Chapter Text
Aomine Daiki is twenty-seven years old and has the body of someone who never learned how to give up.
He also has his right knee wrapped, a permanent scowl on his face, and dangerously little patience.
The examination room smells like disinfectant and cold coffee; everything organized by relevance, to you.
He sits on the table, shirt lifted, dark skin tightening every time he bends his leg. He doesn’t look at you when you walk in. Pretends he doesn’t care that it’s you.
“You’re late,” he growls.
You glance at the clock. Two minutes early.
“No,” you reply calmly, setting the chart down on the counter. “You got here early.”
That makes him look up. His blue eyes lock onto yours, carrying that familiar mix of challenge and something harder to name. Not anger. Not open desire. Just… attention.
It’s always been like that with you.
“Are you going to fix it,” he asks, pointing at his knee, “or are you just here to talk pretty?”
You step closer. Too close. He notices.
“Depends,” you say. “Are you going to do what I tell you, or are you planning on being unbearable?”
A crooked smile appears on his lips—the one fans love and coaches hate.
“I don’t make promises.”
You kneel in front of him to examine the joint. The gesture is professional. The effect isn’t. The silence thickens when your hands touch him—firm, confident, knowing exactly where to press. Aomine inhales slowly. He doesn’t complain. He never does with you.
“You pushed it,” you murmur. “Again.”
“It was an important game.”
“They all are to you.”
Your fingers slide just a little higher, enough to assess the muscle. His jaw tightens. The tension isn’t only in his leg.
“Is that an order,” he asks, “or concern?”
You look up. Your faces are dangerously close now; his perfect blue eyes makes him even hotter, you restrained yourself ... again.
“Both,” you answer. “And I’m not negotiating either.”
Something shifts in his expression. Aomine has always been unstoppable on the court, but with you… with you, he lowers his guard without realizing it. He watches you like a challenge brute force can’t solve.
“You know I don’t like being told what to do.”
“And yet you keep coming back,” you reply.
You stand slowly. He doesn’t look away. The air between you vibrates—loaded with unspoken words, with nights neither of you has dared to name yet.
“Mandatory rest,” you say at last. “And therapy. Otherwise, you don’t play.”
A low laugh leaves his chest.
“You’re cruel.”
You lean in just enough for only him to hear.
“No. I’m the only one who doesn’t lie to you.”
Silence.
Then, softer:
“Stay,” he says. “Five minutes.”
It’s not an order. Not blatant flirting. It’s a crack.
You exhale, already knowing this is the kind of decision that always ends badly.
“Five,” you agree. “Then you leave.”
Aomine leans back on the table, closing his eyes. Your hands return to his leg, but the touch is different now. Slower. More deliberate. The kind of closeness that doesn’t need skin to feel intimate.
He murmurs:
“When the season ends… we need to talk.”
Your pulse picks up, though you don’t show it.
“Heal first,” you reply. “Then we’ll see if you still have the courage.”
Aomine smiles without opening his eyes.
“I always do—with you.”
And you know it.
That’s the problem.