Chapter 3- One Shuttle,Two Hearts

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It had been a week since Zayen first spoke to me.

Not a full conversation, not even a sentence longer than six words—but those words were etched in my memory. They weren’t grand, weren’t romantic. But they meant something because they came from him.

And now, every time I walked into the gym, my eyes searched for him. Not desperately. Not obviously. But naturally—like breathing.

That morning, practice had ended early. Most students had already left, and Coach was discussing tournament schedules with the seniors. I stayed behind to practice serves alone.

I was halfway through a drill when I heard it.

A quiet rustle. Footsteps. Then…

"Your grip is too tense. You’re using too much wrist."

Zayen.

I turned slowly.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching.

His voice wasn’t critical. Just calm. Observant. Like he wasn’t judging me, just trying to help.

“I… didn’t know you were still here,” I said, blinking.

“I stayed.”

That was it.

Simple. Honest.

He walked toward me and gently took my racket. Without asking. Without awkwardness. He just adjusted my hand, his fingers cool against mine.

“Hold it like this. Less tension. You don’t have to fight the shuttle, just guide it.”

He handed it back.

I stared at him for a second too long. Then served.

Clean. Smooth. Effortless.

“Whoa.”

He gave a small nod, then turned to pick up a shuttle for himself. “You’ll get better.”

“You should coach,” I said before I could stop myself.

He paused, mid-pickup. “I don’t like talking that much.”

I smiled. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He gave me a look that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t blank either.

Then he served.

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What followed wasn’t exactly a game. It was more like a slow dance.

One serve. One return. Silence in between.

My chest rose and fell with every shot. Not because I was tired. Because I was tuned in. To every blink. Every breath. Every moment he looked up and met my gaze.

The gym was empty. Just us. And the soft thud of rubber soles and feathered shuttles.

For the first time, I forgot we were senior and junior.

Forgot reputations. Forgot whispers.

It was just him. And me.

And something growing in the quiet between us.

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After nearly twenty minutes, we collapsed onto the floor at the edge of the court.

He offered me a water bottle. Mine, again. He always noticed.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

He leaned back, resting on his hands, his eyes on the ceiling.

“I don’t hate people,” he said suddenly.

I looked at him, confused. “What?”