and laugh under his breath.

He blinked.

Then slowly pulled out his phone.

Holger [7:14 PM]:

Carlos. I am in hell.

Carlos [7:14 PM]:

With our favorite couple?

Holger [7:14 PM]:

YES. You didn’t warn me it was this bad.

Carlos [7:15 PM]:

LMAO

I warned you for WEEKS. You ignored me.

Holger [7:15 PM]:

They’re SHARING A BLANKET. I haven’t known peace since I walked in.

She just fed him a bite of her pizza.

Carlos [7:15 PM]:

That’s love, bro. Embrace it.

Holger [7:16 PM]:

I’m going to throw myself into the sea.

Or better, throw them into the sea. They’d probably snuggle through that too.

Meanwhile, you and Jannik were fully ignoring him.

You were halfway through a terrible movie—something with talking animals and questionable CGI—and you were fully invested, head resting on Jannik’s shoulder while your fingers traced absentminded circles on his knee.

Jannik didn’t even seem to be paying attention to the movie. His focus was on you—soft smile, hand lightly brushing over your leg, cheeks a little pink anytime you looked at him for more than two seconds.

At one point, you started laughing at a dumb joke on screen, and Jannik smiled so wide it looked like his heart might actually combust.

Holger glanced up from his phone and groaned out loud.

“Do you two need a minute?” he asked, voice dry. “Or a separate room? Or a wedding license?”

You blinked at him, then looked at Jannik.

“Are we being that obvious?” you asked, amused.

“Yes,” Holger said flatly. “You’re blushing in sync. This is unbelievable.”

You and Jannik both started laughing, only making it worse.

Holger turned his phone back on.

Holger [7:18 PM]:

They’re BLUSHING. IN SYNC.

Carlos I’m BEGGING you. Come get me.

Carlos [7:18 PM]:

Nah, you’re good. You need this. Builds character.

Holger [7:19 PM]:

You’re dead to me.

By the end of the night, Holger had resigned himself to his fate. You and Jannik were tucked into your corner of the couch like you’d grown roots there. He’d stopped watching the movie entirely and was instead playing solitaire on his phone, narrating each dramatic cuddle escalation to Carlos in real time.

But when he looked up and saw the way Jannik gently brushed your hair away from your face, and the way you looked at him like he hung the stars—Holger sighed.

Because, yeah. It was kind of cute.

Disgustingly so.

But real.

Still, as he stood up to leave, grabbing his jacket, he made sure to grumble under his breath: “Next time I’m third-wheeling, I’m bringing noise-canceling headphones. Or a blindfold. Or maybe a taser.”

You and Jannik just waved sweetly from the couch.

“Love you too, Holger,” you said with a wink.

He flipped you off without looking back, already texting Carlos:

Holger [9:52 PM]:

They’re going to name their kids after types of pasta. I feel it in my bones.

Carlos [9:52 PM]:

You’re the real MVP for surviving that.

Also, yeah. Their first kid’s definitely a Penne.

[miureiz]

it hurts so good 😭

your fics are poetry, soooo romantic and dreamy!!! hoping for jannik angst 👉👈 maybe exes who were in a secret relationship but im trusting your vision hehe thank you🙏🙏🙏

My most beautiful tragedy...

sum up : When secrets and expectations are too heavy, decisions are taken. But can you ever take it back ?

Ahhhh I loved that idea. Still French!reader au, I really like that one. She’s in med school because I just finished my first year (hardest one in France) so small tribute. Have fun ! (there is second part a more focused on Carlos though)

You met when the heat of a spanish summer could fill your lungs, a warth that stuck to your skin just thinking about it and felt like a fever dream. And like many love stories : you weren't where you were supposed to be, and he wasn't supposed to notice your existence.

Your father was one of the elected physician that were invited to a training camp in Valencia. It was his job, he was always all around the world, following future sports stars and helping their body keep up with their rising dreams. That summer you had tagged along, just because Lille had become a little too suffocating for your teenage mind. The promise of the spanish summer and its freedom was much more enticing than staying in the north of France. Though you weren't allowed to wander the grounds, especially at night. A strict rule your father had put up for you to respect the tennis camp's rules and schedules. But like any rules at that age, you made sure to not respect them, obviously. .That is how you found yourself slipping away barefoot frome the guest quarters during a hot summer night as you trailed into the shadows of the clay courts.

That’s when you saw him.

He was tall, a shadow in the darkness as he moved with precision. He had his hood on, letting only a few curls escape as he bounced the tennis ball against the court wall. The ryhtmic thum of the tennis ball meeting your heartbeat. You recognized his figure, who wouldn't. The rising Italian star. Jannik Sinner. La volpe. Even back then, people whispered about him like he was more comet than boy. Rising star. Future number one. Or that's what they all said. He was the incarnation of humility and class.

You almost tripped against a rock, making him turn around. He looked surprise to find someone there. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice soft, in accented English.

You felt your ears going red. His beautiful eyes were on you, and you felt like the whole world was watching. Maybe your future whole world ? You smiled timidly, balancing your weight on your feet. “Neither are you.”

And at simple as it looked, that's was the beginning fo everything. At first it was all teenage innocence : shared glances over protein bars and taped ankles, secret midnight walks under the orange trees behind the courts. He showed you his world in the deep ways you never saw from your seat. He taught you how to serve while the stars were the only spectators. And you taught him how to curse in French. And the thrill of staying quiet and avoiding any suspicions made it all better. It was a secret nobody knew existed and was only for the two of you to keep sacred.

Of course nobody could know. Not your friends, his team and especially not your father. It began as a funny little flirt. A summer fling that would fade. But destiny has a way to keep you twisted in the ropes of your love. You kept goign after that summer. And months bled into years, and the secret only grew deeper, heavier. Like something precious you'd buried in the crest of your ribs.

And soon, 3 summers had passed and spring of 2022 made its entrance. You were now both adults, not the teens who met on that court. But that pure and simple love never faded, but could never escape the shadows of your secret.

When you would go to the same destination, you would handle the airport alone, never by his side. You wished you could board with him, sind sole silly and overpriced things in the dutyfree. But it would mess up all those year of secret where you were trapped in.

So you had to stand back, like a spectator of your own secret. And you watched. Watched his matches in silence, heart clenched every time his name was shouted into stadiums full of strangers. When you passed him in the corridors of the court between his two interviews, you finger twisted to just reach for him. But you did nothing, he kept walking, his gaze striaght ahead. And you stayed in the dark, just as you'd agreed. Because you thought your love was like that.

And when the night fell, when all the eyes weren't on him, he allowed himsemf to call you, to hold you. All of it trapped in the privacu of the walls of his hotel room as he whispered his love in corner of your ears. His words melting into a mix of Italian and English. "You’re my world, even if no one knows it," he used to say. And you believed him.

That was until 2023.

That week was silent. You knew silence, it part of the act. But this time it was bone deep, like a rythm miising in the back ground. He didn’t call that week. Not even a text. You knew something was wrong, but you waited. You always waited.

And when he finally came around, it wasn’t to see you. It was to end it.

The quiet hotel room in Monte Carlo was suffocating, at least that's hw you remember it now. He was a few hours from one of his big matches, one you would attend in silence like always. You remeber the look he had in his eyes. How hee didn’t look like yours anymore. He had cut his hair shorter, his smile was dimmer. He spoke in short, clean sentences. Clinical. Controlled. As if you were the media and not his girlfriend.

“I can’t do this anymore.” It was simple. Just five words that resumed the end of 5 years of relationship. It was almost too simple that it made you laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it felt impossible. “Do what exactly?”

“This,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “Us.” Your world cracked like a frozen lake that was too fragile to step on. “Why?”

He didn’t answer at first, and it didn't look like he was trying to find the right words either. He just looked down at his hands, his broad hands that knew your body by the heart. Those hands you used to kiss after every match, where he would light up the court like firework. “Because it’s too complicated,” he said finally. “Because people wouldn’t understand. My family wouldn’t. The public wouldn’t.”

Your voice was hollow, the life was living your body. Your heart was ripping apart. “I thought that’s why we kept it secret. To protect it.” You tried to keep your voice steady but your facial expression said otherwise. He didn’t meet your eyes and you craved to see the green in them. “I need to focus on my career. I have a shot now. A real one. And I can’t… I can’t afford distractions.”

“Is that what I was to you?” you asked, heart breaking open. “A distraction?” He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. You left before you started crying. And he didn't try to stop you.

And tha's how it all ended. In silence just like it begun. No one ever knew you'd loved each other. Not even your father. And to the world he was a comet, a rising star that shone like fire with no holding back, not even love. And you remained a ghost of his past, a girl who loved in silence but so hidden she was no better than a fan. And those memories you shared, so secret that if both forgotten them, they would never exist.

But you remembered.

You remembered the way he kissed your fingers when you were cooking together in your small apartment. The way he once whispered, "Vorrei l'eternità, ma non so se me lo merito." (“I want forever, but I don’t know if I deserve it.”) You remembered being his secret, and how beautiful and lonely that made you feel.

You didn’t break in the way anyone would expect. Not even yourself. You didn't break like a plate shattering on a kitchen's floor during a fight that was taken too far. No, it was slower, more like an ice cream melting on your fingers, making it more and more uncomfortable.

Yes, there were nights where the silence screamed louder than it ever did before. Where you sat on your bedroom floor in Lyon, clutching a dark red hoodie that still smelled faintly of clay and mint and heartbreak. What were you doing... He didn't even like playing on clay...

But you didn’t fall apart. You rebuilt. piece by piece you stuck back your broken heart. And you never told anyone. Not even your roommate in Lyon, the one who knew how you liked you favourite drink and when you needed space. Not the girls in your study group, or the boy who tried to flirt with you in anatomy class. Not your father, especially not him.

Because now you were used to the silence that followed Jannik and you. You carried him like a scar righ on the suraface of your heart, but deep anough to still burn at night. Piece by slow, stubborn piece, you found yourself again. Med school in Lyon was grueling, sometimes you couldn't recognize yourself. So you focused on the textbooks, the only thing grounding you to the world that kept on turning. After a while, your hands stopped trembling. Your gaze no longer searched the crowd for a tuff of red heard and sparkling green eyes, for someone who had erased you.

You also stopped watching tennis. Unfollowing every platform that would keep you upp on how he was doing out there. And so when people talked about a certain Jannik Sinner, the new golden boy, all you did was nod vaguely. As if you barely knew who they meant.

You told yourself that maybe if you forgot the curve of his jaw in candlelight of a Monte Carlo rooftop. Or if you blanked out the way he whispered your name in between two languages, the memories would finally dissolve. Because if no one else knew… then none of it had ever existed.

But again, destiny and life had planned out other things for you, with what they would call an almost comic timing. Six months passed like that. You didn’t speak his name, even in your head. You finally forgot how his voice sounded like.

Until a storm came around your now perfectly rebuilt world. And that storm was called Carlos.

Carlos Alcaraz was an absolute hurricane in human form. he washed everything and you didn't know if the chaos that awful or peaceful. Even through the screen you could feel the contagious joy. You had known him from the sidelines of Jannik’s world. The loud one. The rival. The one who made crowds chant and girls scream. The one your ex always eyed with a kind of quiet, respectful wariness.

You hadn’t expected him. It always starts like that afterall. Not in a sun-soaked café in Nice. Not with that kind of smile, the kind that came with heat and history. He was visitting and looking around the city and he looked like a tourist. The kind french people could trace down ust by looking at them for less than 30 seconds. It was easy, tourists were always looking up.

But now, Carlos looked at you like you were the sun and he was done orbiting anyone else. He recognized you instantly. You weren’t sure whether that surprised you or not.

“Eres la hija del médico, ¿verdad?” ("You're the doctor's daughter, right?") he said, with a crooked grin and far too much mischief for one afternoon. He must have met your father and see you from afar to some trainings. "You’re the girl who disappeares." And you knew he was right. You rolled your eyes, trying to not reflect his smile and keep your french brooding act. “And you’re the boy who never learned to stop flirting without noticing himself.”

He laughed, it was loud, warm, unashamed. The kind of laugh Jannik never allowed himself to have much in public. A laugh that crinckled the eyes and made people forget why they were upset.

You expectedhim to flirt that day, but he didn't, he stayed and listened. He talked truthfully. About his life, his hometown, his family. About how hard it was to find friends who didn’t want something. About how he hated suits and ties and events where people spoke only to be heard. He opened up and didn't ask you to open up in return.

You were cautious around him, like a tango where you kept your distance. You had every right to start such a dance. And in someway he understood without even knowing the reason. Carlos kept showing up, never pushed. And the spaniard was persistent.

Not in a way that overwhelmed, but in a way that made you laugh when you hadn’t meant to. He texted you memes at 2 a.m., sent you pastries after your night shifts, even memorized your class schedule just to call while you walked home in the busy streets.

He didn't wander in places that were risky, he stayed on the ground and built something solid and let you wander if you wanted to. He didn't touch the still fresh wound of your heart and just contributed to help you rebuild around it.

Carlos was loud — in his affections, in his joy. Where Jannik had whispered, Carlos shouted. Where Jannik hid you like a secret, Carlos made you his muse. He gave you the world just for you to look at him. It was like the air he breathed became less necessary compared to your smile in his eyes.

He didn't find the key to your heart. He let you open the door yourself. And slowly, painfully, you invited him in.

He was everything Jannik wasn’t. Not better. You couldn't compare such different men. Just… different.

Carlos was loud in every way. Laughed with his whole chest. Took pictures of you at the worst moments and made them his phone background. He posted you after a few months. Because he communicated, because he trusted you and this relationship. And when the press caught on, expecting some gossip and maybe a scandal from tennis’s golden playboy, they got something else instead.

They got a man whose smile softened when he looked at you. Who would visibly look for you in any crowds and smile like a kid spotting his parents at a recital. Because showing up for Carlos was your way of loving him, and for him it was perfect.

He became another man to the media. A man who took you to Ibiza, yes, but who never once left you behind. Never even giving the chance to doubt his love for you. A man who would openly describe you and tell anyone how much he loved you. A man who even started to learn your language when he still had trouble with English sometimes. Who never made you feel like a secret. More like a grand painting that only him was allowed to touch in the museum of his life.

He held your hand in airports.

He called you hermosa in interviews like it was your new name.

And maybe, just maybe, you were beginning to believe that love didn’t have to be hidden to be real.

Before you even noticed, life went along, the earthkept spinning and your love tangle with Carlos. The day you passed your sixth-year med exams, Lyon was bursting with early summer heat. You stood on your balcony, tired and proud, champagne glass in hand, the city pulsing softly around you. The horns of cars in the distance, the light june air against your skin as you watched the sky turn pink.

And that was also the day Jannik became number one.

You saw the headline by accident, scrolling through your phone to find a song to your story about your successful exam.

Jannik Sinner, the New World No. 1 #S1NNER

And for a moment, your breath caught. Not in the way it used to catch when you saw him on the screen years ago. He changed, not in a bad way.

You stared at the screen, at his name. His photo. His triumph. You imagined the joy of tonight and what relief it held that he had accomplished his dream. Just like you did. But apart.

He did it.

Without you.

And for once you stared at the screen and felt...nothing. Like a news flash that went by and that soon you would forget. He was nothing to you now, erased by everything you built without him. And in that way, you were successful too. You raised your glass to the sky, the bubbles fizzling up,as if to toast the past, to that quiet, hidden boy who once kissed you behind tennis courts and told you you were everything, even when he was too afraid to say it out loud.

“Félicitations,” (“Congratulations,”) you whispered, to no one really. And then you turned your phone face-down, walked back inside, and into Carlos's arms, where you belonged now.

He had everything.

He had the number one title in ranking. More and more trophies. The legacy. Everything he’d ever told himself he wanted. Everything everyone expected him to get.

And yet.

Sometimes when he was finally alone in the silence of hotel rooms that smelled of fresh and clean sheets, he would lie awake and feel like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The cameras had becomed his shadows, like a constant surveillance of his every move. Because that's the thing when people don't know much about you, it furstrates them and they try to find signs in your moves and words. Like a paranoia.

He was the golden boy, the pride of Italy. And still, some days, he woke up and felt... hollow.

The dream was real, it was right there in the palm of his hand. Theis dream he had traced from the moment he took back a racket of tennis at 13. He had climbed the mountain, conquered the court, made history, but he had lost the only thing that made it all feel worth it.

He had lost you.

Originally, he told himself it had been necessary. It was strategic and calculated. Anyone made sacrifices to achieve some things, right? He couldn't not loose a few feathers while reaching the top. That’s what everyone said.

He had to embody focus, discipline, control.

But you... You had been everything but that. You were the laughter that sounded like bells chiming in the middel of a spring night, you were the warmth of a fire after an afternoon skiing, you were the voice that haunted him when he lost a match. When he was with you it was like he had discovered new colors he could onlly reach when he saw your smile. But he blamed those pretty colors to be distracting and pulling his mind away from the real goal. He was addicted t the colors and he thought it made him weak, that needing someone made him weak.

But you had never been his weakness. You had been his home. And when he let you go, the colors of the world seemed dimmer but he told himself you'd wait. Or maybe you'd fade like the colors. Either way, he’d be fine.

But then came Carlos. A hurricane without any rainbows after.

At first it was rumors and pictures, the ones from Madrid, Ibiza, Roland-Garros. The internet couldn’t get enough of it: Carlos Alcaraz and the mystery girl who tamed him. The one who made the golden boy of Spain settle down.

Jannik scrolled through them, thinking he would feel nothing out of it. Well that was before he saw the look in your eyes, the warmth he recognized and had once belonged to him. The sparkle that erupted out of your irises like a june 2nd when you looked at him.

You looked happy. Radiant. The secret that had held you in a tint bird box was no longer holding you back. And you had found a poet ready to make you his muse. You didn’t need to hide anymore. You weren't in the shadows, waiting for phone calls at midnight. You were front-row now, your smile splashed across timelines and headlines. Carlos held your hand like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like he never would.

It made Jannik sick in the pit of his stomach. He was physically torn, and his breath caught just seeing the proofs his eyes had refused to see. It was not out of bitterness, but out of guilt. Out of grief.

Because when he saw those images, he close his eyes and behind his eyelids were engraved the moment he broke your heart. He remembered your silence after he ended it. How you didn’t fight, didn’t beg. You just... left. And he had convinced himself that meant you didn’t care as much. That letting go of someone because you loved them was some poetry bullshit.

Anna came after. She was blonde as anyone would expect, elegant, and photogenic. And more importantly, she was your opposite in personnality.

The media called them a "match". Publicly perfect. She balanced his awkwardness, and he balanced her fire.

But Jannik always felt like he was wearing someone else’s suit. Something too tight, too glossy. Like he was holding the wrong role in a scene he didn't know the scenario of. So he resorted to pretending. He smiled on red carpets, posed for campaigns, stood beside someone who looked like a partner but never felt like one. Anna loved the spotlight. She thrived in it.

And him? He just wanted to escape it some days. He liked the quiet dinners. He wasn't really romantic in what Anna would expect. And he craved a connection only the right person and the right amount of time would bring. A person like you. His person.

He tried to drown in work as a coping mechanism. Everyday became a blend in a routine : the gym, practice, tournament after tournament. Until tennis was the only voice in his life. The only path he could walk towards because he had made his choice.

But the quiet always came back. And in that quiet that axphyxiated his soul, he missed you.

The news came like a thunderbolt in the middle of summer. So loud yet you didn't see it coming. Though it was presented as a card in his mailbox in early January, 2025.

He missed it, the letter absentmindly burried under a ton of papers in his living room, unopened.

But the whispers in locker rooms became louder and soon it morphed into headlines on social media: a diamond ring on your hand, shining under the Spanish sky.

At first, he called it fake news, people could do anything with AI these days.

But then came the official post. A photo of your hand, the same hand he once kissed at dawn, now enveloped Carlos’s, ring glittering like a promise. And it clicked

That night he rushed back to his apartment, goign through the papers on the coffee table. I wasn't real, it couldn't be. He finally found the pristine but simple letter. And his hand shook as he opened, and soon the whole world crashed on his head as he read the beautiful letter in your handwriting.

Engagement party of Y/N M/N L/N and Carlos Alcaraz Garfia

Set for June 2025, between Grand Slam commitments

A calligraphy he would recognize everywhere, that he used to find in the small notes you left hidden in his locker the summer you met. The words blurred for a moment. He set the card down. Picked it up again. Read it twice more, just to be sure. A photo fell out of the envelope. And there you were, not a blurry photo taken by some paparazzi this time, not a passing rumor. No, you were smiling. Laughing. It was in France, he recongized the architecture. It was taken in a cold afternoon while you were huddled in a coat. He was holding you in front of a cafe, his smile brighter than the sun.

And bellow the photo was written : in Nice, where it all began, where it will begin again. He guessed it was the place you first met, and where he had proposed. Fuck, he was romantic in such simple and deep ways...

And then it hit him like a truck. He thought it would pass. That you and Carlos were a phase. A fling. He thought the fire between them would die out, the way so many short-lived romances do. The way yours did.

But it didn’t.

It bloomed.

And now, you were marrying him.

You were going to marry Carlos, the boy Jannik used to beat on the court, and now the man who had everything Jannik had thrown away carelessly. And even worse : he had to watch it happen.

Late May, Paris

You didn't notice how six months had passed until you could heard the birds singing. These past months were joyful, exhausting, sun-drenched and stormy in the ways only a life on the move can be.

It was the first season where you followed Carlos through this whirlwind, hopping from one city to the next, his hand always finding yours in airports, press rooms, hotel elevators. He held on like a man would hold on to his most precious gear in a fight. You were his lucky charm this season and he didn't have any intention to let you go. And that for the rest of his life, like he had promissed you back in december in Nice. And you never asked for more.

And together, between wins and loss, you planned a wedding. Your wedding. The plan was for it to be simple, small. Spanish countryside during december, during his off season. Olive trees. White linen. A family meal under the stars. You didn’t want extravagance — just honesty, and the beginning of a forever.

And his family helped. His mother helped with the venue. His father insisted on the music. His cousins would all be there, loud and dancing before the sun even set. Because you were family too now. It was going to be perfect.

But first you had the engagement party to deal with. And it was trickier too. Being in Paris made the organisation easier, since you had a few friends who could help.

And Carlos, bless his heart, was like a knight in shining armor. He made eveything possible for it to be perfect in an imperfect way. He would help you dring long nights on the hotel rooms floor as you choose some canapes together, not that his stomach minded. And truly, watching him with a mouth full and crumbs on the corner of his lips was making you go insane. To be honest, nights like this often ended up fervently tangled in bed.

One of those nights, he mentioned inviting a few tennis friends. "Not too many," he promised, scrolling through names on his phone. "Just the ones who matter."

You hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t realized the possibility until it was too late.

Because of course Jannik would be on that list. Carlos liked him, respected him. Called him “mi rival favorito.” Jannik had congratulated him publicly when you got engaged. Of course Carlos wouldn’t see any reason not to invite him.

Because he didn’t know. And still no one did.

Not about the summer nights hidden behind a court in Spain. Not about the quietness of a secret that burned in your ribcage before consuming you frome inside. Not about being a ghost in a story that rewrote itself with your stolen pen. He only saw the part where you stiched yourself back up ater an injury you never told him about. You never told Carlos, not because you were hiding, but because it didn’t belong in your now. It was part of another life. One you buried gently, and hoped would stay quiet.

But the earth was moving underneath the grave and the ghost of it still breathed sometimes.

The night had fallen on the capital, a chill ran through the open window, soft with spring. Roland-Garros roared in the background of the city. Carlos had just come back from another win. You had watched and let him enjoy while you went to a small apartment your friend lended you during the tournament and preparations of the party.

He entered the living room, smeling of citrus soap and victory. He sat behin you on the wooden floor, encastering between his legs and arms from behind. He let his hand resting loosely over your stomach. You relaxed against him, flicking through the last few details, like the flower arrangement.

He looked at you like he always did, full of unshakable belief. And then he asked, voice low in the quiet dark: “Estás segura?” (“Are you sure?”)

You turned toward him, his chin resting against your shoulder. “About what?” He hesitated, then tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “About us. About the wedding. About everything. You’ve been quiet lately.”

Some people would mistake it as insecurity, as suspicion. But it was love, laced with concern. He knew himself, he was sure of it, and he was ready to go through. Carlos never needed reassurances for himself, he needed to know you felt safe. That this path was a choice, and you were ready to step in it with him.

You inhaled deeply, then nodded, forehead pressing to his. “Yes. I’m sure.” And you were.

Because if Jannik had once loved you in secret, hidden so far you forgot you even existed. Carlos had loved you out loud.

And while Jannik left to chase gold on a trophy. Carlos stayed and built a home. And because even now, with the past rising like fog in the corners of your thoughts, you knew one thing clearly:

This was where you were supposed to be.

“I don’t doubt you,” you whispered. “I just… want to do this right. It matters to me. You matter.”

Carlos smiled, slow and certain. He squeezed your middle gently. “Then we’ll do it right. Together.” He looked so cute, trying to contain his joy and not really knowing how to express it out loud. So you did the first thought that came through because you could. And you kissed him, long and deep, anchoring yourself to the truth you’d chosen. Even if ghosts walked the aisle too.

Even if one pair of green eyes watched from the crowd, wondering what might have been.

Roland-Garros Final, June 2025

Those days felt like a fire burning the moment the sun was up. They felt tingly, like history was already scribbling on a paper for a new scenario, a new event. And today it was about the final.

Rolland Garros was fizzling like some Rémois Champagne. The sun was already high, the crowd arriving with a tense anticipation and it felt like the whole city was counting their next breath. It was a final everyone was hoping to watch : Jannik Sinner versus Carlos Alcaraz. Two rivals and two of the best players in the world. And one was trying to keep his crown on the clay while the other was trying to steal it.

And you, you were in the stands, trying not to crumble.

Your sunglasses became a shield from more than the sun, but from two stars that were about to collide. Two part of your words. They were your armor, a barrier between you and a world that didn’t know. That just knew you as the girl who transformed the Spanish beast into a lover boy under your eyes. But they didn’t know you had kissed both men. That you had themThat had loved one and lost him. Had built a life with the other.

You sat next to his family and friends. You were fiddling nervously with your hands. You knew he could do it. He had done it before, just last year. You felt his mother’s hand squeeze yours, her hand warm and light. And she whispered in rapid Spanish which you now understood after years of spending his off season around them. His father clenched his fists beside you like he was trying to will the ball across the net.

You clapped. You cheered. You smiled. You could only do that, the dice were currently being rolled.

But from behind the shade of your sunglasses, you couldn’t help your eyes from trailing a little longer on a figure that used to be so familiar. On a vibrant tuff of red hair tousled with sweat. His green eyes sharp as he stared down his opponent’s moves.

Regardless. Jannik looked… empty.

At first, he had the upper hand. The first two sets had been his. He owned them, ready to win against the king of clay’s heir. He stayed distant and cold blooded under the pressure. As always he was efficient, almost cruel in his precision. Carlos fought, with all his will and heart. He knew that if he had to crawl by the end of this match : he would. But Jannik had been on another level.

Until he wasn’t. Until something cracked and Carlos went through that tiny weakness of the Italian player.

You felt it before it happened. It was like the air shifted, like gravity reversed but this time back around Carlos.

And Carlos rose.

Set three. Set four. The crowd was screaming both with disbelief and incredulity. Carlos grinned through the chaos, wild and radiant. You were standing up and down, your heart was pounding so loud it blocked out tthe crowd and empire. Jannik's serve wavered, his unbreakable facade crumbling in real time like dry clay.

Set five was war and the two soldiers faced each other fiercly. The air didn't seem like a necessity to your lungs anymore.

And finally, after a fight that lasted 5 hours and 29 minutes, where you went through too many emotions: Carlos won.

You saw the way the last ball landed on the ground. Thae way he let himself slip on the clay, falling on his back, his hands to his face. You watched his chest rises up and down animated with something between a laugh or a cry of relief.

He collapsed to his back, hands to his face. And then he was up, congratulating his opponent and shaking the umpire's hand before he took off running.

You wondered how he still had energy in his body, but everyone knew why. It was because he was running back to you breathless and laughing. You stood in front of the steps, smiling so wide your cheek hurt, tears already on the corners of your eyes.

He jumped through the steps guiding him to the stands. And just launched at you and embracing you so tight you thought the world had disappeared. He lifted vou off vour feet, spinning you around as you laughed. This very moment would be forever in your mind, and story to tell to the future you woul build. Because right night your love was infinite. He had truly won everything, including your heart, through loss and win.

On the opposite side of victory, the loser had to swallow his downfall. Jannik was sitting at his bennch, processing what just happened and how he lost so much during this match.

He had lost before. But this ? This was shattering. Because in between his points and serves, he realized something that terrified him. For once he wasn't playing for himself, for once this wasn't just a game. This was a fight, and it was not against Carlos. He was trying to beat himself because all ha wanted to win was a woman in the stands, cheering and crying for you. That woudl synchronize your heartbeats with you and understand when to speak or stay silent.

He was fighting for you. And he has lost it all.

He dared to look just one moment. And he saw you in his embrace, sobbing in relief as you traced his smiling face. He turned away immidiately. Because your brain recognized home in your arms. But you were no longer his. He felt his mouth twisting into a pained expression he tried to suppress.

Carlos had truly won everything. The title and the girl. And Jannik came to the realization that he gave it all up. A part of his privacy, love and happiness. And for what ? To lose it all in one go like gambling ?

And for the first time, when Jannik had to make a speech, he couldn't find the words in English. Not because he was tired, but because he was grieving the life he could have had and that was laying out in front of him. And he wasn't the main character this time.

When the sun dipped on this historical day, you stepped out in the corridor to leave Carlos to wrap it up with the interviews before going to celebrate. Your heart couldn't stop buzzing in your chest. Well it stopped when you spotted him. Jannik was walking towards the exit and it seems like his green eyes were already looking for yours. You nodded politely towards him and it took him a moment to return the gesture. And when he walked past you, you couldn't help but whisper : "You played well today."

That made him visibly stop mid step for just a half second before he resumed to walking, eyes up front. "So did he." And he disappeared like that.

June 11th, 2025 — Paris

Engagement Party

The room was everything Paris promised at night. It was like time had stop frome the moment it was built and gold replaced the dust in the air.

It was the top of an Haussmannian building, The room effortlessly elegant in a french way but still warm from the people filling it. You thanked yourslef for choosing such a honey-colored lightening. You smiled as real laughter, not rehearsed, illed the room. People were truly happy because this wasn't a show for appearences. It was a reunion with two family that will melt into on, with your world and his. There was no hesitation in the love floating in the air.

You stood by Carlos, hand resting lightly on his arm as people drifted past — family, old friends, a few faces from the tour. Everyone had something to say, a compliment to offer, a toast to give. You passed around canapés with a smile so effortless it seemed carved from light, your cream dress dancing gently around your legs as you moved.

Carlos couldn’t stop looking at you, it was very obvious, not that he ever tried to hide it. In between your words, as you were launched into somehting passionate, he would reach for your hand, pressing soft kisses along your knuckles to linger against your engagement ring. He would sometime steal you away or whisper something in your ear that made you throw your head back in laughter

You didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching you from across the room.

And that it belonged to a certain Italian.

He leaned againt a white wall, out of the crowd and its rythm. He was like a ghost hanging for something he will never have and stuck to this place for eternity.

You still hadn't noticed his presence. You were in a deep conversation with your grandmother, clinging to your fiancé's arm. You looked like the happiest woman in the world, glowing from the inside out like the Eiffel tower when the sun was gone.

He noticed the way each of you were proud to flaunt the other to different family member. How your fingers brushed his back when you passed him a flute of champagne. Every gesture subtle, intimate, natural, like you’d been doing it your whole life. Or the life before.

And for a moment, and for maybe the rest of his life, Jannik hated himself. Because he had known that version of you first. Far before Carlos even knew you breathed the same oxygen.

He had known it all : the quiet intimacy, the soft glances, the words invented by a mix of three languages meeting. He had built a love language with you. He had known every crevice of your soul — your fears, your dreams. He had noticed every crunch of your nose when you were loosing at some game. Or the way you used to close your eyes when the Spanish sun set too fast. He had held you in secret like a treasure he wasn’t brave enough to claim.

And now here you were. Shining. Loved. Belonging.

To someone else.

To him.

Jannik's hand clenched around the stem of the champagne coupe he hadn’t touched. He only snapped out of it when a head of blond hair appeared beside him in a flash of red, the shimmer of her gown catching the light like a mirror. She offered the glass with a flirtatious tilt of her head. She didn’t seem to notice how the dress was catching more attention than it should. Or she simply didn’t care, basking in the attention it gave her. Like a drop of blood on a piece of paper.

“You’re brooding again,” she teased lightly, her voice dripping with effortless glamour. “Smile. People are watching.” Her tone had meant to be soft, but it ended up being tight. Like a mother correcting her child.

He took the glass without meeting her gaze, pasting on a half-smile that felt like glass in his mouth. He was too shy and too polite to reflect on her tone. And he didn’t have the energy for yet another fight. “Ovviamente.” ("Of course")

But she didn’t listen, she never did. It was like he was the spectator to their own relationship. She was already turning away, laughing at something someone said about her dress, soaking in the attention like it was a drug. She didn’t notice he wasn’t drinking. She never asked if he was okay.

He didn’t care. Not really.

Because from across the room, he could hear your contagious laugh. He didn’t have to look, he could already imagine the way you would throw your head back and hold your chest. He turned just as you let Carlos pull you closer with his hand at your waist, again, always.

And Jannik couldn’t help but stare at the perfect bridal picture that was painting itself without him in the back.

At you.

The future Mrs. Alcaraz.

After all the smiles, the kisses on cheeks, the congratulations that blurred into one, you slipped away quietly.

Your fingers pushed past the linen curtain, revealing a stone balcony bathed in moonlight. It was like a secret place, not really hidden but you’d have to have the courage to go behind the curtains. You felt the summer air brushing between your limbs as you finally emptied your lungs for the first time this evening. The only sound was the capital never going to sleep and your heels against the aged stone. You stepped closer, leaning against the railing. You took in the beautiful scenery. You had seen it before but tonight it looked different. The balcony was narrow and elegant, stone railing carved with age and care. The night stretched beyond you, the rooftops of Paris lit in a haze of golden windows and blue twilight. From here, the city hummed like a living thing.

Paris looked like it was holding its breath, waiting for an event to happen. Cars passed slowly beneath, lights flickered from distant windows, and the air buzzed with quiet life. And beside all those lights, something else gleamed.

You glanced down at your hand.

The diamond shimmered, catching the light. Carlos had chose the perfect model, preserving a family ring for later. It held a promise, a future, a life you chose and that chose you back. It should have felt heavy but it was lighter than a feather. You smiled. And then-

“Congratulazioni.” ("Congratulations.")

His voice sliced through the silence. It felt too unfamiliar to keep you relaxed now. Your spine straightened and the air felt freezing. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to see him standing there, only steps away. In his tux, he used to not be comfortable in those, but now it suited him more than you cared to admit. Jannik.

He looked at ease, his hands in his pocket but his face said something else. Jannik stepped up beside you, but kept his distance, almost two meters away, like the space between you had been measured in guilt. His tie was slightly loose like he’d been tugging at it all night. Maybe he lacked oxygen like you did.

But your heart didn’t flutter. This time it clenched. “Thanks,” you said curtly, your voice steady despite the pounding in your ears.

He shifted awkwardly, hands in the pockets of his slacks, gaze flicking between the skyline and the back of your head. “It’s… really nice out here.”

You didn’t answer. It’s not like there was anything to say. He tried again.

"You look…" he began, but the words fumbled, vanishing from his brain when he needed them most. "Happy. You look happy." Really Jan ? Of all the thoughts you had, those are the one you chose ?

You stayed silent, eyes locked on the skyline. Maybe Paris would give you the answers?

"I didn’t expect… I mean, I didn’t know you'd-"

"Get engaged?" you cut in flatly. It slipped out that way. "That tends to happen when people fall in love."

The silence between you was taut. Painful. The noise from inside became muffled behind the glass. Out here, there were no photographers. No spectators. Just ghosts of a love that seized to exist, ghosts in the city of love.

You sighed and turned, you were about to leave. No, he had to keep there just for a moment more or he would regret it forever. So he didn’t think before talking. “Have you been back to Spain lately?”

You stopped in your track, turning to look at him like he had a third eye in the, the middle of his forehead. Still you stayed silent. He exhaled a short, bitter laugh. “God, I sound stupid.” You closed your eyes. “Then stop talking.” That quieted him. For a moment. Then something inside him cracked.

“I can’t believe it.” Your jaw tightened at his next words. He couldn’t get more stupid could he ? “What is ‘it’.”

“I mean- this... all of this. You. Him. The ring. I-It can’t be real. I didn’t think- I didn’t know.” You turned to face him now, your back no longer a shield. “What didn’t you know, Jannik?” His nqme felt butter and raw on your tongue. It was pronouncing a language you had forgotten or tried to.

His eyes were frantic, chest rising fast. “That you were it, the one. That leaving you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I thought it was for the best. That you’d hold me back. That we’d outgrow each other. That it wouldn’t last. But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong—”

“Jannik—”

“Please.” His voice cracked. “Please don’t marry him. Don’t do this. Not yet. Not to me.”

Your hands gripped the stone railing until your knuckles paled. You couldn’t recognize him anymore. He took a step closer, voice breaking with every syllable. “I’ll end things with Anna. I’ll go public. I’ll tell the world everything. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of our lives- just let me be in it. You can hold what I did against me for the rest of our lives, I don't care, just be mine. Just… let it be me.”

You stared at him. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. And then— You laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was unbelievable.

“Let you be in it?” Your voice sharpened. “Where were you when I cried myself to sleep for months, Jannik?” He blinked, stunned. “You disappeared without a fight. Without a word. Just walked away like we had been nothing. Like I was a mistake you couldn’t afford.” He tried to speak, but you stepped forward. “I gave you everything. And you left me alone to pretend it never happened. You made me erase you.” Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, but they didn’t fall.

“I rebuilt my life from ashes. I swallowed every sob, every memory, every ‘what if,’ and turned it into silence. Because you made sure no one would ever know what we had. And now? Now you think you can beg for it back like it’s yours to take?”

“I—” he rasped. “I didn’t know it would feel like this. I didn’t know I’d—”

“That’s the thing,” you snapped. “You never knew. You just left.”

His voice cracked, you had never seen the Fox crack. At least not in such a messy way. He was always so good under pressure while you weren’t. But the roles had changed. He looked at the city of love for a moment, then deep into your eyes, the lights reflecting into his welled up tears. "Why him ?" You could only shalke your head. "I could never fall so low and make a guy fall for me to spite you... It happened, that's it. I fell in love, hard. Because he was there to catch me. And I see everyday that it was never a choice, he wasn't the option, he is the one. In the way he loves me, in the way he shows it, in the way he respects me and my family, in the way I hear him butcher up some French but get it right when he thinks I'm not watching. Because he fought for it, where you left."

He looked at you then. Really looked. And for the first time in years, you let it show. Everything. And he saw it. The lack of love in your eyes. The emptiness where his reflection used to live. He remembered that night he had first met you in Spain. Your eyes were sparkling like a galaxy just looking at him and back then he felt like the sun himself. But you had burned your wings and he watched as you fell, and now the light was gone because you had seen the sun for what it had always been : dangerous and unapproachable. “Per favore, non sposarlo…” ("Please don’t marry him…") Your eyes burned. But your heart didn’t move.

It didn’t ache. It didn’t crack. It just… stood still. The music box had made its time.

“I’m not walking away from anything, Jannik,” you said gently. “You did. And now I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

He looked at you, your wings were burning, you had stopped falling because another star had caught you. “I don’t hate you,” truth resided in your eyes. “But I also don’t love you anymore.” It hit him like a gut punch.

And before he could speak again, you whispered, low and cutting: “If you have even an ounce of respect for what we once shared… don’t come to the wedding.”

The silence between you stretched, cold and final.

Then, just like that-

“Ah, voilà!”

Carlos’s voice rang out as he stepped onto the balcony, beaming. He held a glass of champagne in one hand, the other slipping naturally around your waist.

“There you are, mi amor. I thought you had vanished.”

His eyes found Jannik and lit up. “Hey! Good to see you, man. Am I interrupting something?” He saw in your eyes that you had something to tell but you were caging it inside. Jannik forced a tight smile. “Yeah… you too. No, nothing.” But Carlos hesitated. “Do you guys know each other ?” Jannik glanced at you and you took it where he ended. "We met long ago, in Spain, my father was the responsible physio of the camps." Your fiancé nodded, surprised but satisfied with the answer. "Oh, ok. Well I appologize for interrupting the reunion but I have to steal her."

Carlos turned to you, dropping to French as he kissed your temple. “Viens, chérie, je viens te chercher pour les toasts. Tout le monde t'attend, mon amour.” (“Come on, darling, I'll get you for toast. Everyone's waiting for you, my love.”), he said slowly with that spanish accent that made it all warmer. He had learned your language, the way to love you. Everything Jannik had known but better.

You nodded, lips twitching into something that resembled a smile. You looked back at Jannik one last time. Your eyes softened, not with pity, not with love but with goodbye.

“Have a good night,” you said simply.

And with that, you slipped back into the warmth of the party, Carlos guiding you gently, the future pulling you forward.

And Jannik? He stood alone on that balcony. The city lights didn’t feel romantic anymore. Just distant.

Game. Set. Match.

And this time, he knew it was truly over. You would always be the one that slipped through his fingers like the sand of a sandcastle that didn't resist the sun. Beautiful and tragic. His most beautiful tragedy.

[miureiz]

Paper bulls

[miureiz]

AUGUST: THE TRUE ENDING OF A YEAR

unknown / @nobodysflower / paul d'amato / mary oliver / @gaycommunist / justine kurland / @sioltach / alida nugent / raymond carver

[miureiz]

Tainted | J.Sinner

synopsis: in the midst of jannik’s suspension, you realize just how strong you are.

pairing: jannik sinner x f!tennisplayer!reader, established relationship

warnings: agnst, focused on jannik’s d*ping ban, depressive state, this is just fiction and i’m completely unaware of what jannik was doing or how exactly he was feeling during this time.

author’s note: took my time with this, got emotional at the end 😂😭, thank you to the anon who requesting this i appreciate it alot! your request was gold. i’m really proud of this one. please enjoy!

words: 1,861

You don’t even hear the question the first time.

It’s somewhere after your second-round loss in Toronto. You’re tired—emotionally wrung out, limbs heavy, mind fraying at the edges. The press conference lights are harsh, the room packed. You’re already bracing yourself before the first reporter even lifts their mic.

“…how are you handling Jannik’s suspension?”

Your stomach sinks.

You keep your face neutral, the way you’ve practiced. You pause, breathe through your nose, and keep your voice steady. “I’m here to talk about my match today.”

But they don’t stop. The questions keep coming, reframed and reworded, but always circling back to the same thing: him.

Jannik.

Jannik, who tested positive.

Jannik, who’s suspended.

Jannik, who’s not here.

And you—you, who are still expected to win matches, smile for cameras, shake hands, and carry the weight of someone else’s shame like it was stitched into your kit.

You fly back to Europe two days later. Your coach tries to talk to you about your footwork, about match tension, about getting back into rhythm. You nod along, say “yeah” at the right places, but your mind is elsewhere. Has been for weeks.

He hasn’t answered your last few messages. Hasn’t posted, hasn’t been seen.

So when you knock on the door of his apartment in Monte Carlo, you don’t even know what you’re expecting.

But when he opens it, you realize you weren’t expecting this.

Jannik stands in the doorway like he doesn’t know how to move anymore. His hair’s longer, unkempt, his skin pale, lips pressed together like speaking might break him. He doesn’t say your name, just steps back to let you in.

It smells like he hasn’t cooked in days.

You don’t ask any questions. You just wrap your arms around him and pull him into a hug that feels like it’s been waiting to happen for far too long.

And slowly, so slowly, his arms wind around your waist and hold on.

The days blur.

You sleep in his bed, though sometimes you wake in the middle of the night and find him sitting on the couch, staring out the window. You bring groceries, cook breakfast, nudge him into showering, help him shave.

Some days he talks. Most days he doesn’t.

He whispers once, as you hand him a glass of water, “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

You kneel beside him on the floor, fingers brushing his knee. “You didn’t drag me into anything,” you whisper back. “I walked in. I chose you. Still choosing you.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t know how to deserve it.

Your own game has been slipping.

You’ve lost three first rounds in a row. Sponsors are gently asking if you want to reschedule campaigns. Your coach says it’s okay to take time off, but the WTA Tour doesn’t stop for heartbreak, and neither do ranking points.

Some nights, when Jannik’s asleep, you cry in the bathroom—quietly, so he won’t hear.

Because you’re supposed to be strong.

You’re supposed to be the one who holds it together.

But strength feels like sand slipping through your fingers lately.

His parents have been a big help, they flew out quietly to Monte Carlo in the first week of his suspension, just to sit with him in the silence. Didn’t ask him directly for explanations, didn’t scold or cry in front of him, just stood by his side and tried to make things better in their own little way.

They suggest that Jannik go back to Italy with them, but he refuses—even if he feels like an absolute burden, he’ll feel even more guilty for leaving you to deal with everything yourself in Monaco.

You might not notice it at first, but they’re worried about you too, his mom’s weekly checkups turns into daily ones and they secretly speak to your parents to convince you to take a break.

During this break your coach suggests that you work on returning back to your old form, the dominant one you were in before everything happened. One some occasions you bring Jannik along, he might be banned from playing on tour but harmless hitting won’t hurt.

•

It happens after midnight.

You wake to the sound of him choking on a sob—not crying, not in that quiet way he usually does, but breaking down completely. The kind of grief that takes over the body like it’s drowning from the inside out.

You sit up instantly, heart pounding.

He’s curled on the edge of the bed, back to you, his shoulders shaking so violently it looks like he’s in pain. His hands are pressed to his face, trying to muffle the sound, like even now, he’s afraid of disturbing you.

“Jannik,” you whisper, reaching out, pulling him gently toward you. “Baby, no—come here. Come here.”

He lets you hold him, collapses into your arms like his whole body forgot how to carry itself. His head finds the curve of your neck and he sobs—open and raw, like everything he’s tried to keep locked in is finally spilling out.

“I ruined everything,” he chokes out. “My name… my career. All of it. And you—you shouldn't have to keep cleaning up after me.”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, even as your own chest aches with how broken he sounds.

“No,” you whisper into his hair. “You didn’t ruin everything.”

He keeps crying, shaking his head, and you pull back just enough to cup his face in your hands.

“You’ll come back stronger. Do you hear me? You’re not done. This isn’t the end. You are not the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

His breathing hitches.

“You don’t even realize who’s still here, standing with you,” you whisper, brushing tears from his cheeks. “Me. Your parents. Jack’s been defending you in every interview, telling people the kind of person you really are. He said, ‘Jannik’s one of the most hardworking and honest guys I know.’ You’ve earned that. You matter, Jannik. Even now.”

He lets out a broken sound, something between a sob and a laugh, burying his face in your shoulder again.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I did. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You stay like that until his breathing slows, until the tears run dry.

And even when he falls asleep in your arms, you don’t.

You just hold him.

Because someone has to remind him that he’s still whole.

Even when he forgets.

•

Monte Carlo feels like it’s paused. Like the outside world exists on a separate reel of film.

Inside Jannik’s apartment, things move slowly. Quietly. You two breathe in the same silence, day after day. Sometimes there’s music. Sometimes just the faint hum of the sea.

He’s better now—more present. But there are still days when his eyes drift to the floor too long, and his voice sinks under the weight of something that still won’t let him go.

You lie in bed together one night, the window cracked open to let in the breeze. You’re curled into his side, legs tangled under the sheets, your cheek pressed to his chest. His hand rests on your back, bare skin against bare skin.

The TV is on, muted. Neither of you are watching.

“You should’ve walked away from me,” Jannik says, his voice barely more than a breath.

You lift your head slightly, watching the way his jaw tightens.

“I would’ve understood if you did. God knows I would’ve done it if I were you.”

You sit up slowly, shifting your body to face him fully. He avoids your eyes at first. You place your hand on his cheek and guide his gaze back to yours.

Then you say it—soft but solid.

“When I told you I love you… you know I meant that, right?”

His brow knits just slightly, confusion flickering.

“I’m not talking just about all those warm feelings. I’m talking about putting in the work. I’m here to stay for the hard parts, not just the pretty ones.”

Jannik doesn’t speak right away.

But something breaks—or maybe opens—in his expression. Like the floodgates holding everything back can’t hold anymore.

He reaches for you and pulls you close—really close—until you’re in his arms and your faces are only inches apart.

“You don’t know what you’ve done for me,” he whispers. “You saved me without ever asking me to be okay first.”

“I just loved you,” you whisper back.

“I know,” he says, and then he kisses you. Deep and slow, with the kind of certainty that tells you he means it. His fingers slide into your hair as his other hand wraps around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the only solid thing he’s got.

The kiss lasts longer than usual. There’s no rush. Just a quiet reverence in the way your mouths meet, like you both finally understand the full weight of us.

And when you pull back, foreheads resting together, you see something flicker in his eyes again.

Hope.

•

A month later, you’re back on the WTA Tour.

Your game is sharper, lighter. Something inside you has begun to settle—maybe not perfectly, but enough.

It’s a smaller tournament. One of those warm-up events, but it means something because you’re finally, finally playing like yourself again.

You fight through a tough three-setter in the quarterfinals and win, collapsing on the court with a grin, sweat clinging to your skin like victory.

As you walk to the chair, towel in hand, you glance toward the stands.

And then—you see them.

A couple sitting a few rows back. Not in the VIP box, but close enough to matter. His mother’s hands are clasped tightly in front of her mouth. His father’s eyes are glassy with pride. They don’t wave, don’t try to draw attention. But they’re watching you like you just gave them something they didn’t know they needed.

Your breath catches.

You smile so wide it hurts, blinking back tears as you wave up toward them—broad and childlike and full of joy. You don’t say anything at first. Just feel.

Later, during your post-match interview on court, the crowd still cheering, the mic is passed to you.

“How does it feel to find your rhythm again?” the interviewer asks.

You smile, nodding.

“Feels like I’m starting to breathe again,” you say, pausing for just a second. “And there are two important people behind me today.”

You turn your head toward the crowd, and you see them again—his parents.

His mother presses a hand to her heart.

And you realize that love doesn’t always shout.

Sometimes, it just shows up and sits quietly in the stands.

That night, Jannik calls. The moment your face lights up on the screen, he smiles—eyes crinkling, color back in his cheeks.

“I saw them,” you say softly.

He nods, emotion thick in his voice. “They said they wanted to thank you. For not leaving me.”

“I didn’t do anything heroic.”

“Yes, you did.”

And the way he says it—his voice full of love and awe and quiet gratitude—you believe him.

[miureiz]

A Jannik Sinner through the tides web-weave

[miureiz]

we are BACK for the championship

[miureiz]

do you guys ever like forget you're interested in something until you start engaging with it again and you go "oh wait i'm like crazy crazy about this yeah"

[miureiz]

I was rewatching Wimbledon highlights (don't blame me okay, I'm still at the restaurant, I miss Jannik, what even is Canada anyway) and I don't think I realised while it was happening just how much he improved on grass. Compare last year's run, last year's QF against Medvedev, he really stayed behind the baseline playing comfortably and that was it. His movement was also significantly worse. This year his tennis was 10x more dynamic, the serve (which was already getting better in 2024) is on another level variety-wise (especially the 2nd serve which is literally one of the biggest weapons he has rn), he comes to the net way more often and with way more confidence, his movement has skyrocketed. He really was getting there on every ball. ALSO. In Wimbledon we finally got back the forehand on the run😭🙏 she had been missing since the suspension

Really can't wait to see him on his favorite surface again