Charged
Marcus had been running on zombie autopilot for three years since the divorce—same breakfast, same commuter train, same soul-crushing spreadsheets at the firm. The only thing keeping him half-alive were Tuesday nights at the sports complex.
He stood at the padel court, sweat dripping as his partner Elena returned his serve with that maddening grace she made look effortless. Her teeth flashed white against the dusk, and for the hundredth time, Marcus found himself wondering what it would be like to reach across the net and trace the line of her jaw with his thumb.
She excelled at padel—always two steps ahead, reading him like the open book he'd never been brave enough to write. When she slammed the ball into the corner for match point, Marcus felt something tighten in his chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
"You're letting me win," she teased, wiping her forehead with the hem of her shirt. Her skin glistened. He hated how much he noticed.
"Just pacing myself for the baseball game this weekend," he lied. They both knew he hadn't picked up a glove since college.
The sky beyond the glass wall had turned that bruised purple that meant trouble. Elena noticed it first. She always noticed everything first.
"Marcus." Her voice dropped. "We should head back."
But neither of them moved. Lightning cracked the horizon in spiderweb fractures, illuminating her face in sudden stark relief—flushed cheeks, eyes wide with something that might have been fear or might have been been something else entirely. The air between them felt suddenly charged, heavy with fifteen months of almosts and not-quites.
A single drop struck the court outside.
"Your place or mine?" she asked, so casually it took his breath away.
Marcus dropped his racket. It clattered loud against the floor, a sound like something breaking open. Lightning flashed again, closer this time, and in the afterglow he saw her smile—not the polite one she gave everyone else, but the hungry one she'd been hiding.
The storm outside didn't matter anymore.