#GameSetAttach

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In Sync - Part 3

Jannik Sinner x Reader This doubles duo has their moment of redemption. Reader, no longer feeling the need to prove herself to Jannik, is free to prove herself on court. And she does—twice over, actually. And Jannik is her biggest fan, tbh. Part 1, Part 2

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The morning of the mixed doubles final began with a newfound sense of clarity. The sky outside the tournament facilities was cloudless and bright and, despite your very first semi-finals looming even after the doubles finals, everything felt light and possible again. 

Relishing your airy and blissed mood—a stark contrast from the day before—your easy smile grew into a wide grin the second you spotted Jannik at the practice courts for your scheduled warmup, his hood up, stretching with lazy movements.

He looked up at the sound of your footsteps and cracked a slow smile, one that made chest constrict a bit. You’d last seen him too long ago—slipping out of his room early sometime that same day, just a little past midnight—but you felt something in you ease when you saw that his face was just as bright in seeing you as it was then. Ease in knowing that he didn’t deem last night as a momentary lapse in judgement, in knowing that all he’d said still held true. 

“You look like you rolled out of bed five minutes ago,” you said, tossing your bag to the bench and reaching up to place a light hand over the crown of his head to rustle his hair with his hood. 

“I did,” he replied, unapologetic, but chuckling as he nudged your hand off of him. “I’m always sleeping to the last possible minute.”

You rolled your eyes in response with a slight smile playing at your lips as you moved to turn back to your bag, but he gently held you in place with the hand he still had on your wrist. He stepped closer and, in a hushed voice, added, “But I think I have good reason to sleep in after last night…”

You swatted his shoulder immediately, looking over both of yours to make sure no one heard, but you couldn’t help the grin growing on your face.

“Alright. Don’t start.” You muttered, flushing and shaking your head to yourself as you yanked your hand from his already light grasp. He just chuckled under his breath at your reaction, bouncing a ball off his racket and stepping onto the court.

Chris and Darren stood just outside the court fence, Chris nursing a coffee, Darren flipping through notes. Behind them, Simone stood further back on talking with both yours and Jannik’s trainers and physios. And all of them paused to just watch the way you and Jannik moved with each other—laughing, teasing, shoulders bumping during dynamic stretches.

They looked on in silence for a bit, amused and in shock at the stark contrast from how you both were just the day before. Sure, you two had got on well initially, but that dynamic had done an obvious 180 for the semi-finals. Yet now, it seemed there had been yet another full flip overnight and the energy between you very clearly read as something even closer than before.

A knowing look passed amongst all of them. Darren, Simone, and the rest of Jannik’s team chuckled with each other, turning away from you both to fully do so, and Chris shook his head with a smirk towards your physio and trainer.

“How’d you pull that off?” Darren nudged Chris, leaning in to ask, tone half-impressed, half-mocking.

“Just told her she had to talk to him,” Chris shrugged, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sort it out.”

“Well, it’s definitely sorted.” Darren chuckled down at his feet.

“And—yeah, I’ll say it—it seems like they did more than just talk.” Your trainer called out from behind.

Both teams flat out laughed at that, but schooled their expressions when you and Jannik approached. Whatever happened between you two last night—it wasn’t their business, and it worked. And none of them were about to mess that up.

The coaches briefed you both together, with you standing shoulder to shoulder with Jannik—as a unit, as a team. You hugged your racket to your chest, and your shoulder brushed against his arm. He seemed to lean into the contact, not moving to step away when you touched. You bit back a smile and just vaguely nodded at the directions Chris relayed your way.

The warmup went on without a hitch. Clean and fluid. No hiccups, no awkward pauses.

It began with your usual sequence—groundstrokes first, trading balls down the middle before easing into crosscourts. And, even early on into the prep, you could already tell you were working together seamlessly. In sync once more.

By the time you switched from start-up drills, your coordination was seamless. He anticipated your angles, and you read his pace. The small adjustments you’d given each other showed up right away—his net coverage tighter, your backhand heavier. You both moved around each other like there was no friction at all—like there never was.

After a long rally practicing strokes back and forth on opposite sides of the net, you motioned for him to meet you in the middle at the net. At this point, so close to the match, both your teams trusted you as players to work on whatever it was that you felt was needed. The last 15 minutes both your coaches had just been standing on the sidelines without any sort of intervention—there wasn’t any reason to today, you were both clearly in the right headspace and hitting well. Playing well, together.

So, you proposed the next phase of the warm-up to Jannik yourself.

"Wanna try drop shots? I’ve got a few tips I can teach you," you said, twirling your racket as you approached the net.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning onto the tape. "You’d give away your secrets to me?"

"Not all of them—don’t get too excited—just enough to help us get the win."

You demonstrated a few sequences, showing him how you shifted your weight on your left foot, holding the racket at a concealed angle, disguising the shot until the very last second. He nodded, studying your grip, your stance, before practicing a few dozen drop-shots himself. You stood beside him as Simone fed him balls to hit, giving him hushed pointers and adjustments every now and then. He picked it up pretty quickly, which was to be expected, but his delight was clear after he executed a handful of floaty volleys in a row—all of them clearly marked with your personal, signature style.

“Not bad, Sinner.” He turned to you beaming, and you placed a hand on his shoulder with a grin of your own. “Not bad at all.”

You both moved to the baseline to hit crosscourt forehands side by side after that, concluding the warm-up’s net work, walking back with lingering smiles. Chris stepped in diagonally across the net to hit balls for you as Simone did the same for Jannik, but after a few reps Jannik signalled for both of them to pause. 

“I show you something?” He asked, already walking over to you.

You nodded to him and so he stepped close, his hands landing at your waist to guide you back to a semi-open stance—not rough, but fingers firmer than necessary. His hands then dropped ever so slightly to hold your hips, and his thumbs brushed a little too slow at the top of your skirt’s waistband. 

“Try to get more power from here, like this,” he said, his voice lower now, the warmth of his body unmistakable against your side. He shifted your hips for you to come square to the net before pulling them back again to repeat the motion. “You’re already there and doing it, but just snap faster. Feel that”

Your brain was just a little delayed in filtering his words, focusing on his touch more than anything—you followed what he was saying well enough, but the contact had sent a spark skimming straight up your spine. And when he spoke, the press of his chest just barely grazed your shoulder. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Feel that?” He asked. You finally turned your neck to nod towards him and saw, though his voice sounded neutral and matter-of-fact enough, he was smirking at you.

You weren’t about to let him have it, so you blinked away your dazed state and nodded sensibly. “All in the hips, got it.”

His grasp lifted just the slightest bit so you could practice the pivot motion without his guidance, though his palms still hovered over your hips, radiating a heat onto your waist that seemed to travel down between your thighs. He was close enough that you could feel his nod of approval.

“Just like that.” He said and you swallowed, but at the same time, you had to roll your eyes. He knew. 

He knew what he was doing—not that it wasn’t working… 

You glanced up and saw your teams weren’t looking in your direction at all, they were huddled around Chris’s phone watching something intently, maybe avoiding you both on purpose. So you decided it was safe for you to leave Jannik flustered now, and tilted just enough so that you grazed up against him. You heard his breath stall a little and smiled, arching back ever so slightly to apply just a little more pressure for a moment, teasing, before straightening to come up out of the open stance entirely.

“Just like that.” You said as you turned to face him, smiling innocently, his hands still on you. “Thanks Jannik.”

He smiled, but his voice came out dry. “Of course.”

You raised a goading brow at him, still smiling, and he shook his head at you as if to say well played. He lingered there for a beat longer before retreating back with a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, just as the coaches stepped on court to feed balls once more.

“Your coaching methods may be questionable,” you called after him, smirking. “But it is good advice, I’ll admit."

His head stayed facing forward as the balls started coming towards you both again, but you heard him laugh as he shuffled to hit a forehand. “I try.”

Your grin mirrored his and, as you struck the incoming balls, you did actually try to implement the tip Jannik had so generously offered. You felt the momentum of the snap carry over to the strength of your ball-strike, applying the technique more and more effectively with each shot.

And then Chris hit over the last ball in the basket beside him. You stepped in, pivoted fast, and struck.

It cracked off your strings, sharp and clean. A textbook winner that seemed to span the length of the court in the speed of light, easily the fasted topspin you’d ever managed on a forehand

Chris whistled, loud and delighted from across the court. “That’s the one!” he called out. “Perfect!”

You barely had time to grin before Jannik’s voice came from beside you, praising and smug at the same time.

"That was great," he said, simple and sincere, his tone only slightly lilting with self-satisfaction as his hands ghosted around your hips again for the briefest of moments. “See? All in the hips.”

“Thanks for the lesson.” You shot him a look as you walked towards the bench, small smile gracing your lips both at the power you were able to generate and the way Jannik seemed to be matching your usual cheekiness.

He followed you off court so you could both wrap up the warm-up, stretching out and hydrating while listening to a few last technical notes from your teams. The sun had climbed higher, the buzz and the energy around the facility sharpening as the tail end of the tournament approached.

It wasn’t long before the time came, before you were called onto court for the mixed finals. Rackets bagged, extra grips tucked away. The coaches dispersed toward the stadium, and you and Jannik met up again at the tunnel after your individual pre-match prep in the gym—side by side again, you stood quieter now with less banter than during the warm-up, with the required focus of the match starting so soon, but the silence between you this time was comfortable and relaxed.

The final was set in the larger of the secondary stadiums, a much bigger arena compared to where you’d played the earlier mixed rounds on. The crowd was already buzzing, seats filled to the brim despite being before noon, an off time for the less popular category—fans were showing out for their favorite players, and their newest, favorite duo.

Jannik being the number one and playing as well as he did, as well as he always did, made it so the spectators started off in high spirits and large numbers. You were newer to the scene, but already a fan favorite with your trademark theatrics—so though your persona may have been polarizing, those who loved you loved you.

But the two of you together, that had become the show in itself. 

Your last few rounds playing together had amassed quite the chatter, seeing you mixed doubles matches had been nothing short of spectacular so far—even the disastrous semi-final was a spectacular failure that barely managed to end in a win.

So the noise of the crowd surrounded you, drowning out even your own, loud pre-match thoughts as you stood beside Jannik at the opening of the tunnel. But then his shoulder brushed yours and you looked up to find his eyes were already on you, gaze as calm as ever. It was like none of it touched him. The stable hum of his presence radiated off of him and washed over you, settling in your chest—steadying the thrum of your heart and deafening the spiral in your head.

“Ready?” he asked, his face was passive but his eyes and voice were warm.

You gave him a slow grin, nodding. “Let’s find out.”

And then your names were announced.

The cheers immeadiately peaked—sharp, layered, and overwhelming. And it wasn’t just a hum of excitement like other matches, but a full-force roar. Whistles, clapping, the deep swell of crowd energy moving in waves. The kind of volume that hit your chest before your ears, that buzzed through your sneakers into the bones of your legs. Flags waved in the stands. Cameras flashed. Your name and Jannik’s echoed in pockets of cheers as you stepped into the light.

You were ready for it though—taking it in, not in fear, but in scope. This wasn’t just another match. Wasn’t just some show. This was the finals. 

The word redemption flashed across your mind. Redemption for the last match, for your performance and for your poor sportsmanship. Today you were to play with Jannik. As a team.

The introductions, the photos, it all passed by you. Unconscious, routine motions as you readied your headspace. The coin landed in your favor, and you just nodded at Jannik—you were both on the same page. 

Your grip on your racket tightened by instinct as you walked to your place on the court, a flicker of healthy, familiar pressure curling in your stomach. Jannik placed a hand on your shoulder as he passed, gentle and brief, a silent message. We’ve got this.

Your breath evened out, all else in view but the court seemed to blur in your periphery and the sounds of the stadium seemed to dull as the ball was bounced for service. 

Then the match started. 

And that rhythm? Between you and Jannik? It was back. And it showed instantly.

---

From the first point, the crowd energy pressed in from all sides—constant, crackling, alive. Each bounce of the ball sounded sharper against the sea of low murmurs and rising anticipation. You could feel every collective breath held, every gasp when a rally extended longer than expected. When a point ended, the cheers surged so loud it felt palpable.

You and Jannik moved through each game like a sort of tide—a natural push and pull. Your first rally alone had the audience teetering forward in their seats. His serve snapped through the air, and you exploded forward at the first read of the return. You called your switches with sharp, clear commands. He responded with instinct. When he stepped in for a volley, you already knew which angle to cover. When you rushed the net, he anchored behind you, ready to absorb the return. Your communication crisp, your synergy undeniable.

The rhythm persisted—muscle memory and instinct compounding with chemistry and skill. His serve set up your poach, your drop shot teased out their desperation, his lob chased them back. Point after point.

And the crowd was loving every moment, and they were sure to let you both know.

Every now and then you’d tune in to their sound and it made your chest buzz, adrenaline rushing so fast you heard it in your ears. Then you’d look to Jannik, amidst whatever celebration you were doing that had the crowd shouting, and he’d smile—and that seemed to fuel you more than anything. 

You were playing as a pair again. A unit. Your teamwork unfolded in sharp, stunning detail.

And this time, it wasn’t just some pleasant surprise. You’d worked for it—lost it, then fought to repair what you could, ending up with a connection better than you could have ever hoped for. Maybe promise to be deeper than you would have ever thought.

When you’d come together to quickly discuss strategy and position—leaning close, words concealed behind your hands—you didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered. The way his eyes flickered back and forth from one of your eyes to the other, taking in your expression, your concentration. The way they’d drop to your lips, for the briefest of moments, when you’d smile before breaking to jog back to position. And you were watching him carefully enough to know that he’d walk back wearing a smile that looked a lot like yours felt.

Those smiles carried over as you both walked over to the bench after dominating and winning over the first set. Towels draped around your necks, you knocked your knees with his as you took a long sip from your water bottle, still breathless, heart pounding. Jannik leaned back beside you, tipping water onto the back of his neck with a small exhale, facing towards you.

"Let’s keep playing this way, okay? For the second set?" He asked, nodding towards you. “Just need to keep it up.”

“Yeah, agreed—we’ve got that.” You grinned, wiping your face with the edge of your towel before turning his way to offer the slightest wink. "You’ve been looking good out there, by the way."

“Thank you,” Jannik only shook his head, turning his face forward and away from you though a small smile was beginning to grace his lips once more. “You've been playing great, too.”

“Thanks—” You said sincerely, before laughing to yourself at his infallible manners. “And same to you, but… your game play wasn’t what I was referring to…” 

“... I know.” He ran a hand over his face and huffed a quiet chuckle, one that quickly grew to join in with your ongoing laughter. "No, I know."

“Wow. You’ve really been media trained that well, haven't you?” You placed a hand on his shoulder, pouting with exaggerated severity. “It’s okay, Jannik. This bench is a safe space.”

Jannik rolled his eyes, but made no move to push off your hand and he was still smiling. “You’re wasting our two minutes—we should be discussing strategy.”

“Wasting is a strong word.” You cocked your head. “In fact, I would even say I’m enhancing our two minutes.”

He gave you a pointed look, though there was still that affectionate glint behind his eyes, and you shrugged with a smile—silently agreeing to discuss more pertinent things, giving in easily after having had your fun.

“Okay, next set—you take the baseline, I’ll take the net?” Jannik took advantage of your concession, jumping into game tactics immediately, stretching his arm out to rest on the bench behind you.

“Yeah, that can be our default position.” You matched his rationale easily, already on the same page. “But if anything compromises that arrangement, just go for what feels right. Does that sound okay, or is it too loose of a plan?”

“No, that’s good. We’re doing good reading each other already.” Jannik moved to stand, grabbing a new racket and nodding at the chair umpire as they called time. “If for some reason you can’t go for the ball, I’ll come for you.”

You split into a grin at his last few words, pausing your motions of lacing up your shoes for a moment. “You’ll what for me?” 

Jannik furrowed his brow, looking over at you in confusion as he repeated himself. “I’ll come for you?”

You flash him with yet another wink, leaning just slightly towards him as you reached for your racket. “Yeah you will.”

You shrugged and gave him one more flash of your smile, before jogging onto court, and Jannik groaned as he registered where your amusement was coming from, shaking his head with a smile for what seemed like the dozenth time within the short break itself. 

He followed you onto court, stopping by you to bump your outstretched fist. As you split ways, you to the baseline and him to the net, he heard you call out one more thing before the umpire spoke. “Don’t worry, Jannik. You know I’ll come for you, too.”

And he knew how you must have been grinning without needing to look back, and you could somehow see his smile even as he crouched for your serve—catching that unmistakable, charmed shake of his head from behind. You were beginning to love the reactions he gave you, the reactions you could get out of him.

“Love all.” The umpire called out and, feeling warm and encouraged, you tucked the thoughts of Jannik away to the back of your mind, trusting that the harmony you’d been playing with so far would kick in as the set began. 

So you bounced the ball—once, then three more times—and started the second set with a blistering ace.

You gave the crowd a little wave as they roared in astonishment, catching Jannik’s approving glance back in your periphery as you moved on to the next serve without much fanfare—aiming to capitalize on the momentum the ace gave you.

That first serve seemed to set the tone for the rest of the match, because you two played even sharper than the first half. Every shift in position, every decision to poach or drop back or switch—it all landed, you made virtually no mistakes. The few errors that were made, either you or Jannik gracefully compensated for the other in an instant. And both of you were showcasing skills like never before. New ones, too.

Midway through the set, Jannik executed a perfect drop shot—one you recognized instantly as a direct lift from the lesson you’d walked him through that morning. The disguise was flawless, the touch feather-light, and it spun just out of reach of your opponents.

But it didn’t come easy. 

The point leading up to it was a war of attrition—twenty-plus shots deep, both pairs scrambling, countering, resetting. You’d retrieved a deep overhead with a lunging slice that barely made it over the net. He kept you in it with a stabbing half-volley that stunned even the crowd into silence. And just when it seemed like the rally would never break, Jannik saw an opening. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, disguised his grip perfectly, angling his wrist to execute the softest, most devastating drop shot you’d seen from him yet.

The ball bounced once, then died. Before either of the opponents could even run for it.

Gasps erupted across the stadium, followed immediately by deafening applause.

You turned toward him, already laughing in disbelief. He wore a stunned look of pride, half-shrugging like he couldn’t believe it either. You met him at the center with both hands raised. He lifted his own hands to clap against your palms, clasping his racket-free hand with yours after, leaning into you with a grin.

“Incredible shot, Jannik. Incredible.” 

“What can I say…” he started, flushed and a little breathless, “I had a good teacher.”

“You’re too humble.” You nudged him with your shoulder, after remembering to untangle your hand from his. “As much as I’d like to take full credit, that was all you… Okay, maybe eighty percent you.”

He huffed out a small, pleased laugh, and gave one last shake of his head before turning back toward the net. “Eighty percent?”

“Fine, sixty percent.” And, as he laughed again, still walking off, you reached out and tapped his butt with your racket when he passed you.

It was brief, done out of reflex and adrenaline—affectionate, playful, almost thoughtless—but the crowd didn’t miss it. When they whooped louder at the contact, delighted, you stilled a little, feeling sobered by their reaction. Too far?

You glanced back at Jannik, trying to read him—only to catch that the action only had him smiling wider, hand brushing over his mouth as he laughed, shoulders shaking with amusement.

And when he looked back at you, his smile was wide and real.

Your relief rushed in even quicker than the initial doubt did, easing into something softer when you caught yourself smiling back—bright and uncensored. You didn’t have to shrink or temper yourself—not for him, not on court, not anywhere. Jannik liked you as you were, and so could his fans. It wasn’t worth your worry, you reminded yourself as you readied yourself for one of the final few games of the match. 

It was the other side’s service game, you focused in as they bounced the ball before their serve. You leaned low between your knees, shifted to the side in a semi-open stance. Then the opponent tossed the ball for their serve—flat, fast, and stinging off their strings. With such power that it should have made you back up. Maybe before, you would have given space and played safe. But, here, you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Everything slowed in your head. You could hear your own breath. Hear Chris’s voice echoing from earlier tournaments about absorbing pace. Hear Jannik’s voice from just that morning, his hands guiding your hips. You’re already there and doing it, he’d said, just snap faster.

You exhaled.

The ball shot towards you, but before the bounce could even peak, your body reacted. You rotated through your hips, stayed low, let the racket swing with the momentum.

The crack was immediate—startling. The ball launched off your strings like a cannon, low and blazing across the net. A return so fast, it seemed to render the opponents motionless. They barely twitched before it landed and bounced again, untouched.

The entire stadium took a second of silence before erupting in audible shock. 

You stayed frozen in your return stance, arm still extended, eyes wide. You hadn't even expected to strike the ball that hard, that well. But it just came to you. The pivot, the contact, the follow-through. It was a textbook forehand, exactly what Jannik had taught you that morning—your form near-exact to the correction he'd made hours ago.

When you looked toward him, he was already staring at you in awe, grinning wide, hands on his hips. You smiled back, before looking to your box to see your entire team on their feet, clapping.

You had to yell. “Come on!” 

“Yes!” Chris shouted, his full upper-body leaning off the barrier. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

You pointed your racket at him in celebration, giving him a dramatic salute, before throwing your arms up in exaggerated triumph. 

Impossibly, the crowd cheered even louder. You spun slowly to engage with the entirety of stands, one hand to your ear and the other beckoning the crowd, as you made your way towards Jannik. 

He was still watching you.

Not just looking, but watching. With a kind of heavy gaze that was quiet and wide and still. Like he was taking a full snapshot of you in that exact moment—vibrant, ferocious, alive—and imprinting it somewhere deep and permanent in his mind.

When you finally approached, he took your hand to shake it with almost laughable solemnity.

“I think that return was faster than the serve.” He said, voice earnest, no trace of any teasing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“All thanks to your demonstration earlier.” You laughed, stepping closer, enjoying the hushed moment with him even amidst the continuous applause. “All in the hips, right?”

“Right.” His eyes practically twinkled down at you when he chuckled. “Just like that.”

You laughed, pointing a finger at him, because now it was your turn to shake your head. He grinned as you bumped fists one more time. “Let’s finish with this power, yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.” He nodded, before backing up towards the net once more. “Come on.”

“Forza.”

Every point seemed to build off the last, threading tighter and more assured. At 4–3, Jannik stretched into a full lunge to dig up a sharp angle volley. He was too far forward to cover the return, but you read the ball as it left the racket and sprinted across court just in time to send back the shot with a strong forehand. The shot landed just out of your opponent’s reach with a thud near the sideline.

You didn’t celebrate immediately—and Jannik just turned back and grinned at you, panting. “Thanks for the help—nice shot.”

You laughed, the sound quiet but bright. “You know I’ve got you.”

At 5–3, you took your time bouncing the ball before your serve, eyes flicking to his position in front you. He flashing fingers behind his back, and you called out an easy yeah just for him to hear—confirming his non-verbal plan. You served flat and fast, drawing the opponent’s return straight into his forehand zone. He met it mid-air with a well-placed swing volley, the ball just zipping past the net player’s shoulder.

The crowd exploded.

You jogged toward him, already smiling, and he met you halfway—his hand warm on the small of your back, murmuring praise and strategy back and forth.

“Okay, time to close this,” he said into your ear as you wrapped up your plan for the final game.

The last few points really spoke to your partnership, your team work. You both gave it your all, playing with instinct, aggression, and trust. You anticipated the angles before they unfolded, trusting his coverage behind you, and he trusted your reads at the net. You faked a poach to bait a lob, and he was already backing up to intercept it. You lunged and flicked your wrist for a short angled volley, and he followed it in to cover the middle.

At deuce, you both moved on the same breath. Your opponent fired a fast return down the middle, and both of you split your coverage—he cut left, you shifted right. The moment they made the next play, you shouted "yours" and Jannik pounced, slamming the ball into open space.

You turned with wide eyes and let out a sharp cheer, reaching your hand back without even looking. His palm met yours, and the sound of the strike cracked across the court. A current passed between you, though that was constant throughout the game. Thoughts understood with just a moment of eye contact, with every breath. It was almost like playing with a single mind split between two bodies. 

And the crowd continued to feel it. They rose with you, point after point, enthralled by the synchronicity.

At 30–15 in the final game, you two orchestrated one of your cleanest points yet. It started with a deliberately heavy return from you, high and spinning deep into the backhand corner. Jannik stepped in at the net, faking a dropshot that pulled the opposing net player out of position. The ball came back low, but you sliced it down the middle. Jannik rotated instantly, switching court sides with you like a sort of dance—graceful and precise. He got the short ball, angled it wide, and when the opponent’s desperate lob went sky high, you were already sprinting back to meet it.

Without needing to call for it, he peeled off to the opposite side, predicting your movement. He got out of the way just as you launched into a full-body overhead smash that rocketed down the line. The crowd lost it. Jannik turned, breathless and beaming, and held up both hands before waving them down as though he was bowing to you.

“Oh please,” You chuckled, knocking into him to block the motion. “I only got that thanks to your gift of a setup.”

He just shook his head and bumped your shoulder. “And you say I’m too humble.”

“We’re both saints, then,” you grinned, rolling your eyes but flushing with pride all the same.

Then at 40–15—match point—the crowd fell into that electric hush, the absence of noise somehow made the pulse thrum in your ears that much louder. Jannik served. You slid toward center. The return was aggressive, but you were already moving, already sensing where it would land.

Together, you closed it.

He sliced the angle of his wrist for a clean volley. You covered the opponent’s quick reply at the net, right beside him. He slid behind to cover you in the meantime, and dipped to drive a final backhand up the line—clean, perfect, final.

It was yours. The mixed doubles title. The two of you had done it.

​​But you and Jannik didn’t erupt right away. The final point so clean, the win so expected, that it almost didn’t make sense to celebrate with any sort of leaping or yelling—you turned to him, and he was already looking back. You smiled, tired and genuine, and just exchanged a slow, mutual exhale followed by a quiet nod.

"That’ll do," you said, voice light and warm, knocking your shoulder with his as you came together to walk towards the net.

He gave a quiet chuckle, nudging you back. "We make a good team."

You shook hands with your opponents, then the umpire, both interactions steady and respectful. Then, as you split off to your respective halves of the court, you looked to Jannik again—returning to court to receive the ongoing applause from the crowd.

Jannik waved up at his box, then his fans, before meeting your eyes with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I’m serious," he said quietly, leaning in. "We make a good team."

You laughed, your fingers curling into the soft, slightly damp sleeve of his shirt to pull him in. The hug was short, but firm. And entirely gratifying. Your arms looped loosely around his shoulders, his palm pressing to the center of your back. 

“I know, and I agree.” You said as you pulled away.

And then you both drifted from each other, engaging with different sides of the spectators. You raised your racket toward the spectators, clapping slowly onto the strings with your free hand, and Jannik did the same, the two of you phasing through the different angles of the onlookers. They responded in waves, cheers swelling, people rising from their seats. 

Your eyes met, across the court this time, and you each raised your racket once more, this time to each other. A moment just for each other, personal and genuine—a quiet kind of triumph that seemed to celebrate more than just your win on court.

---

The crowd was still roaring when the organizers ushered you and Jannik toward the podium hastily placed onto court. The gilded cup and plate gleamed beneath the midday sun atop it, and the press camera circled around, their shutters clicking in constant rhythm. You stepped up beside him, leaving your racket on the bench, the residual adrenaline of the match amplifying your every sensation.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Jannik while the tournament organizer began their speech—thanking the sponsors, the arena, the fans. You tilted your head towards the speaker—actively listening, or trying to, at least. You nodded at the right times, smiled when prompted. But your awareness was split clean down the middle—he was standing so close.

Jannik’s elbow was brushing yours, you could feel how even the fresh jacket he changed into clung to his still-damp skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the flex of his hand as he curled his fingers of one hand into the clasp of his other. 

It was only when your opponents stepped forward to accept their trophy that you broke out of your state to applaud warmly for them. The organizer’s introduction was long over and you, having zoned out of most of it, now listened in for the runner-up speech. They both took turns speaking into the mic, and their voices rang proud despite being a little labored from exertion. They took their loss in stride, and spoke of it with humor.

"We really thought we’d have a better shot," one of them said with a playful shrug, glancing over at you and Jannik. "After watching their round before this and seeing the, uh… the discordance between these two, we figured there’d be a lot of openings for us to work with."

Chuckles rumbled through the stands, almost drowning out the tail-end of the player’s words and only settling down when the other teammate leaned toward the mic.

"Yeah, we thought we’d be able to fight back a little better. Especially after seeing you both literally collide with each other," she said, emphasizing the word with a joking look and the stands laughed along with her, "Today, we expected to take advantage of a little… confusion."

The crowd cracked up again. You felt your face warm as you chuckled along good-naturedly, hearing Jannik’s own, quiet laugh rumble beside you. The other player nodded, sending a smile towards you and Jannik before speaking.

"I don’t know what changed overnight,” The player said, entirely innocently, but you smirked and ducked your head slightly because your thoughts were anything but casual at the mention. “But you played completely in sync—which maybe surprised us, yes—but you both earned this win. Congratulations."

Polite applause followed and, as you clapped, you exchanged a look with Jannik, catching the slight crease at the corner of his mouth, the subtle twist of amusement written in his eyes. You then stepped forward to shake hands with the opposing team once more with a gracious smile and Jannik, who knew the pair better than you did, even hugged them both.

And then it was your turn, you came forward to receive the winner’s trophy together—your hands brushing Jannik's briefly at the base, fingers curling inward as the cameras flashed. You nodded at him to speak first, but he gestured for you to go ahead so you smiled at him and stepped up.

"It’s true. We, uh... we definitely didn’t make it easy on ourselves. You all saw as much yesterday," you began, drawing laughter already. "I mean, at least now I can say—" you glanced back at Jannik with a smirk, "—I can say I was on top of the World Number One, so… Sure, it wasn't in the most graceful way, but how many players can say that?"

The stadium howled and Jannik let out a small, bashful laugh beside you, shaking his head.

"So yeah, there were some slip-ups along the way—on the court, and with the press, too, yeah… But today," you continued, smile growing at the chuckles around you, "I’m proud of how we came out of that. We played some good tennis out there, and we played that way together. And, of course, a lot of that is thanks to our teams—Our coaches set this up to begin with, and I’d say I’m very happy with how it turned out." You nudged Jannik with your elbow, and he stepped up to the mic.

He cleared his throat, blinking down at you and then up at the crowd. "I think... we learned a lot from each other this week," he said, voice steady. "About skill and technical things, yes. She made me better at the net. I think I helped her a bit at the baseline… But also we learned a lot about rhythm… and about trust. We might have looked a little bit—a little bit rough, for sure, but it’s really been nothing but progress."

He looked back at you, taking a moment to smile when you nodded at him before continuing. “We have come to read each other, we get into good positions together. Always switching, knowing when to give control and take control. Even if your close, as a partner, it’s important to be able to pull out at the right moment—”

You had begun giggling behind the palm of your hand soon into his words, unable to help it. If he heard you, he’d ignored it and furthered on anyway, but now a wave of laughter from the crowd cut him off. By the time he looked over to you, smiling but lost, your shoulders were shaking with laughter.

He hummed in confusion towards you, but his voice still projected into the mic. "I’m not saying good things? They’re true, no?"

The laughter of the audience escalated at that. Your hand could only move your hand up to clutch your bridge of your now, and you shook your head amidst your amusement. When you finally dropped your hand to reveal your expression, face flushed but grinning uncontrollably, he narrowed his eyes. He knew that look.

You could see him replay his own words, and you saw right when it clicked.

His neck flushed red, the warmth creeping up to his face . He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck before apologizing into the mic, words sheepish but bubbling with mirth. "I—Sorry, guys." 

“I guess maybe my antics are contagious.” You quipped, quickly poking forward to say into the mic before stepping back again.

The crowd roared, and you laughed harder, doubling slightly when Jannik joined in again. He took a breath, rubbing a hand down his face, you heard a muffled o dio slip past his lips to himself as he tried to compose himself once more before trying to recover the speech.

“Thank you to the great fans and to my team, and the organizers. And our opponents for making such a good match.” He paused for a beat, glancing sideways at you, and his voice softened just slightly and the look he gave you  was so sincere that your lingering smile faltered a bit . "Also, I have to say, I feel lucky to play with one of the fiercest players of today—always playing so sharp and unpredictable. All fire. And, of course, I’m wishing her all the best later today in her semifinal."

You blinked, brows furrowing with emotion as you looked up at him. You had no words, moved by his genuine, public expression of praise and support, though the applause of the crowd would have drowned out whatever you had to say anyways. Instead you mouthed thank you towards him as he stepped back in line with you, and he just nodded with a small, knowing smile.

The cameras flashed around you as you both hoisted the trophy above your heads, smiling at eachother beneath it. The ceremony transitioned fully into the necessary photo-op then, the organizers herded you first into formation with the runners-up holding their sterling plate. The tournament staff flocked around you, the poses all practiced and easy, though your lips twitched a little wider every time you and Jannik leaned in to murmur something under your breaths.

You nudged his side lightly with your elbow as you stood shoulder to shoulder once the others dispersed and the photographers pulled you two aside for duo photos. Now you were both kneeling on the court, the cup set on the floor by the tournament's logo between you. "Good positions? Switching and taking control?... Pull out at the right moment? It's like you were following a erotic script, honestly.” 

“No dai… Che figura," He groaned to himself, before sneaking a glance at you. “So much for media training… and it took me so long to realize.”

“It’s okay,” you laughed, patting him with your hand that already rested on his back for the photos. “It’s only right we both have a foot-in-our-mouth moment.”

“Smile please, smile.” A photographer called out, no doubt needing to pause their burst of photos for Jannik’s regretful and pained expression.

“Sorry,” Jannik replied back to them, before continuing his conversation with you from behind his smile. “I didn’t mean it like that, obviously—it’s like everyone has their head in the wrong place. Hanno tutti la mente sporca…”

You couldn’t quite catch the last bit that he muttered in Italian to himself—they all have dirty minds, he’d said—but grinned all the same. “That’s what I said. Now you know how I feel.”

The photographers gestured for you to stand to your feet again, and Jannik shot you a look as he bent down to grab the trophy for you two. “You’re the worst one.”

“Hey—” You retorted and narrowed your eyes at him in jest, knowing that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

He stayed facing forward, but you could see his smile grow wider with amusement at the feeling of your stare. Your own lips pursed with an incoming laugh, but you had to peel your eyes back to the lenses at another prompt from the photographers for you to look forward and smile.

In front of you, one of them signalled to you both, rattling off quick instructions in his native language—no doubt suggesting another pose. You both stared at him, a little puzzled but trying to understand, before he waved a hand and switched to accented English. “Kiss, kiss.”

The photographer gestured between you two, as if to punctuate the request. Your eyes flicked to Jannik, not quite processing the context, and a smile teased at your lips when he met your eyes with equal bewilderment. “Uh…”

"The trophy—He wants you both to kiss the trophy!"

You both let out matching, breathy noises of understanding and everyone laughed at the deer-in-headlights moment. 

“Ah, yes. Okay.” Jannik smiled at his feet before shifting the trophy to be in between you, at your eye level.”

You nodded, chuckling a little before you both leaned forward and kissed opposite sides of the cup—flashbulbs went off in quick bursts, and then someone voiced that you’d done enough of that pose. When Jannik lowered the cup again, you both shook your heads at each other, sharing secret smiles once more.

Then your teams surrounded you, given the green light to join for a few shots. Chris clapped Jannik on the back with an exaggerated nod. "Beautiful dropshots," he said, eyes shining. "That one in the first set looked real familiar."

Jannik chuckled. "I just learned from the best."

Beside him, Darren and Simone both congratulated you with open arms.

"Your returns were ridiculous," Darren said. "I’m having a hard time believing you ever needed help on your baseline strokes."

Simone nodded. "I want to frame a still of that forehand."

You just laughed, a little overwhelmed by all the praise, but basking in it nonetheless. Everyone gathered in tight around the trophy for one wide shot—arms around shoulders, heads ducked into the same plane.

Through the smiling, Darren leaned slightly toward Chris and murmured, "Chris, we might have just orchestrated the best pairing to ever happen to tennis."

Chris chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "You’re not wrong."

Soon after, the photographers got all the shots they needed, and the organizers waved the court clear of most other personnel, leaving just the two of you behind. You and Jannik made your way toward the edge of the court, where the crowd had already begun to gather. Fans leaned over the rails, programs and giant tennis balls and visors outstretched in hopes of a signature.

You signed as many as you could, moving down the line beside Jannik, who nodded repeatedly in thanks, his autograph just as tidy and efficient in between posing for the occasional selfie. The two of you chatted quietly between fans, and with them—taking joint photos, exchanging light conversation as you signed.

But then your team caught your eye near the tunnel, Chris motioning subtly at his watch. You gave him a small nod before turning back to the remaining fans still holding things out, your smile apologetic.

"I’m so sorry," you told them, reaching out to sign one last cap. "I’ve got my semifinal soon—I have to go and prepare, but thank you all so much. Seriously."

There were good-natured groans, but mostly more cheers. You turned toward Jannik then, and your grin softened.

"Congrats again," you said, stepping in for another hug. It was brief and chaste, but the crowd collectively cooed at the gesture.

You laughed quietly into his shoulder, pulling out of the hug but stayed close, murmuring to him with a pointed look. "We’ll talk later?"

“Yes, of course.” He nodded, steady. “But don’t worry—you just focus on your match."

You smiled at him one more time—more than a little reassured by how easily he answered—before turning to jog to your team. He called out good luck after you, and gave him another wave, the cheers rising again as you disappeared out of the tunnel.

---

It was only a few hours later when you stepped back onto the court again—this time for your singles semifinal. Your first one ever. In fact, it had been a fair amount of tournaments since you’d even made it to quarter final rounds. There was something about this one that had you laying out all you had on court, it seemed.

You should’ve been tired. You anticipated crashing from the earlier high of winning, expecting the adrenaline from the finals with Jannik to wear out. But instead, it cooled off and transitioned into a productive calm and confidence.

So, as you stood at the baseline, ball in hand, scanning the crowd now gathering for the match, all you felt was ready.

More than that, even—for the first time, you felt complete.

This tournament had seen you every year of your pro career so far, and this time around had held some of your most thrilling wins laced with some of most hair-pulling errors. But something about the past week had undeniably changed the way you moved throughout the space. You felt sharper—more assured. Not just in your instincts, but in your presence. You'd been tested under a different kind of pressure, and instead of cracking—though you came very close—you'd expanded. Absorbed the impact, and learned.

Just as Chris had predicted, doubles had forced you into improving. It had done what endless drills or game planning couldn’t. You could feel it in the way you’d been made to adapt mid-match. React, without needing to overthink. To believe in your shots as they were happening, before they happened. 

That had come from playing alongside someone with rhythm and vision, someone who’s skills worked in tandem to your own. 

And now, standing across from one of the top seeds in the tournament—a player few expected you to take a single set from—you were hungry for more than just damage control.

You were here to win.

The first serve came hard. Your return came harder.

And then the match unfolded like a test of controlled chaos. From the start, your opponent tried to dictate pace with ruthless efficiency—striking hard, flat shots that skimmed the net and pinned you to the corners. But you absorbed them, letting your legs do the work, your core holding you steady as you stayed grounded, tethered to your intent.

At 2-2 in the first set, a thirty-shot rally unfurled like a merciless battle. You danced laterally, catching her inside-out forehands with crosscourt retrievals, then took over with a low-slice backhand that skipped just above her knees. She tried to fake you out with a surprise drop shot, but you’d already predicted it and you were there before she even moved forward. This return wasn’t particularly fast or hard—it didn’t have to be-–it was angled so tight that it kissed the very corner of the lines.

The crowd was up at their feet for that one. You gave them a twirl and tapped your tacket against your thigh, grinning wide, soaking in the energy before focusing back on the match.

Later, you drew her in with a deep looping forehand to her backhand, then lobbed her with feathery precision. She got there, barely, and you waited just long enough before wrong-footing her with a fake backhand and flicking a forehand the opposite way.

Your dropshots—already the most infamous ones on the tour—were working more in your favor than ever. Early in the set, you baited her wide with a backhand drive and then feathered one just over the net, so fine it rolled and died before she could even finish her sprint. You heard a gasp from the crowd before they even knew to applaud.

And now, you don't have to rely on light touches alone. You knew you could count on your other shots, too.

The very next point, you stepped in early on the return and rocketed a fast topspin off your forehand, inside-out, deep into the corner. The crowd thundered and you mimed a curtsy, before standing with a wink and a nod toward your team’s box. Chris shouted with approval, and you pumped your fist in his direction as you walked back to the baseline. Even your opponent paused longer than usual before resetting, as if stunned by the variation.

You continued to celebrate boldly. Pumping your fist. Yelling and twirling. Every time you hit something especially outrageous, you allowed yourself to let out a roar—and the crowd would join in with you.

The first set went to a tie break. Your chest heaved with every serve, sweat running down your back, but your head stayed in it despite the exhaustion. You countered three straight set points before finally clinching the set with a slicing forehand. Everyone watching was on the edge of their seats. You’d come far, sure, within this tournament itself—it was plain for everyone to see. The way you’d played with Jannik in the morning had proved you’d be able to hold your own with the top seed, but now you were winning.

There was no telling how long you could keep the lead, though. And the next set would be the most telling.

The second set was demanding, both you and your opponent weary from such a physical first one. She started hitting flatter, taking the ball earlier, pushing up into the court to steal time from you. You had to counter with everything—your footwork tightening, your court sense stretching to cover angles that seemed impossibly narrow. She served with venom, hitting her spots with expert precision. It was at this point that most players succumbed to her skill. But, somehow, you withstood it. 

You withstood it, and then some.

At 2-3, you played a deuce game that lasted nearly ten minutes. You saved four breakpoints. One with a drop shot that hugged the net, another with a backhand half-volley that skidded just over the line. On the final point, you chased down a short ball and flicked a forehand past her down the line, letting out a loud yell as the stadium erupted.

You scrambled for impossible lobs, chased lines, cracked flat returns with shoulder-loaded precision. And then the set was even, and you were matching the top seed at 4-4. 

She attacked your second serve with a blistering backhand return, stepping in to take time away. But you reacted instantly, blocking it back low and wide, then following it in—closing the net before she could reset. She tried to dip a passing shot around you, but you leaned left and knifed a sharp volley into the open court.

The crowd exploded.

“Come on!” You yelled, not holding back. You held a fist up toward your team before dropping your head back toward the sky. When you walked to your towel, you were still wearing a grin, a little breathless from the thrill.

You were still fighting back, and still winning.

At 5-5, she held two break points. You erased one with an ace out wide—your fastest serve of the match—then turned to the crowd with a dramatic bow, drawing laughter and cheers. Then came the next point, a return that caught the line by centimeters. She challenged and the crowd held its breath, so did you. The replay showed the ball just clipping the edge. You stood still, hand on your hip, heartbeat in your throat.

The call stood and the point was yours. You looked toward your box and pumped your fist.

She hadn’t come this close to losing all year, and you weren’t even in the top 20 yet—your opponent was rattled, and it showed. 

So you worked her corner to corner—match point was made up of a stunning rally made up of over twenty-four shots, most of them baseline drives that demanded precision on a knife’s edge. She tried to end it with a short-angle forehand. You sprinted, slid, got your racket just under it—and flicked the ball right by her. She lurched to return it, overextending as she slide, her back turned to the net. The ball came back your way, but it landed well out of the line…

And that was it. You’d won.

You fell back slightly on your heels, arms raised, chest heaving. But even as the crowd roared and your team jumped to their feet, you stood still, staring right by the baseline where the ball had just bounced out. Your breath caught—chest still heaving, limbs still braced for another point. For a second, you didn’t move. It didn’t feel real.

When it started to click, you let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh. Your eyes flew wide, and you dropped your racquet, hands to your head as your mouth fell open. You staggered a step backward, overcome. And then, as the weight of the moment crashed over you, you spun once in a dramatic circle, threw both arms in the air and let out an exhilarated yell that echoed into the stands.

You’d done it.

You’d won, and it felt like the culmination of everything you'd been pushing toward. And, with all the improvements you’d made, it really felt like you earned it.

You earned your very first final.

---

The hours that followed your singles win passed in a blur of congratulatory handshakes, rapid-fire interviews, and many, tight hugs from everyone on your team. You moved from the court to cool-down, to press, answering the same questions with the same answers with a wide smile because, for once, you didn’t mind the repetition. You were in your first final. 

You hadn’t gotten tired of hearing that yet, of repeating it to yourself. You weren’t sure if you ever could.

Chris clapped you on the back every chance he got, often pulling you into his chest soon after. Your physio joked that you were banned from doing anything other than stretching and eating, and your trainer even agreed. You soaked in every comment, every cheer. It was the kind of dizzying joy that made your chest feel buoyant and your steps just a little lighter, like the ground had softened beneath your feet. Even as your body registered the exhaustion, the wear from two separate matches, your mind replayed the semi in vivid detail—the angles you'd carved, the points you’d clawed back, the crowd’s roar cresting with every bold shot. You tucked away all the missed opportunities in the match, forever remembering the errors more easily than the winners—you knew you and Chris would discuss areas for improvement at length soon. You knew to still be focused and grounded, yes. You wanted to start visualizing points for the final already, but decided that, for now, you should allow yourself to soak in the bliss of the achievement.

You carried that weightlessness through every moment after, floating on adrenaline and the unmistakable hum of pride. Because, above it all, more than any impressive shot you made, you felt uplifted with how you conducted yourself on court. You didn’t bother dulling your edges or softening your presence, and instead you doubled down on it—leaned into your instincts, your style, your voice. You felt like you won not in spite of your identity, but because of it. And, for that, you felt stronger. Fuller. The ache in your legs didn’t bother you—not when your head and heart were still spinning.

Your team was buzzing, too, matching your high. They’d planned a low-key dinner for you—and it was nothing heavy or fancy. Just enough to cap the big day and let you sleep early. You were laughing with them as you finally made it back to the hotel, still carrying your bag, having gone straight to eat after finishing up your obligations at the tournament facility.

And that’s when you saw Jannik again.

It seemed him and his team were leaving for dinner right as you and yours arrived back. Jannik was just outside the elevator bank, talking with Darren and Simone—smiling as soon he spotted you.

"There she is," Darren said first, clapping once. "Queen of comebacks."

"Incredible match," Simone added. "Great tennis."

You thanked them both, still flushing despite having heard the same sentiment dozens of times over already. They continued to share praise around you, relaying compliments to your team, and you listened idly—nodding and smiling along, your eyes flickering over to Jannik often. 

And his gaze never left you—face steady, intent. Darren and Simone clocked it instantly, and your team had noted your weighted silence from the get go; they all exchanged knowing. Chris, standing just behind you, smirked faintly and gave a barely-there shake of his head, like these two. Your physio turned just in time to catch your eyes returning to Jannik and bit back a grin.

Your team offered their own brief words of appreciation with Jannik’s, coming together with them and hanging back—giving the two of you space with a mutual, unspoken understanding. Darren and Simone shared a smug glance with Chris as you both noticeably took the opportunity to split from the group.  Quietly, the two teams peeled away even further, chatting amongst themselves and throwing the occasional not-so-subtle glance in your way, not that either of you noticed.

He walked you to the elevator, or you both sort of drifted in that direction, not rushing to get out any words. He just looked at you with that quiet clarity of his for a moment, and then smiled before saying, "Congrats. That game was just crazy.”

“Thank you, Jannik.” 

“That forehand in the tiebreak? And all the times the ball landed just a little bit in the line? I mean…” Jannik gestured the small margin by which your balls were in with his fingers, sucking in air through his teeth like wow. “And, the dropshots, of course—beautiful as always."

You blinked before chuckling, a little startled by the specificity. "Wow. You really watched, huh?"

“Of course.” He shrugged casually, like it was a given. "From start to end, of course."

“I—thank you." You ducked your head, flattered. "Really. That means a lot.”

Jannik smiled, shrugging once more, and there was a beat of silence. Not awkward, but full.

The elevator dinged behind you.

You glanced at the opening doors, then back to him, lifting your eyes. He waited quietly, sensing you had something to say and giving you time to get it out. "...I know you’ve got your semis tomorrow—and I’ve got the final still—but... I would really like to talk at some point… Because..."

You trailed off but his gaze held yours, only moving to hold the now-closing elevator open, patient as ever.

You shrugged, your lips curling ever so slightly, rushing the next bit out as fast as you could. "Well, because I think we’d work just as well off court as we do on it."

You held your hands up in mock-surrender. There, I said it, clear and light in your expression. A smile broke across his face—one that read like he knew what was coming, but that he was delighted all the same. He nodded once. "I agree."

You beamed at his words. “... Okay.”

"Okay…" he said, chuckling at how fast you brightened, leaning in just slightly before straightening when he saw your team approaching. "We’ll talk—but, for now, go rest. And good luck for the final."

"Yeah, I’ll see you." You said, biting down the full extent of your smile as you stepped away and into the elevator. “Good luck to you for tomorrow.”

He nodded again, bidding goodnight to you and your team as they filled the lift around you. When the doors closed, you were still giddy—unable to help your wide grin.

Chris threw an arm around your shoulders, nodding at your expression with an exaggerated squint. "You want to tell the rest of us what that was about?" he asked, already laughing with the rest of the team. "You look like you were about to float straight through the ceiling."

You shrugged, but your smile only deepened. “Can’t a girl exchange a few words with her doubles partner.”

“Oh, is that the cover we’re going with?” He chuckled, shaking his head and pushing you slightly. "Don’t ever forget I’m who got you the number one, okay?" 

You groaned, but your eyes sparkled. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

{{{

I fear, and also am excited to say, a Insinrection may be upon us. A sinvolution? Idk, neither of those quite work, but, all to say: What do you mean Jannik has a week before his ban is up, and all of a sudden he launches a girlfriend and a foundation for children. I mean those are the two greatest achievements any one man could ever have, I assume—beside being tennis number one, which… So yeah, be afraid. I am, and the ATP player should be and also I am so excited. Well not so much about the gf part but whatever.

Also, had a moment, because his new girlfriend allegedly went to the same uni as me, and I found that she follows my college landlord’s kid. Which feels like the most random connection ever, but like the fact that there’s any connection at all is just crazy to me. She prob was in the same year as them or something normal anyways, but my moment was me being like: Damn, we really can all be just a few degrees of separation from any given person. Crazy. 

Okay, also, back to the plot. Literally. This is technically the final part of In Sync. But I plan to expand on this specific pairing’s evolution in the future, I’ll put out more about that later. I really like this particular reader and you can prob tell by the way I lowkey write more about her herself than her with Jannik, whoops, and I’ve had a lot of you express the same. So, yes, I left it off on like an almost—mostly because only a week has technically passed since they met and that felt the most natural and right—but don’t fret, there will be more.

Does anyone read these post-fic notes? I can’t say for sure, but I do know I kinda go haywire in these so… And this one is especially long... it's been a while, okay Formatted with a new "bracketing" }}} --- {{{ system bc I was rereading a fic of mine and was like, wow I kind of bait readers into thinking there's more to the story but actually it's just a dump of my bullshit. So, I'm sorry if relevant info or story gets lost amidst all my other riveting? thoughts.

Anyways, here you are, the long-awaited part 3. Thanks for your endless patience!!!! xx

**Maybe some people can rely on Tumblr’s queue thing, but I simply am not the one. Prob def user error, but still. If you couldn’t already tell, this here is an addition I’m making after coming on here to see that my scheduled post did not in fact post. So sorry, because it was later than I said. Like for each time I said it, too there was many, hope you enjoyed though!!

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Okay, and if today's fic (that'll be out in 30 mins) feels like it's inspired by this...

That's because it lowkey is

Carlos saw this post 💀

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Reps and Races

Jannik Sinner x F1 Academy Driver!Reader Gym crushes are the best crushes, especially when it's Jannik Sinner. Reader is his, too... on the low—he keeps up with her more than she might see... And it's somehow Oscar Piastri's loss In honor of the beginning of the 2025 Formula Season!!! Tried to make this non-F1 fan friendly as well, btw, so sorry if I over explained simple stuff or skimmed over niche things!

Your new, private gym in Monaco was exclusive, it came with this particular kind of hush, a haven for elite athletes and socialites who preferred to train away from prying eyes. No blaring music, no overcrowded machines—just the quiet hum of effort, the rhythmic clatter of weights meeting the floor, the occasional murmur of conversation between clients. A state of the art facility, it was designed to accommodate those who trained at the highest level—Formula 1 drivers, footballers, tennis players, the likes, even the occasional celebrity looking for discretion. It was where you had been coming every morning for weeks now, getting ready for your first F1 Academy race after transitioning away from rallying. Your routine at the tail-end of your off-season was precise, structured, and entirely focused—an essential discipline that came from years of preparing for the rough, unpredictable nature of rally stages.

You had been training here for weeks now, preparing for your first F1 Academy race after years spent wrangling cars through unpredictable terrain. The transition demanded flexibility, precision, an entirely different kind of endurance. Your mornings were spent sharpening your reflexes, reinforcing your core, strengthening the muscles that would keep you steady through high-speed corners. It was just you and your trainer, day in day out, pushing a familiar routine, the constant burn in your muscles.

And then, one morning, he was there.

Jannik Sinner walked in with his trainer, Marco, his presence quiet but unmistakable. He was taller than you expected, lean and coiled with the kind of strength you couldn’t quite see, but could feel in that stalky way he would walk. You knew who he was immediately—of course you did—but you reminded yourself that you were too professional to stare. He wasn’t the only high-profile athlete to train here, and you weren’t about to gawk like some wide-eyed spectator.

He didn’t seem to notice you, not at first. He moved through his drills with the same focus you had seen on the court, that quiet intensity. In between his sets though, somewhere between reps and exhaustion, you’d catch a boyish smile or a carefree laugh he’d exchange with his trainer.

For a while, you existed in parallel, your sessions overlapping but never intersecting. You caught glimpses—him adjusting his grip on a resistance band, the sharp exhale as he pushed through a set, the way he raked his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair between reps. And every so often, you felt his gaze flicker over to you, just for a second, just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

The first time you really felt his eyes on you came when you were braced to carry out your neck exercises—not your most flattering state. You had looped the resistance band around your head, pressing against the strain of the taut elastic held by your trainer, the familiar burn settling into your muscles. It was a critical part of your training, one that separated racing drivers from other athletes. The forces your body endured inside a car were unique, relentless. Without this work, your neck would collapse under the sheer weight of the G-forces pressing you into the seat.

Sinner, taking a quick water break, wiped sweat from his brow as he watched you from afar. He gently waved for the attention of his trainer, tipping his chin toward you. 

"È una pilota?” he murmured to Marco, keeping his voice low. A driver? 

Marco followed his gaze, nodding slightly. "Eh, direi di sì. Con quegli esercizi al collo." Must be. With those neck exercises.

Sinner hummed in thought, his attention lingering just a fraction longer before he returned to his set. The moment passed quickly, but the curiosity was left to settle.

---

The next time you saw him at the gym, it had to have been the fifth day in a row and, yet, it was the first time you actually spoke.

You were mid-set, muscles burning through the last reps of an exercise when Marco and your own trainer strayed near one another. Marco caught his eye, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before striking up casual conversation, trainer to trainer—glady exchanging trade secrets, built on years of shared spaces and common understanding. They talked recovery plans, upcoming schedules, the way their athletes were adjusting to routine.

They conversed around you and above you as you finished up the exercise. You were still tied to your set, bound to the mat, committed to finishing the last controlled movements when Sinner, finishing his own set first, made his way over. You faltered a little as he came close. He wiped his face with his towel, slung it around his neck, and drifted closer, slipping into the conversation of your trainers with a natural ease.

“You’re training for a professional sport, yeah?” Marco asked, nodding his head toward you as he spoke to your trainer.

Your trainer nodded, casting a quick glance in your direction. “Yeah. She’s a racing driver.”

“That’s cool,” Sinner said, his voice more open now, engaged. “We had a feeling—saw you making the neck exercises.”

You exhaled through the last rep before finally sitting up to join the conversation, flexing your fingers slightly before glancing toward him. His gaze was neutral, not probing, and even a little… interested. 

“You know your stuff then,” you said, gesturing to your neck. “It’s a necessary evil... Are you a Formula fan?”

“Of course.” Marco cut in. “We are Italian.”

Jannik huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s true, I grew up watching Ferrari.” Then, a pause. “What series do you drive for?”

“F1 Academy,” you said, wiping the sweat from your palms. “Just made the switch from rallying, actually.”

That piqued his interest. “Rally?” His brows lifted slightly. “That’s a bit different, no?”

You shrugged, adjusting the wrap on your wrist. “Yeah, but racing is racing. Seemed like the right time to make a change.”

Your trainer nudged Sinner slightly. “She’s being modest,” they noted to him. “She’s had a great run in rally—Formula è dove girano i soldi.” Formula is where the money is.

Sinner’s gaze flickered back to you, you caught amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. “I get that,” he said. “Still, that’s exciting for sure.”

You gave a small smile. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Just have to train extra hard.” Then, getting up to stand, you extended a hand. “I’m [Your Name], by the way.”

His grip was firm, steady. “Jannik,” he said, though there was clearly no need to introduce himself.

You smirked slightly, dropping his hand. “No, I know.” Then, with a small nod, you admitted, “I don’t follow tennis so much, but I’d have to be living under a rock not to know who you are.”

Jannik smiled at that, easy and genuine. 

The conversation carried on from there, shifting naturally between topics—training schedules, travel routines, the way Monaco had an uncanny way of crossing the paths of athletes from every odd discipline and feild. Marco and your trainer chimed in now and then, but they stuck to their own bubble; leaving you and Jannik to exchange necessary small talk, breaking the ice with the customary explanation of your careers and your lifestyles. 

Then, a gym staff member approached and broke the conversation that had narrowed to just the two of you, all smiles and hopeful energy. “Hi, sorry to interrupt—would you two mind taking a quick photo for the gym’s socials? Just a quick one.”

You hesitated and glanced at Jannik, letting him call the shots. He met your gaze, before shrugging. “Sure, why not?”

The camera clicked. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment, one that would live online long after you both moved on. You nodded to him and returned to your workout after that, taking the photo as a catalyst to break you away from your extended introductions. He did the same.

But when he left a little while later, bag slung over his shoulder, he hesitated just before the door. Just enough to glance back. You think he even waited for a second so that he could catch his eyes, lifting a hand in a casual wave.

---

It didn’t take long for the photo to spread. 

Apparently, that casual snapshot posted on the gym’s official Instagram was just the beginning. It was nothing overly produced or posed, you and Jannik standing side by side, post-workout, both a little flushed from exertion, him with a towel still draped around his neck and leaning down a bit in your direction, you with your arms relaxed at your sides. There was even a significant gap between you two—nothing awkward, just an appropriate distance for two, newly acquainted people. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, just a blip in athletes' routine.

But the internet saw anything but.

They took it and ran. 

First, it was just tennis and motorsport fans recognizing two known athletes in the same frame. Then, it came the speculation—what were you talking about? Did you know each other? Were you training together? Supporting him through his ban? Him through your off-season?

And then, somewhere along the way, the internet collectively decided something else: that you and Jannik Sinner—in this totally unassuming, nonchalant gym photo—looked incredibly good together.

It didn’t help that the lighting was oddly flattering, that your post-exercise glow read more like a happy flush than the result of hours of physical strain. Or that Jannik, with his usual mix of sharp angles and an effortlessly tousled look, had that kind of reserved presence that made the smallest of expressions—like the barely-there smirk he was wearing in the photo—feel more deliberate than they actually were.

The quote tweets were relentless:

okay but why is this kinda a sports power couple?? i don’t even care about tennis or f1 but i CARE about this Formula for the fastest kid alive: they have compatible energies. athletes in their prime, locked in, looking like they’d make an unfairly attractive athletic dynasty.

It was amusing at first. You weren’t oblivious to the way social media latched onto things, how narratives formed out of nothing but a well-timed post. You’d seen it happen with other athletes, random friendships turned into sagas, the media deciding truths before the actual people involved even had a chance to weigh in. Still, you weren’t expecting this level of fixation.

The first time you scrolled through the posts, you snorted, shaking your head as you locked your phone and tossed it onto your bed. Ridiculous. It wasn’t like the two of you had even had a proper conversation beyond the introductions and a bit of light small talk. A photo wasn’t anything more than a photo.

And yet…

You opened Instagram again later, only to find that you had now been tagged in dozens of edits. A few of them were standard—gym recaps, Mclaren social media content, highlight reels. Others, though, leaned full tilt into the narrative people were spinning.

Side-by-side comparisons of your best race shots and his championship moments. Clips of your training overlaid with his on-court movement, the parallels drawn with surgical precision. Some even went as far as to slow zoom on the way he had turned toward you in the photo, like there was some hidden meaning in it, some undeniable chemistry.

Even mainstream sports pages had picked up on it. One account with millions of followers captioned it:

“Two generational athletes, one frame. Tennis x Motorsport crossover we didn’t know we needed.”

Another read:

“Rally on Rally Crime”

You stared at your screen, exhaling slowly, fingers hovering over your phone. There was something surreal about seeing yourself plastered across social media like this, turned into a narrative you had no hand in shaping. It wasn’t overwhelming, not yet, but it was definitely… something. You were new to the attention, the fresh face of Mclaren’s F1 Academy seat—rally races had never amassed as much coverage as it deserved.

You flicked back to the original post, on the gym’s official account, scrolling through the comments again, rolling your eyes at some, laughing at others. It would pass, you told yourself. The internet was fickle. It would move on. But a part of you relished the commotion… that it was a connection to him.

So when you noticed something new, as you refreshed the post, you sat up a little straighter.

“Jannik liked!!”

Jannik had liked the post. He’d seen it. 

You locked your phone immediately, setting it face-down on your nightstand. Don’t read into it. Don’t read into it, be chill. 

You had no reason to believe he’d devolved into all the discussion and attention on the two of you like you had. He’d only interacted with the original post, and of course he had.

… Of course he had.

---

The gym felt the same as it always did—cool air humming from overhead vents, the scent of rubber mats and faint traces of sweat lingering in the quiet. No flashing cameras, no murmurs of speculation, no sign that the internet had turned one candid gym photo into an international talking point. It was just another training day.

At least, that’s what you had to tell yourself. But you couldn’t deny you had an easier time making it to the gym than usual, hopeful to have another run in…

You spotted Jannik almost immediately. He was mid-session, focused, his movements precise as he worked through a set. You caught the briefest flicker of recognition when he glanced up, a nod exchanged without hesitation before he refocused on his workout. His trainer gave you a wave as well. Completely normal. Casual. Just another morning at the gym.

Your own trainer, however, had other ideas.

As you passed by Jannik and Marco on your way to warm up, your trainer chuckled to themself before leaning in, voice just low enough for only you to hear. "Shouldn’t you kiss hello."

You shot them a glare before they could get any further. "Not a word."

They laughed but relented, though you could still feel their amusement in the way they shook their head as you both moved past. It should’ve been easy to shake off, you had media training for this. A stupid internet thing, a momentary obsession that would pass like everything else.

And yet, for the rest of your session, you couldn’t help but be even more aware of him than you had been before.

It wasn’t that you were watching him. Not exactly. But every time you caught sight of him in the mirror, your eyes lingered longer than necessary. The way his shirt clung to his back as he moved through a set, the way his fingers flexed between reps, the sharp lines of concentration in his face before the effort melted into something looser, more at ease. The way he’d lift his shirt to dab at sweat collecting on his nose, revealing the his torso for the briefest of seconds. It wasn’t just that he was attractive—you weren’t that easily distracted, you weren’t gawking—but there was something engaging about watching someone that dedicated, that in control of every motion… that’s how you rationalized it, at least.

And apparently, your "non-appraisal" wasn’t the most discreet.

“Eyes on your form. If you want to watch a tennis player, go to a match.” Your trainer quipped when you zoned out a beat too long before starting your next set.

You rolled your eyes, gripping the dumbbells tighter, determined to redirect your focus. It was nothing. Just heightened awareness. You were an athlete—you respected talent, recognized discipline when you saw it. That was all.

Jannik, on his end, wasn’t exactly faring much better. He wasn’t watching you—at least, not intentionally. But in the way athletes naturally kept tabs on their surroundings, his gaze found you more often than it should have. The way you braced before each set, the push of your muscles under strain, the quiet control in your movements. A few times, when he caught himself watching too long, he forced his focus back to his own workout, but it kept happening. And then, the mirror—

Your eyes met.

Brief, fleeting. Obvious.

You dropped your gaze first, pressing your lips together, exhaling lightly through your nose as you curled the dumbell. He played it off just as smooth, refocusing on his medicine ball. But the next time you risked a look, you thought you caught a smirk growing on his lips.

By the time Jannik finished his session, you were still deep in your workout, beads of sweat dotting your skin as you powered through another set. He and Marco passed by on their way out, both offering another easy wave goodbye.

“See you later,” Jannik said, voice light and natural, and you nodded back in response. 

But just as they passed, you caught Marco’s voice directed at Jannik, low and teasing. "Allora, quando la sposi?" So, when’s the wedding?

Jannik’s laugh was quiet, but unmistakable. As they stepped outside, just before the door swung shut behind them, he glanced back once more. Through the glass, his gaze flicked toward you before he replied, “Ah, dicono che sia già successo.” They say it's already happened.

You barely caught his remark through the muffle of the closing door, but his expression seemed to happily humor whatever offhand comment Marco had made. And you had your suspicions about what it may have been about—or you had your hopes, at least.

You turned to your trainer, who had lived in Monaco long enough to know some Italian. “Did you catch that? Please tell me you did.”

“If I tell you, you have to promise to push the next set until failure. For real, this time.”

“Last time was for real.” You threw a nearby foam roller at them. “Just tell me.”

“Something about marriage.”

“Okay… I knew it! I think I caught that—sposi.” 

“Why ask then, if you know everything.” Your trainer retorted, smirking as they turned their back on you.

“For the love of—just finish. What’d he say back?” You grab their shoulders to spin them back toward you.

“He said…”

“I’ll kill you, I will.”

With another roll of their eyes, your trainer finally indulged you. “Something about how an alleged wedding has already happened.” 

“...Meaning he must have seen the tweets?”

“And the posts and the edits… Yeah, I think it’s safe to say he knows of it.” They sent you an amused look as they handed you a kettle bell the next weight up.

“And he didn’t seem mad about it…”

“That, he did not—not at all.”

And, even while completing your final and most rigorous exercise of the day, you couldn’t stop the grin that slowly grew on your face.

---

The F1 season was on the cusp of beginning, and the next time you made your way to the gym would be the last for many months. Pre-season testing had wrapped, final preparations were being made. You were back in Monaco for a brief period before the first race of the F1 calendar would take place, just a handful of days away. Everything felt sharper, more electric—like the all things around you were bracing for competition.

Much to your luck, Jannik happened to be their during you last visit as well. He approached you during a short break in your workout, a casual but deliberate kind walk up to you. You’d caught him looking over quite a few times since you’d arrived, as if he’d thought about coming up for a while.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice as easy as ever. “I wanted to wish good luck before you leave.”

“Oh—thanks.” You looked up, slightly surprised but not displeased. “Feels like everything’s kind of kicking off all at once.”

He nodded, resting a hand on his towel-draped shoulder. “Melbourne’s always exciting. You can feel it even here in Monaco, the first race weekend energy is always something else.”

“Yeah, it’s chaos honestly. Fans everywhere, nerves, media running at full speed.” You huffed a small laugh, stretching out your arms. “You’re pretty familiar with Melbourne, aren’t you?

“Yes, yeah,” he smiled, a knowing glint in his eye at your allusion to his win streak there. “It’s a special place—it’s also the first major of the season. So Australia is the beginning for us tennis players, too.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” You considered that, then gave a slight tilt of your head. “F1 Academy's start actually isn’t in Melbourne, though.”

It was a common misconception, many long-time F1 fans like Jannik weren’t familiar with the sporadic F1 Academy schedule that went in tandem with F1 itself, but he was quick to respond. Matter-of-fact and faultless, he quickly clarified for himself. “Aah, yes. It’s in Shanghai, no? The week after?”

“...Yes, actually.” His informed answer stopped you for a second, leaving you pleasantly surprised, your brows raising. “That’s exactly right.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “I assume you will be traveling soon either way so I wanted to wish you luck before.”

“Well, thank you,” You hummed, smirking to yourself as you picked up your water bottle. “... Seems like someone’s been looking into the F1 Academy schedule.”

Jannik didn’t skip a beat at the teasing. If anything, his reply was entirely diplomatic, if not a little sheepish. “No, I mean—honestly, I did not know much before,” he admitted. “But I’d like to.”

You shot him a look, playful and curious. “Yeah? Big F1 Academy fan now?”

“Trying to be,” he said, smiling. “I like all racing.”

“Good answer.”

You chatted a little more—about training, about how brutal long-haul flights could be when in-season travel ramped up, about the chaos of Melbourne when the events rolled into town. The conversation was easy, no need for overthinking. Just two people talking about their respective worlds, swapping stories of airports, media days, and all the ways professional sports altered the warped any sense of time zones.

And then, as you were about to part ways, he hesitated for just a second before speaking. “Hey,” he said, shifting slightly on his feet. “Mind if I get your number?”

You blinked once, processing. Athletes exchanged numbers all the time. Networking, staying in touch, all that. It wasn’t necessarily a move. It’s not a move. 

Still, something about it caught you off guard, just for a second. You didn’t let it show. You nodded, and he was already unlocking your phone to hand to you. It’s not not a move.

You took his phone, fingers moving quickly to type in your number into the recipient part of a new message tab before hesitating for just a second over the text. Just your first? Full name? Something stupid and teasing? You settled on just his name, clean and simple—like you did this all the time, like you needed a reminder of who’s number it was this time—before passing it back. 

But when you got back home and opened your phone to the text—Jannik Sinner—you had to check yourself before you jumped up and down in your apartment. Settling on only loving the message, the message you had sent from his phone, you bit back a smile as you saved his number to your contacts.

---

The Melbourne Grand Prix weekend buzzing with energy, you could even tell through the screen—fast cars, packed grandstands, and coverage in every direction. You had the pre-race media on in the background, half paying attention as you stretched out on your hotel room couch, scrolling through your phone between interviews and team meetings.

When the interviewer made their way to Oscar Piastri, you let your attention drift back to the screen and your long-time friend.

It was a casual pre-race chat about his off-season, his expectations, and how he spent his time away from the paddock; fielding predictable questions about his off-season and the new announcement of his multi-year contract. 

“Spent a lot of time here in Australia—Watched a lot of cricket, some tennis. Just had time with my family and my girlfriend, but I’m happy to be back.” He finished the concise summary with his characteristic polite nod, lips pressed into a straight line of a smile.

"We all saw you at the Australian Open—I believe Mark Webber was also there."

"Yup,” Oscar nodded once more. “Mark was there, I was there with my girlfriend Lily. We got to watch Jannik Sinner play in the semi-finals, which was quite cool. He had a great run."

You exhaled a short laugh to yourself. It was no surprise that Oscar mentioned Jannik in his off-season recap, you were surprised he had to be prompted to at all—even you knew of his online fixation on the tennis player. Not that you could claim to be much better. 

The interviewer continued. "Speaking of Sinner—Did you see your fellow McLaren F1 Academy driver was spotted training at the same gym as him.”

You blinked, now fully alert. They were bringing that up?

Oscar smiled a little at that. “Yes, I did see this.”

Your eyes narrowed at the screen. Of course he did. 

"How do you feel about that? That she’s potentially getting more face time with one of your favorite athletes than you are." The interviewer asked playfully.

"Hm, might have to switch gyms now." He deadpanned.

“For Sinner or for [Your Name]?”

"No, I already see enough of her—I mean, we're old friends.” Oscar made a face before huffing out a little laugh. Then, he glanced straight into the camera with a grimace, as if he was addressing you directly. "No offense."

Your jaw dropped slightly, amidst your smile, before a laugh bubbled up. The broadcast had even thrown up that gym photo in the corner of the screen, the very same one that had set the internet off not even a couple of weeks ago.

Grinning, you snapped a picture of the moment on your screen. Behind, the interview carried on as you scrolled through your text inbox to hover over his name. Jannik Sinner. This could be the perfect olive branch, the most organic opportunity you’d get to break the ice and to use his number.

You glance back up at the broadcast. If Oscar mentions Jannik once more, then I have to send it.

“Well, your new contract states that you can visit any sports event or game on McLaren’s dime.” The interviewer had seamlessly segwayed to the topic of Oscar’s newest career development.

Oh, god. You knew what was coming. You asked for this.

“Yes, I’m very grateful. I can catch all the cricket matches I want now…” 

Here it comes—

Oscar continued, “Hopefully, I can catch a couple more games of Sinner's as well. Tennis tournaments overlap with race travel, but it’s definitely in my mind.”

And there it is. You should’ve known. You stared at Oscar’s face through the screen, not knowing whether to curse him or to thank him.

“Well, there’s one way you can get ahead of [Your Name].” The interviewer joked again, dropping your name once more. “Can’t have her winning Sinner over before you can.”

Great. Not only did you hang your source of encouragement to text on the actions of your biased friend on live TV hundreds of miles away, but you were also apparently in direct competition with him as well. According to the media, at least—and they were always right…

You quickly typed out a message to go with the image before you could second guess it again.

You Just so you know, you’ve officially stolen my long-time friend  You I guess Oscar chose you over me

It took less than a few minutes after sending for your phone to buzz. You jumped to read it.

Jannik Sinner Ha just saw that

So he was watching. You hoped he didn’t cringe too hard at the interviewer’s antics, or at Oscar’s. 

Another text came in.

Jannik Sinner His loss

You immediately shut the phone at that, pressing lips together as you fought back a smile. Take that Piastri.

---

Over the past week, you and Jannik had been consistently texting after your initial message. More often than you’d ever expected. It wasn’t anything too committed—just a kind of easy back-and-forth you got to when you could, and it made the monotony of travel days and training schedules feel a little lighter. Normally, you were awful at keeping up with messages. You’d leave people on read for days, sometimes even weeks, as a consequence of your busy schedule once the season picked up. But with him, you found yourself checking your phone more than usual, feeling a little thrill whenever his name popped up on the screen. It was just something new and exciting to keep your attention—that's what you reminded yourself.

As the first race weekend approached, even your text responses to him became fewer and farther between. It wasn’t intentional—you just had too much going on. Track walks, meetings, media, final car setup adjustments. 

And then, after all the commotion and against all odds, you won your first F1 Academy race—as a rookie. Any hope you did have to catch up on your unread texts was wiped as you were surely bombarded with a flux of congratulatory messages, not that you didn’t have many other things to get out of the way first.

The Shanghai International Circuit had been as unforgiving as they say—fast, technical, and full of overtaking opportunities for those who dared. The race started under a clouded sky, humid air thick with the weight of expectations. You had lined up in third, gripping the wheel tightly as you lined up at your box.

The moment the lights went out, the roar of the engines swallowed everything else. The run down to the first turn was chaos—eighteen cars funnelling into a long, tightening right-hander, each driver hunting for space but wary of disaster. You’d held your ground, forcing the car ahead to the outside while defending from the driver behind. The grip felt solid, but you could already tell the track was evolving under the afternoon heat.

By turn six—the heavy braking zone at the end of a sweeping acceleration stretch—you had spotted an opportunity. The driver ahead hesitated, their rear tires twitching just slightly under braking. You took the chance, diving up the inside and committing fully to the move. Your car hugged the apex, and as you powered out, you saw your front wing edge ahead. And then the position was yours.

But that was just when the real fight began.

Shanghai’s layout demanded patience and precision. The long straights gave just enough tow for cars behind to keep pressure on, while the complex middle sector tested every inch of a driver’s technical ability. The car beneath you was strong but jumpy on the exit of Turn 11, forcing you to manage throttle input carefully as you prepared for the long arc of Turn 13 leading into the back straight. You could feel the tires slowly losing grip, the rear stepping out just slightly under acceleration. You’d adjusted, keeping the balance in check, knowing that every micro-movement could mean the difference between holding position and losing it.

With ten laps to go, you had one car left to pass. The race leader was smooth, disciplined, placing their car exactly where they needed to, making sure you never had an easy run. But you’d studied them—watched their tendencies, how they hesitated slightly under braking into Turn 14. It took more than a few laps of preparation, testing different lines, seeing where you could unsettle them. And then, with just a handful of laps left, you’d made your move.

Late braking into Turn 14. Just a fraction later than before. The front tires locked for a millisecond, but you had already committed, already slotted your car alongside theirs. Side by side on exit, wheel to wheel, throttle pinned. You’d kept your foot in it, knowing the next few corners would decide everything. The grip held. Your car edged ahead.

The final laps were pure adrenaline—every braking zone, every corner exit, every defensive maneuver was a test of nerve. But when the checkered flag waved, it was your car that crossed the line first.

Your first race victory.

The radio erupted with cheers from your team, their voices overlapping, a mess of excitement and disbelief. You barely had time to process it as you pulled into the pitlane, hands shaking slightly as you unclipped the wheel.

Then came the podium. The rush of stepping onto the top step, trophy in hand, the national anthem playing. Champagne sprayed across your suit as you laughed, blinking through the sting. Cameras flashing, faces blurred by the lights. It all felt distant, like a dream happening to someone else.

Only when you sat in an icebath, in the quiet at the back of McLaren’s garage, did it really start to hit.

A flood of congratulations came from everywhere, wherever you went—team strategists, social media admin, engineers, chefs, mechanics, rival drivers, and that onslaught of messages pinging your phone from people back home who had been watching. You’d tried to skim them, but still didn’t have a moment reply. You’d get to them later.

You still had to head to McLaren's motorhome for a post-race debrief. As soon as you stepped in, Lando Norris was already grinning up at you. "Look, here comes the race winner. Only took you one try."

"Yeah, mate, took the both of us at least a season." Oscar reached up to firmly clasp your hand and nodded in agreement, his voice warm by his standards. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, smiling at the gesture. "Well… some of us learn faster than others."

Lando clapped you on the back as you sat down. "Seriously, though—hell of a drive. That last overtake was insane."

Oscar leaned forward. "Yeah, we were watching from the garage, and even I flinched when you went for it."

“He jumped, [Your Name], he jumped.” Lando said, comically widening his eyes when you met his gaze.

You laughed at that. "Wow, I can’t even imagine. I broke Oscar Piastri’s mask."

The banter eventually settled, and then the debrief began. The purpose was clear, there wasn’t much time until the F1 race now—you had to provide all relevant insights for Lando, Oscar, and the engineers. The track conditions, tire performance, and any major takeaways they could apply to their own races. 

The strategists pulled up detailed telemetry, analyzing how the track surface had evolved throughout the weekend. Shanghai’s long straights meant lower downforce setups were favored, and the heavy braking zones into Turn 6 and Turn 14 made front tire management crucial. You all discussed track temperature fluctuations and rubber buildup, and how the track evolution was steady but tight. 

The strategists noted that teams who pitted early had struggled with graining, while those who extended stints found better traction toward the end. 

"Your exits in Sector 2 were really strong," one of the strategists noted, highlighting how you had found better traction out of Turn 11 than most of the grid. "That’s probably what set you up so well for the final overtake."

Lando, with focus that always surprised you, leaned in. "Shanghai's such a weird track for braking. One lap it's fine, the next you're sliding through Turn 14 like it's a drift comp. Was the wind messing with you guys today?"

"Well see here? I lost a couple of tenths through Turn 9 in the earlier laps—could be setup-related, or an adjustment thing, but it felt like wind at the time."

Oscar hummed. "From the garage, it looked like a few people were getting caught out. Back straight was catching people late on the brakes—looked like one of those days where you think you’ve nailed it, and then suddenly, nope."

You nodded. "It wasn’t too bad early on, but by mid-race, it felt like the front end was getting lighter. I was imagining it at first, but it got trickier through the long corners. Something to keep in mind, for sure."

The discussion continued, touching on how the cooler temps had made the rears a bit sketchy toward the end and how some teams were struggling to keep heat in them. The strategists flagged possible drizzle in the afternoon, debating whether it would be light enough to just make the track greasy or if it might actually justify a switch to inters. And then the engineers gave final notes before wrapping up.

As everyone started filtering out, Oscar reached for the phone on the table—only to pause. He squinted at the screen, turning it over in his hand.

“This isn’t mine.”

You frowned, glancing at your own empty hands and patting at your pockers.

“Oh, it's mine,” you said, reaching for it.

Just as you did, the screen lit up with a new message.

From Jannik Sinner

Oscar raised his eyebrows, glancing between you and the phone before tilting it just out of reach. "What’s this?"

You huffed, narrowing your eyes. "Give it back."

But Oscar wasn’t done. He gave you a look after skimming the notification, and then deadpanned, "So, what kind of gym is this exactly?"

You rolled your eyes, making another grab for it, but he sidestepped easily. "Oscar—"

"Maybe I should look into it." He turned to Lando for support. "I’m seriously considering."

You finally snatched the phone from his grip, shaking your head as you unlocked it. "Sounds like someone’s jealous."

"Oh, I'm devastated," he said sarcastically, still smiling when he tried to look over your shoulder. "What’d he say?"

When you glanced down at the message, all your indignation melted into something a bit more bashful.

Jannik Sinner I’m sure you are busy Jannik Sinner But wanted to wish you a congratulations on the win Jannik Sinner First of many  

Your lips pressed together, but you couldn’t fight the way your ears warmed slightly.

"That’s a face.” Oscar watched you for about half a second, exchanging a look with Lando who still hovered nearby. “So what did he say?"

You exhaled through your nose, still smiling as you read it over again. "Just… 'Congratulations, first of many.’ That kind of thing.”

“Isn’t he in Monaco?” Lando made a thoughtful noise, then glanced at the time. "Because your race was at like… 3:30 in the morning there."

You blinked, looking up at him before looking back at Oscar. "He probably watched it later."

Oscar gave you a look, “Even if he only finished watching now… it’s still 6 AM there."

A wide grin settled on your face in realization, but you tried not to look too smug when you replied “... Well, he did say he was trying to get into it.”

Oscar folded his arms, rolling his eyes and patting your back as he walked away. "I think I might be further behind in this race for Sinner than I thought."

---

HOW did I get so carried away. You don't even want to know how much I wrote that I deleted... Sooo much unnecessary, technical stuff. Uh but here it is... Way later than I said, whoops

Also again with the texts and the tweets and the, you know. Still figuring out the best way to format that. Because it is an inevitable part of a modern romance, and so I must learn how to include it properly. And, if you think about it, the gym crush to number exchange to the fun texting arc is honestly a fucking rom com by todays standards... Most unrealistic part is that he triple texted to say congratulations after getting temporarily ghosted... So

Also I'm a rally-truther. It's objectively way more entertaining than F1, but we're not ready for that convo Also there aren't as many divas in rally, well there are but not itn the same way

Okay, anyways. It's here, it's out, it's proud. Happy, first race weekend!! Enjoy xx

[gamesetattach]

When World's Collide - Part 1

Jannik Sinner x Williams Race Strategist!Reader The comeback of Williams is shocking the world, and reader is basically the face of it. Sinner first witnesses her in the paddock in all her glory, and she might as well have had him by the balls since then. Of course, neither of them have discovered that yet... but they will... oh what's that? She just moved to Monaco? Oh, figures Totally don't have to be an F1 fan to follow this one, I feel! Part 2 and Part 3 here

All eyes were on Williams Racing this year, the buzz around the team had grown louder with the new faces and each passing race. Ever since you’d joined as their new race strategist, the team had been on an undeniable upswing. Wins were starting to pile up for the first time in years, and while the credit wasn’t solely yours, the media and fans couldn’t seem to stop dissecting your unconventional methods. Your rapport with drivers Carlos Sainz and Alex Albon, frequently on display in post-race celebrations and social media, only added fuel to the fire. Some called your strategies ruthless, others called them genius, but everyone agreed—you'd quickly become one of the most captivating figures in the paddock.

---

It was a particularly thrilling race weekend when Jannik Sinner first saw you in action. Eager to experience the adrenaline of an F1 paddock once again, he had happily accepted the invitation from distant friend and Williams' newest driver, Carlos Sainz. He was an avid fan of the sport and Sinner, along with many others, was following the surprising resurgence of Williams with fascination. When he arrived at the paddock, he hadn’t expected to be as intrigued by one person as he was by the entire spectacle.

You were standing in the heart of the Williams garage, headset on, hands animated as you strategized with the engineers and drivers. Even from a distance, your energy was magnetic. During their brief interactions between obligations, Jannik couldn’t help but ask the drivers about you.

“That’s our new strategist,” Alex Albon answered with a grin. “She’s half the reason we’re not dead last anymore. But don’t let her charm fool you—she’ll cut your throat if it means getting the win.”

“She seems… intense,” Jannik said, still watching you.

“She’s also hilarious. And way too smart for her own good,” Carlos added. “You should meet her later. She’s fun.”

---

A few weeks later, in between two of F1’s double headers, Jannik was at a café in Monaco with Charles Leclerc. It was a rare day off for both of them, and they were enjoying a quick catch up on a sunny morning when Jannik suddenly froze mid-sentence.

“Isn’t that the Williams strategist?” he asked, nodding toward the door. You’d just walked in, looking a little frazzled but no less striking.

Charles turned to look, breaking into a wide smile. “[Your Name]!” he called out, waving you over.

You spotted him and hesitated for only a second before making your way to their table. “Charles! Fancy seeing you here.”

“This is Monaco,” he teased. “You’ll see everyone here eventually.”

You laughed, then gestured to your somewhat disheveled state. “I’m in the middle of moving, actually. Just stopped for coffee before diving back into cardboard hell.”

It was then that you noticed Jannik, and your expression shifted slightly, a touch of awareness settling in. “Sorry, I’m interrupting. Hi, I’m [Your Name],” you said, extending a hand.

“Jannik,” he said, shaking your hand with a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Charles watched the exchange with thinly-veiled amusement, his eyes flicking between the two of you like he was filing away notes. You recovered a little slower from the introduction than you should have, turning back to Charles.

“I’ll probably see you around,” you said. “I have plans with Alex later this week.”

“Of course,” Charles said, grinning. “And maybe Jannik will see you around too.”

You laughed lightly. “Maybe. Nice meeting you, Jannik.”

As you walked out, Jannik’s eyes followed you and Charles chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “You’re in trouble, mate.”

---

Later that week, you were hanging out at Charles and Alexandra’s place, sipping wine and catching up. Toward the end of the evening, Charles returned home and found you and Alex laughing on the couch.

“You should ask Charles,” Alexandra said, nudging you with a grin.

“Ask me what?” Charles asked, leaning against the doorway.

You groaned, your face heating up. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Alex smirked. “She wants to know if Jannik Sinner is single.”

Charles whooped, pointing at you. “I knew it! I knew there was something at the café.”

“Stop,” you said, burying your face in your hands. “Please don't say anything to him.”

“I have to do something” Charles teased. “For the record, I don’t know if he’s single, but I can find out.”

"No, Charles, please stay out of it. Don't ask." you begged more deliberately. "If I ever do see him around again, it'll be so awkward."

"Okay... your loss. I am a brilliant wingman." He said, walking out of the room with his hands up in surrender, but not before you caught the smirk on his face.

You weren't convinced. "No, seriously though," You tried once more.

"No promises." You heard him call out from the other room.

You sighed dramatically, and looked back at Alex with a rejected expression. She was still covering her laugh with a hand.

"They're not so close," she tried to reassure you, "they only catch up every so often."

You could only hope you ran into him before Charles did.

---

With some luck, you did.

A few days later, you were back at the same café, sitting for a quiet moment before a day of unending meetings. You hadn't expected to see Jannik walk in shortly after, like you'd secretly hoped to each time you went. He scanned the room after he gave his order and when your eyes met, you waved. He smiled back and, to your surprise, approached you.

“How’s the move going?” he asked as he towered over your table.

“Almost done,” you said. “I’m hosting a housewarming soon, too. Having a sort of deadline helps."

"Moving can go on forever." he said agreeably.

There was a lull then, he looked back at the counter for his order with his hands in his pockets and you reached for something to say.

"You should come," you land at, hoping you managed to sound casual and sincere at the same time, "Charles and some others I'm sure you know will be there, so at least a few familiar faces.”

He looked a little surprised by the offer, but nodded anyways. “I’d like that.”

---

The housewarming was a lively affair, filled with faces from F1 and a few new ones. You'd manage to fix up your new apartment enough to feel comfortable flooding the cramped space with neighboring friends and co-workers. Jannik arrived with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers—your favorite ones, too, though he had no way of knowing that. It took an embarrassing amount of effort to tell yourself not to run with that as some sort of cosmic sign.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, taking the gifts with a smile.

“It was nothing,” he said simply.

Throughout the evening, he mingled easily, catching up with Charles and Carlos while occasionally glancing your way. You, meanwhile, were in your element, effortlessly moving between your guests, cracking jokes, and making sure everyone felt welcome.

At one point, you escaped to the kitchen to get a head start in cleaning up. Jannik found you then, and only took a moment before rolling up his sleeves.

“Need help?” he asked.

“Oh no, that's okay–” you started, but he was already reaching for a dish towel.

The two of you worked side by side, chatting easily. When he complimented your decor and the completion of your apartment, you laughed and admitted, “There are still so many unpacked boxes hidden away, I only have enough dishes out for the party. My bedroom is a disaster.”

“Can I see?” he said, his tone curious, "It can't be so bad."

You hesitated, then led him to your room. It was small but cozy, with your bed half made and the walls beginning to be dressed in artwork and random clippings. It was also, true to your word, overflowing with boxes. Some were haphazardly stuffed under your bed, but it was clear that you had given up trying to conceal them at some point as most of the stacks had settled on every free surface. Jannik smiled as he took it all in.

“It’s… very you,” he said.

You laughed. “I don't know how to take that, honestly.”

"Aside from the boxes of course." He clarified teasingly, his smile shining.

He went to sit on what you hoped was one of the more steady stacks of boxes. Now his eyes were level yours and his knees brushed your legs. You vaguely heard the commotion from the living room, but the air in your bedroom had fallen completely still. As you looked back at him, you found yourself taking a silent step forward, almost unconsciously. He widened his legs for you and reached out to the belt loop at your side, gently tugging you closer.

In that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Neither of you spoke or leaned closer, and he adjusted his palm to fold around your hip now, his grip gentle and steady. He reached his other hand upwards towards your face, and you didn't dare breath.

Then came a loud shout of your name in the hallway. You both startled, whatever spell there was between you now broken.

His hand dropped and he released his hold on your hip. You cleared your throat and stepped back, before calling out in response. You glance back at Jannik and he was biting back a smile, looking at the floor. When he looked back up at you, you couldn't help but let out a little laugh with him. Shaking your head as you reluctantly left the room to see out your guests.

Somewhere during your stream of goodbyes, Jannik had come out of your room to join the others situating to leave at the doorway. Charles and Alex were the last to remain, along with Jannik.

“We’re heading out,” Charles said while throwing you a knowing look, and you prayed he'd stop there.

Luckily he stayed silent, as Alex delivered the last goodbye, “Thank you for the great night.”

After they left, Jannik hesitated. “I should probably head out, too,” he said.

“I mean, only if you want,” you replied, your tone was light but your heart skipped as you said it.

He stayed. The two of you talked late into the night, but what charged between you earlier now laid dormant. You didn't want to risk the flow of your of conversation with some mistimed move. So you walked him out some time after midnight, with no real acknowledgment of whatever moment almost happened back in your overflowing bedroom.

Instead, he rocked back and forth on his feet at your doorway. You smiled up at him as he thanked you again for the invite. The night ended with a careful hug and a promise to see each other again.

When you finally wound down for the night, you couldn't help but enter your room, in all it's cardboard glory, with this unyielding warmth in your chest.

---

Part 2 here

Thanks for reading, I so appreciate any engagement showing you liked the fic xx

[gamesetattach]

In Sync - Part 1

Jannik Sinner x Reader As up and coming a tennis player this fiery reader is, she needs to become a more well-rounded player to really get up there in the rankings... and her coach has this genius idea for her to get exposure by playing doubles. Even Jannik and his team thinks its genius... so he gets in on it too... And the way it unfolds a surprise to everyone... Uh, also, in this world, non-doubles-focused players playing mixed doesn’t negatively impact the mixed doubles draw or actual players and everything is a beautiful and fair!! Part two, Part three

---

For weeks, you’d been working on your baseline game.

Your coach—Chris, a sharp-eyed former analyst turned player-whisperer—had insisted it was the next step in your evolution. You were already playing top-ten-level tennis, and most of the tour had their eyes on you as the next to tear through the ranks. You’d come to be known for your untouchable net game, your drop shots elusive to even the most formidable of your opponents—always careful, reactive, and unpredictable. 

But to truly contend with the best of the best, you needed more firepower from the back of the court. A heavier serve. More control from the baseline. 

"You need to flush out the rest of your game," he’d said after your narrow third-round win in Toronto. "Let’s get you in doubles at the next tournament—force you to challenge your reactions off return a bit. Build your movement patterns, and give you more reps on serve under pressure."

You didn’t argue, despite being apprehensive about experimenting in doubles when you never had before. You’d moved up 70 spots in the rankings since working with him—he’d been right about everything so far.

And after your easy agreement, the only next step was to find you a worthy doubles partner. Chris was dead set on scouting a player whose game could push you and complement your strengths, and you knew he was always one to exceed both your expectations.

But there was no way you could have predicted that he’d come back with Jannik Sinner.

---

You were sitting on a bench for practice when Chris entered just slightly late, looking a little stunned.

"Okay, so—this is a little out of left field," he said, handing you a ball can. "I just ran into Darren Cahill—you know? Sinner’s coach?”

You nodded in response. You vaguely remembered the name, but had no idea where your coach was going.

“We worked together at ESPN back in the day. Caught up for a second.” He continued, running a hand through his hair. “I got to explaining the whole doubles plan for you—how it’s meant to help you build your baseline game—and Darren was… Well, let’s say intrigued…"

"...Yeah?" You blinked at him when he trailed off without picking back up. “I don’t get it, is that the story?... Was that him complimenting your coaching method or…?”

“Just listen.” Chris flicked your visor off at your mocking tone. “He said he hadn’t ever thought about doubles as a way to make gameplay more holistic before, and then…”

“Oh my—.” You threw your hands up humorously as he paused yet again. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

He ignored your antics and carried on, apparently deciding that was enough suspense. “And then Sinner walked over and joined. Darren explained the approach to him and they kinda exchanged this look, and then he just—”

Now your coach threw his hands up in the air. You stared up at him, shaking your head in confusion. “He just what, Chris?”

Chris placed his hands on his hips, blowing air from his lips. “He offered. Just like that.”

“... What?” You were still lost. “Offered what? Who did?”

Chris moved to place his hands on your shoulders, bending down slightly. “Jannik Sinner offered. He offered to play as your doubles partner.”

You almost choked. 

"Jannik Sinner?” You moved to stand, throwing Chris’s hands off your shoulders. “Jannik fucking Sinner? Number one in the world?"

“Is going to play mixed doubles with you, yes. This coming tournament." Chris nodded at you slowly, like he was still wrapping his head around it himself, and all you could do was stare at him.

"I guess he likes playing doubles, but just doesn’t often get the opportunity. And after, Darren was saying our plan actually could make a lot of sense for Jannik too—his volleys need work in the way your serves and baseline shots do." He offered some sort of explanation, but your mouth was still agape.

"But we’ve never even spoken to each other."

"He knows who you are."

You shook your head, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "He must really want to work on his net game."

Chris chuckled. "So it’s a yes, then?"

“Of course it’s a yes. Let’s do it.”

---

The Canadian Open arrived fast.

D.C. had been a blur. Hot courts, gritty points, and matches stacked back to back—exactly the kind of momentum you needed this time of year. But it had also meant your schedule was packed to the brim. No room for any activities or even thoughts outside of your game play, and so even the anticipation of your impending mixed doubles campaign fell onto the backburner—as it often would for players who focused on singles.

Jannik, on the otherhand, had made a deep run at Wimbledon a couple months before. He’d made it all the way to the final. After all the grass stains and pressure and heartbreak, he’d chosen to rest after, skipping the post-Wimbledon wave most players dived into. No Atlanta. No D.C. Just a full reset. 

And the Canadian Open was his return, and it was safe to say the doubles hadn’t really been on his mind up until then either.

So, no, you hadn’t trained together. Even your teams had barely exchanged messages outside of some scheduling logistics and a couple polite acknowledgements. There were no chemistry checks, no practice sets. Not even a five-minute hit around the net.

There just hadn’t been the time.

The mixed doubles partnership very much was—and was always going to be—a massive leap of faith.

---

Match day had its own rhythm. Especially when you had your singles match and a doubles debut to account for.

Your team was already two steps ahead—your coach had coordinated the time slot, your physio had your warm-up planned down to the minute, and someone had already dropped your racquets off for stringing. You’d done your pre-practice mobility in the fitness center, eaten your usual carb-heavy breakfast in the player restaurant, and checked in with your support staff. And Jannik’s team was just as efficient—Simone had confirmed everything with Chris the night before.

So now, for the first time ever, both of your teams were now standing just outside the practice block, together, chatting while the two of you got ready to begin.

When you arrived at the court block for your 45-minute warm up slot—a quick turn around after the singles round you’d won just earlier that morning—you were already a little tight on time and energy. Not tense, exactly, just... worn. 

Jannik was already on court when you walked up.

He was shadow-swinging near the baseline, looking well-rested. Shirt fresh, not sweating just yet, only beginning to break in his movements.

He caught your entrance out of the corner of his eye and turned toward you. He gave you a brief nod and smile as you set your stuff down, before his face went back to that famously unreadable expression.

You dropped your bag beside the bench and straightened, suddenly very aware of your own posture. You weren’t usually shy. But this felt different. Jannik wasn’t just any player. And despite your rising success, it was hard not to feel the weight of stepping into his space.

"How are you?" he asked once you made your way, his voice polite and welcoming.

"Good. Sorry I’m a little late, I’ve been running around," you replied, laughing a little at yourself. “How are you doing?”

“No problem—congrats on the win.” He said evenly, shaking your hand after you’d approached, it was firm and not too long. “I’m good, it’s nice to finally meet you."

"Thank you," you said, dropping your hand. "And yes, yeah, same here. Been a long time coming."

He offered a little chuckle in agreement, but a lull in conversation came soon after. 

A beat passed, and you pressed your lips into a line at the stiffness.

"Shall we?" You broke the awkward silence with a nod toward the court. 

He nodded, comfortable again now that tennis was the topic at hand, and moved to one side. "Let’s warm up groundstrokes first?"

You hummed in agreement, and he started to back up to the baseline while spinning his racket in circles with one hand. You stayed put for a second, flipping your racket into your non-dominant hand to tug a hair tie from your wrist. Then you wedged your racket gently between your thighs as you reached up to pull up your hair, twisting it up quickly, fingers moving on autopilot, elbows lifted high. 

The move revealed the curve of your nape and the afternoon light catching on your jawline, and Jannik, still only a few paces away, watched the whole motion unfold like it had caught him mid-step. 

His gaze followed the line of movement from behind—the way your thighs held the racket in place and the slow lift of your arms as you gathered your hair, exposing the length of your neck, the quiet strength in your posture. He tracked the moment with an almost unconscious focus, eyes lingering on the curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth as you pulled the tie taut.

His stare wasn’t intrusive, it wasn’t even intentional. He just… he couldn’t seem to turn away.

But when you glanced up and behind, briefly, his eyes darted away like he’d only just realized he’d been looking. He cleared his throat and turned—shaking the image from his head as he gave you space when you walked over to join him on the baseline.

As he suggested, you two started with groundstrokes. Side stepping back and forth down the line as you returned the balls hit by your coaches from the other side of the net. And, even as you moved on to different sequences of the warm up, both you and Jannik worked with and around each other with a certain rigidity. 

It wasn’t that either of you were cold to each other, but the quiet between you had a chill to it. Not exactly awkward, either. Just measured and unfamiliar. 

You thought you could even feel him holding back—careful in the way he didn’t say too much, didn’t push to make small talk. And you matched his restraint, reigning in your usual forwardness—not wanting to seem overeager or, worse, underprepared.

Yet, somehow it almost felt like, under the surface, there was a spark of something there... 

Attraction, yes. On your part towards him, at least. But you always knew that—you'd always been a fan in more ways than one. And so you knew to shake away the thoughts as soon as they came. You couldn’t afford to get distracted and ruin your first impression.

But you could’ve sworn that every time you glanced at where he was standing on court, he was already tracking your movement—you wrote it off as him studying you as a tennis partner, and you tried your best to do the same for him. 

You worked through cross-courts, then volleys. Quick transitions at the net. No one said much, but your rhythm was solid. And after a while, you started to learn him and his moves better. Every time he adjusted his swing or repositioned after a rally, you mirrored without thinking. No instruction, just well-timed instinct.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, you started thinking to yourself as the time went on.

When the session wound down, your respective coaches stepped in with clipboards and towels, casually breaking down a few tactical things. Where to serve wide to give you time to rush the net. How to bait a hit without revealing it. Chris spoke mostly to you, Darren and Simone mostly to Jannik—both groups huddled with your respective teams, but not far from each other on court. 

As Darren explained something about court positioning, Jannik's eyes drifted. Just momentarily, nothing rude or intentional, because the sight of you standing just slightly staggered behind Simone distracted him. Jannik gazed past Simone’s shoulder to settle on you as you leaned in for Chris’s instruction, towel looped around your neck, hair re-tied up haphazardly and sweat beading at your hairline. You weren’t looking at him, and it was something about that focus of yours that made his falter.

All the while, unbeknownst to either of you, the coaches caught the look, your own coach’s eyes tracking Jannik’s brief glance over. Darren and Simone both turned to follow Jannik’s gaze, flashing a knowing smile to Chris before exchanging a smirk between each other—one of those quiet, veteran acknowledgments that didn’t need words. And as the time for feedback wrapped up, the coaches knocked shoulders about it once more when you and Jannik made your way to the bench for water, with shared half-smiles and a small shake of their heads.

You both sat down on the bench wordlessly, without such cheer, draining your water, catching your breath, bouncing your knees...

And the silence stretched.

His knee brushed yours for a second—subtle, fleeting. Maybe accidental, maybe not. But neither of you moved away. If anything, it felt like he angled a little closer, elbows on knees in a way that made the bench feel smaller. You stole a brief glance at his profile, only to find he was already looking at you. He looked away quickly, but you saw the flush just beneath his ears.

You turned your gaze forward as well and exhaled through your nose, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. And when you reached for your towel again, it was slow and careful, like speeding up might make the moment burst. 

Every shift of his body, every inhaled breath—it all felt amplified. He still hadn't said anything, and neither had you. But the charge between you on that bench could only come from the mutual, acute awareness of how close you were sitting—something passing between you in the silence. A low hum neither of you acknowledged, but both of you heard.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, cap pulled low over his brow. You sat upright, towel tucked beneath your chin, the water bottle cooling in your palm, and your arms just barely brushed when he adjusted just slightly to turn his head back to look up at you.

Capping his bottle, he spoke, the first to break the silence. "You played in Washington, no?"

You nodded, a little startled to be addressed amidst the blatant tension. "Yeah. Only finished up three days ago. It was non-stop in D.C."

“I saw you made it to the semis.” He hummed in acknowledgment. "It was a great run, beautiful drop shots.”

You looked at your lap with a bashful smile at his words, mouthing a thank you though no sound came out. It stayed quiet for another beat, and he took the initiative to break it once more.

“This is my first one back, I took some time off after Wimbledon." He said, just because, as if no one had noticed the World No. 1’s brief absence. 

"Good call.” You glanced over. "Yeah, that final was... a lot."

He offered a tight smile, and you didn’t press.

Another pause and, for a second, you let yourself really look at him.

He reached up and pulled off his cap, running a hand through his flattened curls to shake them loose as you leaned forward to set his bottle back on the ground between his legs. You watched without meaning to—the slow way his fingers pushed through his hair, the way the curls clung damp to his forehead before falling back into their usual shape. 

It should have been a normal thing. Unremarkable. How many times had you watched your peers do the same?

But something about the motion, about the way he did it—something about him. It caught you.

Your eyes traced the line of his cheekbone, the shape of his mouth, the way his shirt clung to his back as he leaned forward. You noticed more than you meant to. Maybe more than you should have.

It was a subtle glance—nothing overt—but when your eyes flicked back to his, you found him already watching you.

That seemed to be a pattern, now.

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth flickered upwards, and his gaze glinted like he knew he’d seen more than you meant to reveal.

In an effort not to linger in getting caught, and to move past your subsequent, growing embarrassment, you broke this silence.

"Thanks for agreeing to this," you said, rushed and sheepish. "I know doubles probably wasn't on your radar."

“Ah, of course.” He gave you a crooked smile, and you willed yourself not to look at his lips. “I take it as a privilege. And my team and me—we think it will make improvements for me, too.”

“That’s the plan.” You screwed your own water bottle shut, giving him a smile back with a shrug of your shoulders. “But, I guess we’ll find out later today if it actually works out that way.”

“I guess we will.”

---

The sun had just started to dip behind the stands when you two were up for your first round to begin, and it cast a golden wash over the court as you and Jannik stood behind the entrance gate of the court, waiting for your names to be announced. 

Your warm up session with Jannik—your first meeting with Jannik—was only a handful of hours ago and now you were hoping forty minutes of light hitting, a bit of target serving, and the overwhelming tension between you two was enough to carry you through the first round. Doubles may not have been your main priority, and having Jannik beside you might have muddled your head, but that didn’t change the fact that you hated losing. You planned to play to win. You always did.

Jannik stood beside you, bouncing side to side slightly on the balls of his feet. He was focused and calm, and you seemed to absorb his energy without realizing, stretching out your shoulder one last time.

"You ready?" you asked, glancing sideways at him.

He nodded with a smile that widened when he spoke. "We’ll see."

“We’ll see?” You laughed, before turning your head back to face the gate. "That’s convincing."

He let out a breath of a laugh. "I mean... you said it before, at the warmup. We can only find out on the court, no?"

"It’s true." You glance back at him once more. “Even if we don’t manage to sync up, maybe it’ll be a fun disaster.”

You heard him echo your words to himself with a laugh as you stepped forward to exchange a polite nod and handshake with your opponents—a solid pair from France who had already played together before. Jannik joined beside you to do the same, giving them a quick smile and an easy smile, as you continued a little banter with them. 

It seemed the energy of doubles was a little lighter than the matches you’d played, but the bleachers surrounding the court still had that electric thrum. You could feel the pulse of the crowd as the walk-out music played, your names echoing through the speakers. The response to Jannik’s name was deafening, and your brows raised a bit when the cheers to yours wasn’t far off. In the time that had passed since this pair up was first established, since your initial disbelief, you’d forgotten how big a deal it was to be playing alongside someone of Jannik’s caliber. He seemed to sense your hesitation, and the resurgence of nerves, and he gave you a small, encouraging glance as you both waved to the fans and stepped onto the court.

Mixed doubles games were almost always played on the smaller courts on any tournament facility, but the sheer volume capable of even the smaller crowd seemed to close around you. All the pre-game procedures passed by like a blur. Jannik had to set a hand on your shoulder after the coin toss to pull you back in. You blinked back up at him before agreeing with his choice, the first service game was to be his.

Despite the serve not being a natural weapon of yours in game, the two of you settled into the match dynamic with surprising ease. You bounced the ball slowly at the baseline, breathing in the buzz of the stadium. On the first point, you landed a sharp kick serve out wide to the deuce side. The return came high and loopy, giving Jannik time to slide left and pounce on it with a clean forehand that thudded just inside the baseline. A one-two punch. Easy. Lucky.

Second point, you sliced the serve into the body. The returner tried to thread it down the middle, but you were already at the net, knees bent, eyes locked. With a firm backhand volley, you angled it short cross-court, well out of reach. You felt the crowd hum as you straightened. Jannik gave a subtle nod. No theatrics, just clear recognition—a stark difference from the usual displays you were known to put on, but typical for Jannik’s quiet celebrations.

At 30–0, the returner adjusted. You mixed in a flatter serve and got back into ready position quickly. The ball came hotter, dipping low. Jannik fell back to the baseline, ready to absorb pace, and you moved forwards to cover the empty front. The rally extended. Jannik played it cool, alternating heavy topspin with flatter drives, moving the opponents side to side. You hovered at the service line, reading their body language. At the first sign of hesitation, you darted in to poach—your signature backhand volley cut across the net to end the point.

And then, 40–0. You stepped up with confidence and tossed your serve high. The return clipped the tape and fell dead.

Game. Jannik and you tapped rackets in an easy and casual congratulations, and you shot a grin at your box as you registered the cheers of your team. Both you and Jannik had managed to turn every one of your serves into a point so far, a feat you were rarely able to do whilst alone—it was one of the weaker aspects of your game. So maybe doubles would help fix that, just as Chris had predicted.

Now the next service game belonged to Jannik and, as expected, his first serve was whipped past like a rocket. The second point, he kicked it out wide, drawing a stretch return that you intercepted cleanly mid-air and angled out of reach. The third went on to be a rally, playing longer this time. You kept tight at the net, as you did best, tracing the ball, ready for any flick or dip. He stayed deep, well behind the baseline, letting his forehand do the work, pushing the opponents until they just couldn’t return anymore. They hit the ball into the net.

Game.

Two games in, and you both knew exactly where to be—playing where you were most comfortable. You up front, cutting, reading, and pressing. And Jannik behind you, steady, strategic, and powerful. Those roles were defined and known, and they kept the rhythm sharp.

But then it was time to turn those roles upside down. After all, that’s what the whole doubles trial was supposed to experiment with anyways.

Your coaches had agreed from the start: this mixed doubles pairing wasn’t just about a fun variety, it was about sharpening your edges. Covering any weaknesses.

You needed more reps at the baseline. Jannik needed to get more comfortable at the net. And this game, with all its speed and improvisation, was proving to be the perfect environment for that.

And so the real fun, the real challenge, began. That had been the whole point, after all. 

It was early in the second set when you switched things up for a return game, Chris giving you the signal from the corner of your eyes. You dropped behind the baseline and Jannik crouched forward, shadowing the net.

And, immediately, things got messy.

The first point was a disaster. You were still adjusting to the angle, the depth, the speed of the serve from your new vantage point at the back. It came in flatter and faster than you expected—kicking off the line with a sharp bend that threw your timing. You moved to meet it too late, your weight still mid-transfer, and your strings caught it at an awkward angle. The ball skidded off your racket with a loud, resounding thwack and shot sideways, ricocheting into the sideline signage. A few gasps, and more than a couple laughs came from the crowd. You winced, and your hand came up to cover your mouth as it slowly grew into a disbelieving smile.

Jannik turned, raising an eyebrow over his shoulder with that careful mix of concern and dry humor, his own laughter bubbling underneath. "That was... different."

"Just–uh—” You let out a laugh and waved him off jokingly. “Just give me a second to settle in back here.”

But the next point, the origin of chaos just flipped from you to him. A short return floated to Jannik mid-court. He had time to set up for an easy volley, maybe too much time. He moved in, racket already back and wound up, clearly going for a statement shot. But instead of a measured finish, he flattened the racket and wound up too far. The ball exploded off his strings, he’d struck it with excessive power and it sailed high and long, landing well behind the baseline. 

An audible oof rippled through the crowd.

He stood there for a beat, looking at the spot where the ball had disappeared, and then placed a hand on his head in disbelief. He shook his head to himself as he retreated back to position, a smile of mild embarrassment gracing his lips.  

"I mean... that was definitely a shot." You called out, biting back a grin. “We’re trying to aim for the inside of the court, remember?”

"Ah, is that why there is a line there?” He looked at you with an exaggerated deadpan before breaking into a wide smile.

But you both shared a chuckle, coming together for a quick fist bump as if to say we’ll get it next time. 

And, after a few hiccups, you did. 

You both started to find your footing. You knew this was where the growth was meant to happen, well outside your comfort zone. Your coach’s voice echoed in your head, and you reminded yourself to enjoy the chaos—that’s when the good stuff begins.

On return, you lowered your center of gravity, starting to anticipate better. You began using your legs more effectively, letting the ball come to you instead of rushing it. One point, you got just enough on a forehand return to send it deep and off-kilter, and followed it up with a smooth cross-court drive that earned a quiet cheer from your box.

Jannik, in the meantime, let his own instincts adjust as well. Instead of trying to muscle through volleys, he started trusting his hands. He took pace off returns and played them deep with placement rather than force. 

And after one particular shot of his, things really started to spark. 

It was a brutal rally—long, twisting, each shot heavier than the last. The opponents were relentless, dragging you both side to side, changing pace, slicing low, lobbing high. Jannik stayed patient, blocking at the net with short steps and a lowered center of gravity. You kept feeding balls deep, looping them high to reset until finally, one of their forehands clipped the net cord and sat up just past the service box.

Jannik moved like he’d been waiting for it.

He lunged forward, knees bent, hands soft. The ball was dropping fast, low and spinning, but he met it gently, guiding it over the net with a feathered touch that felt almost impossibly delicate. It bounced just once and curled inward like a magnet to the sideline—the other side didn’t even get a chance to reach for it. 

You let out a gasp along with the crowd before they erupted in applause.

Ecstatic after witnessing such a point, you rushed him with full, unfiltered enthusiasm, practically bounding across the service box. Jannik looked up to you just as you reached him and his eyes widened, but he didn’t back away. You half-jumped into him and he let out a surprised laugh—your arms flinging loosely around his neck, racket still in hand. He held you easily, strong hands steadying your back. 

The crowd whooped, the energy spiking again. Jannik laughed into the side of your head, the both of you breathless from the exertion. You felt it in his chest. He was just as amped as you were, even if he was better at hiding it. 

The embrace lasted a second too long—maybe a few too long—before you remembered yourself. You stepped away with a dazed smile and sudden self-awareness, his cheeks red and your eyes wide.

"Come on," you said, putting an appropriate distance between the two of you again while reaching low to high five his hand that had just pulled away from your waist, your voice a little rough and giddy with passion. "That’s what I’m talking about."

He cleared his throat, but looked down with a crooked grin and a simple shrug. "I learn from you."

“Well you pick things up fast, then.” You couldn’t help but grin at his deflection and sweet humility. “Let’s hope I learn from you, too.” 

You returned to your places and, from there, the points got sharper. The initial unsteadiness gave way to grit and feel and, as Jannik improved before everyone’s eyes at the net, you started faring better than okay at the baseline—striking powerful, long shots back to your opponents. 

One of the points started with a wide serve that forced you off balance. You rushed back to hit a deep return to just barely stay in the point, and the opponents immediately pounced, turning defense into offense. The rally that followed was a blur of angles and pace—groundstrokes traded with growing ferocity, each shot tightening the margins.

Jannik tracked one down wide on his forehand, slicing it defensively cross-court. You recovered into position just in time to absorb a sharp backhand that skipped off the court, nudging it back with topspin.

And then the lob came.

High, deep, well-placed. Way over Jannik’s head.

But you didn’t hesitate.

Your legs were moving before you could register it. You sprinted back, racquet already raised. The ball dropped low and fast, teasing the baseline. You dropped your weight, coiled, and unleashed a blistering topspin forehand that screamed down the line—a clean winner.

The crowd stilled for a second. And then they were up on their feet, a wave of cheers following.

Jannik turned slowly from the net, lips parted, blinking like he hadn’t quite processed it. His mouth curled into a dopey, stunned grin, and he shook his head slightly, still looking at you like you'd just rewritten all the known laws of physics.

You smiled wide and threw your arms up, pandering the crowd, soaking in their energy as they roared louder.

You made your way up to Jannik to tap rackets, but he reached out a hand instead. Clapping his hand in yours with an impressed shake of his head. 

"That—" he started, voice hushed and oozing with admiration, "—was unreal."

And his hand was still on yours, thumb resting lightly against the back of your hand as the buzz of the crowd surged behind you. He seemed to realize it at the same time you did, blinking once like he’d just caught himself, and then the two of you gently pulled apart—both of your quiet laughter and bashful smiles covering a beat of that tenison that seemed ever-present. That chemistry.

And, as the game kept going, it was like it kept growing.

Kept building up between you—something just past the clean points and tight reactions. It was the way your shoulders bumped at changeovers, the glances you traded after surprising yourselves, the glint in your shared smile every time the crowd roared for a point that impressed even the two of you.

You didn’t need the scoreboard to show that you were winning—you could feel it.

When match point landed—a volley from you after a deep return from Jannik that clipped the baseline—the two of you turned into each other immediately, rushing at one another. You met at the middle with a shared high-five that lingered with a brief hand hold, wide grins adorning your faces. A far from flashy celebration, but honest and special.

You were still gushing about the last point with Jannik as you walked over to the net to shake hands with your opponents. He mentioned something about your backhand winner in the second set, and you countered with how outrageous his drop shot had grown to be within the span of a single game. Even the opposing team smiled at your enthusiasm as they waited against the net, and you all nodded warmly as you passed handshakes and congratulations both ways.

And when heading back to the bench, you were both still riding the high. You toweled off, giggling mid-sip of water as Jannik retold his perspective of a particularly ballsy shot of yours—one that whizzed right passed his face. Jannik clutched his ear in jest, miming the speed the ball grazed him with, and you doubled over with laughter at his story and the way he acted out. And at his openness—his humor pleasantly surprising you. 

The on-court interviewer found you like that, coming down from the joke, and they shot you both an amused smile before gesturing towards the court. You nodded and followed to the service line, feeling Jannik close behind you as you stepped forward in sync, the energy between you still thrumming. 

The first question—and maybe it was to be expected—wasn’t even about the score or the outcome.

"What a match! You two were dynamite out there. What was going on?"

You both opened your mouths to reply at the same time, only to pause, glancing at each other. Jannik gestured for you to go first, a smile playing on his lips.

You grinned at him before turning back towards the mic. "Honestly—well, speaking for myself at least, I guess—I just had so much fun.”

You turned to look up at Jannik, smiling a bit when you saw him watching you and listening with his own smile, before continuing, “I had almost no expectations for doubles—and obviously Jannik and I have never played together—but I really do feel today was one of the most entertaining matches I’ve ever played… and we happened to play pretty well, too, I’d say.”

“And if you’re saying this is one of the most entertaining matches, then it really must be. We all know your matches can be pretty… showy.” The interviewer punctuated his words with a pointed look, and you laughed with an innocent shrug towards the crowd. Next to you, Jannik chuckled along with the audience.

Pointing the mic towards Jannik now, the interviewer turned the question on him. “And Jannik? Was it fun, do you agree? Because the next round will be kind of awkward if you don’t.”

“It was okay...” Jannik laughed, and the stands followed suit as you exaggerated a grimace, though he immediately shook his head, his voice light and easy. “No—I’m just kidding. This was—it was incredibly fun, yes, and we make a good team, obviously. She made it easy to enjoy.”

There was a ripple of cheers from the crowd and you smiled down at your feet, rocking back and forth on your toes as the rest of the interview continued—and all the while, you tried not to fantasize about your next match together.

---

Despite all the build up you’d felt for it, you and Jannik didn’t talk at all before the second round together. 

Not because you didn’t want to. Your first game with him—him in general, really—ran through your mind throughout most of your free moments. It’s just that there weren’t very many of those. You hadn’t even run into Jannik in the hallways behind the scenes in the facilities, as you sometimes did before you’d even met him. 

Your schedules once tournaments began had little to no give. Advancing in singles while getting through media obligations made things packed enough, and the mixed doubles agenda had to be wedged in whatever small spaces that worked. Just the previous day, the both of you had your respective singles matches, managing wins that left you sore but satisfied. 

But that didn’t stop you from reminiscing about that first doubles round in the lead-up to the second, and you found yourself raving about Jannik and the match to your team without meaning to more often than not. 

Your coach had clocked it immediately after the first one with Jannik. You’d barely made it into the locker room before launching into your post-match high, recapping every detail—his returns, your volley angles, how you moved together like you'd practiced for months. And even when the day passed, you’d continued to spout details about the surprise of it, about how much fun it was, about him. 

"Okay, okay, we get it. He’s perfect." Chris had laughed, holding up both hands. “And we saw the match, remember?”

You’d rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. "I’m just saying—we worked together. Like, really worked. That never happens first try... Right?"

"Darren says he’s been saying the exact same thing about you, by the way," Chris once allowed, casually.

"What?” Your head had snapped around. “What did he say? Like, exactly—word for word."

Chris laughed harder. "I don’t know, something about you having ‘insane hands at net' and 'feeling really in sync.'"

You’d tried to play it off with a shrug, but Chris laughed again as you clearly turned away to cover a smile—one you couldn’t get rid of for the rest of the day.

So when you met up with Jannik for the second time, forgoing a warm-up because of your long match earlier that day, you’d beamed at him when you spied him at the end of the tunnel. And this time the walk-out felt easier, though your energy felt almost impossibly elevated from the first time.

"I’m already sore from my match today,” you told him as you zipped off your jacket, turning to send him a quick wink. ”So let’s make it quick?"

He gave you a slow, crooked grin. "You read my mind."

And the match itself felt like a continuation of a rhythm already found. From the moment you stepped onto the court together, there was no need to recalibrate. No awkward stutters, no overlapping spaces. You split the court effortlessly, reading each other's body language with minimal words. He fed the other side with soft volleys and you’d counter any deep hits with skillful flicks and cut angles; with any looping balls hit to either of your forehands being snapped back with a controlled whip of a swing.

The first rally said it all. You served down the T, and before the ball even came back, Jannik was already shifting behind you to cover the open court. You didn’t call it. You didn’t need to. His instincts slotted right into your own, like gears catching mid-spin.

Every shift in positioning came naturally. When you dipped in for the poach, he read it and dropped back. When he slid wide to take a forehand on the run, you angled inward without thinking. It was more than coordination—it read like well-oiled intuition. You knew where he’d be and what he planned to do, and he knew the same of you.

The first set was peppered with plays that felt almost telepathic. On one return game, he slid in for a short volley and you were already crashing the net behind him, catching the reply with another, reaction volley that drew a clean winner. You turned and beamed at him. He just gave a small, satisfied nod, eyes shining, pumping a fist in your direction. 

And between points, you murmured adjustments, barely louder than your breath. You stepped toward him, your footsteps soundless on the hardcourt, the heat of your body pulsing with adrenaline. Jannik mirrored you—close, quiet—and the distance shrank until he was right there.

He dipped his head, the curve of his jaw brushing just past your temple. The brim of his cap even casting shade on you. You could see the freckles dotting the higher angles of his face, feel the faint stir of his breath fan across your cheek. The space between you was barely more than that breath, and yet it didn’t feel tight or uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like all things outside of you two had suspended, like the rest of the court had gone still.

"On the ad, I’ll go early," you murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched yours, close enough for you to see the flecks of amber just beyond the olive green, to notice the furrow between his brows soften.

"I’ve got your wide if they switch it up," he said finally, voice low but not rushed. Really hearing you, really taking you in.

His cheekbone brushed your hairline as he nodded, and neither of you moving until the umpire called time. You stepped back at the same moment, falling back into gameplay like the heat of being near him wasn’t still radiating through your body. 

The scoreboard moved quickly from there, the two of you almost dictating every moment. You weren’t just winning points, you were full on orchestrating every back and forth.

When you started serving, you had a hold secured within four points, thanks to your newly developing, reliable spin and Jannik’s court coverage. Then he held with three consecutive winners. By the time you reached the end of the first game, the scoreboard read 6–2, and even your usually well-equipped opponents already looked defeated.

You rested your racket between your knees as you reached for your water. You bumped your shoulder lightly into Jannik’s. "Think we should pretend to struggle? Keep it interesting?"

He chuckled, not even bothering to reply and just shaking his head with a faint, fond smile your way before you both stepped back on court—the second set flying by even faster. 

The two of you leaned into the rhythm—Jannik creeping forward more often, surprising the opponents with well-timed net rushes, while you settled at the baseline with a new level of confidence. Your returns had weight, purpose. Power you hadn’t quite gotten to before. He caught onto your shifting stance and adjusted his movement accordingly. It wasn’t just some subliminal communication anymore, or silent chemistry—it was trust.

Midway through the set, your opponents tried to lob you both. Jannik was already backpedaling by the time you shouted "yours” and he snatched it out of the air with a running overhead smash that kissed the back of the line. You laughed in delight from the service line, already moving forward for the next point.

In another moment ,a wide serve from the opponents sent Jannik sprawling out of position. Without missing a beat, you slid cross-court to cover, skidding to pick up the return with a forehand slice, and transitioned forward immediately, as if daring them to pass you. They tried and failed, the ball slinging into the net right in front of you. 

And when Jannik finally recovered to join you at the net, he bumped your shoulder, grinning. "You don’t even need me."

"Not true.” You spun your racket in one hand with a cheeky smile. “I just like showing off."

He moved to serve for match point after that, passing you to get to the baseline, and you were still smiling.

"You want a trick shot?" he asked crossed you, while you got down to crouch at the net.

“I think we’ve made enough of those.” You grinned up at him. "I want the point."

He chuckled into his nod, walking over to the ball kid and bouncing the ball with a smile still on his face. And the final point came fast—a second serve kicker from him, a shaky return, and you intercepting mid-air with a crisp backhand volley that landed just inside the tramline.

You quickly exchanged polite words with your opponent before turning to the crowd with both arms raised, basking in the cheer that followed. Spinning on your heel, you flashed a grin toward Jannik and motioned for him to join in the celebration. He chuckled under his breath and followed you toward center court, mimicking your energy with a looser, almost shy sort of smile.

The crowd loved it. They weren’t used to seeing Jannik so animated—his usual composure being quiet and almost clinical even in his victories. But beside you, he let himself laugh, let himself be pulled into your exuberance.

You grabbed his wrist and raised both your arms together, laughing when that earned an even louder wave of applause.

"See how much they love it when you humor me," you teased, barely loud enough for him to hear over the crowd. He leaned in to hear you properly, his ear by your lips.

"You’re dangerous," he replied, shaking his head before rising back the his full height, but the warmth in his voice undercut any protest.

---

Even amidst that mixed doubles excitement, your singles performances’ still stunned.

You were pushing through the draw with confidence, finding your rhythm early in matches and closing them out with textbook precision—implementing improvements prompted by your doubles matches almost immediately. A straight-sets win over a top-seeded player in the second round had been the talk of your section of the draw. Commentators noted how your net game had somehow grown even more exact, and how your footwork had never looked sharper. You’d even been serving better, hitting your spots with a newfound aggression no one missed, and stepping into returns with a calm that belied the stakes. 

In short, it seemed your game was peaking—and the growth didn’t look like it’d be slowing down soon.

Jannik, as expected, was cruising through the rounds. He hadn’t dropped a set yet, and his movements like liquid gold—each point played with the economy and edge of someone fully locked in. His confidence radiated, though his demeanor remained as steady as ever. People had referred to him as the favorite to win before the tournament had even begun, and he never batted an eye at the pressure.

But it seemed no matter how much you both achieved individually, the press couldn’t help but circle back to your unique, out-of-nowhere doubles pairing.

At your post-match press panel following your third-round singles win, a reporter shifted the topic to discuss Jannik towards the end. "Obviously another great performance today against Zheng. We’ve observed a lot of progression in your game since playing at the Toronto, and you’ve said previously that you attribute a lot of that to your doubles campaign with Jannik Sinner—Can you talk a bit about what’s made that pairing work so well so quickly?"

You shifted in your seat, already smiling at the mention of his name. "I think it’s been a fun and light new thing, first and foremost. And, of course we’re both super competitive, but we’re also kind of opposites on court in terms of energy and skill. So it… I don’t know, it just balances well. He’s calm, and I’m..."

"Expressive," someone from the room offered, calling out from the sea of journalists, and the room chuckled.

“Yeah, that.” You laughed. "But no, seriously—he’s just a smart player. He’s the number one for a reason, and I really feel playing with him has pushed me to improve.”

The reporter nodded when you wrapped up your answer, thanking you as they passed the mic on for the next question. “Like you say, you and Sinner have a great dynamic on court. What did the preparation leading up to you two playing together look like?”

You laughed to yourself, sipping some water before twisting the mic to sit in front of your mouth again. “There literally was none. Absolute zero preparation—we met the day of our first match, actually.”

“How would you explain the success of the partnership, then?” The reporter followed up with a laugh.

“I honestly don’t know.” You paused for a moment, looking down to think. “I mean... Like I said, Jannik’s a very good player. He’s very intuitive, he’s learned how to play with me very quickly... He feels me out especially well, and knows just when to go hard and soft, and—”

You stop when a ripple of laughter passed over the reporters, and freeze when you hear what they did in what you said .

"On the ball," you said quickly, hands raised in mock defense before covering your delayed, mortified expression. "Hard and soft on the ball—and on court. Obviously."

“You also said he ‘feels you out well’?” One of the journalists you were more familiar with called out with a smile. The laughter only continued and you buried your face in your hands for a second more before looking up again, cheeks warm but smiling. 

"Oh god… No one quote any of that, okay?" You shook your head to yourself, uncapping your water to chug more water than you needed. “Uh, next question?”

Another reporter stepped up, mercifully offering you some sweet relief. “You seem to switch from your usual area of comfort when playing doubles, with you back at the baseline and Sinner up at the net—that’s not Sinner’s speciality either, how does that feel?”

“It feels great—uncomfortable at first, but ultimately great, yeah.” You nodded. “We started playing in our comfort zones the first game, but I think where we really got excited is when we flipped. Obviously, Jannik is really good at hitting it from the back, so I like having him behind me, but—”

You pause when a loud, forced cough from somewhere in the back broke your train of thought, and the loaded silence in the crowd that sat after it was deafening. Soon after, it broke when concealed chuckles slowly started popping up around the room.

You look around in confusion, before rerunning what you’d just said to yourself. And, as soon as you got it, you placed your head in your hands—feeling a sense deja vú all too soon.

“Wow. I’m just saying everything wrong today, aren’t I?” You moved your palms to press into your eyes, letting out a dry laugh. “Either that, or this is just a room of some very perverted journalists—god.”

They all only increased their laughter at that, and you joined in good-naturedly, though you were already dreading what was to come as soon as you stepped out of the conference room…

And, just as you predicted, the reaction was exactly what you'd expected—and kind of feared.

It started with one clip, and within the day it spiraled into compilations, reaction videos, slowed-down edits with swapping between the you and Jannik behind dramatic and sensual music, “hard and soft” trending on Twitter with replies that racked up dozens of likes before you could even blink. It seemed everywhere you turned, there were those lines followed by your face of realization and subsequent embarrassment.

When your team met you in the cafeteria for a meal, it was like they’d been rehearsing the line for hours just to recite it from memory. They teased you endlessly.

"You realize it's going to be on a t-shirt by next week, right?" your physio said, grinning as he plated some pasta from the buffet.

"And it’s gonna be on posters at your next match," Chris jumped in, barely looking up from his tray. "Front row. Full of glitter..."

"Screaming hard and soft at the top of their lungs," your trainer added, and nearly choking from failing to hold in their laughter.

You groaned, dragging your hoodie up over your head. "I hate all of you."

"You love us," your physio sing-songed. "Just not as much as the way Sinner feels you out, apparently."

"... It’s obvious in the full context that I’m talking about our game style.” You glared at her from the side of your hood. “It wasn’t even that bad… Right?”

"Of course not," Chris nodded solemnly. "Classic tennis terminology. In fact, I think we should start using it in practice. Next drill, I’m going to call it out so you can mix up your pace: go hard and soft, hard and soft—"

“Oh my god,” You tossed a napkin at him. “Stop, I’m begging you.”

And when your team continued to giggle, you flicked bits of your rice towards them, but you couldn’t help but smile at their enjoyment, despite your sincere and growing regret at what had left your mouth at the panel. You shook your head to yourself, shoveling your food with unnecessary aggression.

After a brief reprise in teasing, when everyone put their heads down to eat and fuel up, you broke the silence and brought it back up yourself. “You guys don’t think he’s seen it… do you?”

They exchanged a look, but your trainer spoke up after dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “I mean, maybe. But would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” You set your tray down. “Yes. One hundred percent, yes. It would be... It took him a second to warm up to me, and I just know it’ll go back to being awkward if he heard.”

“I don’t know, kid.” Chris said, shaking his head at your irrational worry. “I feel like he took to you pretty fast.”

“It was pretty stiff in the beginning. I broke through to him by some miracle, I don’t know.” Now it was your turn to shake your head. “I feel like he could think I overstepped and act all distant—and, honestly, I might be awkward, because I have no idea—no idea—how he’s taking it… If he saw it, that is, which…”

You trailed off, lips pressing together in wary disbelief as you replayed the scenario you imagined was his reaction as you and your team stood up to leave. Because, as happy as the public was to run with the suggestive comment, there was a side of tennis fans that was always quick to say you were too much. And now, after the press conference, those same people had taken to saying your words were vulgar and violating—despite clearly being a mistake. What should have been a funny mistake, too.

Even with all your years of learning to ignore it, you couldn’t help but wonder if Jannik would agree with them...

Your physio threw an arm around you, sensing your spiral. “It could be a little awkward, yeah, but so what? You’re both adults and professionals. It shouldn’t matter.”

You nodded, knowing they should have been right, and your trainer chimed in. “Yeah, so what? You don’t even have to see him after a few days—doubles will wrap up by the end of the week.”

“...Right.” You said, yet somehow the words were far from comforting.

---

Part two, Part three

Made reader a dramatic over-thinker, and I actually think that it's a vicious and common and underrated combo so... Wasn't initially planning to make this one angsty, and it's lowkey not even going to be, but it kind of just happened this way. It's just the way this dear reader is, okay?

Also, I hella glazed both reader and jannik's game play here, sorry. They're overpowered, yes, maybe, but let them live!! In this fantasy world and the real one, Sinner is king…

Wasn't planning on making this two parts, but it's literally so effing long already for no reason that I was like: it's for the best. So long that i didn't super edit btw

So stay tuned til tmr for the ending!

[gamesetattach]

That One Night

Jannik Sinner x Reader After being introduced at an event, reader and Jannik Sinner seek to resolve their immediate chemistry. They do, it's brief but magnificent. And they're both left wanting more... too bad that's unrealistic... they'd need a miracle for that to happen... Warnings include... steamy scenes, allusion to smut that might as well be smut, minor bike accident

The venue was dazzling, a shimmering blend of opulence and power, brimming with high-profile names from sports, entertainment, and beyond. You’d been to your share of high-stakes events working as a part of Lewis Hamilton's personal staff, but this gala—a celebration of global athletic excellence—was something else. Maybe it was the shift in Hamilton’s career, his dramatic switch to Ferrari drawing attention from every corner of the room. Being in the same space as some of the most impressive figures in the world was never something you could get used to.

You adjusted your drink in your hand, standing among your coworkers, who were animatedly chatting amidst the event’s grandeur. Lewis, ever the charismatic centerpiece of any gathering, stood nearby, surrounded by admirers and journalists. It was then that you noticed him—Jannik Sinner, the tennis prodigy who seemed to be everywhere these days. Tall, composed, and unmistakably confident, he approached Lewis with an easy grace.

“Congratulations on the move to Ferrari,” Jannik said, extending a hand. His tone was warm but earnest, with the kind of deference and understanding that only a fellow, high achieving athlete could channel.

“Hey, man. I'm a big fan of yours,” Lewis replied, during the swift clasp of their hands, his signature grin in place. “And yeah, thank you. It’s been an adjustment, you know how it is. New team, new dynamics.”

Jannik nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a big step, and very exciting. Ferrari’s history speaks for itself, but so does your own.”

“Thanks, mate, appreciate it” Lewis said, kind eyes twinkling, and then turned slightly to gesture toward your group. “By the way, these are some of the people who make my life run smoothly.”

Lewis introduced everyone by name, and when he got to you, Jannik’s gaze lingered just a fraction longer than it had with the others.

“Nice to meet you all,” he said, offering a polite smile to the team, though he was angled towards you as he did.

“Likewise,” you chimed in along with the other greetings of your group, eyes flicking up and down his tall stature with an obvious spark of interest. You smiled into your drink when you saw he noted your appraisal with a quiet smirk to himself.

---

The group conversation that followed was lively, filled with laughter and the kind of lighthearted banter that couldn't be faked. It wasn't uncommon for nights like this one to be filled with forced niceties and social obligation, but you found yourself surrounded by genuine company throughout the night for once. Jannik withstood the camaraderie of you and your team's established dynamic well, easily following the quick back and forth that bounced between your co-workers. Your own insertions in the conversation earned more than a few chuckles from his direction, and you found yourself meeting his eyes first at every instance of laughter. He wasn’t the loudest in the group by any means, but his subtle wit, dry humor, and ability to hold his own didn’t go unnoticed—especially not by you.

At one point, Jannik leaned slightly toward you after you’d made a particularly sharp and clever comment that had your co-workers open-mouthed with shock before they keeled over with laughter. “Do you always keep everyone on their toes, or are you just on a mission tonight?”

You grinned, meeting his gaze. “I mean, it depends on the company.”

His small smile widened just enough to feel like a win.

---

Hours later, as the event began to wind down, you and your team decided to head back to the hotel before the night got stale. It seemed everyone had the same idea.

The lobby was bustling with other guests from the gala, all waiting for the elevators in their shared hospitality. You stood near the back of the group, watching as people crammed into the small space. Jannik appeared beside you, his own team just slightly ahead.

“Looks like we’re not getting on this one,” he remarked as the doors closed, the elevator packed to it's maximum volume.

“Probably for the best,” you replied. “I’m not sure I have any social capacity left for that level of crowding.”

He chuckled, his relaxed demeanor infectious. “Guess we can only hope the next one is less full.”

Only a few others joined you in waiting for the second lift, and you and Jannik fell into easy, hushed conversation. The elevator dinged and opened, and you filed in first with Jannik's gentle hand on your lower back. He positioned himself next to you in the corner, allowing space for the others, his shoulders square to your own with your hip brushing at his leg. You stood in silence now, sharing the small space with guests before, one by one, they exited on the lower floors and left you and Jannik alone.

The silence persisted despite the clearing of others and grew to fill the air as something comfortable, but palpable. It felt hopeful, expectant—like maybe the tension that built naturally between you both through the night was about to be expended somehow. Like maybe something would amount from your hyper-aware orbit of each other that started within your short time of meeting.

You realized you were standing closer to him than necessary, still where you first positioned yourselves to accommodate the now-departed crowd. His arm brushed yours as the elevator ascended, and neither of you moved away, the small space between you unchallenged but charged.

When the elevator dinged once more, you glanced up, startled to see your floor already on the display.

“This is me,” you said, stepping away from the rail, and you saw this floor was the last one pressed on the array of numbers, "Oh, are you on this level, too?"

He shook his head, his gaze heavy-lidded and steady on you. "Must've missed mine."

He didn’t move to press his floor, and the doors began to close again.

You hesitated as you stepped through them, then looked back at him. “Why don't you come back to my room instead.”

The invitation hung in the air, sounding bolder in the silence than you intended, but you held off on regret as you waited for a response. Jannik’s eyes searched yours, something stirring beneath his usual, cool reserve.

“Lead the way,” he said.

---

The walk to your room was quiet, the tension building with every step. When you finally opened the door and stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The casual banter of earlier was gone, replaced by an unspoken understanding that neither of you felt the need to question.

“Nice place,” he said as he entered your hotel room, voice low, but he had barely glanced around. His eyes stayed trailing after your every movement.

“Thanks,” you replied, closing the door behind you. “Picked the decor out myself and everything.”

You turned to face him, his expression unreadable but his eyes giving him away. Slowly, he stepped closer, the gap between you shrinking until there was almostnone left at all.

And then it happened.

There was no formality, no careful consideration—just heat, just urgency. His lips were on yours, and it wasn’t soft or timid, like he’d been waiting all night for this moment. It was hungry, a breaking point neither of you had time to speak into existence but one that you both had felt coming all along.

His hands found your waist, fingers curling into fabric as if anchoring himself. You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, pressing closer, the moment swallowing you whole. The air buzzed between you, your heart hammering against your ribs, every touch igniting something more.

Somewhere in the haze, he pulled off his blazer and you tugged at his shirt, needing him closer, needing something solid to hold onto as your back hit the door. His breath was ragged when he finally pulled away, but only for a moment before his lips found the curve of your jaw, then lower, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to your skin.

He exhaled against you, voice hushed, breath uneven. You felt the sharp edges of restraint still present, the weight of something unspoken.

Then, your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly, and any hesitation that remained between you unraveled completely.

His hands, warm and steady, moved over your back, pulling you off the door and fully against him, as if closing the last bit of space that existed between you. His mouth found yours again, slower this time, and deeper, as if savoring the impermanence of it all.

When he finally pulled away again, his forehead pressed to yours as you both caught your breath. There were no whispered questions, no reassurances about what this meant.

Because it didn’t have to mean anything, and it didn't—at least, not yet.

So, your hand found his, fingers lacing together in a silent understanding.

And when you moved, guiding him to the bed, he followed without a second thought.

Faintly you heard the late night gusts and the rush of cars, a window left open, air cool and crisp, but the heat between you was unmistakable. The time stilled, no urgency or expectation left, only the slow unraveling of barriers that had been introduced already half-torn down. His hands moved over you with intent, like he was memorizing the feeling of you, the weight, the warmth, the way you shivered at the smallest touch.

You found yourself laughing softly against his lips at one point, the absurdity of it all—this place, this timing, such need after only one introduction. Jannik smiled too, a sweet one, and he moved his face from yours to nudge into your neck.

And then, just as quickly, the laughter faded, overtaken by something heavier, deeper. You pulled him back up to you, fingers dragging over bare skin, every inch of space between you erased until nothing else existed but this.

No past, no future.

Just here. Just now.

---

You didn’t sleep much. Not that night.

Every time your breathing leveled, every time the air settled between you, Jannik would shift closer again, fingertips tracing slow, aimless patterns along your skin, reigniting the heat that neither of you could seem to temper.

The sheets were tangled between your legs, the warmth of his body wrapping around you, the weight of his hand pressing against the small of your back, grounding you. His lips found the space beneath your jaw, lingering for a moment before trailing downward once more, his breath a quiet whisper against your skin.

His touch was exploratory, desperate, as if learning something new that he only had limited time to perfect. The slow drag of his fingers, the way he murmured your name against your collarbone, sent shivers up your spine.

What started so quick had become slow and unhurried as the night went on—a mutual unraveling, an indulgence in something spontaneous and momentary. Each kiss, each sigh, each press of fingers and hands and lips savoring all that was fleeting.

He wasn’t in a rush. Neither were you.

One night could be enough.

---

When you awoke late into the next morning, the sun streaming through the curtains, Jannik was already up and in his suit from the night before, sitting on the edge of the bed as he laced up his shoes. He glanced back when he noticed you stirring.

“Morning,” he said, his tone soft but steady.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice still heavy with sleep.

There was a beat of silence before he added, “Last night was… unexpected.”

You sat up, pulling the sheets around you. “But, was it really though?”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “No, maybe not.”

As he stood, you watched him hesitate, his hand resting on the back of a chair. “You mentioned last night that you’re only here for the event. How long are you in the area?”

“Not long at all,” you admitted. “This was just a short work trip. I’m based in London, so I’ll be heading back after today.”

He nodded, absorbing the information. “London… that’s not too far.”

You smiled faintly, flattered at his effort to pretend and humor this. “I guess. Not if you’re motivated.”

His lips curved into a subtle grin. You both knew what this was, this was goodbye. “See you around, maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe,” you replied, trying to keep your heart from fluttering and latching onto the few, unlikely possibilities packed into that single word.

He held your gaze for a moment longer before turning toward the door, he called your name out once more. “Take care.”

“You too, Jannik,” you said softly as he walked out, leaving behind a room that suddenly felt much quieter—and a connection you couldn’t quite shake.

---

The Italian countryside was like something out of a painting, with rolling hills, ancient stone buildings, and skies so blue they almost seemed unreal. You’d been traveling from town to town for weeks now, helping Lewis Hamilton’s team gather material for his upcoming launch into first season with Ferrari. As his creative director, your role was to define the visual identity of this new chapter in Lewis’s career—a challenge you decided to cover by making a series inspired by the unique range of beauty offered by the Italian landscapes. And so, you'd immersed yourself amongst the Italian people up and down the country.

Today’s destination was a small, picturesque town tucked away in the Dolomites and bordered by Austria. You hadn’t thought much more of it as you packed your camera and sketchbook that morning, already suspended in awe by the setting during your arrival the night before, but as you wandered its sloped streets, you began to notice something: Jannik's face was absolutely everywhere.

It wasn’t unusual to see Italy's favorite tennis player and the World No. 1 featured in promotional materials across the country, but this was different. There were even posters of him at the local cafés, a mural depicting his likeness near the town square, and framed photos of his visits at every place you checked out for lunch. The ghost of him and that one night was already haunting you throughout Italy, but now it especially felt like the universe was conspiring against you.

You sighed into your espresso, thinking back to your brief but memorable encounter with him months ago. You often needed to remind yourself that it was just a one-time thing, a spontaneous meeting that would never align again. But apparently, Italy—and your own mind—wanted to encourage delusion.

Curious, you asked the barista about the abundance of Jannik’s imagery.

“Oh, he’s from here,” she said in accented English, beaming with pride. “Jannik is our treasure.”

Your stomach flipped. Of course, he was from here. You’d managed to land yourself in his birthplace without even realizing it. It was probably only a matter of time, but, even in all the time you spent trying and failing not to think of him, you hadn't really considered that you'd end up in his hometown sometime during your extensive travels of his country. Figuring he was off on tour or training somewhere far away, you tried to push the thought aside and focus on your work. You'd long since persuaded yourself to accept that you were unlikely to see him again. Still, as you moved through the scenic countryside that afternoon, your mind kept drifting to the idea of what it would be like to be in a place like this with him. The daydream felt too perfect, too impossible to entertain for long.

You don't actually know him, you reminded yourself.

---

Later that day, while riding your bike down a quiet rural road, you were so taken by the stunning view that you didn’t notice the dip ahead. Your front wheel went in and caught, sending you flying forward. You landed awkwardly, your camera bag cushioning some of the impact but your ankle was angled and throbbing.

“Oh, are you okay?” a voice called out in accented English.

You looked up to see a middle-aged woman rushing toward you from her car, concern etched on her face. She helped you sit up, clicking her tongue as she inspected foot.

“That hole gets everyone,” she said with a shake of her head. “You’re not the first.”

You couldn’t help but laugh despite the sting as you shifted. “Good to know I’m not alone.”

“My name is Siglinde,” she said, smiling warmly. “You?”

You replied with your name, wincing as she helped you up to your feet. “Thanks for stopping to help.”

Through a mix of your patchy Italian and German, and her limited English, you managed to explain that you were in town for work and researching the area as you walked your bike back to town beside her. Even before your mention of Italy's revered Ferrari, Siglinde had lit up about your project, insisting that she knew the best places to see.

“I live here my whole life,” she said proudly. “I show you the real town.”

---

Over the next few days, you and Siglinde struck up an unlikely, but fast friendship. She took you to local spots that weren’t in any guidebooks—a secluded meadow, a historic church, a family-run lodge. She spoke often of her family, particularly her children, whom she described as hardworking and kind.

“You would like him,” she said one afternoon after telling another story about her youngest son, as you walked through the market together. “You both work so hard. And you are very pretty.”

You smiled and humored her, brushing off the compliment. It was one of many not so subtle hints letting on that she thought you'd be good for her son. “I’m sure he’s great.”

“He is,” she insisted. “Handsome too! And such a good boy. Too busy for girlfriends, though. But maybe you can change that?”

“Siglinde!” you said, laughing at her persistance.

She grinned. “Just saying! You are a good match.”

Another time, as you hiked through the countryside with her, she pointed out landmarks and told stories about her family. “The boys loves this area,” she said wistfully. “My youngest, he is away so much, but when he comes home, he loves to be where not much has changed. He misses it here, you know.” She glanced at you, her eyes twinkling. “I think you would understand him. He needs someone who understands.”

You weren’t sure how to respond, so you just smiled and let her words hang in the air.

---

After about a week in town, Siglinde invited you to dinner at her home one evening. She insisted it would be a proper South Tyrolean meal, made by her husband, Johann, a long-time chef. You couldn’t say no to her, especially not to such an enticing offer.

When you arrived, Siglinde greeted you at the door, her face alight with excitement. “Come, come! Johann is still in kitchen. But my son, he is home! You will meet him.”

You smiled politely, stepping inside and handing her flowers you got from the market before she led you through the cozy house. She disappeared into the kitchen to find a vase, leaving you to admire the family photos lining the walls.

You did a double take at a small framed photo of a little boy obscured in snow, and you stepped forward to inspect closer. Smile wide and trophy lifted high, your heart rate picked up as you took in the pictured boy's toothy smile and the flash of long, orange hair peaking out of his helmet.

---

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Siglinde was speaking in rushed German to Jannik as she filled a vase. “The girl I invited tonight,” she began, her tone conspiratorial. “She is so nice! Hardworking, smart, and very pretty. Perfect for you.”

Jannik, used to his mother’s matchmaking, rolled his eyes with a smile. “Mama, you said on the phone already. Many times.”

“You must see,” Siglinde insisted. “You will see. She is special.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he replied lightheartedly. “At least your English will improve with someone to practice with around.”

---

Before long, Siglinde reappeared to usher you into the dining room. She had found you at the height of your disbelief, mouth still agape at the picture of Jannik on your new, kind friend's mantle.

At least now you know what's coming, you thought to yourself as you sat down at the dinner table, barely registering the beautifully prepared food plated in front of you.

You felt him enter the room before you saw him.

Jannik appeared in the doorway beside you and immediately stilled, recognizing the tilt of your head and the curls of your hair from just the one night spent together.

“Ah, you meet!” his mother exclaimed as she moved past him carrying a steaming bowl of soup into the room, leaving him behind in his state of shock that was now slowly morphing into one pleasant surprise and amusement.

You had turned to face his direction at Siglinde's entrance, and your eyes immediately found his. You couldn't help the slow smile that grew on your face in time with his.

He said your name softly, voice warm, tone incredulous. You took in a sharp breath, you didn't think you'd ever hear your name from his mouth again.

“Jannik,” you greeted, struggling to find any words to follow.

“Ah, you already know each other?” Siglinde beamed, eyes darting between the two of you with a knowing look. “...Perfect! Dinner will be even better!”

---

The meal was a whirlwind of flavors and conversation, with Siglinde and Johann enthusiastically sharing stories and dishes. You and Jannik tried to act natural, normal, but your time together flashed behind your eyes each time you looked over at him. And you had trouble focusing on top of processing the serendipity of this unexpected reunion between the two of you.

Every so often, your eyes would meet across the table, and you’d both look away, trying to suppress smiles. You knew what he was thinking, and you were sure he knew you were thinking the same.

After dinner, Siglinde all but pushed the two of you toward the door. “Take a walk! Show her the stars, Jannik. It is a beautiful night.”

“Mama, I—”

“Go!” she insisted, shooing you both outside.

The cool night air was a welcome contrast to the warmth of the house. You walked in silence for a while, your first time alone in the night. Your first time alone in months, though the last time was the first time as well, you supposed.

Jannik let out a soft laugh, and broke you out of your thoughts.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, shaking his head. “Of all the places, of all the people my mother adopts…”

“I know,” you said, smiling. “She's amazing, by the way. She helped me after I was thrown off my bike.”

He raised an eyebrow, chuckling a little. “You were thrown off your bike?”

“It’s not funny,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “There was this ditch and—Apparently, it gets everyone, okay?”

He laughed again, his gaze soft on you. “I’m glad she found you. And I’m glad we… ran into each other again.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Me too.”

For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Then, with a smile that made your heart stutter, Jannik asked, “What are your plans tomorrow?"

“Just spending more time around here,” you said.

“Good,” he replied. "Then maybe I can show you around... because I’d like to get to know you properly."

"I mean, you were pretty thorough the last time we met." You said, and he smirked at that and looked down at his feet. You continued, voice a little softer, "But yeah, I'd like that."

He smiled, nodding a little to himself, and as you continued down the moonlit path in the mountains, you let your pinkies brush against each other. Because you both knew, that one night was always meant to be the first of many.

---

And sometimes a one-night stand sticks with you and you have to like fucking exorcise it out and that's my truth. But not reader's, fortunately. Okay, steamiest one yet, hope you like xx

[gamesetattach]

In Sync - Part 2

Jannik Sinner x Reader After getting in her head about ruining her dynamic with Jannik, reader actually does ruin her dynamic with Jannik. On court, it’s obvious… And painful to watch… and play. But maybe the damage to their energy isn’t irredeemable… and maybe it’s actually non-existent?? Warnings include... smut, edging? sorta, spiraling, extensive description of terrible match, 13k words Catch up on part 1 here!!

---

You spotted him from the end of the hallway.

He was standing by the entrance to the practice courts, a towel around his neck, cap pulled low, arms crossed. Jannik Sinner—tall, unmistakable even from a distance. The same figure you'd played beside in near-perfect rhythm just days ago. 

He looked exactly as you remembered him—not that much time had passed at all—sharp profile, relaxed posture, that worn-in cap he never seemed to replace. But something about the air around him felt different that day. Stiffer. More measured. And you were already too in your head to decide whether it was coming from him or from you.

Your sneakers had squeaked slightly against the hallway floor as you approached. You had tried to steady your breathing, even though your heart was thudding in that annoying, traitorous way that it seemed to be doing when he was near. Your palms were a little too clammy on your water bottle. You hated that you cared this much.

He glanced up a second before you reached him. Offered a faint, polite smile. It was the first time you'd seen each other since that press conference. 

Since the hard and soft catastrophe… and the hitting it from the back one…

Since your words escaped your mouth before your brain could catch them. Since the internet caught fire. It was hard to believe that was just the other day, your mind had run a lifetime worth of circles since.

You’d rehearsed your greeting the night before in front of your mirror like an idiot. You’d played it casual. Light. Maybe something self-aware and dry about the press thing. Maybe something that made you seem confident and nonchalant enough to laugh about it.

But when your eyes met his—just for a flicker—you froze.

He nodded first. Gave a soft, neutral, "Hey."

And that was all it took to derail everything you had planned.

You mirrored it. "Hey."

Your voice came out quieter than you meant and when he bent down to adjust his laces with more focus than they required without another word, you reached for something to say. You tapped the heel of one shoe to the pavement twice before finally saying, "Good play in the quarters."

You swore in your head right after at the way your words came out sounding forced and shaky, and you trailed off with uncertainty even in the routine expression of congratulations. And—like he picked up on it, like he didn’t want to startle anything already on edge—his voice was low and careful when he responded. 

"Thank you," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile but decided against it and you followed the flicker before quickly looking away again. "You too. Straight sets again, right?"

You nodded once, "Yeah."

That was it—you figured curt replies would save you from digging yourself into a deeper hole. You moved towards the reserved court without checking to see if he was following after you.

You dropped your warm-up bag beside the bench, moving slower than usual, too methodical in unpacking your bag. You pulled off your hoodie, grabbed your water bottle, then carefully unzipped your racquet sleeve, avoiding looking in his direction. But you could feel his gaze flicker your way, brief and cautious, almost like he was checking to see if you would ever look over to meet his eyes.

You refused to, for your own sake, kneeling to stretch your hip flexors instead and he moved near the fence to roll out his shoulders and stretch out his calves. You weren’t quite close enough to collide, but there was nowhere you could go on court without being close enough to feel his presence in your peripheral vision. So you turned to grab your water bottle again, you did catch his eyes—only for his eyes to dart away to his towel.

Your coaches then gathered you both, laying out quick reminders about formations, serve direction, and signals. You nodded, eyes locked on your coach’s shoes, only moving to move the hair the wind whipped into your face. You thought you felt Jannik’s eyes on you when you lifted a strand caught on your lips, but, even when he spoke to reference a specific poach from your previous singles match, you still didn’t glance his way.

And when you answered some question, something about Jannik’s backhand coverage, you did so without referring to him at all. You didn’t say his name, didn’t gesture toward him, didn’t do anything that might invite eye contact or another opportunity for you or him to be put face to face with your press slip-up.

You only felt some relief when the briefing finally broke so you could go and hit some balls, and you eagerly backed out from the teams’ huddle—ready to use the drills as another means of avoidance—but the fans and onlookers that had piled behind the fences at the far end of the practice court had other ideas.

As with any court that Jannik graced, a crowd had already started to form as soon as he’d entered—spectators and credentialed pass holders gathering just to get a glimpse of his warm-up. Phones were raised, signs and balls held high. The occasional shouting and cheers had mostly become background noise, but one jeer pierced through the court and seemed to reverberate through the court.

You signaled for Jannik to take the baseline as you walked up to the net, not even looking in his direction as you did so, and someone cheered Jannik’s name louder than the rest. The yell was immediately followed with an equally loud cry teasing, "Yeah! Hit it from the back!"

You looked back just in time to see Jannik stiffen mid-serve toss, and you faltered where you stood. The line seemed to echo, and your worries of the perception of your comments washed over you once more, as if they weren’t already a constant shadow in the forefront of your mind, as you picked on his reaction.

Chris coughed into his fist to hide a laugh and Simone outright chuckled. Darren clapped Simone lightly on the back, murmuring something that only made him laugh harder. You saw Jannik looking over at them just as you were, and caught how he shook his head and glanced up at the sky. You swallowed hard, looking down at your feet. 

Kill me, you thought to yourself as you turned to face the net once more and bent your knees in ready position. It seemed you couldn’t act like you’d never said those words even if you wanted, but you didn’t know how else to confront the situation other than sticking to the tactic you’d already chosen—you’d already committed to the avoidance. 

You allowed yourself a look back at Jannik when you crouched for his practice serve and immediately regretted it when you caught his eye just briefly—darting your gaze back to the court. He looked as pink as you felt.

And even after the moment had passed and the warm-up continued, it continued to haunt you. Witnessing the reactions that seemed to affirm all your worst-case scenarios of Jannik’s reception to the media debacle.

So when you’d feel his attention graze you, you imagined his expression to be a sneer of disgust—though you couldn’t bear to look and confirm. You tracked the subtle tilt of his head from the corner of your eye when you adjusted your visor. There was the faintest shift in his footing as you lifted your shirt to dab some sweat off your lip. 

And he had to have been looking when you tucked two extra balls up into the hem of your shorts, the heat you felt must have been from his gaze flicking over you. The action was automatic for you—hooking your thumb beneath the elastic, sliding the first ball in, then the second. His eyes followed the shift of your hand, the stretch of fabric at your hip, the subtle indent it made in your skin. His gaze lingered at the spot where the fabric met the curve of your thighs, tracking the movement with a kind of focus you didn’t dare meet with your eyes though you felt the charge in a way that prickled at the base of your neck. 

The feeling of him watching forced all your usual, unconscious motions up to your attention, because they so clearly seemed to be in his.

He hates me. He can’t stand to look at me, you thought. You shook your head at yourself for what must have been the dozenth time that day. Of course you just had to go slip-up and say that… You really are too much.

You couldn’t help but be just as aware of him, lasering into all of his movements, though you could hardly say it was for the same reasons as his. 

Your eyes followed the stretch of his arm as he adjusted his sleeve, the way his fingers flexed and relaxed around the handle of his racket. When he brought his hands to his face and blew air into his palms to cool them—a gesture you’d seen him do in the countless matches of his you’d watched—you caught yourself staring. The breath left his lips in a slow, practiced stream, and for a moment, your eyes fixated on the shape of his mouth, the slight purse, then the drag of his thumb over his palm, and the flex of his fingers afterward. You couldn’t look away, caught by the intimacy of witnessing it so close, entranced by the small ritual. Your throat dried. Your eyes traced the veins on the back of his hand, the way they shifted when he flexed and relaxed.

Then you blinked, shook your head subtly, and forced yourself to look away, jaw tight, trying to breathe past whatever that was. Don’t give him more reason to be freaked out, please, you reminded yourself. God.

You were so in your head that, as you danced around the court for different warm-up strokes, the disconnect remained and heightened—bleeding into your game play. You went through all the necessary motions—rallies from the baseline, quick volleys, light serves—but nothing quite clicked. When he offered you a ball, you took it with a muttered thanks, eyes cast low, your fingers brushing his for a half-second longer than they needed to. You blinked hard and turned away before your face could betray the warmth creeping at the tip of your ears.

When your shoulders brushed passing each other at the net, neither of you said a word. But you both stiffened, and then pretended not to. It wasn’t outright cold, but it was careful. Like you were now both trying so hard not to overstep that you ended up stomping out your joint rhythm along the way.

That quick chemistry you both held just a couple days before now seemed to be snuffed out with this weight on top of it—it wasn't heavy with resentment, though it felt like it was to you, but it was heavy with caution.

And then, before you knew it, before you could even hope to resolve it—whatever it was—you were standing shoulder to shoulder with Jannik walking towards your first mixed doubles semi-finals, feeling entirely outside of yourself.

It should have been familiar ground by now—your third match together in the tournament. You had done this walk before not long ago at all. But this time there was a layer of static between you. Something unspoken that neither of you seemed willing to touch. The lightness that had once sat between your conversations had dissolved into the kind of silence that amplified the smallest of sounds. The way your shoe tapped faster on the floor. The way you cleared your throat and instantly regretted it.

He wasn’t saying anything. His hands stayed tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes stayed forward. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye—just long enough to catch the angle of his jaw, the familiar curve of his cheekbone. But he didn’t glance down, and you should have been glad for it.

And you, despite your usual nature, didn’t try and make some joke. Didn’t break the silence. You were past trying to alleviate the stiffness you yourself had instigated that morning—and you hadn’t felt like yourself in the past day and a half anyways.

You tried to fill the space in other ways. Tried to fill the space to keep you from opening your mouth and inevitably saying the wrong thing. 

You adjusted your bracelets beneath your wristbands, fixed the bill of your visor, unzipped and re-zipped your jacket—fidgeting movements that were more about self-soothing than anything else. You shifted your grip on your water bottle at least three times, even pretended to check something on your phone before tucking it away again. Each gesture felt painfully deliberate, and shamefully pointless.

And Jannik must have noticed. You could tell—you’d learned to spot his subtle shifts in attention. Though he never turned his head, you caught it in the flicker of his eyes when you played with the hem of your sleeve. In the way his jaw twitched slightly as you adjusted your hair for a second time, even though there was nothing to fix. Again, you didn’t dare look at him full-on, but you could feel him observing—and it was even necessarily out of spite or disgust in the way you were quick to hypothesize, it didn’t even seem to be out of curiosity. He just seemed to be taking mental note of all the little ways you were unspooling beside him.

Now, standing idle beside you as the announcer rattled on, you had nothing to focus on but him and the way he held himself. He kept his expression neutral, but his posture had that quiet sort of alertness—like maybe he was trying not to react, trying not to escalate something that was so clearly fraying beside him. Like he thought that maybe if he held his body still enough, kept his quiet enough, you wouldn’t sink any deeper into whatever headspace you’d fallen into. 

But that stillness, and that silence, only made it worse. The more careful he was, the more formal his energy became, the more you read it as distance. As discomfort. As quiet confirmation that you'd said too much, too wildly, and now he was just trying to save you both from the fallout.

And every second you waited to step out onto the court made your thoughts spiral harder. He’d definitely seen the clip. So now, with him, you suddenly felt completely, absurdly exposed. Like everyone in that tunnel could see every inch of embarrassment pressed into your shoulders.

And even if he hadn’t seen it—maybe you were broadcasting enough awkwardness for the both of you. You were overcorrecting. You knew you were, you had been since before your warm-up. You were standing straighter, arms crossed like a schoolgirl trying to be taken seriously. When you did speak, your voice pitched slightly upward, tight and rehearsed.

"Good luck out there," you said, too formally, as though you weren’t about to go out and play together.

His eyes shifted toward you, briefly. "You too."

His tone was soft. Polite and measured again. Just like the first day you'd met. And somehow, that recognition made the distance feel worse.

And it wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. No teasing lilt, no hint of the warmth you’d built just the other day underneath. Just default civility. He looked back forward immediately after, as if even he was beginning to realize that holding eye contact with you for too long might veer things into dangerous territory. Like if he acknowledged you too much, it would leave an opening to confirm something in your dynamic had regressed.

And maybe it had. It felt like it had.

But maybe that was you. Or maybe now it was him reacting to you reacting to him... You were in too deep to know where it started—a mess of mirrored restraint. 

You hated how aware you were of the space between you—how you held yourself like you were trying to be smaller. How your jaw ached slightly from how tight you were holding it. How you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, and how every tiny movement from him—whether it was the casual tug of his bag’s strap or the way he shifted his feet—felt like something you had to interpret.

When the call of your names came, you finally felt like you knew what to do with yourself, but when you stepped out together, it didn’t feel like you were arriving as a pair. As a team.

Cameras flashed. The crowd buzzed. You waved with a smile you hoped looked natural. But even as your hand lifted, it felt like it didn’t belong to you.

You still didn’t glance at Jannik, and he didn’t glance at you. You were both looking forward, performing your roles as expected of you. Pros stepping onto a court—you felt like strangers again. And, worse, you felt like it was your fault.

So the match started off jagged, and the first set dragged on.

Not because the opponents were overpowering—far from it, which was your only saving grace—but because you and Jannik were uncoordinated. Out of step. One pace behind where you should’ve been. His timing. Your footwork. His shot placement. Your reactions. All of it was just wrong.

The first few points were pure disasters. 

The first play, you called for the switch at net too late. Jannik moved behind you but didn’t have the angle, and your opponent crushed a clean winner right between you. You muttered a quick, "My bad," as you adjusted your strings.

He shook his head, tucking in some hair beneath the side of his cap. "No worries. We’ll get it."

And then, too soon after, he jumped the line early, cutting off a ball you had clearly settled in position for. It floated high and long.

He turned, lips already parted to apologize.

You gave him a tight smile. "It’s fine."

It wasn’t. Not really, not compared to how you had been playing the match before. Not compared to how you should’ve been playing, then.

The first promising rally came too deep into the set—Jannik served a deep, heavy ball to the body, and the return floated just enough to give you time. You were already moving up to cut it off when he darted left to take it with a backhand instead. Your rackets nearly collided mid-swing. The ball careened off the frame of his string bed and smacked directly into the net. You heard a loud sigh from someone in the stands. Jannik muttered something under his breath and turned away. You blinked at the baseline, your jaw clenched. At that point, neither of you acknowledged the mistake, one of many made in the little time that had passed in the match, nor did you even bother to come together for a cursory fist bump.

Worse still was after, when a short ball that hung in the center of the court after a weak return. You were at the net, ready to finish it. Jannik called for it—just a sharp, low "Mine"—but then hesitated for a fraction too long. You hesitated too, backing off. In that heartbeat of indecision, the other team closed in. The volley came down the line, and Jannik reached too late. Another lost point that should have been an easy grab.

You could hear Chris exclaim in equal parts disbelief and disappointment from your box at that one, and you looked down to shake your head at yourself. Across your side of the court, Jannik did the same.

Luckily, somehow, you’d scrape a few points together every now and then. One came off of pure chaos—a long, ugly rally where your footing slipped twice, where Jannik had to backpedal into the doubles alley to even reach the ball. You lobbed defensively, buying yourself time, and your opponents misjudged the bounce, letting it drop behind them. You barely believed it had landed in. Neither did Jannik. You tapped rackets—your knuckles brushing just barely, though your eyes never met—and said nothing.

Another miracle point came off a sliced drop shot from Jannik that accidentally clipped the net cord and dribbled over. You were even moving in the wrong direction when the ball fell dead on the other side. The crowd applauded out of what felt like pity. You exchanged a barely-there look, a tired shrug, before moving on. Neither of you had meant for it, but it had worked. And you needed the points and, at this stage it didn’t matter how you got them.

Still, you made it to the first half with a narrow clinch of the first game. There was no celebration, there wasn’t a need for one. The points you won weren’t earned—they just happened. Scraps of instinct. Dumb luck. The match wasn’t falling apart so much as it was unraveling slowly, thread by thread.

As you sat down during changeover, towel over your head, your chest tight with effort and frustration, the silence beside you was somehow louder than the stadium noise. The bench felt all too small—and not in the way that had made you feel giddy at the proximity the day before.

Jannik sat down next to you, his own towel slung around the back of his neck, the water bottle in his hand barely touched. His elbows rested on his knees, gaze fixed forward, brow furrowed like he was already replaying the disappointing course of the game that had only just ended. You both sat angled slightly away from each other—not completely, but just enough to emphasize the distance felt.

You uncapped your bottle and downed your gulps too fast. The water sloshed in your throat and nearly made you cough, but you swallowed it down. Your hands were shaking a little more than you wanted to admit. You couldn’t even be sure if it was from exertion, from the sheer frustration and shame at the way you’d just performed on court, or from the stifling air between you and Jannik.

You could feel his presence beside you take up more space than it should have. Not just heavy, now—it was loud, too. Loud in the way every movement he made still drew your attention.The way his fingers tapped once against the bottle. The way he wiped his forehead with the edge of his wristband. You still couldn’t bring yourself to really look at him, but your body seemed to note every shift he made, like a reflex you couldn’t shut off. One that had come to feel fun and enthralling in the days prior, but now you wished you could will the awareness away—a distraction was the last thing a match going as poorly as this one needed.

“I think, uh…” he started suddenly, his voice a little rough, like he hadn’t used it in too long. You turned your head halfway toward him, more reaction than curiosity. He cleared his throat and tried again, “That point in the second game? That ball that came to the middle—we both hesitated. I think one of us has to claim the center more.”

You blinked at him, the words landing sharp despite how gently he’d said them—you’d lost that point because of your lack of initiative. You knew he wasn’t wrong to point it out, but it still made your chest tighten.

“Okay,” you said, voice clipped. You reached for your towel, wiping your forearms because it gave you somewhere else to look. “I got it.”

He nodded and waited as though he expected you to add more. When you didn’t, he offered some words of encouragement. “Trust your read and go for it if you feel it.”

“Yeah, noted.” You replied, short and rough. 

You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that and he didn’t say anything more. He just gave a small nod, lips pressed together like he regretted speaking.  

Okay, really? Now you’re just being an asshole, you thought to yourself. You glanced down at your shoes, toes tapping absently against the court floor.

It was so different from before, though you tried not to think of it. That tension from the first match, the one that sparked with potential, with something unspoken but electric—that had hummed like a secret shared. But now, the tension was brittle. That charge still buzzed, but it didn’t feel like a current pulling you closer. It felt like a sort of static interference. Distracting. Disruptive.

You glanced over at him again then, briefly. Just for a second. His jaw was clenched. His grip around the bottle a little too tight. And you knew—he felt it too.

When your knees brushed as you shifted to stand, and the moment your legs made contact—barely even a graze—you both recoiled. Not dramatically, but enough. A startle. A flinch. He muttered a quick "Sorry," almost under his breath. You shook your head, fast, too fast, already moving to step onto court.

He followed a second after. You walked back to the baseline with the same pace, the same gait, but no cohesion. The crowd cheered, still hopeful despite witnessing the trainwreck that was the first game, but whatever was sitting rotten between you two wasn’t going away after just one break—you were just carrying it back onto the court with you. You didn’t have many expectations for the second half of the match, and soon the audience started to feel the same way...

The second set was truly hard to watch—and that was putting it lightly. 

It went by faster than either of you expected, which was maybe a small mercy. If the first half had been clunky, then this one was pure dissonance—ugly in a way that couldn’t be ignored or masked by luck. The rhythm—already tentative, if there at all—dissolved completely.

The points you did win over only came when one of you carried it entirely.

When you held serve once in the set, it was because you took four straight rallies on your own—serving wide, chasing every return, and finishing each point with aggression. Jannik hadn’t moved past the service line once in the whole exchange. 

He muttered, “Good one,” once, but you didn’t quite respond so the words just floated before dropping, lifeless.

He won several points over with that ace of his and a pair of forehand winners that were so textbook the crowd had to clap. You didn’t even pretend to move for those plays of his, and he didn’t look your way after sealing it. Just walked back to the baseline, head down, expression unreadable, though it wasn’t like you’d given him an opening to engage with you anyways.

And any moment where you both had to work as a team—had to rely on timing, and joint instinct—that’s when it all fell apart. Every time you moved forward, he stayed. Every time he gestured for a poach, you were already backing off. A long rally ended with both of you standing at the baseline, neither daring to approach the net. A soft drop shot from your opponent drifted over, completely uncontested.

One of the worst came late in the set—at deuce, on your opponent's serve. The return landed awkwardly at Jannik's feet and he scooped it back with a lunging forehand that floated mid-court. You saw the opportunity and rushed in to cut it off, only to misread the spin entirely. You overran it, your racket swinging at air, and then you stumbled. Fully stumbled. Your foot caught near the edge of the service box and you tripped forward, barely catching yourself from going down. The ball, untouched, fell well inside the court. Jannik stepped toward you instinctively, maybe to help, or to check in, but you were already upright and turning away, playing it off with your back to him, pretending to fix your strings.

And later, when you were returning serve on the ad side, you had just nodded to each other—a half-hearted, barely there cue that you were staying back—and the serve kicked wide. You lunged to cover it, barely managing a looping return. The opposing net player volleyed it hard and fast right down the center. Jannik, mid-shift toward the sideline, realized too late and you were too far out. He managed to turn back, but the ball clipped his frame and rocketed towards the base of the umpire’s chair. There was a gasp from the crowd when the metal rang out from the contact. Jannik rubbed his temple once in irritation as he gestured an apology to the umpire, gave you a brief shake of his head—more to himself than at you—and reset.

There was no longer any read, or trust, or rhythm between you. You’d both just seem to have lost it, it was clear as day to anyone watching. To you two most of all.

It was transparent in the way he gripped his racket tighter after every misstep, in the way your frustration showed in every slammed serve or overly aggressive swing. You weren’t playing to win together—you were each trying to salvage all you could alone.

But the nature of doubles had little tolerance for such dysfunction, you could only get by for so long. So you both scraped by as best as you could. Even in all the disjointedness, you made headway winning points—if only out of sheer luck or muscle memory. 

In a point of pure chaos, you misread the opponent’s return so badly that you all but chased Jannik out of his position while trying to get after the ball. Your racket managed to connect with the ball right as you crossed over where he stood, and it shot off your strings at a sharp angle, slicing behind the opponent. They scrambled, got a frame on it, and the ball popped up. Jannik volleyed it down, clean and out of reach.

You tapped rackets after that one, but it was a little delayed and, though the gesture was more than what you had done throughout the match, it held little warmth. 

And on one back and forth, after a string of poorly timed backhands from you that Jannik kept scrambling to compensate for, the opponent finally dropped a lazy shot at the net. You sprinted in, completely off balance, and scooped it with a desperate flick that smacked onto the tape of the net before teetering to the other side. A stunned silence hit the court as the ball dropped limply, without much bounce, onto the opponent's side. You looked over at Jannik when the crowd cheered, mostly because it felt like you had to. He only gave you a small nod and you took it on the chin—it wasn’t exactly a point to feel proud of. 

Then came what should have been match point… It was fitting—one final, spectacular miscommunication.

Jannik served and the opponent’s return came fast and low, and you both reacted at the same time.

The ball came to the center, a tight, straight shot to the middle, and you remembered what Jannik had said on the bench. Your instincts screamed at you to get after the ball. Go. Take it. You pushed forward hard, fueled by equal parts discipline and ego, committed to trusting your own read.

You figured he would hang back, or at least hold off, so you sprinted for the shot. You darted inward from the service line just as Jannik moved in behind you from the baseline, both of you angling for the same flick—your forehand coiling at the ready as his backhand lifted high. You caught his shadow in your periphery, but you were too late, too close to pull away. The second after your racket lifted, your shoulder slammed into the solid line of his chest.

He grunted as he stumbled, arms instinctively catching around your waist to absorb your fall, but your momentum didn’t stop and you took him down with you. His back met the court with an audible thud. Your racket clattering from your fingers as you collapsed on top of him. Your forearms landing on his chest, one knee grazing his thigh before your hips settled across his. Your breath escaped in a sharp gasp, tangled with his, as your bodies landed flush together. 

And—for a breathless, suspended moment—you couldn’t do anything but stay that way.

The only thing you could feel was the thrum of his chest beneath yours, the air between you thick, close, and impossibly charged. The scent of sweat and sunblock lingered in your nose, but underneath it—him. Clean, warm, faintly sweet in a way you hadn’t been close enough to notice before. Your hips were nestled squarely over his, one of your legs still slotted between his, his body firm beneath you. You were close enough to feel the low burn radiating off his core and sink into your skin, through damp and thin layers of fabric. The sharp line of his sternum pressed just beneath your hand, his chest hard and unrelenting against your palms, rising in fast, shallow breaths.

Your gaze locked with his and held—dilated pupils, the faint hitch of his breath, the flush climbing his neck. There was this raw wonderment in his stare, and it was he’d forgotten where you were. His lips parted slightly, and his breath hit yours. The brim of your visor of his cap brushed off the top of his cap, and you could see bits of his tousled hair beneath. His eyes were wide and you could see them darting between yours. Your noses almost touched. That close.

Your hands shifted slightly against his chest, fingers digging in on instinct. Your palms flattened and you lifted your thigh up and away so both your legs were snug around his hips—intending to push off, maybe. But he was solid and warm. And it distracted you. It kept you there.

You could feel the slight tremor in his ribs under your palms, or maybe it was your own hands shaking. The muscles of his thigh twitched under your weight. His fingers at your waist flexed again, firmer this time, and you swore you felt him exhale onto your cheek. The slide of his thumb at your side, grazing just under the hem of your top. The motion subtle, but not accidental. And the feeling of it lingered.

And then there was the heat—concentrated where your hips pressed into his. An impossible awareness that made your skin tighten. Your stomach fluttered. The ache low and slow. The way his body had shifted beneath you meant you felt every inch of him—aligned, taut, restrained. His legs had spread just slightly, and you could feel the tension in the way he held himself still, like he was afraid that moving even a little might cross a line neither of you had drawn but both of you felt. 

You felt his gaze track the line of your face—quick, then careful. The ridge of your brow, the slope of your nose, the shape of your mouth. You even think one of you leaned in, though you couldn’t be sure who—or if you imagined it.

You’d spent the day deflecting any contact with him, avoiding any closeness to a fault. But you couldn’t ignore him now. Not like this. Not with your hips straddling his, your legs bracketing his body, your hands still splayed across his chest. Not with the way he looked at you like he wanted to say something. You wanted to say something. You still couldn’t trust your voice, though. Especially not now.

Because it was dizzying. You could’ve stayed like that. You almost did.

But then reality surged in. The crowd. The court. The match.

You scrambled back with a rush of mortified adrenaline, brushing at your skirt, at your sleeves, anything to avoid the fact that you’d just practically mounted him center court.

"Shit—sorry," you said, not meeting his eyes.

Jannik sat up slower. He didn’t say anything for a second, but he took your hand when you reached out with a silent offer to help him up. He let go of you as soon as he was up on his feet.

“No—" he said finally, voice quieter than before. “It’s... fine.”

"Are you okay?" You asked, still avoiding his eyes.

He looked at you then, dropping his head a bit as if he was seeking your eyes. When you continued to look past him, his brows drew just slightly together. "Yeah. You?"

You nodded once, reaching up to tighten your visor with a decisive yank. And then, before you could stop yourself, your voice came out a touch too sharp, too soft. "I thought we agreed I’d cover the center, remember?"

The words hung there between you. It wasn’t quite an accusation, but it sounded like one, and you regretted it all the same. You heard him take an even breath to reply, but the umpire’s voice cut him off.

You both looked over to gesture that you were alright, and hastily made your way back to position as the umpire called the score: deuce.

Jannik rolled out his shoulders once as he walked back to the baseline. His face was as unreadable as ever, but you heard the way he exhaled hard through his nose. You followed suit, crouching at your spot at the net, your legs and chest still buzzing from the adrenaline of the fall. 

He served again—this time with even more force. It kicked up near the opponent’s shoulder and they could only manage a stretched return that floated high back to your side. You anticipated the ball's trajectory quickly, stepping forward to angled a forehand volley just out of reach. It landed inside the line. A quick nod passed between you and Jannik as you circled back. Not exactly a fitting cheer, but the sliver of acknowledgment more than you’d allowed for most points.

Then came a tense, looping rally. You stayed back again, grinding through the long exchanges alone, striking deep cross-courts, pushing angles as far wide as they'd go. Jannik remained planted near the service line, barely moving. He didn’t offer a signal. Didn’t step in to cover. He just watched, waited, letting you handle it on your own—it seemed the damage came when one of you tried to intervene.

And you did handle it. A solo effort where your backhand shot down the line to seal the point, and you walked back with just a glance and slight lift of a hand in Jannik’s direction.

It was only when the crowd roared did you register that was the winning point.

You barely reacted at first. You just stood, blinking up at the umpire when they called the match yours and Jannik’s. Jannik was already connecting with his box, racket hanging loose in one hand as he gave a nod and a firm fist towards his team. 

You walked toward him slowly, unsure of what to say or do. When you reached him, you raised your hand and he met the gesture halfway. A muted high-five, hands pulling back apart before they brushed for even a second too long.

You turned to the net together, shaking hands with your opponents in silence. Dazed and not quite triumphant.

Because though the match was over, though you had won, the air between you felt far from settled.

And no part of the day, on court or off of it, felt deserving of any celebration.

---

After the match, you and Jannik had all but bolted in opposite directions.

The disaster of your teamwork punctuated by the stiff post-match interview—if it could even be called that. You stood beside him at the service line with the mic waving between you, answering questions in stilted, fragmented sentences while barely meeting the reporter’s eyes, let alone each other’s. Jannik kept his arms folded the whole time, nodding at the appropriate moments, saying little. You picked at the cuff of your sleeve and answered every question with the minimal amount of words possible. When it was over, he muttered something to you that felt like it was a congratulations, though it was relayed in an almost disappointed tone. He nodded to his team and the cool down area as a goodbye, and you didn’t stop him, already leaving him for your own without so much as a glance back. 

Since then, you’d barely spoken to anyone. Most of the day had passed with you in a despondent haze. You’d coasted through media obligations half-heartedly and even skipped the recovery session your physio had booked, ignoring the texts from your trainer checking in on your whereabouts. When they did track you down, you ate your dinner with them in silence, responding to questions with noncommittal shrugs and nods before they stopped asking things altogether. 

But you knew you could only get away with your huffy mood until your usual post-match meeting with your coach. It was part of your routine—post-match debriefs, no matter how the match went. And Chris was never one to hold back, but this time, the tone was sharp from the moment he entered.

The door to your suite cluster’s common living area creaked open behind you—Chris didn’t wait for your cue. 

“Okay, that was rough,” he said, folding his arms. “Technically, tactically—that was one of the sloppiest matches I’ve seen you play in months. Ever, actually. You were two steps behind in everything. No anticipation. Footwork was hesitant. Reaction time? Non-existent. And your shot selection was straight-up irrational at times.”

Your gaze dropped, nodding but entirely unmoving otherwise. You knew he was right.

“Your read on serve placement was late, your depth disappeared after the third game, and don’t even get me started on the return positioning—you were guessing, not adjusting. And I know you know better than that.”

He paced a few steps, raking a hand through his hair.

“You let your fundamentals slip because your head was somewhere else. You’ve been playing the best tennis of your career these past few weeks, and today you played like someone who didn’t even want to be on court.”

That made your eyes snap up.

“Chris—”

“You were stiff,” he continued, just slightly redundant but clearly on a roll. “Jumpy, all over the place. You kept second-guessing and waiting, and when you did move, it was late... And there was no communication—that’s what doubles is all about, kid. It looked like you’d never met each other.”

“Yeah, well,” you spoke at that, allowing a dry quip under your breath. “We did only meet a few days ago.

“Shouldn’t matter.” Chris answered, quick and decisive, shaking his head. “I mean, clearly—just looked at how well you two played the last two matches…”

“You think I don’t know that?” you said, sharper than the usual you took with him—still controlled and not quite yelling, but heated and piercing. “You think I didn’t feel every time I was late to a shot? That I didn’t realize I kept hesitating? That I didn’t realize I was delayed for nearly every point?”

You threw your hands up in exasperation, letting it out all at once now. “I tried to adjust. I tried to push through it and read the court better, but—we weren’t syncing up at all, Chris. It was like we were playing two separate games at once—how am I supposed to fix that mid-rally?”

Chris blinked at you. He was quiet for a second, registering the edge in your voice. All that you’d said, it was rational, technical. All true. But underneath it… He recognized something else cracking through. 

“Hey,” he said, his face and voice softened immediately. “I don’t mean to pile more on and stress you…

He waited a beat and, at your lack of response, added even more gently, “What’s going on? This isn’t like you, none of today was.” 

You hesitated, jaw tightening.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, voice small now. Honest. “I really don’t.”

He sat beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Look, you’ve got the semi-finals tomorrow evening—your first ever. That’s a big deal. And you’ve got the mixed doubles final right before. That’s two career milestones. Two chances you can’t afford to fumble. You’re too good to let anything—whatever it is—get in your way now.”

You said nothing. Just watched your fingers as they fiddled at the drawstrings of your shorts.

Chris sighed, and you saw him shake his head with a knowing look out of the corner of your eye. “You need to work it out with him.”

“With Jannik?” Your eyes flicked up. “Work what out?”

“Exactly. If you don’t even know, then you need to figure that out,” he said. "Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, turning back to look towards your lap, and muttered. “He’s not the problem.”

“Then you apologize… Clear the air.” Chris set his hands on his thighs before hoisting himself up, final in his advice. “I don’t care if it’s awkward. Or weird, or personal—just do what you need to so you’re not dragging this weight behind you into tomorrow."

You swallowed hard, allowing a reluctant and slow nod.

"Because you’re too close to something great to let it fall apart like this."

He gave your shoulder one last, light squeeze and walked out, leaving you alone in the quiet hum of the hotel room.

You sat there alone for a long whole, picking at your fingernails, because what was it, exactly? What was it that had gone so wrong?

It wasn’t just the bad communication on court or the misread of plays. It wasn’t just the technical slip-ups or the awkward press conference or the stilted body language. It was maybe all of it combined—or none of it…

You didn’t know what you would even say when you did go find him. You kept circling the same questions in your head, asking why it even mattered—why you felt so affected about a dynamic fractured with someone you’d only met a handful of days ago. Why this one match, this one person, had left such a mark.

And yet, the answer was already there, in the fact that you cared at all. In the fact that it did get under your skin. Your tangle of frustration and discomfort that stayed constant ever since seeing Jannik wasn’t just from the game falling apart. It was from you. From him. The way you acted with him, and around him.

It was from your aversion to confronting what it was that laid between you too—the root of why it was you worried so much about his reaction to some stupid, accidental innuendo.

You’d always prided yourself on maintaining a level mental state, on inflating yourself and your confidence, especially when you were so naturally prone to overthinking. On and off court, you were all heat and fire. Your theatrics during play—the fist pumps, the grins, the crowd-rousing flair—it was a sort fuel that doubled as a protective wall enveloping around you. People came to expect a performance from you, always awaiting something shocking and forward from your appearances, and so you leaned into it, reveled in it. You felt more like yourself when you could be on display like that, bold and unabashed—and you couldn’t help but feel knocked down when you got in your head like this. It wasn’t like you—or it was, you just tried your best to cover it when you could.

And this—this mess between you and Jannik—was past just being in your head. It was in your game. It bled into your hands, your movements, your reactions. And you hated that, you couldn’t believe you let that happen. Couldn’t believe you’d let it stay that way.

But you hated how badly you wanted to fix it even more… It felt like a blow to your pride—that you cared as much as you did.

Still, you knew Chris was right. You couldn’t go into tomorrow like this—foggy, clamped shut, trying to muscle through it alone.

You had to talk to him.

Even if you didn’t know how the conversation would end, or where it would even start.

You pulled your phone from your bag, fingers hovering for a moment before tapping out a message to Simone, the only contact from Jannik’s team you had. You rush out a quick text asking for Jannik’s room number, and if he was around, before standing and pulling on a hoodie. You pulled on your slippers and grabbed your key card, gearing up to leave with the momentum, not allowing yourself a moment to back out.

You were already out the door, ready to aimlessly wander the halls at the very least, when Simone’s reply came—short and to the point. He confirmed Jannik was in for the night and gave you his room number, mentioning that he’d let Jannik know you were coming.

You stepped into the elevator soon after, pushing his floor level quickly before you lost the nerve. The ride up felt slow, the lift humming quietly as you leaned against the back wall, staring down at the numbers as they lit up one by one. You adjusted the sleeves of your hoodie, then pushed them back up again. You fidgeted with your hair, chewed on the the strings, caught yourself tapping your thumb against your thigh in rhythm with your breath. 

As you walked down the corridors, turning the corners, you kept getting lost in the rehearsal of your poorly strung together script. Should you start with an apology? Ask what the hell had happened? Ask if he felt it, too? Would you talk about the match, about the weight of tomorrow, or about the charge between you?

You just couldn’t start out with something stupid. Blurt out something awkward or sharp or too soft. Or start a sentence without knowing how to end it. 

You worried about his reception to your words. Maybe he’d be cold. Distant. Maybe he wouldn’t even open the door.

The hallway felt quieter than it should’ve. Carpets muffled your footsteps, and the fluorescent wall lighting made everything glow a little too warm and folding in too bright around you for the hush of the late evening. You moved slowly, passing each door with your heart knocking harder in your chest the closer you got. Every few seconds, you rechecked the text for his room number, mostly to give yourself something to ground yourself with.

You didn’t notice you were already standing in front of his door until your hand was halfway raised.

And then, before your brain could catch up—before your thoughts could interrupt again—you knocked.

The door opened faster than you expected.

Jannik stood in the doorway in a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot, his hair slightly damp, just starting to curl at the ends. His expression was mostly neutral—neither surprised nor particularly guarded. Maybe a little tired. And even curious, you thought.

"Hi.” You blinked, not quite looking at him even with him standing right in front of you. “Um—hey. I hope Simone warned you I was coming. I mean, I assumed= he did, he said—but I’m sorry if I'm disrupting you—"

You paused, already hearing yourself spiraling.

"Sorry. Okay. I just wanted to say—about the press panel? You know.. The ‘hard and soft' and the… Yeah, you know... I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Obviously. And I should’ve just said something about it right away instead of... pretending it didn’t happen and then acting like you were radioactive or something. Which I wasn’t trying to do, by the way. I was just—"

Your hands fluttered vaguely. "—avoiding you. Which you definitely picked up on, I'm sure. So... yeah. I’m sorry."

You took a breath but didn’t stop.

"And I’m sorry for how I acted before the match. And during. I was off, and I was quiet, and I didn’t really give you much to work with—and we were supposed to be helping each other, and it’s all super new and I just made it harder. And, I don’t know, I got in my head and it felt like you were avoiding me, too? But maybe you were just—"

“Wow,” he said under his breath, cutting you off, with a soft huff of disbelief. “...You think too much.”

That shut you up. 

And, he sounded almost amused, so you really looked at him then. And it was the first time you allowed yourself to truly look at him all day.

He seemed... relaxed. Calm in a way that made your frantic energy feel almost comedic. He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides, hoodie slightly rumpled, the curve of his mouth just barely turned up at the corners like he couldn’t quite decide whether to smile.

His eyes, clear and steady, held yours like they weren’t weighing anything at all. No frustration. No resentment. Just a kind of quiet observation.

It made you feel both stupid and seen all at once. 

You blinked once. Twice.

Then he stepped back and tilted his head toward the room. “You want to come in?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you weren’t expecting how light he was acting. You’d imagined some sort of push back, but he just casually moved aside, like your flood of words hadn’t overwhelmed him, like none of it was quite as heavy as it felt in your chest.

It made your face flush all over again. Because clearly, clearly, he hadn’t been carrying this the way you had. And that realization made your insides twist with embarrassment—like maybe you’d built a whole story around something he hadn’t thought twice about. That the disaster that was this morning could have been so easily prevented if you hadn’t gone and assumed the worst.

Still, you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

And then you stepped inside.

---

You settled onto the far end of the couch while Jannik crossed the room and took the other side, angling towards you. It wasn’t a big couch, but the few inches of space that were between you felt intentional—a comfortable, safe distance. Safe from what, you didn’t know.

He sat back and propped his feet up, arms resting loosely on his knees, watching you with that same easy steadiness.

You exhaled slowly, anchoring yourself in his quiet. For the first time all day, you weren’t buzzing. You let his calm wrapped around you and settle into you—stilling the rounds your mind had been on all day. Somehow, just being near him settled your shoulders, slowed your thoughts.

“I, uh—okay,” you started, a little more measured this time. “What I was trying to say earlier, in between all that babbling, is just… I didn’t expect any of this to matter so much. I didn’t think a one-off mixed doubles pairing would get me off the way it has.”

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve.

“But when we played those first couple matches and actually synced up—you know, like really synced—it meant more to me than I thought it would. I guess I didn’t realize that I’d... care that much about whether we kept that rhythm or not.”

You looked up at him, and met the steady gaze he held on you before continuing. “So after the media… debacle, I thought I’d gone and messed that rhythm up and—Well, I think in thinking that I actually did, sort of stunt that dynamic of ours… And, I’m sorry.”

Your voice trailed off, unsure if that was the end. Unsure of how else to finish.

Jannik picked it up for you.

“I get it,” he said quietly. “I felt that, too.”

You glanced at him and he gave a small shrug, like it was obvious, before going on. "To be honest, I was surprised. Playing with you feels natural—Like we’d done it before."

You blinked.

“I’ve watched you for a while,” he added, with an almost sheepish laugh. “Before this tournament. Not just match highlights—l watch your full matches. You’re… hard to miss.”

His delivery of that made you laugh—a sort of quiet, self-conscious thing.

“I like your energy,” he continued. “Your fire—the showmanship. You make people feel involved when you play, I was excited to be on the same side of that.”

“And it is fun… Today, maybe not so much…” He laughed when he continued, but looked over at you as if to reassure you that he didn’t mean it with any malice, his expression soft. “And with the press? It just made me laugh. I didn’t think anything bad from it. I know you say these… Some things like this to media before, no? Funny things—bold things.”

You smiled, relief flooding you. “So you weren’t offended?”

“No? It is a bit different, for sure, but that’s kind of your thing, right?” He chucked before raising an eyebrow, amused. "Should I be offended?”

You bit your lip. A beat passed. Then, emboldened by the return of your footing, you leaned back with a grin. “I mean, if anything... I would actually argue the average person should get an ego boost if someone says they hit it well from the back on live broadcast, so…”

Jannik blinked. Then his head fell forward with a laugh, high pitch at first before trailing off into a silent shake of his shoulders.

“Ah…” he said, glancing up at you, eyes glinting. “Now you’re back.”

Something in you flushed warm—at the words, at the way he looked at you when he said them. Like he saw you. Like he liked what he saw.

And then his eyes dropped, just for a second, to your mouth. Neither of you moved right away, but you felt yourself leaning in. You heard your breath catch, though it could have been his. 

Your noses brushed—an awkward, human bump—and you closed your eyes, just hovering by his lips for a moment. That breathless stretch of stillness collapsed soon after when your mouths met. It was firm, steady. His lips were soft but sure, warm and tasting faintly of mint. Your breath hitched again. Your hand moved before thought, fingers knotting into the collar of his hoodie as the kiss shifted quickly, deepening as he angled toward you. His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, his thumb at your throat. When you tilted your head, your teeth caught the edge of his lip. You felt the small pause in his breath before his other hand came to your waist and tugged you closer.

When your knees bumped, his moved between yours without hesitation, and your thigh rose against his side as he leaned you back. You adjusted beneath him without breaking the kiss, one hand planted firmly on the outer side of his rib cage, the other now under his hoodie, knuckles grazing the ridges of his stomach. His skin was hot. Tense.

He groaned low in his throat, you swallowed it.

He followed you down, bracing a forearm beside your head. His hips settled between your legs, his body caging yours in. The air felt thick. Your fingers pressed against his side, his hoodie rucked up to his ribs, the scratch of fabric against your palm and the firmness of his stomach beneath it making your thoughts scatter.

You arched against him slightly and felt the shift in his breath—saw it in how his hand slid down your thigh. The kiss broke once—just enough for a breath—but your noses stayed close, and your lips brushed again before you both dove back in.

When you kissed him again, harder, he pressed in closer. His thigh moved deliberately between yours—the contact caught you off guard, the pressure direct and immediate through the thin layers between you. You inhaled sharply against his mouth, and he responded with a soft grunt of his own, as if the sound alone had done something to him.

His hands held your hips loosely, not quite guiding or rushing—just giving you encouragement to move against him. And you did. Slowly at first, your hips tilted forward, seeking more. He stayed there, letting you grind into him. The fabric dragged just right against the seam of your shorts, igniting that sharp, coiling heat low in your stomach. You gasped again, this time less startled and more desperate.

Jannik’s fingers tightened at your waist. His breath hitched audibly when you moved again, a fuller roll of your hips against the line of his thigh, purposeful now. Your head dropped back to the cushion, breaking the kiss when the friction pulled a soft, near-whimper from you—quiet and needy, and he felt it against him when he leaned over you to wedge his leg deeper between yours, as your mouth brushed his collarbone.

His thigh flexed under you, just slightly, when you rocked again, more insistently. He dipped his head down so his lips could find your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth again, as if he wanted to be as close as possible to the sounds you made. He kissed you slower this time, open and deep, and he hummed every time you gasped into him.

One of his hands slid lower, gripping under your thigh, holding you up as your rhythm against him escalated—as you chased the contact of him against you, your bodies rocking in tandem, clothes still on but breath already breaking at the edges. You gripped the fabric at his back and let your chin fall back before lifting up to part your mouth against the base of his neck. He smelled clean, warm. The line of his collar was soft against your cheek. Your fingers moved on their own, slipping under his t-shirt now, higher and bolder. His hands moved too—raking under the hem of your shirt, thumbs at your waist. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, your faces only inches apart, still breathing heavy. Your eyes met his. He looked flushed, pupils blown.

"All good?" he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, breathless. "Yeah, you?"

He smiled a little. "Definitely."

And then his mouth was on yours again, hungrier, your hands pushing his hoodie up over his shoulders as he helped you out of yours too. 

You nudged his nose against yours when you came up for air again, breathing hard, your voice hoarse with heat and all things warm underneath. "Bed?"

He nodded and kissed you once more—quick, solid—before standing. He offered a hand. You took it with a laugh.

He looked down in the few paces over to his bed and chuckled to himself, before gesturing at the wet mark you’d left on the thigh of his sweatpants. You let out an embarrassed, half-laughing groan and covered your face with both hands.

“Oh my god,” you muttered through your fingers. “That’s so…”

But he just grinned and grabbed your wrists, gently pulling your hands off your face. He stole a kiss just as you reached the mattress, stumbling backward onto it with you catching yourself over him.

“I don’t mind.” He said, teasing, and he looked too happy about it so you scoffed. You gave him a mock-glare and shook your head, cheeks warm, and your hands came down to snap the elastic of his waistband.

You rolled your eyes when his grin widened at your silent demand, but he lifted his hips just slightly to help as you tugged his sweatpants down. He let out another chuckle at your expression, quiet and genuine, low in his chest as you crawled over him again.

The rest of your clothes came off in pieces, haphazard and breathless. His fingers slipped under your own waistband as he eased you out of your shorts. There was this shared urgency, but also patience in the way your hands explored each other. He only paused when you pulled your hands back to reach up and put your hair up. Beneath you, he gazed up, letting out a little, shaky exhale as he followed the motion. A hand of his floated up almost unconsciously, tracings over your hairline and tucking some forgotten strands of hair behind your ear. You stilled for a second at the tender, watchful gesture, before shifting to fully settle above him.

You were straddling him now, your palms flat on his bare chest, fingers spread, dragging slowly over the curve of ribs. You could feel how stiff he was beneath you—tension humming under every inch of his skin. His hands didn’t go to hold your waist immediately. They started by skimming your thighs, then traced up the curve of your hips, settling just beneath the hem of your top.

He sighed a little when you lifted it off for him—his thumbs brushing over your lower belly, fingertips dragging up your sides and over the swell of your chest. He was watching for your every reaction as he felt all around you, attentive in a way that made your breath stutter.

When he found the places that made your breath catch—just above the creases of your hips, the side of your neck, the dip between your collarbones. Each touch pulled a different sound from you: a sharp gasp when his thumbs dragged beneath the curve of your breasts, a broken inhale when his mouth brushed that one sensitive spot just below your ear. Your body answered each one without hesitation—hips shifting, chest arching into his hands, breath falling apart in small, uneven bursts.

You squirmed when his fingers ghosted your lower back, a soft whine escaping you before you could help it. He chuckled—low and pleased—one hand settling with possessive weight on the small of your back, keeping you flush against him. He rocked into you a little and the steady drag of your core against the firmness beneath you made your thighs tense and your breath stutter, and your eyes fluttered closed at the slow-building heat curling low in your stomach. Your reaction earned a low, satisfied sound from him, and the heat pooled deeper.

Only after you shivered and shifted above him did your own hand move lower, beyond the dip of his stomach. You felt him tense in anticipation.

Your lips met again, kissing deeper now as your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, curling lightly around him. He jerked slightly into your touch, his breath breaking hard against your mouth. You stroked him slowly, and the way his hands gripped your hips in response—tight and needy—made your stomach twist.

He tried to keep kissing you through it, but his rhythm briefly faltered. His jaw clenched. His breath stuttered out into a shaky groan, and his fingers dug harder into your skin.

"Wait—" he murmured suddenly, voice strained, his head dropping against the mattress. "Wait, I’m—fuck, you have to stop."

You stilled immediately, a question of what was wrong on the tip of your tongue until he shook his head with a breathless laugh.

"Too close," he muttered. "I’m too close."

You blinked down at him, lips twitching up, flushed and a little wide-eyed as he composed himself again. He took a deep breath, sitting up on his elbows to kiss your jaw—then your shoulder.

"My turn," he said, voice lower now. He flipped you gently beneath him before you could react, his mouth already tracing a line down your collarbone, his hand sliding down between your thighs with practiced intent.

You gasped when he skimmed over you, one hand fisting the sheets by your hip. He didn’t rush. His fingers teased around the insides of your thighs—grazing closer and closer before making full contact, before your hips rolled into his hand, a soft sound leaving your throat that made him groan in return.

"There," you said, voice husky and barely audible. "Right there."

His fingers stayed gentle at first—circling, coaxing, teasing that spot over and over until your thighs were trembling and your every breath was just an uneven gasp. He watched your face, the way your eyes fluttered, how your lips parted with each inhale. Every subtle shift in your body drew a new adjustment in his hand, his mouth finding your skin again and again—shoulder, collarbone, the base of your throat.

Your hips started chasing him. Every time he paused, you whined softly, breathless and desperate, and he only smiled faintly against your skin when you murmured something incomprehensible into the air that he felt more than he heard. Your hand found his wrist, squeezing, not to stop him—but to keep yourself tethered. And only then did he slide a finger inside, slow and purposeful, and your body arched toward him, a sharper sound slipping from your lips.

He pressed in closer, curling right and deep. His wrist angled again, hitting that soft spongy roof, watching you unfold under the pressure of it. His breath fanned your jaw as he listened to your every sound—low, sharp, broken—and let it guide him.

You felt the build cresting, that coil winding so tight you could barely breathe. Your back lifted from the bed, and his free hand pressed lightly to your stomach, grounding you.

“Jannik—”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know. I’ve got you.”

And he did—steady and sure.

He continued to work you exactly how you liked—fingers sliding in this perfect rhythm that made your legs shake. He alternated pressure with precision, slipping from deep and slow to quicker, shallower pulses—before grounding you again with a deliberate, dragging curl that sent heat spiking through your limbs. Each shift in tempo he used to pull you back from the edge just to push you closer again.

He moved between a hard and soft touch with perfect timing—one moment coaxing, the next commanding—always reading you. Reading every shift of your hips, every broken inhale. Adjusting each time to get you closer, before taking it away again.

When your breath hitched especially sharp, he murmured something again—low, near your ear—and doubled down right there. The tension in your body built tight under his touch, but he didn’t quite let you get you over the edge. He held you right there, on that precipice, until your body couldn’t decide whether to plead for release or more of the same.

And still, his hand didn’t falter. Like he was content to keep you there, to watch you in a constant state of unraveling, to hold that rhythm he’d learned from you.

And, as you writhed in it, you decided you needed even more.

Your hand slipped up to his forearm, fingers pressing lightly. “I want you,” you breathed, throat tight. “All of you.”

That pulled something from him—a guttural sound from deep in his chest. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and searching, and for a moment he just stared down at you, panting as if he wasn’t the one leaving you breathless.

Then he leaned in, kissed you soft, quick. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

He sat back just enough to shove his boxers down, breath stuttering as your hand helped him. You watched each other through it—eyes locked, the air heavy and electric between you. When he leaned back over you, his weight came down gently, his mouth brushing yours again as his hand guided himself to you.

And when he sank into you, slow and full, your breath left you completely.

He slowed for a second, forearm braced by your head, his face buried in your neck. You felt him breathe you in, felt a shudder roll through him, before he started to move—deep and steady and close.

You adjusted beneath him instinctively, legs winding tighter around his waist as your hands gripped at his back—first for balance, then for grounding. Every inch of him filled you, each thrust controlled and patient, perfectly paced.

His forehead dropped to yours for a moment, his breath syncing with yours. You moved in that rhythm you discovered together, for each other.

He groaned when your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, pushing him even closer and deeper. His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you through another slow roll of his hips. You clung to his shoulders, fingers flexing with every drag and retreat. Each thrust built on the last—you tilted your hips to meet him in the middle, finding fuller angles together.

His mouth never strayed far—brushing yours, your jaw, your throat. And you were anything but quiet. Every gasp, every broken cry of his name pushed him further, his grip tightening at your hip.

“You feel—” he muttered, cutting off with a harsh breath. “You feel so good.”

You could barely respond, too caught in the press and pull of his body, but your hands said enough—sliding down his back, urging him closer still, like you didn’t want even air between you.

Moving in perfect sync, the tension was rising fast now—the rhythm only beginning to falter with the pressure building in both of you. You could feel it coming on too quickly. The heat curling tight and sharp, everything bracing inside you.

You pushed at his chest and he paused immediately, startled.

He blinked down at you for a moment, trying to gauge if you were okay. You didn’t say anything at first, just shifted underneath him, still breathless and flushed. Then you rolled up with a coy smile, pushing up onto your elbows first as he sat back before turning onto your hands and knees.

You took your time with it—letting your back arch slowly, a feline stretch. Your hips tilted high, swaying side to side once, then twice. 

Jannik stilled behind you.

He was breathing hard, and staring. Stunned. 

“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand down his face while sucking in a breath, like he had to physically gather himself.

You glanced over your shoulder, a flicker of something wicked in your smile, and your hair that had come undone now fell to one side. You caught his gaze with a growing grin that was equal parts challenge and invitation. A grin that said, yes, you’re lucky, and you better keep up.

“Let’s see just how well you hit it from the back,” you quipped, voice low but steady, with a ghost of a laugh underneath, the line landing with that characteristic glint in your eye.

“God," he said low, voice equal parts amused and in awe. "There you are."

And something in you clenched at that, the way he said it—it felt like being seen, and wanted, all at once. You arched a little deeper for him, letting your hips shift back just enough that your body grazed his. That contact—bare and teasing—made him move fast, snapping him out of his stupor.

His hands found your hips, firm but careful, thumbs dragging along the curves of your waist as he positioned himself behind you. When he pushed back in, it was with a quiet groan, even deeper now, the angle hitting you just right.

You gasped, your elbows dropping slightly as the force of it rippled through your spine. He steadied you with a palm at your lower back, other hand gripping your hip tighter, using it for leverage as he began to move.

That rhythm returned quickly—sharp and clean. You met him stroke for stroke, the wet sounds between you barely drowned out by your breathing and the low, broken things he muttered under his breath.

"Fuck, you’re—" he bit down on the words, cut off by the sheer depth of the next thrust. You cried out softly, head bowing, your hands scrambling for more of the sheets.

You kept rolling your hips into him, meeting each push with just as much force. He slid a hand down, fingers finding that sensitive spot again and working you in time with his movements. The pleasure was starting to pulse in full waves now, your body shaking more and more. You knew he could feel it—how tightly you clench around him, how your body was starting to meet him with a sort of fervency.

He kept moving into you with equal vigor, kept giving, hands tightening at your hips as his pace sharpened. And you took it, breath hitching every time he bottomed out, your moans dissolving into the pillow as your fingers twisted hard into the sheets. His fingers flexed, steadying you, his thumb dragging lightly along the curve of your back between strokes—an unspoken encouragement, a reverent kind of worship.

The rhythm was almost relentless, now. And it was so right.

The perfect depth. The perfect sync.

And you couldn’t hold back the sounds that poured from you—not with the way he filled and stretched you.

He leaned in, his chest hovering over your back, the heat of his skin brushing yours. His mouth found the back of your neck, your shoulder, your spine, trailing heat with every panting kiss. 

"You’re unreal," he murmured, voice ragged and low. "You’re—fuck, you’re everything."

You could really feel it then—how close he was, how close you were. His hand moved between your thighs again, his fingers finding you without pause, stippling his touch as his hips drove into you harder. You dropped your face completely, moaning into the pillow, your whole body tensing as the wave of sensation built fast now.

“Come on,” he whispered, voice barely audible over your breaths. “Give it to me.”

And then everything crested. Your body tightened, shook, clenched around him as the pleasure ripped through you—intense, shuddering, unstoppable. You cried out, the sound fragmented and raw, and he groaned at the feeling, his thrusts faltering.

He followed soon after, gasping your name, hips driving deep one last time before he let go with a quiet, whimpering sound against your shoulder, his hand clutching at your waist.

And for a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved.

Jannik leaned forward, his chest lowering over your back, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder. His breath was hot and heavy on your skin, his heart pounding against your spine. He stayed like that for a beat, just breathing you in, his palm smoothing up your side in a slow, grounding stroke.

Then, gently, he eased out of you with a soft groan—more from overstimulation than anything else—and carefully shifted to your side. His hand lingered on your hip as he laid down next to you, close but not crowding, eyes still fixed on you with a dazed kind of reverence.

You stayed on your stomach for a moment, catching your breath, your cheek turned to face him. When your eyes met, neither of you spoke right away. You just looked at each other, flushed and still coming down, the quiet between you full and content and easy.

You broke it first, playfully nudging his thigh with yours, voice still hoarse but teasing. “So… Safe to say, I can confirm the double-meaning from that press panel now…”

He blinked before letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh, catching your wrist and brushing a kiss over your knuckles. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, but his voice was low and fond.

You laughed, reaching out to trace a slow finger along his arm. “Seriously though—that was…”

Your voice trailed off softly and he cupped a hand over the one you had brushing against him. He nodded, meeting his gaze. “...Yeah.”

There wasn’t much more to say. Not right then.

So you just let yourselves rest there. Tangled in the residual sweat and laughter, and in each other.

You shifted closer, legs brushing. He lifted the sheet with a lazy hand to pull it over you both. His arm slid beneath your neck, drawing you in until your head tucked beneath his chin. And you just layed there, letting your fingers ghost lazy patterns across his chest, while his thumb moved up and down against your hip.

You felt him press a kiss to the top of your head. You smiled into his collarbone.

Neither of you moved to let go and the hush of the room wrapped around, your breath still slowly syncing in the weight of each other’s presence. With your leg hitched over his thigh and his arm warm around your waist, the comfort of it eventually tipped you both over the edge of consciousness. You dozed like that for a while—not into full sleep, but into a soft, half-dream state, where the rhythm of his breathing against your temple had you drifting off.

At some point, an indefinite amount of time later, you stirred. His grip reflexively tightened for a second before easing again. You shifted slightly and pressed a kiss to his chest.

Jannik hummed sleepily, and you smiled at his resting face, but the reality of the late hour was on your mind—with all that the next day held for you. You push yourself up, swinging your legs off the bed.

Jannik murmured something, his fingers reaching out to brush at your hip. "What’s wrong?"

“Nothing.” You looked down at him, reluctant but practical, offering a small smile despite his eyes still being mostly closed. “But I should go.”

He blinked, slowly coming more awake, propping himself on one elbow. “You’re not staying?”

You shook your head, standing to gather your clothes. “Our match is before noon tomorrow, and my semifinal isn't long after that. If I don’t come home tonight—if Chris realizes I never came back after he sent me to go make nice with you—I’ll never live it down.”

He watched you for a moment, still tousled and warm in the sheets. “...You won’t go cold on me again?”

You paused at that, glancing back at him. His smile was teasing and light, but the contents of the question felt too real to answer with just a playful quip. So you crossed back to the bed, leaning down to kiss him once—slow and reassuring.

“I promise.” But when you pulled back, you grinned devilishly and shot him a wink. “... And I promise I’ll be just as good a partner on court as I was in bed.”

“Oh, god.” He let out a sharp laugh, throwing an arm over his face. “I’m not sure I can handle that.”

You chuckled, tugging your hoodie back over your head as you reached the door, leaving him with one more of your lines. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jannik. You did just fine tonight.”

And his laugh followed you into the hallway.

---

Part three here!

Guess Jannik is so chill that he can calm a crazy down. 'A crazy' being reader…

Also literally had such a hard time trying to make the mention of the schedule of the singles matches and the mixed doubles ones realistic. Tournament planners are cracked, like how do they do it?? I could barely manage writing the hypothetical in passing... the passage of time is hard.

Speaking of, there's going to have to be a part three, because the smut took up so much of the writing that I barely progressed the plot... in fact, I might've lost it... lol… Like, somehow this is 13k words and even longer than part 1... hello??

It’ll be out tmr for sure, and it's just comprised of a happy ending/beginning to this Jannik-reader duo. I'm already mostly done with it! xx

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Bone-Tired

Jannik Sinner x Reader Steamy, super-brief blurb where Jannik is down bad... And by that, I mean horned up and so tired... So... Warnings include... smut, as in dryhumping, (Bone-tired = Bone tired = Bone whilst tired)

---

Jannik was exhausted. You could see it the second he stepped through the door, his shoulders slumped, his hair damp from a shower he probably took in the locker room. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, but his eyes were locked onto you.

"Long day?" you asked, pushing up to sit from where you had been laying on the couch, but before you could stand to greet him, he was already in front of you. His hands came down to cup your face and he planted a sweet, ghost of a kiss on your forehead before guiding you back to lay down once more. 

"Missed you." He all but collapsed on top of you and nudged his face into your neck, his voice a rough and low murmur. 

"Missed you too, Jan.” You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You look dead on your feet—The team really put you to work today, huh?"

Jannik only hummed in response, and just laid against you for a second. You chuckled at his state, freeing a hand to gently smooth up and down the expanse of his back. At the contact, he stirred a bit, lifting off you just enough to tilt his head down and press his lips against yours.

It was slow at first, like he was savoring the warmth of your mouth, but then his hands tightened on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin, and the kiss deepened, turned desperate. His body sagged slightly against you, his weight pressing you deep into the cushions as he exhaled shakily.

You let him escalate to where he needed to be—matching the urgency with equal want, your hands slipped under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the tension coiled in his muscles. He groaned into your mouth when you scratched your nails lightly down his back, his hips pressing forward instinctively, grinding against you.

You gasped, gripping his shoulders as the friction sent a jolt of pleasure through you. "Jannik."

"Don’t have energy but—" he panted, swearing a little as he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. "—need you."

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly as he rocked against you again, still fully clothed, the heat and pressure of it making him shudder. His body was pliant, muscles loose with exhaustion, but his desperation only added to the heat, the way he was letting himself melt into you.

"Yeah?" you murmured, moving with him, teasing. "Like this?"

“Don’t—” He whimpered—actually whimpered—as he buried his face against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “I can’t—"

But he bucked into you, and so you rolled your hips again, pressing closer, feeling the hard outline of him against you. He choked out a moan, his fingers flexing against your waist, his body tensing as he lost control little by little.

His breath came in uneven gasps, each slow thrust against you making him unravel further. His hands gripped the fabric of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto, his moans muffled against your shoulder as his rhythm against yours turned erratic.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice breaking as he rocked against you again, the friction pushing him closer and closer to the edge. "I’m—"

His entire body trembled as he came, still fully dressed, his breath stuttering, his grip on you tightening like you were the only thing keeping him conscious. He moaned your name, muffled against your skin, the sound wrecked, desperate, as he gave into you completely.

For a long moment, he just stayed there, his weight pressing back against you, his body warm and shaking slightly as he came down. His fingers twitched against your sides, his breath still shallow as he tried to collect himself.

Then he let out a breathless, embarrassed chuckle, pulling back to look at you, his cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. "That was—fuck… Sorry…"

“No. Are you kidding?” You grinned, brushing a stray curl off his forehead. "That was really hot."

Jannik groaned, burying his face in your neck again. "You’re never letting me live this down, are you?"

"Not a chance."

He laughed against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss to your collarbone before murmuring, "Give me a few minutes. Then I want you properly."

And from the way he looked at you, you knew he meant it.

---

Wanted to get something out to get be back in the groove, and came up with this... I love a little desperate, I-came-in-my-pants moment. Finishes fast, I know. The fic and Jannik, yes So hot.

What's not hot? My schedule. Literally so swamped. Also? Went on a date with this guy who I see play tennis often on the courts near me and, uh, I was hopeful because tennis, and it did not live up... Bizarre weekend, but, trying to salvage loose ends.

Speaking of, planning to get In Sync Part 2 out in the next couple of days. Like, for real this time. Literally totally lost the plot, so I'm rewriting the ending tbh. Stay tuned for that... xx

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Rest and Relaxation

Jannik Sinner x Reader Jannik loves his sleep, he does it a lot and he can do it anywhere. And that trait comes in handy when reader really needs to recover. Set after the Dubai Open, and the beginning of Sinner’s ban, all the way into Indian Wells a bit 

Jannik arrived back in Monaco just a few hours after you did, the quiet click of the apartment door signaling his return. You heard him before you saw him, the shuffle of shoes being toed off, the rustle of a jacket, the familiar sound of his suitcase rolling to a stop.

You were exactly where he expected you to be—bundled into the couch, blanket pulled up to your chin, a half-full mug of tea abandoned on the coffee table. You blinked up at him, heavy-lidded with exhaustion, your body still feeling the exertion of the Dubai Open’s final.

He took one look at you, and your bags still piled off by the entrance, and chuckled while stepping over to press a kiss to your temple. “Couldn’t even make it to the bed?”

You hummed, stretching slightly but making no effort to sit up. “Opting for the least movement possible these next few days.”

Jannik shook his head, amused, before he slipped off his sweater and joined you on the couch without hesitation, pulling the blanket over both of you. His arm settled around your waist, and you turned into him instinctively, sighing into the warmth of his hoodie. “I should be glad you even waited for me to get back before your hibernation,” he murmured, pressing his chin lightly against your hair.

“You should.” You smirked against his chest. “Wasn’t sure if you could fit me in between your skiing and your fashion show appearances.”

His fingers traced small circles against your back. “My highlight is the inbetween with you.”

You didn’t reply, just smiled to yourself and curled deeper into him. He let you.

---

The first morning, you woke up to the sound of Jannik moving in the kitchen, the scent of something warm and slightly sweet filling the apartment. You barely had the energy to lift your head, groaning as you shifted onto your side.

Jannik appeared a moment later, leaning against the doorway, his hair still sleep-mussed. “I made breakfast.”

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “It’s noon.”

“And?” He smirked. “Also your tea’s steeping.”

That got you to sit up, albeit slowly. Your muscles still ached, and Jannik must have noticed, because instead of letting you get up, he disappeared back into the kitchen and returned with a mug and a plate, passing it to you before climbing back into bed beside you.

You sighed dramatically after your first sip. “Okay. You get a pass… it’s just how I like it.”

Jannik huffed a quiet laugh, settling against the pillows, his arm stretched out so you could rest against him as you drank. “Good to know I have some use around here.”

For most of the day, you both lounged around in bed. Jannik had planned to go out, maybe hit the gym, but the moment you draped yourself over him with a heavy sigh, he made the easy decision to stay put.

At one point, you both attempted to watch a movie. An hour later, the screen had dimmed, long since idle, while the two of you dozed in and out, bodies tangled beneath the blankets. Every time one of you shifted, the other adjusted accordingly—Jannik pulling you closer when you turned away, you pressing your face into his hoodie when he rolled onto his side.

“You sleep too easily,” you mumbled against him at one point, your words muffled by the fabric.

He hummed, half-awake. “You’re the one who started dozing off first.”

“I'm adapting to my environment.”

Jannik let out a soft chuckle, his hand finding yours beneath the blankets, fingers idly tracing along the back of your palm. “Good excuse.”

“Great excuse.”

You felt him smile against your hair before sleep pulled you both under again.

The time passed too quickly. Three days together, just enough to fall into the rhythm of one another, would have to be just enough to feel like the outside world didn’t exist for a little while.

---

The next day was filled with more of the same—the same meaning not much of anything.

The morning stretched into the afternoon in the way it always seemed to when you relaxed with Jannik—time slipping somewhere beyond your reach, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. You stirred first, barely aware of the world outside the cocoon of blankets, only vaguely conscious of the way sunlight had crept through the curtains, painting lazy patterns on the sheets.

Jannik was still wrapped around you, his breathing deep and steady, face half-buried against your shoulder. He hadn’t even made the effort to shift when you moved, only tightening his hold like he could keep you from acknowledging the start of the day.

You made a half-hearted attempt to free yourself, stretching your legs beneath the sheets, but Jannik grumbled in protest, pulling you closer. His voice was hoarse with sleep. "Where are you going?"

You let out a quiet laugh, your fingers finding their way into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. "Nowhere, I’m just waking up."

"Well, don’t."

You exhaled through your nose, amused but not disagreeing. You should get up, probably, but the warmth of the bed, the comfortable weight of him, the slow, heavy feeling of rest still clinging to your limbs—it was too good to leave behind just yet.

Jannik cracked one eye open, tilting his head just enough to look at you, expression lazy and content. "You make fun of me for sleeping in, but look at you now."

"I’m recovering," you murmured, tracing the curve of his shoulder with your fingertips. "This is part of the process."

He hummed, eyes already slipping shut again. "Exactly why we shouldn’t move."

You didn’t argue. Instead, you turned into him, letting his warmth pull you back under. The morning—no, the afternoon—could wait a little longer.

---

It was much later when you stirred again, this time with more intent. Jannik was still half-asleep, one arm draped over your waist, fingers curled loosely against your ribs. He was impossibly warm, the slow rise and fall of his breathing steady against you.

You shifted slightly, pressing closer, letting your lips brush against his collarbone, lingering just enough for him to stir. He hummed, not fully waking, but his fingers flexed against your skin in response. Encouraged, you trailed a line of lazy kisses up his neck, nipping lightly at the curve of his jaw.

Jannik let out a slow breath, but this time, instead of settling back into sleep, he moved into you. His arm tightened around you, pulling you against him in one fluid motion, his lips already finding yours before you could even think to tease him further. He was still warm with sleep, slow but sure in the way he kissed you, like he had been waiting for you to do exactly this.

His hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing along your spine, pressing you closer as he shifted fully onto his side. "Thought you agreed  to sleep more," he murmured against your mouth, though his grip on you said otherwise.

"Guess I changed my mind." Your hand dipped between you two to rest over his crotch. “You complaining?”

Jannik chuckled, but the sound quickly turned into a low groan when you pressed your palm into him. The groan eased into a pleased hum as you dragged your hands over his chest, nails grazing lightly in the way you knew he liked. His own touch became more responsive, his lips pressing slow, lingering kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, hands tracing familiar paths across your skin.

Any last traces of sleep were gone now, lost in the warmth between you, in the easy way he fit against you, like this was just as much a part of the slow mornings as the tangled blankets and stolen hours of extra rest.

By the time either of you thought about getting out of bed, the afternoon sun had already shifted, casting long golden streaks across the sheets.

Jannik pressed a final, lazy kiss to your shoulder, his voice still thick with a different repose now, undeniably satisfied. "Now we can get up."

You huffed a quiet laugh, nudging your nose against his jaw before rolling on back on top of him. "Sure about that?"

---

On your third and last morning, the sun peeked through the curtains just enough to bathe the bedroom in a warm glow, stretching across the bed where you and Jannik were sprawled out, fully committed to your streak of doing nothing.

Jannik laid on his stomach, one arm draped lazily over your waist, his face half-buried in the pillow. You were on your back, legs tangled with his, flipping through a book you had absolutely no focus for. Every now and then, he’d shift, stretching slightly before settling right back into you, sighing like it was the hardest thing he had to do all day.

“You asleep again?” you murmured, closing the book and turning onto your side.

“Almost,” he mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness. “But you keep moving.”

You smirked, tracing a light pattern along his back with your fingertips. “Not my fault. You’ve practically fused yourself into me.”

Jannik let out a low hum, clearly unbothered, his arm tightening slightly around your waist. “You like it.”

You exhaled a small laugh, nudging your nose against his shoulder. “Maybe.”

For a while, neither of you spoke, lost in the comfort of each other, of the slow afternoon stretching into evening. The scent of fresh air drifted through the slightly cracked window, mingling with the warmth of sleep and stillness.

At some point, Jannik turned onto his side, facing you fully, eyes barely open. His fingers brushed against your wrist, tracing the delicate lines there, his touch so light it almost tickled.

“Sore still?” he murmured.

You nodded slightly. “Only a little, it’s gotten better. I’ll be ready after today.”

Jannik shifted, pressing his palm against your thigh, kneading his fingers in small, rhythmic circles over the muscle. You let out a quiet hum of approval, relaxing under his touch.

"How are you so good at that," you sighed.

"You say that like I don’t do this all the time."

"Exactly," you mumbled, eyes slipping shut. "Don’t stop."

Jannik chuckled, his fingers working over the knots in your legs, slow and deliberate. He didn’t stop. And as the minutes ticked by, neither of you bothered acknowledging that the day outside was still passing—that soon enough, this stretch of time between tournaments would run out.

For now, this was all that mattered. Jannik’s hand rested on your thigh, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin, putting off the packing you had to do for the next tournament. The next flight.

Instead, you let yourselves exist in this in-between space, wrapped up in the quiet of each other, content to let time move without you for just a little longer.

---

So you made your way to California, and took Jannik’s rich sleep schedule with you.

Normally, he was disciplined about his sleep. Generous even. His whole routine depended on rest—training, recovery, matches, everything hinged on him getting the hours he needed. And he usually allowed himself the luxury of sleeping in all the way up until he absolutely had to get up. But for the past week since you'd left, sleep had been a disaster. His body was in Monaco, but his mind was running on Indian Wells time.

At first, he tried to keep things normal. Told himself he’d check your scores in the morning, watch the replay after practice. But then he stayed up late, refreshing his phone every few minutes, telling himself just one more set. Then he started setting alarms—first for the start of your match, then for set breaks, then just to be safe, he kept the stream open the whole time.

Tonight was no different. He had gone to bed early, trying to bank some sleep, but his alarm jolted him awake in the middle of the night. 3:30 AM. Just enough time to groggily grab his phone, prop himself up against the pillows, and open the live stream.

The apartment was still, the only sound coming from the faint hum of the match through his earbuds. He didn’t bother turning on the lamp, letting the glow of his phone and laptop screen illuminate the dark room. His duvet was kicked to the side, one pillow tucked behind his back, his posture somewhere between sitting up and slumping over in exhaustion.

You were in a third set. Again. And Jannik could feel the tension in his own body, his jaw tightening every time you missed a first serve, his fingers tapping against the comforter in time with your footwork. He wasn’t just watching—he was playing the points with you, leaning slightly forward with every deep rally, shoulders tensing when a shot clipped the net cord.

You broke serve. He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. Come on, close it out.

When you finally did, after what felt like the longest rally of the match, he let his head fall back against the headboard, exhaling like he had just played the point himself. His phone buzzed immediately with a match update, as if he needed it.

Jannik Great play!! Good job!

Jannik Way too stressful though

He stared at the messages for a second before adding another.

Jannik How am I supposed to sleep after that?

Your reply came a few minutes later.

You That’s tennis, Sinner.

Jannik Trim it down for my sake

You Oh? Should I lose next time?

Jannik No. 

Jannik Just finish in two sets. Please

He tossed his phone onto the pillow beside him, scrubbing a hand down his face. His whole schedule was a mess. He was supposed to wake up for training in a few hours, but instead, he was catching matches at ungodly hours and then trying to nap after. Now, it was past 6 AM, the match still looping in his head, and he already knew practice was going to be miserable.

His phone buzzed again.

You Go to bed

Jannik huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Like he could get back to bed after how much your matches spiked his energy.

---

When he finally rolled out of bed, it wasn’t really morning so much as an in-between state of exhaustion. He had slept in chunks—three hours before the match, another hour after, and now he was regretting all of it. His whole body felt off, his muscles sluggish, his mind still stuck somewhere between sleep deprivation and adrenaline.

He made it through practice, barely, though his coach eyed him when he yawned in the middle of a drill.

"Late night?"

“Early morning.”

Simone simply nodded. He knew where Jannik’s priorities lay, there was no use pretending otherwise.

Jannik's footwork felt heavier than usual, his usual precision just slightly dulled. He knew his coach was watching, waiting for him to admit what was obvious. But he pushed through, relying on muscle memory, already knowing that no matter how tired he was, he'd do the same thing again in a couple of nights.

By the time he dragged himself back to his apartment after training, every muscle in his body felt sluggish. He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes without much thought, and immediately collapsed onto the couch.

He knew he should eat. Knew he should ice his legs. But instead, he grabbed his phone, intending to set it down and get some actual rest, only to see the unread messages waiting for him.

You Did you catch up on sleep at all?

Jannik I’ll sleep after the Miami Open

Jannik Or when you’re back with me

You Jannik, if you keep this up

You You’re going to fall apart before I even get to Miami

Jannik I’m pacing myself

You You’re absolutely not

You You default to 9 hours of sleep usually…

Jannik That’s not the point

Jannik Point is, you’re in the quarterfinals.

You, your game, any movement you made on court or in tournaments. It was his favorite thing. He let the thought settle, a small, tired smile pulling at his lips. As much as he complained, as much as his sleep suffered, he wouldn’t miss this for anything.

Your next reply came in after a few minutes, like you were thinking about what to say.

You You WILL crash 

You But I appreciate you

Jannik exhaled, sinking deeper into the couch. His eyes felt heavy, his body finally catching up to its own exhaustion, but even as sleep pulled at him, he knew exactly what would happen next.

A couple of nights from now, he’d do it all over again.

Because some things—like missing sleep, like watching you win, like waiting for your name to show up in his messages—were worth it.

Jannik Anytime

---

This was going to be a blurb, but I added a little more meat to it and hopefully that makes up for the fact that I’m missing a fic this week.

Not sure how I feel about text-correspondence heavy segments, but this is all I got. I need my own recovery weekend tbh, also I’m bitter about losing an hour to daylight savings... Also, originally had reader as the winner of the Dubai Open, but decided against Mira Andreeva erasure sorry Clara Tauson

Alright alright I’m done xx

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Giving In

Jannik Sinner x Reader Every now and then, Jannik is just putty in reader's hands... and they both love it. Warnings include... smut, femdom, oral, male receiving, facesitting

---

You liked the nights when Jannik gave in to you, that look he’d give you.

Tired and spent from a long day of wear, he’d lie stretched out on your bed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing only a pair of soft black briefs and that look—the one where his eyes were a little too wide, his jaw a little too slack, like he was already waiting for you to take over.

Submitting to you before you’d even begun.

He needed it, you. Maybe he was reluctant to express how bad in words. But in the way he leaned into your touch. The way he stilled when your hands guided him down. The way his breath caught when you said his name just a little sharper than usual.

Tonight, you crawled over him slowly, letting your palms roam his chest, his ribs, the low plane of his stomach. His head tipped back, lips parted, already panting though you'd barely touched him.

"So needy tonight," you murmured, smiling a little to yourself, brushing your nails up the inside of his thigh.

He whimpered—quiet, desperate. Eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

“Use your words, Jan.”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need you.”

Your smile curved slow. "That’s better."

You leaned down, kissed his collarbone, nipped lightly just to feel the way he twitched under you. Your hand slid beneath the waistband of his briefs, fingers curling around him with careful pressure.

“So hard already,” you cooed, stroking him slow, watching the way his hips bucked despite himself. “Just for me?”

He nodded—fast, flushed. “Of course.”

You tightened your grip. “Say it.”

“For you. All for you.”

You kissed him again, softer now, as your hand worked him harder. You whispered praise between each stroke—how good he looked, how well he took it. How much you liked to watch him, to hear him. 

When you finally sank down onto him, slowly, the head of his cock slipping into you with a single, silken motion. His mouth dropped open around a broken moan. His eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the sheets for a moment before fluttering near your thighs—unsure, searching.

You stayed still for a beat, letting him feel the full stretch of you wrapped around him, the way your body clenched in welcome. He bucked up into you, involuntary and needy, but quickly restrained himself, and you couldn’t help but smile at his preemptive obedience.

You leaned forward, pressing your palms to his chest to feel the rapid thud of his heart. Then, slowly, you started to move—rolling your hips in firm, controlled circles that dragged a cry from deep in his throat.

His hands hovered again, fingertips brushing your thighs, hesitant. You reached for them, laced your fingers through his, and guided them to your hips.

“Right here,” you whispered. “But let me do the work.”

He nodded quickly, lips parted, and did exactly as he was told—his grip almost timid around you.

You kept the pace slow but deep, grinding down in a way that had him gasping, the tip of him hitting just where you wanted—right up into that sweet spot that had your whole body tightening right along with him. 

And then, you picked up the rhythm, riding him harder, faster, letting your weight sink down each time until the slap of skin echoed in the room. He cried out, hands clutching firm on your hips for a second to drive you down onto him.

You nudged his hands off with a tsk and his head fell back against the pillow, flushed and overwhelmed, mouth open around ragged moans. You fucked him through it—hips driving fast and firm now, your hand on his chest keeping him pinned in place as his body writhed beneath you.

"Look at you. All I have to do is give it to you a little harder…" You plunged deeper wheb you said it, panting as he unraveled. "And you can't even breathe."

He moaned—loud, guttural—entirely at your mercy. His stomach clenched, thighs shaking, and you could feel how close he was from the way he throbbed inside you, how he couldn’t stop whimpering your name.

His eyes met yours—wide, pleading, desperate for release. And you didn’t stop. You rode him rough and fast, your grip moving to his throat, applying just enough pressure to make his voice break as he gasped.

“Are you going to come for me?” you breathed against his ear. “Just like this?”

He nodded furiously, eyes glistening. “Please—need to—”

But, selfishly, you didn’t want to let him have it. Not yet.

Not when you were enjoying feeling him fall apart beneath you.

So you slowed your hips suddenly, then lifted off him just enough to break the pace, holding yourself there while he squirmed under you, his breath catching painfully.

"Not yet, okay baby?" you murmured, dragging your fingers down his chest, watching the desperation spark wild in his eyes. “You don’t get to come until I say."

He gasped, full-body trembling now, his cock twitching beneath you, aching with the denial.

You moved down—just barely, but it enough to get him back to the edge. Then you stopped again. And then again, and again.

Each time you brought him close, you eased back at the last second, watching his face twist in frustration, in pleading.

"You're doing so well," you whispered, kissing his jaw as he whimpered. "Holding it in for me. "

"Please…” His voice cracked. “I can't—"

“You can,” you said, firm, and he held on for a little longer as quietly as he could. After all, he knew as well as you did, he’d done this for you before.

Then, when you finally gave in—when you let yourself sink down fully and moved without mercy—it was all the more explosive. His release ripped through him with a strangled sob, hands fisting into the sheets, body jerking beneath you as he came harder than he ever had.

And all the while, you held his throat, kissed his lips, praised him until he melted under you, undone in every way.

You laid flush against him for a long while after that, not bothering to lift off of him. You listened to his heartbeat slow down, feeling the rise and fall of his chest stabilize, and smiled when he pressed a long kiss on the crown of your head.

Eventually, after sitting in that haze, you could feel him start to stir again—still sensitive, but hardening, twitching with the faintest need inside you.

You giggled before tilting your head to press a kiss against his cheek. “Ready again, already?”

He nodded, eyes barely open, lifting his head to catch his lips in yours. You smiled into the kiss when he moaned into your mouth as you rose off of him.

You slid down his body, kissing along his chest, nipping gently at the flushed skin of his stomach. When you reached his cock, already half-hard and twitching, you didn’t hesitate.

You wrapped your lips around him slowly, savoring the soft groan he gave you. He was overstimulated, hips wavering slightly, but you held him firm—one hand at his hip, the other gently stroking as your mouth worked over him without any rush.

You wrapped your hand around the base and started stroking in sync with your mouth—tight and slow, dragging every sound from him, from soft whines to broken moans. You knew his body by now, knew how to suck just a little harder when his breath caught, how to twist your wrist just right to make him lose his mind.

You flattened your tongue under his tip, took him deep, letting your throat tighten just enough. He gasped—every flick, every slow pull, made his hips jump and his breath stutter.

With unhurried care, you pulled off, licking along the underside of his shaft, slow and teasing, feeling him jolt against your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks and took him deep again, then pulled back with a wet pop, letting a thin string of saliva stretch between your lips and his tip.

His thighs trembled, propped up on his elbows above you to watch, and his fingers clutched harder at the edge of the sheets.

“That’s it,” you murmured between strokes, voice low and warm. “Let me take care of you.”

He moaned at your words and his head fell back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes closed. He took in a deep, broken breath before his eyes fluttered open to meet yours, half-lidded, glassy and fervent, pleading without a word.

You pulled off just enough to murmur, "You gonna come for me again, Jan? Give me one more?"

He nodded quickly, hips jerking into your mouth as you took him again, deeper, faster now. Your nails dragged lightly down his thighs, grounding him as his hips lifted up, desperate and undone.

You didn’t stop, wanting all of it. And when he came again—loud, trembling, voice raw—you swallowed every drop, only pulling off when he was gasping for air, his whole body shivering beneath your hands.

You kissed your way up his stomach and chest, but instead of settling beside him, you straddled his chest with a knowing look.

His eyes fluttered open, still hazy and blissed. But they widened slightly when he realized where you were, the spread thighs just below his face, the heat of your arousal fanning warm air by his mouth.

"“Would you…?” You asked, smiling as you trailed off in voicing the question you knew you didn’t need to ask, dragging your fingers gently through his hair. 

He nodded—weak but eager. Always eager.

You lifted yourself onto his mouth slowly, just enough for your slick to graze his lips. His breath stuttered, and you felt the soft moan vibrate against your skin as his tongue darted out, tasting you.

You let out a pleased sigh. "That's it. Just like that."

He obeyed without hesitation. Tongue firm, slow and precise, lapping at you like he hadn’t been spent just moments beofre. His hands lifted to grip your thighs—and, in your state, you allowed it.

You ground against his mouth, hips rolling, letting your weight sink into him with each pass, chasing your own release while he worked into you. His mouth was earnest, pliant, desperate to please. Every time your breath hitched or your thighs trembled, he only redoubled his effort, moaning into you, encouraging you to keep going.

One hand grasped the head board and you dropped the other to tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan as you rocked against him harder. "Don't stop, you're being so good for me."

He didn’t. Not even when your thighs clenched around his head, and especially not when you cried out his name as you came against his mouth—loud and shaky.

You shivered when little ripples of the pleasure continued to move through you before easing off, panting as you slid down beside him at last.

He sighed softly and shifted to lay his head on your chest.

---

Hope you enjoyed!! I think Frustration was the last smutty one with a comparable dynamic, and I got a lot of feedback that it was well loved... So I hope this one is too xx

[gamesetattach]

A Little Taste Before

Jannik Sinner x Reader Blurb where Jannik wants a little pick-me-up before a match. He's not feeling down or anything... he just wants to go down. Warnings include... smut/oral, female receiving, semi-public/risk of being walked in on, it takes some convincing

The locker room was quiet, the faint buzz of the tournament facilities just outside the door serving as a reminder of Jannik's obligations—press, warm-ups, a big match looming on the horizon. But for now, it was just the two of you, tucked away in the privacy of his assigned space, savoring the momentary stillness between the chaos of the day.

You were perched on the bench, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, while Jannik sat below you, his body still humming with pre-match energy, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your thigh as he leaned back against your legs. He looked relaxed, though you knew better. He was conserving his energy, but his mind was already running through every point, every potential scenario for later.

Then, out of nowhere, he shifted, turning toward you with a look you knew all too well. His eyes had taken on that slow, contemplative glint, like he was considering something—and you had a feeling you weren’t going to approve of whatever thought that had just crossed his mind.

“What?” you asked, warily.

Jannik didn’t answer right away, his fingers just slid a little higher on your leg, his touch featherlight. "Just thinking."

You arched a brow, and nudged him with your knee. "About?"

He didn’t answer right away, just shifted, turning more toward you, his voice dipping lower. "I want you."

Your breath caught, not at the words themselves—you’d heard them from him a thousand times—but at the sheer intensity in his gaze. Especially given where you were.

You let out a soft laugh, though it came out shakier than intended. "Excuse me?"

He looked completely unbothered, still in that lazy sprawl, though his fingers had moved to hold your wrist and they tightened just slightly. "You heard."

A short laugh bubbled out of you, incredulous. "Jannik, you have a match in—"

"Later," he dismissed, his fingers brushing higher along your arm, his other hand resting warm against your thigh. "We have time."

"You’re being crazy." You narrowed your eyes at him, though the effect was slightly lost with the way heat was already creeping up your neck. 

He tilted his head, considering. "Not really."

"Just—Completely ridiculous."

"You say that, but you haven’t moved away."

You opened your mouth to argue, but other his hand pressed slightly firmer against your thigh, his eyes locked onto yours in that slow, half-lidded way that always made your stomach flip. It was unfair, really—how he could go from focused and collected to this and then right back in the span of a few minutes, how he could be so composed in every other part of his life, but when it came to you, when he wanted something, there was a quiet insistence to him that was impossible to ignore.

“Jannik, we’re in the locker room—,” You inhaled sharply, heat pooling low in your stomach, but you still managed to summon some semblance of logic. "Anyone could walk in."

"They won’t."

"You don’t know that."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, his breath brushing against your skin as he leaned in. "You think I’d risk it if I wasn’t sure?"

The worst part was that he had a point. Jannik was calculated about everything—his matches, his training, his schedule. If he was suggesting this, it wasn’t some impulsive thought. He had already weighed the odds, considered the logistics.

And yet, it was still insane.

You exhaled, shaking your head. "I can’t believe you right now."

He lifted his head so his lips brushed against your jaw, hovering by your ear. "Just give me five minutes."

Your body betrayed you before your words could—your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders, your breath hitching just enough for him to notice.

Jannik hummed, pleased. "That’s what I thought."

Any resistance you had left was quickly dwindling—or the restraint you pretended to have. Especially when his hands were already slipping beneath the fabric of your pants, his fingers teasing against your skin, coaxing, convincing.

A quiet, reluctant gasp left your lips. "You’re impossible."

"Is that a yes?"

His breath was warm against your throat as he pressed a lingering kiss there, and you lifted his head up to eye level. Kissing him firmly, sighing to his lips, you nodded once at him after you gently pulled away.

And with that, and a smug smile, he lowered himself, sliding between your legs, the heat in his eyes making your breath catch.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing slow, teasing circles against your skin as he looked up at you, waiting for another sign of permission he already knew was his. The moment you exhaled shakily and leaned back against the bench, he smirked and hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, dragging them down with agonizing patience.

His lips followed, pressing soft kisses along your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin. You bit your lip to keep quiet, every sound caught in your throat as his mouth moved higher, inch by inch. He was savoring it, taking his time despite the urgency in his grip, in the way his fingers pressed into you like he was already imagining how you’d feel when he finally gave you what you needed.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, he dragged his tongue over you, slow and warm, his groan vibrating against your skin as he tasted you.

Your head tipped back against the lockers, fingers flying to his hair, the other hand clutching at the edge of the bench, gripping tight as he set a devastating rhythm. His tongue flicked and circled, alternating pressure, every movement precise and calculated, like he was studying every reaction, provoking every soft whimper he could.

“Jannik—,” you breathed, barely able to keep your voice steady.

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure rolling through you. His hands tightened on your thighs, keeping you spread open for him as he worked you over, his tongue dipping, teasing, his pace just slow enough to drive you crazy.

Your legs trembled, and your thighs clenched around him, the heat building fast, the tension coiling in your stomach unbearable. Every time you squirmed, he held you tighter, grounding you, his tongue stroking deep, relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You couldn’t help letting out a sharp cry of his name as you bucked up into his mouth.

“You need to be quiet,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to press a kiss against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

Jannik smirked before diving back in, this time with more intensity, more purpose. He flattened his tongue against you, his pace quickening, the pressure perfect and constant. You bit down on your lip, your fingers tightening in his hair, your body arching against his mouth as the pleasure crested.

The end hit fast and hard, your entire body shaking with the effort of keeping quiet. Jannik didn’t stop, his mouth working you through it, his hands keeping you steady, holding you together while you came undone beneath him.

Only when you were completely spent did he pull away, his lips glistening, his breathing uneven as he looked up at you, pleased with himself. He pressed one last kiss against the inside of your thigh before straightening, his hands gripping your waist as he leaned in to capture your mouth in a deep, fervent kiss.

“Told you I only needed five minutes,” he murmured against your lips, smirking when he felt the way your body still trembled in his hold.

You let out a breathless laugh, your forehead resting against his. “You are insufferable.”

“Just add it to the list,” Jannik grinned, brushing his nose against yours. “What you said earlier? Crazy, ridiculous… what else?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond, still too dazed to do anything but kiss him again, your fingers sliding up the back of his neck to hold him there.

Your breathing steadied, but you were still tangled around him, one leg over his shoulder, no space between you. Jannik still looked entirely too pleased with himself. His thumbs traced circles along your hip, his other arm reaching for a towel to gently clean you up.

“You better play the best damn tennis I’ve ever seen today.”

Jannik smirked and looked up at you, leaning in for another kiss. “I try my best—it’ll all be thanks to you.”

You smiled into his lips, fingers playing with the hair at the back of his head. When he broke the kiss too early, you frowned a little, but then you had to scoff and roll your eyes when you saw the look on his face.

“If I win… then we should probably make this a tradition... For good luck, no?"

“Oh, shut up.” You lightly smacked the back of his head, but it did nothing to wane the self-satisfied grin that adorned his face. “I thought you weren’t superstitious.”

---

Wasn't gonna put out anything today, but here we are. In my mind, Jannik's an eater and he is thorough. Thank you and goodbye xx

[gamesetattach]

The Space Between Us

Jannik Sinner x Reader Everyone loves reader, but Jannik Sinner doesn't even entertain her. Lowkey enemies to lovers, but not. Also features little bit of hurt/comfort nurturing done by our one and only Number 1. Warnings include... bruising from tennis ball, being on camera, knee/wrist scrapes.

---

You hadn’t expected to become part of the show.

When you started as a production assistant for the ATP media team, your job had been simple, clear, and exactly what you expected: you were to coordinate filming schedules, ideate content, make sure players hit their marks, and keep production running smoothly behind the scenes. But somewhere along the way, your role evolved.

It started with small moments—an off-camera laugh, an accidental cameo, a joke that made a player break mid-sentence that got included in the final cut. Viewers loved it. They liked the way you interacted with the players; how you didn’t treat them as untouchable stars, but as regular people who just happened to be absurdly good at tennis. They liked when you broke the fourth wall, chiming in with a quick quip or offering the occasional exasperated sigh when a player inevitably went off script. The players on screen were always relaxed and enthused when you were the one asking the questions, and it was notable difference from their standard, somewhat reluctant attitude when it came to being on video.

And soon enough, what had initially been incidental became intentional.

“People love you, and the players take to you more than anyone else,” one of the media coordinators had said, grinning as they showed you a comment thread. Who is the new PA? We need more of her. ATP media gold. This girl has more chemistry with the players than half the tour does with their rackets.

And so, bit by bit, you became a part of the content. You still worked behind the camera, but now, more often than not, you were pulled in front of it too. Players fed off your energy, teasing you, joking with you, dragging you into their antics. You were quick-witted and could hold your own, and that made the scenes all the more entertaining.

Ben Shelton was a frequent culprit, often grinning at the camera as it began to film before tugging you into frame for whatever nonsense he was up to. "Come on, tell them you think my backhand’s the best on tour. I know you've said it before."

"I don’t lie on camera, Ben, and you shouldn't either. That's not what the internet is for," you shot back, deadpan, making Shelton and the crew erupt in laughter.

Andrey Rublev wasn’t much better. He would often break into one of his slow-growing, broad smiles mid-answer at your expressions. "What do you think, then? Why you making me laugh? Don't make such faces."

"I didn't say or do anything. Just answer the question." You said with some effort to sound serious, trying and failing to hide your own laughter.

"Ahh, you’re a bad influence," he teased, pointing at the camera. "She’s corrupting me."

Then there was Stefanos Tsitsipas, who always felt the need to turn the question asking back to you. "Last one for you—if you had to pick someone on tour to be your mixed doubles partner, who would it be?"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Probably Daniil."

Daniil Medvedev had conveniently just walked into the studio to follow Stefanos for filming, which of course hadn't influenced your answer at all. Stepping on the white backdrop and leaning into the camera's view, he raised a smug brow. "See? She has good taste."

The players adored you, on and off set, and it came through to the viewers. Every time a new ATP video went up, the comment sections were flooded with fans demanding more of your cameos. You had this way about you that brought out the most authentic parts of the players, and you had come to make up the very fabric of the content; the favorite behind-the-scenes personality of both the audience and the athletes.

Most loved it. They leaned into it, really.

Well, all except Jannik Sinner.

---

At first, you hadn’t thought much of it. Some players were more reserved than others, and that was fine. You knew how to read the room, knew when to push and when to back off.

But Jannik?

Jannik was different.

You never could get a read on him. You tried—more than you had with anyone else, actually. You'd make jokes when setting up his content, throw out some light teasing to see if you could get a reaction. And you did—kind of, sometimes... maybe. You thought you'd caught a few almost-smiles, some fleeting amusement in his eyes before he schooled his expression back into his default detachment. Though you definitely did see the way his jaw would often clench in response, almost like it pained him to humor you.

And he never engaged the way the others would. He gave you only what was necessary—short answers, nods, the occasional one-word reply when prompted. No banter, absolutely no participation in your antics. Just polite professionalism and an impenetrable wall of disinterest.

If he didn’t like you, fine. You could be civil. You could still do your job. And you weren’t going to waste any more energy trying to crack someone who clearly didn’t want to be.

So, you stopped trying altogether.

You were still lively and fun in your role, still joking and teasing with the other players, but when it came to Jannik? You were decidedly neutral. Professional. Just as he was to you. It was simply another transactional work obligation, and you were just another assistant ensuring his content was filmed and uploaded on time.

And if he noticed the shift, he didn’t say anything.

Not that you expected him to.

---

Your first media meeting with the players attending had been going smoothly—just a standard PR and media planning session at the beginning of the season with ATP players and the media team, updating the athletes on procedures and discussing upcoming content ideas. It was nothing particularly taxing, and you welcomed the opportunity to spend more time with the players you'd quickly come to call friends. At least up until someone pitched this one idea, one that made you want to curl up into a little hole: a video where players would coach ATP staff, before competing in doubles for a mini, amateur, content-farming tournament.

The concept had a great reception as soon as it was pitched, most everyone agreed it'd be a hit. It had the perfect mix of entertainment, sport, chaos, and fan service. Even the players in the room, who often felt burdened by video obligations, jumped in to support; everyone immediately started to weigh in on who should be part of the video, of who should be paired with whom. Then pretty soon, as you should have expected, someone threw your name into the mix.

You felt your stomach tighten. Playing tennis with professional athletes—on camera, for hundreds of thousands of people to consume—was a whole new level of terrifying. You liked being part of ATP content, sure, but you still felt you better fit a role that was more behind-the-scenes. Being the voice and occasional face breaking the fourth wall was all fun and games, but actually competing against players or even just playing along with them? That was something else entirely.

"You've got to be in it," Ben Shelton said pointing at you as he grinned at the rest of the room. "I mean, she's practically an honorary player at this point."

You forced a smile. "Right, right. Except for the part where I don't play professional tennis."

"That's just semantics," Stefanos Tsitsipas said. "Viewers enjoy your addition."

"Yeah, that and watching you get destroyed on court would make for great TV," Tommy Paul chimed in, chuckling beside Ben.

"I hate that you’re right," you muttered, sinking back in your chair as the discussion continued. There was no point in fighting back, so you took a deep breath, tried to release any anxiety, and allowed yourself a few moments to zone out.

Around you, they began to deliberate the player-staff pairings. Names were thrown around, debated, adjusted. And then—

"...Okay then that leaves..."

You started tuning back into the conversation just as your boss addressed you, "You’re with Jannik, then."

Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, "Who, me?"

Of all the players, Jannik? You literally got along well with everyone else. Anyone else.

He was already distant enough as it was, and after months of failing to get through to him, you had quietly resigned yourself to the fact that he just wasn’t a fan of you. And that was fine. But now you had to play tennis with him? Be on a team with him?

Maybe he'd be more agreeable in his natural element, or at least you hoped he would be. Though you doubted just being on the courts would make him magically greet you with joy and cheer and sparkles.

You stole a glance at him. He was unreadable, as always, nodding at the decision without any reaction or even a look your way.

You, on the other hand, were trying not to spiral.

Fucking media team.

Now you got where the players' disdain came from.

---

After the meeting, as everyone gathered their things, you felt a someone hovering beside you. You turned to find Jannik standing there, looming over you with hands stuffed in his pockets.

"You shouldn't have to stress about it," he said, his voice even.

You just blinked at him, completely caught off guard. He'd never initiated any words with you before, like ever. "Wait, what?"

"The shoot," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "I can help you practice before."

His gaze flickered toward the others leaving the room before settling back on you. "If you want, I mean. Just if you want to feel more comfortable when we film."

It was a simple offer, spoken so casually, but something about it made your heart stutter. Jannik Sinner, who had barely acknowledged you for months, was offering to help you. And he'd somehow managed to notice your worries, even if he did spend his time ignoring you.

You nodded, voice slightly unsure. "Uh—yeah. Yeah, okay. That would be… nice."

"Nine o’clock, practice courts," he said, before turning to leave.

You stared after him, still processing.

What in the hell was that?

---

At exactly 9 PM, you arrived at the courts, nerves thrumming under your skin. Jannik was already there, casually bouncing a ball on his racket, looking every bit like this was just another training session. Maybe he did these kind of evening, charity lessons all the time... you didn't know the guy after all—you laughed a little at the thought.

"You’re on time," he noted, glancing at you. "That’s good."

You scoffed. "I try to be punctual when my dignity is at stake."

He let out a quiet huff of amusement—so slight you almost missed it.

The next hour was spent going through the basics. He showed you the mechanics of different swings, his voice steady as he corrected your form. When you moved on to drills, you were surprised to find that you weren’t terrible—you picked things up quickly, and, to your delight (and maybe even his), he would murmur the occasional praise.

"That was good."

"Better."

"Nice timing."

Each acknowledgement of progress sent a strange thrill through you. You let yourself pretend it was just the adrenaline from learning something new.

After drills, he set up a small rally between you two. He went easy on you, obviously, but you both got really into it. Every time you managed to hit a decent shot, you’d throw out some cocky quip.

"That was almost an actual point! Be afraid, Sinner."

Jannik smirked—actually smirked. "I’ll try to contain my fear."

Slowly, one-liners started coming from his way too.

"That was just luck."

Or "I let you have that one."

"You wish you let me have that one." You'd shot back.

After a few back and forths, you were both laughing freely between rallies and you had forgotten why you were ever nervous in the first place.

You were missing less, hitting the balls harder, and a smile had stayed plastered on your face throughout it all.

But after one, particularly hard swing from you, Jannik returned the ball your way with full power—forgetting himself for a moment. A sharp cazzo leaving his lips as soon as his racket made contact with the ball.

It was a real hit, one with too much force and speed for you to react in time. The ball was coming straight for you, and all you could do was twist your front away from the collision. It struck your shoulder right as you turned, your balance giving away at the odd angle, sending you stumbling forward. You hit the ground hard, scraping your knees and palms.

Jannik was above you in an instant, crouching beside you before you could even process what happened.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low and urgent. His hands hovered over you, hesitating, like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how.

You forced a laugh, wincing. "Well, I won’t be turning pro anytime soon."

But he wasn't so easily amused. He gently lifted your chin so your downcast gaze had to meet his, your eyes had welled up from the impact. He didn't waste any time, already helping you up. One hand gripping your arm, the other steadying your waist.

"Come. Let’s clean this up."

---

In the locker room, he sat you on a bench before leaving you in search of some first-aid equipment. With a squeeze of comfort on your unharmed shoulder, he'd murmured, "Wait here."

He returned with a bright red kit and came down to your level, resting the supplies on his leg. And the sight of him—Jannik Sinner, world-class athlete—kneeling between your legs, so close you could feel his breath, made your stomach flip.

His fingers were gentle as they gripped your thigh, moving upward and settling just beneath the seam of your shorts to steady your leg as his other hand cleaned the cut on your knee. You inhaled sharply, the heat of his touch searing into your skin.

“Tell me if I’m being too rough,” he said, voice barely a whisper as he worked his way down the gash. His eyes stayed trained on the wound, brows furrowed in concentration, and you found that couldn’t look away from him.

"You're not." You replied, trying to sound reassuring, but the words barely carried—cutting off as he switch to your palms. He took your hands in his own to inspect your scrapes there, his fingers traced lightly over the raw skin. His touch slow, deliberate. Your breath hitched and your fingers quivered. If he noticed, he made no sign of it—he'd yet to look up at your face.

Then, he reached around you to press his fingertips along your shoulder blade, checking for a bruise or any swelling, and you felt the warmth of his hand spread through you. You couldn't help but straighten at the touch, your back arching ever so slightly into his hand. You swallowed hard, your pulse a little too fast.

Finally, he met your eyes and held your gaze. And, for a moment, it felt like there was no space left to close. You could have counted his every lash and every freckle—you let your eyes flicker to his lips.

He blinked, exhaled with slight shake of his head and moved to sit beside you on the bench without a word, breaking the moment.

You both sat in the echoing quiet of the locker room, tension tangible in the air.

"Are you alright?" He asked, the first to break the silence.

"Yes, thank you." And because the sincerity in your words felt too heavy, you added, "Better to get the injuries out now, rather than on tape tomorrow."

He had no reply, he only nodded as he shut the first-aid tin. Neither of you moved for some minutes after that.

"I thought you couldn’t stand me," you admitted after a few more beats of silence.

He replied, and his voice was softer than you'd ever heard it, "That was never true."

Something in your chest tightened.

Not knowing how to handle the weight of it all, you forced a smile and deflected once more. "Well, I’ll still be good for the tournament. Try not be the weak link, okay?"

His lips twitched, then finally cracked into a small smile. "I’ll do my best."

You both left in silence, but the traces of your intimacy lingered. Traces of his care.

And the knowledge that something had almost happened.

That maybe, next time, it would.

---

The next day, the energy on set at the courts was electric. The ATP media team had pulled out all the stops—cameras stationed at every angle, players mic’d up, the mini “Grand Slam” trophy sitting on a table like it was an actual piece of silverware worth fighting for. There was an undeniable buzz as the filming began, and somehow, throughout all the pairings, the biggest surprise came from you and Jannik.

There was an odd contrast between you two—after last night, things still felt slightly unnatural, stiff. Like you were both hyper-aware of each other. But at the same time, you had never felt more in sync with someone.

He was always there, just within reach. When you moved, he followed. When he positioned himself on court, you instinctively slotted into place beside him. Every time he set up a shot, you knew exactly where he wanted you. It wasn’t something either of you had to vocalize—it was just something you felt.

The other players took notice immediately.

“Where did this come from?” Carlos Alcaraz muttered after you and Jannik advanced from your first round.

“I didn’t think they’d make it past the first match,” Ben Shelton added, arms crossed as he watched in disbelief.

By the semifinals, it was undeniable. You and Jannik were good together. Even in a casual, barely-serious tournament, the chemistry was obvious. You celebrated small victories with ease—when you landed a decent shot, Jannik would step forward with a closed fist, other hand on your back, murmuring, “Nice one.” In between points, he’d throw you a towel as you passed him his water, like it was second nature. The way you moved together, the way you read each other—it was like you had played as a team for years.

And then, against all odds, you won the whole damn thing.

---

As the final match point was scored, the celebration was pure instinct. You turned toward Jannik, arms outstretched in disbelief, and without hesitation, his hands found your waist, lifting you slightly in a triumphant embrace.

“Did we actually just win?” you laughed, sliding your hands down from around his neck to his chest.

His smirk was soft but victorious. “We did.”

The rest of the players groaned in exaggerated dismay.

“I don’t believe it,” Stefanos said, shaking his head.

“Who let them get this good together?” Daniil added, crossing his arms.

“This win came out of nowhere,” Ben muttered. “Did anyone see this happening?”

The mini trophy ceremony was as ridiculous as expected. The ATP staff made a grand show of presenting the tiny, poorly spray painted trophy, which Jannik took with a mock-serious nod before passing it to you.

You beamed, lifting it over your head. “I’d like to thank my coach, my trainer, my physio, and of course, my partner in crime—” You turned toward Jannik, nudging him playfully. “Bit of an underground player, but he really came alive today on the court. Couldn’t have done it without you, Sinner.”

For the first time in front of all of them, Jannik actually smiled at you, the full breadth of it. There was something warm and deeper in his gaze. “Yeah,” he said, quieter but just as certain. “We make a good team.”

---

After filming wrapped, you and Jannik found yourselves alone in the locker room again, the commotion of the day settling into something more still between just the two of you. You sat on the bench, absentmindedly spinning the tiny trophy on a finger, still amused by the absurdity of it all.

Jannik sat next to you, shoulders barely brushing. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt charged—like something was waiting to be said.

Finally, he broke it. “I meant what I said earlier.”

You turned to him, confused. “About what?”

He took a breath, eyes flickering to you before looking straight ahead again. “That we make a good team.”

Something about the way he said it made your heart stutter. Because you knew he wasn’t talking about tennis.

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the trophy. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “We do.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The air between you thick, expectant. He was so close—you could feel the heat radiating from him, see the way his jaw clicked slightly like he was holding something back. And for the second time, if you leaned in even slightly, there would be no space left to close.

And then, finally and slowly, the tension relieved itself.

Jannik shifted, his hand reaching up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear—slow, deliberate, like he was testing something. His fingers barely skimmed your skin, but it was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “Jannik…”

He hesitated, then, voice nothing but a whisper, “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t have to think. Didn’t want to. You just nodded.

And then his lips were on yours, soft and sure, like he had been holding back for longer then you could ever know. The tiny trophy slipped from your grip, clattering onto the bench, but neither of you noticed.

Because finally—finally—there was nothing left between you but this.

---

Cute cute!! Hope you like it xx

[gamesetattach]

On the Record

Jannik Sinner x Reader A well liked personality in the tennis world, reader is one the favored sports commentators. Her interviews always make headlines for all the right reasons—the people love to watch her crack all their favorite players... especially Jannik Sinner because, I mean, the poor boy seems to just shatter. Honestly. Somewhere in time, this was an 800 word blurb... And now it's nearly 8,000. Not sure when that happened. This just became a tennis player personality study at some point, tbh

---

You weren’t just another sports commentator—you’d quickly made a name for yourself in your short career in the tennis world. The networks and the fans loved you, and so did the players. Your approach was the kind where players actually liked talking, one that made post-match interviews feel less like an obligation and more like an easy conversation. You had built a reputation for striking the perfect balance—professional and sharp, but always with just the right amount of humor to put players at ease.

It wasn’t uncommon for your analyses and your interviews to be clipped and spread, tennis fans enjoyed your commentary and admired how effortlessly you got athletes to open up. You asked questions that felt fresh, steering clear of the usual clichés that players had answered a hundred times before. You could tease them just enough to get a smile, knew when to pull back, when to lean in. And many of the players responded more than favorably to that.

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you. 

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

 "Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked. 

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after. 

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus. 

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players. 

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be. 

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor. 

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic. 

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer. 

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout. 

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything. 

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight. 

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around. 

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name… 

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead 

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort. 

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win. 

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand. 

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head. 

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh. 

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.” 

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered,  "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Three and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally. 

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudged toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—nearly four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion. 

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached out, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile. 

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case—”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer. 

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did. 

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help but fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck. 

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words still on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth. 

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct. An undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch. 

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.  

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance at him when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it.

It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite. 

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation? 

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

K , kisses xx

[gamesetattach]

Five in a Row

Jannik Sinner x Reader Jannik has a not so little challenge for reader... and you already know she's down. And they get right to business, back to back to back to back to back ... Warnings include... basically no plot only unrealistic smut tbh, female-bodied reader, oral, fingering, female receiving, over-stimulation

---

Stretched out on the hotel bed, you laid in one of Jannik’s old tournament shirts with your legs tangled in the covers, idly flipping through your book. He had just come out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling at the ends. He caught your eye as he passed by the foot of the bed, and without even thinking, you let your gaze drop and linger.

He caught it. Of course he did.

“What?” he said, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth as he dropped the towel and reached for a pair of briefs.

"Nothing” You shrugged, smug. “Just thinking you’ve been acting a little cocky lately."

"Cocky?" He shot you a look. “Me?”

"Yeah," you said, leaning into the bit, you set your book down open-faced to really look at him. "Winning matches—What is it? Like five in a row now? In this tournament alone? I worry pretty soon you might walk around like you own the place."

Laughing, he crossed back over to the bed, still shirtless, and braced one knee on the mattress beside you, setting your book off to the side.  "Like I own the place?"

You nodded solemnly, but tilted your head back for him as he leaned in closer.

"I think you’ve got it all wrong," he murmured, brushing your hair off your neck, "I have good reason to be so confident. I’ve had you with me all week."

You lifted a brow. "So this is about me?"

"Everything is about you."

It should’ve sounded cheesy, and it might have made you laugh in any other context, but from Jannik—warm and understated, said as his fingers trailed lightly up the side of your thigh—it made your breath hitch.

You curled your legs under you as he shifted to hover above you, pressing a kiss just below your jaw.

"I’ve been thinking," he murmured into your skin, voice low and edged with amusement. "I wonder what my winning streak with you would look like?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You laughed a little at his obscurity, and reached behind his head to bury your fingers in his hair.

He took a second to answer, kissing you long and deep before he did. “I want to see how many times I can make you come tonight."

You scoffed a laugh, it dissolved into a shiver as his mouth moved lower, but you managed to scarf out a little quip anyways. "You’re talking big, Sinner."

"I mean it," he said, already moving like he planned to prove it.

You looked up at him through your lower lashes. "What? Should I take this as a challenge?"

“Maybe,” he smiled against your collarbone. "If that’ll help you keep up."

The heat building so quickly made you squirm a little, but you chuckled despite yourself. “Well, I don’t know the rules here, but I’m going to win.”

And just like that, your book long-forgotten on the nightstand, your body was arching into his touch as the teasing melted into something deeper, steadier—something intentional, and driven.

---

The first time was unhurried—familiar in the way he touched you, each brush of his fingers was part of a blueprint he already knew by heart. He began by easing your thighs apart, settling between them with a kind of reverence that never stopped making you feel undone. His hands gripped just beneath your knees, holding you open, steady, as he leaned in to kiss the soft skin at the top of your thigh.

His mouth was warm and slow, trailing slowly from one leg to the other, then up—closer. When his lips finally met you fully, you gasped, back arching just slightly, the heat of his tongue and the slow pressure of his mouth sending sparks up your spine. He knew just how you liked it—how to circle just right, when to press firm, when to pull back and let the absence drive you wild.

Your fingers found the edge of the sheets, gripping hard, and your breath turned stuttered, uneven. He glanced up at you briefly, eyes dark and focused, before settling back in with renewed purpose. One hand slid up to hold your stomach gently in place, while the other traced your hip, grounding you as your thighs began to tremble.

When he lowered that hand to slip two fingers inside you, soft and sure, curling just slightly as he moved in rhythm with his mouth, the moan that escaped you was sharp and sudden. He hummed and adjusted instinctively, drawing another sound from your lips. Your heels pressed into the mattress, your hips chasing more, and he gave it—gave all of it, murmuring softly between strokes, coaxing you closer.

The tension built fast, coiled tight inside you until your whole body strained against the pressure. And when it snapped—steep and fast—he didn’t stop. He rode the wave with you, his hands holding you together and apart all at once, his mouth slowing only as your cries faded into broken sighs.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, more of a peck this time, his hands gentle as they released their grip. You felt his breath against your skin, steady and dutiful, like he needed a moment too.

The second came quicker—less careful, more heated. You were still catching your breath when he moved up your body, coaxing your legs around his waist, his skin warm and slick against yours. His hands were everywhere—anchored behind your knees, tracing your ribs, smoothing over the arch of your back as he pressed closer.

He kissed you like that was all he needed—mouth hot, tongue slow, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make your hips buck in response. You clutched at his shoulders, grounding yourself in the pull of his body against yours, the way he filled every space you gave him.

When he finally sank into you, you both stilled. Your breath caught—his did too. His forehead rested against yours for a long moment, one of his hands sliding beneath the back of your knee, lifting your leg just slightly to shift the angle. You gasped when he moved again, a rough exhale escaping him at the sound.

"Too much?" he murmured, but he didn’t need the answer—not when your hips rolled to meet his, not when your nails dug into the planes of his back like you were trying to hold the moment in place.

He found a rhythm quickly—deeper now, surer. Every thrust was a full-body motion, his hands adjusting to where you needed him most, holding you open and close. The wet slide of skin, the way he groaned low every time your walls clenched around him, the soft, desperate sounds you couldn’t suppress—they filled the room so thick that even the whole world seemed to just narrow to the two of you.

The wave crested faster this time. When your body arched again, chasing friction, he met you there without hesitation. So it crashed through you before you could warn him, your body bracing tight, head thrown back, another unrestrained cry slipping out. He didn’t slow—he held you through it, one hand tangled in yours by your head, the other gripping your waist, chasing his own release just behind yours.

You were still coming down when he collapsed beside you, hand never leaving your thigh, thumb stroking idle circles into your skin as you caught your breath.

The third time unfolded more slowly again, but with a deeper, more intimate heat. You were still catching your breath, muscles loose and limbs heavy when Jannik shifted beside you. He didn’t speak—just leaned in and pressed his lips to your shoulder, his hand trailing down the dip of your waist.

You felt the heat radiating off of his hand before he even touched you there fully, his fingers trailing between your legs. And when he found you still sensitive, still warm and pliant, he sucked in a breath.

You turned your face toward him, lips parting as your eyes met. "Again?"

"You’re not done," he said simply. "I can feel it."

And then he was kissing you—slow, inebriating kisses that deepened as his fingers moved lower, parting you with practiced ease. He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them upward until your hips twitched in response. His palm pressed flat against you, thumb brushing steady circles over your clit, gradually building pressure as your thighs instinctively tensed.

Your gasp caught between your lips and his, a sharp intake of breath as your hands clutched his forearm. He adjusted—curling his fingers just right, angling his wrist to drive the sensation deeper. Every stroke sent a jolt through your core, your body arching into him, leaning into pressure.

His thumb never faltered, dragging over you in constant, coaxing circles, synced with each movement inside you. He was quiet, attentive—watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, waiting for every reaction, every shiver, every breathy moan that spilled past your lips.

His mouth dropped to your neck, hot and open, teeth grazing gently as he murmured low praise that vibrated into your skin. He spoke softly into your skin, not in full sentences this time but fragments—your name, how good you felt, how much he loved seeing you like this.

"Don’t hold back," he said, and then you couldn’t anymore.

The third orgasm rolled through you like a slow-building wave, different from the ones before—less of a crash, more of a flood. Your body arched into his hand, thighs tensing around his wrist as your hands flew to his chest, fingers pressing hard against him as if to anchor yourself.

He kept going until you whimpered, until the tremors subsided and your head lolled back into the pillow, boneless. He slowed, then stilled, brushing a kiss to the center of your chest as you blinked up at him, dazed and flushed.

He kissed your temple and murmured praise that blurred into your hair—steady, grounding, full of awe. He cradled you close, his hand stroking up and down your arm, his breath warm where he tucked his face into your neck as your body hummed, every nerve of yours drawn taut. 

"Still okay?" he’d murmured, and even when you nodded, he took a long moment to restart. He let you settle, his lips finding yours in a slower rhythm.

You pushed him back for a second, at his lack of pace, and kissed his jaw, murmuring, "One more."

"You’re still trembling," he whispered, but a smile was growing on his face at your eagerness.

“Thought you weren’t one to give up so easily, huh?” And you pulled his hand down, immediately gasping at the contact, but sticking with your adamance. 

Jannik was outright grinning now, and you both let out a little laugh at your visceral reaction—his, low and amused as he looked at you splayed out and blissed-out, and yours, breathy and disbelieving. But when his fingers fluttered where you’d placed them, you didn’t stop him—and when your eyes rolled shut at the touch, he leaned in with a kind of hunger that replaced all hesitation.

This time, he guided you onto your stomach, one hand sliding under your hips to pull them up gently, elevating you just enough for him to settle behind. His body pressed against your back, his weight grounding, comforting. The hand beneath you moved slowly at first, fingers slipping through your slick folds with practiced care. He circled your clit with the lightest touch, drawing a breathless sound from you as your thighs clenched instinctively.

Then he pushed two fingers inside, angling his hand so that every stroke dragged upward, catching a spot that made your hips rock back into him with a soft, broken moan. He picked up on it instantly—adjusting, driving deeper, curling his fingers deliberately while his thumb found a rhythm against your clit that had you all but biting into the pillow.

His mouth pressed hot against your shoulder blade, and you felt him smile into your skin as he moved. "So sensitive," he murmured. "Like I just have to touch you here—"

He curled again, just right, and your entire body jolted.

"—and you can’t help yourself."

You tried to speak, to answer, but your voice cracked into a moan. He stayed steady behind you, his body firm along your back, one arm braced beside your shoulder, the other still working you open with maddening precision.

And then another crept up—your breath hitching, your hips jerking back against his hand, your thighs starting to tremble again—the fourth wave slammed through you. You cried out into the pillow, body bowing, and he held you through it—his hand never leaving your body, his voice soothing against your ear, calling you back down with each gentle stroke.

When your body finally stilled, he kissed the base of your neck and whispered, "Still with me?"

And you nodded, barely able to find your voice through the haze. He pressed gentle kisses to your forehead and to the side of your mouth as he laid beside you, whispering praise as his hand smoothed along your rib cage until your breath returned to normal. He didn’t reach for more, ready to wind down, but then you tugged at his wrist.

He shifted beside you at the signal and murmured, "More?"

When you blinked yes with a dazed smile and single nod, he smiled, too. Soft and wicked. "Come here."

That fifth time was slower still—him lying back and drawing you over him, letting you set the pace. He guided your hips with hands warm and steady, not directing but encouraging, thumbs brushing your waist as you sank onto him, inch by inch. It took you a long moment to adjust, as stimulated and shaky as you were.

You exhaled a shivering breath, the stretch still so full despite how many times he’d already had you tonight. He groaned softly as you settled against him, hands resting low on your back. You moved tentatively at first, still sensitive, still aching in the best way, but Jannik met each roll of your hips with a low hum of pleasure, eyes half-lidded and focused entirely on you.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "There you go," he murmured. "Just like that."

Each grind drew out a new sound from your throat, your body stretched over his as you built the rhythm. His hands didn’t stop moving—one trailing up your spine, the other cupping your breast, brushing his thumb softly over your nipple until you gasped and shivered.

You leaned down to kiss him, sweet and soft, your hips never breaking pace. The kiss turned hungry fast—teeth grazing, tongues tangling—as your body leaned into the growing friction. He matched it with soft groans against your mouth, his hands tightening just slightly every time you clenched around him. 

It was when he finished, with a choked groan into your ear and the faltering of his hips, that you felt yourself close again. You buried your face in his neck, moaning low as your body trembled from head to toe. He held you there, letting you shake apart over him, murmuring your name for the nth time that night. You whimpered into his shoulder, clutching at him as the wave crashed through you one last time.

You collapsed against him, flushed and glowing, and he held you there, kissing your shoulder and stroking slow lines up and down your back. Letting the silence of the moment settle between your breaths.

By now, the night had melted into early morning, you lay tangled in the sheets, breathing ragged, his fingers trailing lazily down your side. Every part of you ached, in the best way. Your skin buzzed, sensitive and flushed from everything he’d given you. The sheets were half-kicked off, your legs tangled with his, your cheek resting against the bare skin of his chest where it rose and fell with each slow breath.

Neither of you spoke for a while. He just held you close, fingers sketching idle shapes into your back. Occasionally, he would press a soft kiss to your hairline, the bridge of your nose, the slope of your shoulder—each one slow, quiet, unrushed.

You eventually shifted slightly to move just partially off of him, draping an arm across his stomach, your voice muffled against his skin. "I feel like I won that—just for the record."

He chuckled, low and warm. "Won what?"

“The challenge,” you sighed dramatically, stating the obvious. "You almost stopped short a couple times there… and you would’ve, had I not intervened."

 “No—I for sure won.” He grinned into your hair and gave your hip a playful squeeze, pulling you in tighter. “Tell me, how are your legs feeling?”

"... I’m going to be useless tomorrow."

 "Exactly." He chuckled, low and warm. “So, I won.”

"I say we call it a draw," you whispered, starting to fall asleep with each breath, your voice soft with exhaustion but a smile tugging at the edges. Jannik pulled you closer, tucking his chin onto the top of your head, and smiling as you mumbled one last, barely conscious line before drifting off. “Can’t let you get too cocky on me...”

---

Don't know if this humanly possible for most, and I don't care... this was just fun to write and, uh, hopefully fun to read... lmk! xx

[gamesetattach]

You Always Know

Jannik Sinner x Reader An old friend comes to Jannik's rescue, so he doesn't drive himself crazy during his three month ban. Friend is a loose term... they've always been something deeper than that. A little angst, a lot of comfort. Can't wait to see our man play again..

The world wouldn’t let him ignore it. The news of his ban had sent shockwaves through the tennis world, the headlines relentless, the debate louder than he could ever tune out. He ignored the worried looks from his team, the sympathetic texts, the way even strangers seemed to have something to say—ignored how it all pressed down on him, demanding a response he refused to give.

So instead of facing it, he did what he knew best—he buried himself in routine. Trained like nothing had changed, like he wasn’t forced onto the sidelines of the sport that made up his entire life. He ran drills, pushed himself harder in the gym, kept his schedule the same as if all those tournaments were still on the horizon.

If he didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn’t feel as real.

His team noticed. They always did. Darren Cahill, who had seen athletes crumble under the weight of lesser storms, wasn’t about to let him slip through the cracks. He had coached enough players to know when one was trying to outrun the things they didn’t want to face. And he knew Jannik well enough to recognize the warning signs—the clipped answers, the longer hours on court, the empty look in his eyes when he thought no one was paying attention.

And so, Darren made a call.

Not to any journalist, not to his lawyer, not to a PR team—but to you.

---

You had been in Jannik’s life for years now, an old and trusted friend. You were the person who knew him beyond his forehands and trophies, the one who could pull laughter out of him on even the hardest of days, the one who he let see him as more than just Jannik Sinner, World No. 1.

You and Jannik had a low maintenance friendship—you'd known each other long enough to stay close even through stretches of time with no contact. Even without consistently staying in touch, you always picked up where you left off. Silence had never been uncomfortable between you, so close that your relationship had settled into something easy, something unshakable.

You weren’t part of his team, weren’t tied to his career in any professional sense, but you had always been a constant. The person he called when he wanted to talk about something that wasn’t tennis, or about everything to do with tennis. The person who never expected anything from him beyond who he was off the courts, and outside of the cameras. You didn’t need to be around all the time to know him better than anyone, to read between the lines even when he wasn’t saying anything at all.

And right now, he really wasn’t saying a thing.

---

You'd hopped on the soonest flight, barely packing a bag before heading to the airport, knowing Jannik wouldn’t have asked for help himself. He never did.

You already held your suspicions about his state of denial, and so when Darren reached out, you dropped everything. You never did need much convincing when it came to Jannik.

Which was why you now found yourself standing outside his front door, your fist hovering just before knocking.

You could hear movement inside—soft footsteps, the muffled sound of a chair scraping against the floor. He was up and around. You knocked.

A few seconds passed before the door opened. Jannik stood in front of you, hair slightly damp from a shower, already sticking up in a way that told you he had run his hands through it too many times. His expression barely changed, though his brows pulled together just slightly.

"Hey, stranger," you said, offering a small smile.

"Did Darren send you?"

"Something like that," you admitted, stepping past him into the room without waiting for an invitation. "You weren't answering my calls."

He shut the door behind you, sighing. "Didn't mean to. Just—"

"I know," you said in gently, he didn't have to finish. And he knew that.

He met your gaze, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. Then he shrugged, a feigned nonchalance that didn’t fool you for a second. "Nothing to talk about. It’s done."

You dropped your bag onto the chair by the window, glancing around the space. It was neat, and Jannik was always one to leave things laying around—he had always needed extra motivation to pick up after himself, but there was an emptiness to his home now. A kind of sterile order that made it feel like he was just barely existing, moving through the motions without really being there.

His silence stretched between you as he let you survey his state of living, the air thick and weighted. This was how it could get with him—he let things simmer under the surface, kept them locked away until they built up into something too heavy to carry alone. And he’d been carrying this for too long already.

You turned back to him, and watched him for a moment before speaking, arms crossing over your chest. "Jannik. The world is throwing opinions around like confetti, your name is in headlines every day, and you’re pretending it’s not happening?"

He sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. "What is there to say?"

You raised a brow. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something about the fact that you’ve been banned from playing for three months? The fact that the entire sports world has an opinion on you right now? That half of them don’t even care about the truth?"

Jannik’s jaw tightened, his fingers pressing together. "Talking about it won’t change anything."

"Maybe not," you said. "But ignoring it won’t either."

"What do you want me to do?" His voice raised ever so slightly now, and you could hear he was trying to temper himself. "Go online and argue with everyone calling me a fraud? Defend myself to people who’ve already made up their minds? It won’t change anything."

You studied him—his tight shoulders, the tired look in his eyes, the way he was holding himself together like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go even for a second.

"No," you said finally. "I want you to let someone in before you shut down completely."

He let out a breath, but the tension in his shoulders refused to let up. "I don’t know how to do this. How to just... stop."

"Jan," you spoke softer now, sitting down beside him. "You don’t have to hold this by yourself."

Because this wasn’t just about the ban. It was about what it meant. The helplessness of being forced to wait, of watching his sport move on without him, of knowing that no matter how hard he trained, he wouldn’t be able to prove anything until time had run its course.

"You don’t have to figure it out alone," you said. Your hand found his, fingers brushing lightly before curling around his palm.

Jannik glanced at you then, the exhaustion clear in his gaze. You didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. You just sat there, letting the silence settle, a quiet reminder that he didn’t have to say anything for you to understand.

Jannik let out a dry laugh after some quiet, shaking his head. His fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in the one thing that still felt real. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Show up."

You gave him a half-smile. "I know."

And you knew what he really meant. And, for now, that was enough.

---

Jannik never asked you to stay. But he never asked you to leave, either.

The first night, you figured you’d take the guest room. You had barely set your bag down before Jannik wordlessly picked it up and carried it into his room. He didn’t say anything as he placed it down near his dresser, just looked at you once, as if daring you to argue, before climbing into bed. You had paused for only a moment before following and slipping under the covers beside him, the little space between you known and warm.

By morning, it was like you had always been there.

Jannik’s house had been eerily quiet before you arrived—so quiet it felt like a void. You filled it effortlessly. You worked remotely from his dining table, half-ignoring his commentary whenever he passed by, and usually replied with some sarcastic remark about how you technically were on the clock. When he came home from practice, his hair damp with sweat and exhaustion evident in his posture, you tried to have food ready, or would at least shove a snack into his hands before he could think to protest.

You weren’t trying to fix anything. You were just there. And that, more than anything, seemed to keep him steady.

---

The first time you went with him to practice, he acted like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t slipped into his life so comfortably, like his team had no reason to be surprised by your addition. And they weren't, really, they welcomed your presence and the version of Jannik it brought.

"So, are you her assistant now?" Darren asked as Jannik entered the court, shooting a look at where you had settled on the bench with your laptop.

"Shut up," Jannik muttered, stretching his arms.

You smirked. "You did carry my bag in."

"Because you left it in the car."

"Because I knew had an assistant for that."

The team laughed, and Jannik shot you a glare, and there was something lighter in his mannerisms than before—his humor was coming back. And when he started hitting, there was something looser about his body, too.

The days blended together like that. You'd wake up tangled together, your leg thrown over his, his hand resting heavily on your waist. Neither of you would move for a while. And when you did, it wasn’t to pull away, but rather to burrow deeper into the warmth of each other. It was silent, comfortable. The kind of closeness that required no explanation.

You worked while he trained, watched his practice matches, ate meals together like it was second nature. It wasn’t something you talked about; it just was. The easy familiarity of it all. The fact that neither of you ever brought up the way your feet always ended up in between his under the dinner table, or how he absentmindedly pulled your chair closer when you sat too far.

---

One night, you decided to cook dinner together. It started out with the best intentions—simple pasta, nothing too complicated—but somewhere along the way, chaos took over. You were in charge of chopping, Jannik was on sauce duty, and neither of you were taking it particularly seriously.

"That’s not how you dice an onion," Jannick observed as he glanced at your poorly cut pieces.

"You play tennis, not Head Chef," you shot back, pushing the board toward him. "Do it yourself if you’re so good."

He rolled his eyes, reaching to grab the knife, but you were faster—sliding it just out of his reach.

"Weren't you ever taught not to play with knives." He yelped, but laughter was bubbling underneath his words.

What followed was an impromptu game of keep-away, him chasing you around the kitchen, laughter bouncing off the walls as flour somehow ended up in your hair and tomato sauce splattered onto his sweater.

By the time the food was actually done, the kitchen was a disaster, but neither of you cared. You sat on the counter, Jannik leaning against the sink, both of you catching your breath between bites of pasta straight from the pot.

"We’re horrible at this," you mused, twirling spaghetti around your fork.

Jannik huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Speak for yourself. I think I was doing just fine until you got involved."

You nudged his knee with your foot. "You love the chaos."

He didn’t respond right away, just gave you a look, something warm and knowing in his expression before he took another bite.

---

Another afternoon, it started to rain just as Jannik finished practice. You had been waiting by the parking lot, sitting on the steps of the training center, scrolling on your phone. When the first drops hit, you got up to rush to the car, but Jannik, fresh from his session, grabbed your wrist and pulled you back.

"Come on," he said, a rare, mischievous glint in his eye.

"What?" You barely had time to react before he took off into the open courtyard, tugging you with him. The rain picked up, soaking both of you within minutes. You groaned dramatically but gave in, letting the rain drench you both as you danced around in the open space, laughter spilling between you.

"You are ridiculous," you laughed, wiping water from your eyes as he lifted your arm to twirl you lazily.

"And yet you’re still here." He smirked, pushing his dripping hair out of his face and turning you to face him again, still holding your hand.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, letting him spin you around once more before tugging you closer, your clothes sticking together from the rain.

You stayed like that for a moment, breathing in the scent of wet pavement and him. His thumb brushed against your wrist absentmindedly, tracing small, barely-there circles. Neither of you moved, neither of you broke the moment. It wasn’t hesitation that kept you still, nor was it uncertainty. It was something deeper, something heavier that had settled between you long ago. The rain kept falling, but neither of you seemed to care.

When he finally let go, he didn’t step away. "We should probably get back."

"Yeah," you agreed, but neither of you moved.

After another beat, he shook his head and exhaled a soft laugh, and reached for your hand again, this time simply lacing his fingers through yours as he pulled you back toward the car. It wasn’t even anything to be addressed. Just another moment in a series of many others neither of you had ever tried to name.

You went home and showered, and then you both found yourselves on the couch watching a movie neither of you were paying attention to. Jannik’s head, which had started off resting against your shoulder, made its way onto you lap. Your fingers absentmindedly played with his curls. Throughout the film, you made comments about the ridiculous plot and the over the top acting, and he chuckled each time, the low sound vibrating against you.

"Are you even watching?" You teased, poking his ribs lightly.

He hummed. "How can I? When your narration is drowning out the actual movie."

"Okay and? Just tune it out like background noise, because I'm not going to stop."

His lips quirked. "Bah, no. Why would I do that when you're best part?"

---

The tension from the ban was still there, but it had dulled at the edges. His frustration still flared up in moments—when he checked his phone and saw another headline, when a notification popped up that should’ve been about his next match but wasn’t. But instead of shutting down completely, he turned to you.

One night, after another long day, you found him sitting outside on the balcony, staring up at nothing. You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment before stepping forward.

"You good?"

"Yeah." His voice was low, distant. "Just thinking."

You slid onto the lounge chair beside him, pulling your legs up. "Anything specific?"

He exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Nothing I want to say out loud."

"So dramatic."

"You chose to be here."

You nudged his knee with your foot. "I did."

He didn’t respond right away, just looked at you, the weight of all that lied between you in his gaze. You held it, waiting, letting him take whatever time he needed. And then, finally, he spoke.

"I don’t like not having control," he admitted, voice quieter now. "Not over my training, not over what people think. And especially not over what happens next."

You nodded, understanding. "But you do have control over one thing."

"Yeah?"

You smiled, shifting so your shoulder bumped against his. "Whether you let this consume you or not."

He looked at you again, something softer in his expression. "You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Say exactly what I need to hear."

You shrugged. "It’s a gift."

His lips twitched, and he shook his head. He meant to reply with something teasing, but what came out was true and firm. "Stay."

The word was simple, but it held all that he felt for you. You had been planning to, of course. But hearing him say it—hearing him ask—settled something deep in your chest.

You leaned your head back against the chair, gazing up at the night sky. "I'm not going anywhere."

And for the first time in weeks, Jannik finally felt himself believe that everything might just be okay.

---

Some time before May 5th, 2025

The countdown had dwindled down to days.

Jannik had never been the type to fixate on time, but now, every minute stretched, every hour filled with the anticipation of something just barely out of reach. The ban was ending, the silence lifting, and soon, he would be back where he belonged—on the court, in the rhythm of competition, stepping into the world he had been locked out of for what felt like an eternity.

But the excitement came with worries, too.

He had spent so long keeping himself moving, telling himself the brief pause in his career was just another phase, another setback to push through. Now that it was nearly over, he wasn’t sure what to do with the nervous energy thrumming beneath his skin. His body was ready. His mind, however, wavered.

So, again, he turned to you. Like he had these past three months. Like he always did.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, idly typing away at something he was sure he'd hear about soon. You had made yourself at home in his space long ago, moving through it with the kind of ease that made it feel less like a house and more like something alive—something warm.

He wasn’t sure when exactly that happened, though he knew the seeds were always there, and he wasn’t in any rush to stop it.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, not looking up from your screen.

Jannik huffed, sinking deeper into the cushions beside you. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He nudged your knee with his own, rolling his eyes when you simply smirked at your screen. A few more seconds of quiet stretched between you before he finally exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I don’t know what it’s going to feel like,” he admitted, voice quieter than usual. “Going back.”

You finally looked up at that, closing your laptop without hesitation and shifting to face him fully. “It’s going to feel exactly the way it always has.”

Jannik let out a slow breath, staring at his hands before looking back at you. “What if it doesn’t?”

“That's okay, too.”

He didn’t reply right away, but the way he studied you—quiet, searching, as if trying to absorb the certainty in your voice—spoke louder than words. You reached out, slipping your fingers through his, grounding him in the moment.

“You’ve done this a thousand times,” you reminded him. “Nothing about who you are has changed in these three months.”

He nodded slowly, squeezing your hand once before letting go, but the weight in his chest felt a little lighter. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t need to. You just knew.

You always did.

And soon, the world would remember too.

---

Until then xx

[gamesetattach]

When World's Collide - Part 4

Jannik Sinner x Williams Race Strategist!Reader The Las Vegas Grand Prix and the Davis Cup overlap on the same weekend, both reader and Jannik have to navigate stress for each other on top of any stress for themselves Catch up on Parts 1 - 3 here!

It was late, the glow of your laptop the only source of light in your hotel room. The final meeting with the team had run long, analyzing every possible scenario for tomorrow’s race—the race that could determine whether or not Williams Racing would win the Constructors' Championship for the first time in decades. You were worn out but somehow still running on nervous energy, the pressure weighing heavily on your shoulders.

Your phone jolted on the desk, a few texts from Jannik coming in, and you quickly grabbed it to respond knowing it was midday for him. He immediately responded to your reply with a call, ringing you to FaceTime, and you couldn't help but smile when his name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” you answered, trying to keep your voice light despite the ongoing stress.

“Hey,” he replied, his smile soft but voice still rasped with sleep. You could tell he was lying in bed, facing up at the ceiling of his dark hotel room, blackout curtains still drawn no doubt. He was in Spain for the final weekend of the Davis Cup with a match later that day, Spain versus Italy—arguably the tournament most watched and anticipated by his own country, not to mention the rest of the tennis world.

“Are you only just waking up?” you teased lightly, it must've been just past noon in Malaga.

“Are you only just now sleeping?" he countered, mocking your phrase, though his tone was one of only affection. “Why are you up and responding to my texts? You need rest for your big weekend.”

“Well it's a big weekend for the both of us.” you reminded him, leaning back in your chair. “Besides, I wasn't planning on sleeping for at least a couple more hours.”

“Bwah no, come on.” he scolded quickly with a click of his tongue, well intentioned but concerned—it was well past midnight where you were. “You've done enough already.”

You hesitated at his sincere response to your playful banter, debating whether to downplay your nerves. You both were usually the pinnacle of composure when it came to your respective worlds, and you knew letting on your stress could make him feel stressed in turn. Even with all his trust and confidence in your abilities, he worried about your state of mind more than he did his own. And though there was no one that could calm you down quite like him, sometimes you worried that he relieved your tension by absorbing it himself.

“There's still some possible outcomes I wanted to work through. I'm nearly done." You shrugged, trying to assure him, opting to try and play off the pressure you were feeling.

But there was too long a pause after you spoke, and the view of him shifted ever so slightly on the screen and you knew he was peering closer at your face to gauge your expression—that he'd caught on to your bubbling disconcertment.

“You’re a bad liar,” he said immediately, voice warm but firm. “Talk to me.”

You sighed, and you could imagine how he would've looped his arms around your shoulders and leaned you against his chest had he been there with you.

"I just... " You trailed off, not quite knowing what it was that was eating at you. "I want us to be ready, you know?”

“You’ll do great,” Jannik said, settling on one of his simple, steady answers. “You always do. Trust that, and that your team has worked for it.”

"That's just it, though. We can't have made it this far just to be let down now," The floodgates had opened now, and all your anxieties spilled out with it. "I can't let them down."

He called out your name more firm then, grounding you. "You are one of the best things to happen to the team. This is the truth, even if you don't see it this way? And you've been preparing your whole career for this."

You waved off his praise and exhaled, staring past the phone at the wall ahead of you. “It’s just… if I mess this up, it won’t just be me who loses. It’s the drivers, the engineers, the mechanics. Williams is so close to something historic, and I can’t afford to be the weak link. Or let the race down somehow... I don't know.”

He continued, softening slightly, but pivoted to a more rational, objective approach, "Look, quali went well, no? The team is set up to score all that you need. Carlos and Alex are solid, you know this. The cars—"

"—are solid," you finished for him, and your voice was grudging, but you'd be lying if you said your spirits weren't lifting. "Yes, I know. You're right."

"No, I was going to say the cars are like rockets. And the strategy?" He returned, powering on, "The strategy has been brilliant, and it will be tomorrow, too. You will be brilliant."

"I love you," is all you could really say, because he'd was so sure in what he said that it was like you just had to believe it yourself, "And thank you."

He only shrugged in response, his words of encouragement were enough to bring tears to your eyes, but to him it was a given. "I love you, too. Don't stress too much more, okay? And sleep soon, I'll go now."

"No, wait," you said, catching him before he moved to hang up, "What about your semifinals later? How do you feel?"

"Good, I feel good." He said plainly, but continued after a pointed look from you, "We are playing strong, my movement and physicality has been good on court. The fans support is so much here, it should be fun."

"Well, all of Italy is on their edge of their seats for this," You said, grinning, "And so am I, I have to say."

"You have too much to focus on, don't worry about the match on top of this." And when you pouted at his sensible reply, he chuckled but said, "I mean it, don't check on the points or outcome, okay? I don't want the play here to affect anything there—Malaga, Vegas, keep them separate."

"They couldn't be more separate... but fine." You knew his advice was for your own good. If his game did go south and the news reached you, it would surely influence your mood and decisions.

"Hey," He called out softly, "I miss you, too."

Your schedules had pulled you to opposite sides of the world for some time now and, with only three races left, everything was coming to a head, especially your ache for him.

“We'll be together in no time now,” you said.

"Two more race weekends," he nodded, "And I'll be there for you in Abu Dhabi."

You two sat in silence for a moment, just staring at the other on screen.

"You’ll kill it in the semi, and make it to the finals. I know it." You said after a bit, deciding it was time to turn the pep talk on him, trying to inject as much confidence in him as he did in you. Though you were sure he was enjoying himself with his compatriots, and was no where near your state of fear. “No one deserves it more.”

He smiled at your words, and you continued, "And you don't check on the race. Don't wake up early to watch, don't look at live updates. Nothing, yeah?"

"Fine," he agreed easily, knowing there was no point in arguing, especially when he had just asked the same of you, "And when you win, just celebrate into the night—don't tune into the finals in your early morning even if I'm playing."

"You just had to one up me with another condition." You rolled your eyes, "I'm agreeing, but if the finals are playing at the club then I'm gonna watch."

He laughed aloud at that, "Why would the—"

"Hey, you don't know Vegas. Their night life is something else, tennis finals on the screens wouldn't be the craziest thing here."

"Okay, fine." He said, still laughing at the image. "If you go out after and the match happens to be on where you are celebrating, then you get a pass."

"So we have a deal?"

"We have a deal."

You both laughed, shaking your heads slightly. Navigating support for a partner within your respective varieties of competition chaos could get bizarre at times, and this was just another example.

"You'll sleep now?" He said, giving you a look as he got out of bed.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Good night, and good luck for tomorrow. I love you."

"Bye, Jan. I love you, too."

You stared at the phone for a moment after it went dark, sighing a little before closing your laptop and getting up to get ready for bed. As much as the next day held, you felt just a little lighter after talking to Jannik. And that was more than enough.

---

The paddock was a storm of activity. Every member of the Williams team was hyper-focused, from the engineers to the pit crew. The tension was palpable; this wasn’t just another race—it was the race. If Williams managed to outmaneuver their rivals, the constructors would be theirs after the weekend. If not, the fight would continue to the end of the season and all the hard work to clinch the title as soon as possible would feel like a near miss.

You stood on the pit wall, headset on, eyes glued to the data streaming across the monitors in front of you. Alex and Carlos were in their cars, their voices crackling over the radio as they prepared for the formation lap. You gave them both final words of encouragement, masking your own nerves with a practiced, professional steadiness.

As the lights went out and the race began, you threw yourself into the strategy. Every pit stop, every tire change, every adjustment to the plan required your full attention. But in the quiet moments, when there was nothing to do but wait for a car to cross a sector, your thoughts drifted to Jannik.

His match would have finished early on in your day, but you'd spent most of the morning running around preparing for the night race and hadn't idle time to think of much else. Besides, you planned to stick to your deal—for your sake and his.

Your team and the paddock knew better than to update you with his points while you were amidst all the frenzy leading up to a race, though you knew for a fact you worked with and around quite a few die-hard tennis fans. They were probably too busy to let anything on, anyways. Even if Jannik had made it to the finals, and if he was staying true to your agreement as well, he was probably fast asleep. It was around 8 in the morning for him, and before a match he tended to sleep all the way up until he absolutely had to get up and warm up. You hoped he really was sticking to his routine, and not up and watching your race.

A whirr of static on the radio and a call of your name brought you back to reality. You shook all other thoughts away, refocusing on the task at hand.

“Carlos?” You responded. “I'm here.”

---

The checkered flag waved, and the Williams garage erupted in cheers, the trackside staff all clinging to the fence as they watched their drivers cross the finish. Alex had taken first, Carlos overtaking Ferrari to come in P2 at the last second. The best case outcome, a perfect 1-2 finish. You stood frozen for a moment, the realization washing over you. You’d done it. Williams had done it. The Constructors' Championship was yours.

James Vowles clapped you on the back before pulling you into a hug, others doing the same once he pulled away. The garage was packed with bodies, everyone embracing one another with emotions equal parts shock and triumph. You stepped off the pit wall and joined them in their joy.

Then you all but ran to the podium, dodging the many cameras following the celebration. You watched your drivers step up on stage, James off to the side with them, and cheered arm in arm with the rest of your team.

By the time the drivers arrived back to the garage, you'd already had three glasses of champagne. Everyone immediately swarmed them, armed with their new t-shirts, fizzing bottles, and beaming smiles. By the time they made it over to you, you were near tears again.

Carlos smiled at your display of emotion as he approached, "There she is."

"Congratulations," you said, laughing as he tossed an arm around you.

"Congratulations to you." He said earnestly, pulling back to look at you with his hand on your shoulder, "Without your help—especially on that 30th lap... I mean..."

Alex came up behind you then, "Without your help at any point in the season, we wouldn't be here."

He gave you a warm hug, laughing at your lack of response and your wide grin, "Someone get her more champagne, she clearly hasn't had enough."

"Don't worry, I have some here." Carlos said, whipping out a bottle he'd been hiding behind him. He shook it before you had a chance to react, let alone think, and you were caked in champagne before you knew it. Alex joined in with a bottle of his own somewhere in there, and everyone around laughed and kept you in their line of fire.

You could only laugh and duck in response, your hair sticking to your face, smile wide. The reporters found you then and, after you'd managed to avoid them for most of the night, someone thrust a microphone in your face, asking how it felt to be part of history.

You yelled some sort of an answer into the mic, trying to be heard in the midst of the constant cheering. You couldn't really be sure what exactly you said but you let your clear pride and delight take the front seat, hoping the elation and months of media training meant you'd satisfied the question well enough. Behind you, people were taking turns lifting the podium trophies and you grinned at the roars of celebration, but you tried to at least pretend and focus on the next question.

Before you could answer, another reporter's voice jumped in. “Have you heard? Jannik has made it to the finals. Straight sets in the semi.”

Your breath caught, a new wave of emotion crashing over you. “He did?” you asked, your smile growing impossibly wider, "Oh, I knew he would, but... wow—I'm so happy, really... just could not be happier."

The reporter nodded and smiled with you, clearly a fan. “It’s all over the news. He'll be up against Alcaraz tomorrow in the finals.”

Alex stepped into frame and shook your shoulders, "Guess you're celebrating for all of us plus one tonight."

"I guess so," You said, grinning to yourself, "And maybe the tournament final will be playing at the club."

"There'll be what, where?" Alex said incredulously, laughing and giving a look to the camera.

"Nothing, don't worry about it."

---

The roar of the crowd as he stepped onto the court was deafening, but Jannik’s mind was quiet. He approached each match the same, backed with all the preparation he put in: every hit, every serve, every volley was drilled into his muscle memory.

He'd spent much of his morning thinking of you and the race. You'd only briefly texted since your call the other day, which was to be expected with all the responsibilities you had to tend to. Race weekends always meant he'd have to wait a bit before being able to hear from you again.

If you were sticking to your half of the deal like he was, then you probably had no clue that he was about to compete in the finals. Just as he had no idea whether or not you'd won the Constructors.

Avoiding the results was probably harder for him then it was for you. There were a lot of moments of waiting in between sessions, and he had ample opportunity to check his phone or strike a conversation with another player. He had no doubt that nearly everyone at the tournament knew about the Las Vegas Grand Prix's outcome, but held true to his promise anyways. He'd even instructed his team not to let him know, knowing at least a couple of them had woken up early to watch the race themselves.

Even if the news of him advancing to the finals had reached you, he would want you to be out late into the night celebrating. In the case that you'd won, of course—and god, he hoped you'd won. It was always hard to see all the pressure you placed on yourself, but he knew what kind of mentality such high performance took and how it was easier to critique yourself then to build yourself up. Then again, he also got to see you in all your brilliance. He always did say: you would have turned him into a Williams fan even if you weren't together—you were just that good.

The warm up ended and the match began, and Jannik tucked all his thoughts and well wishes of you back in his mind. He gave Carlos Alcaraz another pat on the back at the net, and murmured a few words of encouragement, before running back to the baseline.

As always, Carlos pushed him to his limits, matching his every move, every point a battle of endurance and skill. After every set won, Jannik would look to the stands, feeding off the endless energy of the other Italian players and fans on the sidelines.

---

The celebration was nothing short of legendary. The Williams team had descended upon one of Vegas' most exclusive clubs, the already electric atmosphere dragging deep into the night. Champagne showers erupted as soon as they stepped foot inside, a DJ announcing their victory to the entire room while blue and white confetti rained from the ceiling. Lights flashed in dizzying patterns, the bass vibrating through their bones, and the energy was feverish—pure, unfiltered euphoria born out of both triumph and exhaustion and a fair amount of alcohol.

You stayed at the center of it all, basking in the historic achievement. Even when you tried to take a breath, someone pulled you back in for another toast, another cheer. Hands clapped your shoulders, voices called your name, Alex even took the mic at some point and shouted over the music about how you had masterminded one of the biggest wins in Williams’ modern history. In more than one instance, you were hoisted onto someone's shoulders, laughing as Carlos and Alex were lifted along with you, belting whatever song it was playing.

The whole team was buzzing—Carlos, Alex, James, the engineers, the pit crew, all the other personnel—everyone was reveling in the moment. There was dancing, laughter, and an endless flow of celebratory drinks. Even rival teams took turns sending bottles in a show of respect, other drivers showing face at the party.

Hours blurred together. At some point, you found yourself outside on the balcony, gulping in the crisp air while music and cheers thundered behind. The Strip below was still alive, neon lights flickering like a pulse in the night. There really was no place like Vegas to celebrate.

You checked your phone. 4:02 AM. 4:02 AM.

Jannik. His final must've just started.

You rushed inside, pushing through the bodies that clustered around the doors. But once back in, you paused at the call of your name and looked around to find who the voice belonged to.

Charles Leclerc made his way over, his girlfriend Alex's hand in his. They both took turns hugging you, offering their congratulations.

"I mean, I wish it was us," Charles said with a teasing smile, "But if not us, I am glad it was you."

"Thanks, Charles." You both had to yell amidst all the noise, but your tone was fond even despite that. He'd grown to become a good friend ever since you'd moved to Monaco. "And you drove well today, I was scared there for a second when you overtook Carlos on lap 30."

"Well, you didn't let me keep the P2 for long."

You laughed, "Actually, I think you kept it too long. Took us the rest of the race to get it back."

"Talking about me?" Carlos jumped in, coming up behind Charles to place hands on his shoulders and shake him.

"Not everything's about you Carlos," You said, smiling at his drunken gesture, "But, yes actually."

"I'm surprised any of you are still here. It's late." Carlos said, considering the three of you before his eyes settled on you again. "Especially you. The Davis Cup final is now, no?"

"Yes." You nodded your head vigorously, "I was coming back in to see if I could convince the DJ to play the match on the screen instead of his visualizer thingys."

"Really?" Charles asked, smirking at the idea.

"Yes, really. It's Vegas." Because that had been reason enough for most of the night. It was why you were so many drinks in, and why you were all still out at four in the morning.

You all turned to look at the crowd still gathered on the dance floor. The team had their arms interlocked, and were swaying while slurring and shouting the words to "We Are the Champions" for the 4th time that night.

"Yeah... there's no chance," Carlos said at the sight.

"...Yeah, I think maybe you're right." You admitted, smiling and shaking your head as some of your co-workers outstretched their arms in your direction.

---

Breathless and grinning, Jannik hugged the last of his fellow, Italian players that rushed the court after his win. Carlos and him had a tight tiebreaker, but he managed to get ahead after nearly an hour of breaking even.

As Matteo Berretini released his head from an affection hold, Jannik looked up and opened his mouth, intending to ask about the Grand Prix results. Before he could get a word out, the tournament facilitators ushered him to the center for the on-court interview.

The interviewer immediately kicked into action, "Jannik Sinner! Another unbelievable match with your long-time rival. How do you feel now that you've brought your country to yet another win at the Davis Cup?"

"Uh, yes... First of all, I want to say thank you to the tournament and to the Italian team, and of course Carlos and the Spanish players—" He cut himself off after beginning his usual, introductory remarks. "Sorry, I just—I have to ask. Williams… did they win?”

Slightly caught off guard, the interviewer took a second before answering with enthusiasm. “Oh! Yes! Williams did win the Las Vegas Grand Prix!”

Jannik let out a breath and his shoulders sagged in relief. Running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, his face split into a wide, unguarded grin, and the crowd cheered at his reaction.

“That’s amazing,” he murmured, his voice filled with pride.

“Yes, they had a 1-2 finish I believe.” The interviewer said, chuckling as Jannik's looked back at his box and exchanged a cheer with his team, "So you mean to say you went this whole game without knowing your partner and her team is now this season's F1 Constructors’ Champions."

"Yes, I—We had a deal, we both didn't look at any scores this weekend."

"I see. So now you're celebrating a double victory." Jumping back into interview mode, he continued on to ask "Any plans on how you're going commemorate the achievements from this weekend?"

"Uh, it's not just my team here—there is also the Italian tennis player side—so maybe, we will..." He trailed off again, clearly still reeling with the news of the Williams win, and ducked his head with a smile, "Sorry, I'm still—you know, she worked very hard for this. I’m very proud.”

The crowd cheered again at that, and his team and his friends chuckled at his obvious delight.

"Anything you'd like to say to her? She's probably watching right now."

"Ah, hopefully she is not," Jannik chuckled, wagging a finger at the camera, "Part of the deal was that she would celebrate with no interruption, or at least sleep. She needs it after the race... But no, I am so proud. Williams has been amazing all season, and they really deserve this. It's incredible, really."

"Okay, well I'm sure she'll be happy to hear your words whenever she gets to it. Knowing Vegas, she might still be up, who knows?" The interviewer laughed out, before jumping back into his questions.

Jannik tried his best to cooperate with the rest of the interview and focus on his own answers, but all the while he was calculating what hour you might wake up, when he could call you next.

You'd done it.

---

You had woken back up just in time to catch the end of Jannik's game, after falling asleep to the match while curled around your laptop still in your outfit from the night. You'd only gotten home a handful of hours ago, the celebration somehow still going strong even when you'd left.

You'd maneuvered out the club, attempting to be discreet, knowing that anyone who spotted you would just pull you back in. And you knew because it had happened a few times, and each time you'd given in easily and reentered. On your last attempt, just as you'd neared the exit, Alex Albon's voice rang out. “And where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Him and his girlfriend, Lily, were outside when you made it out, and Alex had joked and given you a hard time about leaving despite waiting for a car to go himself.

You'd huffed in response, arms linked with Lily's in an attempt to stay warm in the cool, desert wind. “Jannik’s match started a bit ago.”

"Aw, Alex. I think you may have just been demoted to my second favorite WAG." Lily said, laughing.

Alex rolled his eyes, but as a blacked-out SUV pulled up to the curb, he held the open the door for you “Here. Don’t ever say I don't do anything for you.”

And that was how you found your way back to your hotel room. You'd immediately pulled out your laptop and put on the Davis Cup broadcast, but the match was long and your energy was low. You must've fallen asleep soon after you moved to watch on your bed, some time in between the second set.

But now you were fully awake, engrossed by the end of the dynamic, evenly matched tie-break. You jumped up onto your knees with your arms in the air as Jannik hit the ball at an angle too steep for Carlos to return. He'd done it.

You clapped to yourself as you watched the heartwarming reactions of the other Italian players, and how they all ran to cheer for Jannik and his win. As the extensive congratulations went on, you set your laptop to the side and began to peel out of your clothes, reaching to the suitcase open by the base of your bed for your pajamas.

You glanced back at the screen when you heard to commentator animatedly say Jannik's name, no doubt readying for the post-match interview. His face came on close up, and you smiled at his familiar fidgeting. You slowed your getting ready to watch and listen to his answers, leaning forward to prop your chin in your hands.

Jannik started how he always did, politely thanking the tournament organizers and his team and the fans, but this time he was visibly distracted and it didn't take much of your imagination to guess he was likely thinking of you and the race.

So he did stick to the deal, you thought to yourself before reaching for you phone. You typed out a message, figuring at least then he'd see the news from you when he checked his phone, even if he didn't have time to seek it out otherwise. You paused to listen again as Jannik stopped in the middle of his answer.

You watched real time as Jannik asked and found out about the Williams win live on broadcast, his joy and relief visible to anyone watching. You giggled as he cut himself off once more, his residual reaction to your win overtaking his answer. Too sweet, you thought to yourself.

When he referenced your deal, and gave a look to the camera, you full on laughed, and paused the stream to take a photo of the frame to send to him.

"So, I might have bent the rules of our deal a bit..."

---

Both moments were captured by the media: you, in the middle of the paddock, beaming as you were told about Jannik's move to the finals; Jannik, struggling to focus before interrupting the interview to ask for an update on you. Social media exploded with the clips, fans marveling at the simultaneous triumphs of sports’ favorite power couple.

As always, it was like the headlines wrote themselves:

“Double Victory: Sinner and [Your Name] Dominate in Tennis and F1”

“The Power Couple That Just Can’t Stop Winning”

“History Made on Two Fronts: Italy's Tennis and Williams Racing, Revitalized on the Same Weekend”

---

The audience had practically cooed at the rare, personal glimpse into his life, and Jannik was already reaching for his phone before he'd even left the court. He had barely mumbled a "thank you" to the umpire before walking off and skimming a text you'd just sent. Something about breaking the deal.

So you were up, Jannik thought to himself as he rang you as fast as he could.

You were just replaying the interview when, as if on cue, your phone buzzed beside you. Jannik.

You answered immediately. "You heard?"

His voice was warm, his eyebrows raised to tease you. "You heard?"

A beat passed between you, thick with unspoken emotions—pride, love, pure exhilaration for what the two of you had just achieved on opposite ends of the world. And then you both burst into laughter.

And with that, your two worlds—so different yet so intertwined—folded back together, just as they always did.

---

Yayy, a cute spin off for the couple!! Las Vegas is a different breed, and I just feel like Williams can get down, especially if they won...

Wrote and rewrote a lot since yesterday, and it ended up turning pretty dialogue heavy, hope you guys like it tho... thanks for the patience and the extra day as well xx