The Last Match Point

Mia's feet were screaming. Three sets of **padel** at the club, and Lucas was still **running** down every ball like their marriage depended on it. The glass walls of the court shimmered with condensation, trapping the humidity of their Florida summer inside.

"You're not even trying," Lucas said, bouncing the ball on his racquet face. The familiar edge in his voice—that disappointment he used to reserve for quarterly reviews, now deployed freely across the net.

"I'm tired, Luke. Unlike some people, I don't measure my worth by who wins."

The **lightning** came without warning. First the silent flash behind the court's east wall, then the thunder that seemed to rattle the very foundations of their shared life. Rain hammered the glass roof, sudden and violent.

"Game suspended," the intercom announced. "Everyone to the clubhouse."

They gathered their gear in silence. The walk to the clubhouse took them past the **pool**, dark and churning with windblown debris. Six years ago, on their honeymoon, they'd spent entire days in that same pool. Now it was just something they paid homeowners' dues for, like the lawn service they barely spoke to.

"Running away again?" Lucas asked, as Mia headed toward the parking lot instead of the covered awning.

"I'm going to the car. It's raining, Luke. Unlike you, I don't enjoy standing around getting soaked for no reason."

She reached the car before realizing she'd left her phone on the bench. Lucas was already walking toward it, head down against the storm. For a moment, Mia watched him through the rain-slicked windshield. The man who'd promised forever, who'd once held her while she cried over a failed promotion, who'd somehow become a stranger sharing their bed.

The lightning flashed again, illuminating his silhouette. Mia started the engine, then turned it off. Some things, she realized, you don't run from. Some storms you walk into.

She got out of the car.