summary: ellie and vi have been best friends since childhood, now both college football stars. you, vi’s girlfriend, are their ditzy little counterpart. their perfect little cheerleader. so why wouldn’t vi want to share her good luck charm with her best friend?
tags: gf!vi x e x reader, soccer team college au, 18+ mdni, will be updated as we go along! r in pre-established relationship with vi, ditzy reader, reader being passed around like a blunt, individual warnings in each chapter ᯓ⚽︎
ps. you’ve been warned in the tags! minors do not interact, marie has a reaction block speed i’ve never seen b4. if you wanna be added to the taglist pls put ur age in ur bio!
⚽️ pairing -> physical therapist! (f) reader x injured soccer player! San
⚽️ genre/au -> sports romance, single parent, smut, fluff, angst
⚽️ chapter summary -> After your first encounter with San, you can't seem to stop thinking about him. He was difficult to care for, but something about him made your heart ache--and your mind race. As the days go on, you see his shell crack slowly.
⚽️ series warnings/tags -> 18+ MINORS DNI, unprotected sex, secret romance (kind of), single parent/divorcee reader, san is such a good father figure, injury warnings, ACL tear, emotional distress with recovery, breeding kink, bathtub sex, voyeurism, longing, forced proximity
A/N: If you have trouble reading about injuries and the mental/physical things that follow an injury, please be advised. This is also purely fictional, but the emotional struggle is real. I am writing this story because I am currently going through ACL recovery myself. I just wanted to note this just in case.
The door in front of you creaked open slowly.
It didn't open fully—the person behind the door was hesitant.
But once it fully opened, it revealed the most stunning man you have ever seen in your life.
Choi San stood tall in front of you despite the slight slouch he had over his crutches. His midnight black hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes downcast. His expression was barren of emotion, his lips chapped, the skin around his eyes red. There were shadows under his eyes, and he was sporting a massive, heavy-duty black post-op brace locked at zero degrees. He met your gaze after a few moments, the sparkle in them still present.
“Who are you?” he asked, slightly hostile. He was clearly unaware of you and your position, and you couldn't blame him for his tone.
It was strange, though. You could say you were partially a Choi San expert—your son always had him on the TV. He was known for his charm. Extremely charismatic, lovable, funny. A bit flirty, too. You remember watching one of his interviews, watching him wink at the interviewer—you didn't admit to yourself that you swooned, too.
But now, with the look on his face, you felt a bit intimidated.
“I uh,” you swallowed, straightening your posture. “I am y/n, your personal therapist. I was called in to make sure you are okay.”
When he didn't say anything, you cleared your throat. “You should not be alone for twenty-four hours after the procedure.”
He blinked at you, looked down at his leg, and scoffed a bit. “I’m fine. I don't need a babysitter.” he took a step back into his home. “Tell coach you were here—I don't care. Just leave me alone, please.” He is cold, blunt, dismissive. Good thing you knew this situation best—he might think he needs to be alone, but the truth is, he needs someone next to him.
Knowing that maybe you were the last person he wanted by his side—a physical therapist, a literal example of the career he has lost for the time being—you stuck your arm out, preventing him from shutting the door. “Do you…have anyone else to call? I’m sure you don't want me here, I get it, but…” You looked up to his piercing gaze, noticing the look of desperation. “You cannot do this alone. You may think so, but it's crucial to have someone next to you.”
San's jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he was going to argue with you again. Slam the door. Tell you exactly where to shove your concern.
Instead, his grip on the crutch handle shifted. Something flickered across his face.
Not anger. More like…exhaustion. Defeat.
"I've been alone before," he said quietly. The words weren't defensive—they were matter-of-fact. A statement.
You hesitated before inquiring more. "Before surgery?" you asked.
His gaze snapped back to yours. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"No."
The answer came immediately.
You stared at him. He stared back. And then, right on cue, his face paled.
You recognized it instantly.
The nerve block—or rather, the nerve block beginning to wear off.
You'd seen it dozens of times. It was a rite of passage for injured athletes. They always thought they were fine until they weren't. You knew it best. Knew the feeling. Knew how terrified San must be at this point, despite his demeanor.
The blood drained from his face, his fingers clenched tightly around the crutch, his eyes squeezing shut.
You dropped your bag on the ground. "Oh, for the love of god—"
Before you could finish your sentence, his good knee buckled, a sign of pain, exhaustion. His entire body pitched forward towards you.
You moved quickly, steadying his large, muscular body. His weight fell into you, your arms wrapped around his waist, his forehead bumping into yours.
You were close. Too close. You felt his hot breath beat against your cheek, felt the beads of sweat transfer to your skin. One of his crutches fell to the ground around your feet, the other still tucked under his arm. You held him up with all your might, letting out a sigh of relief as he stabilized.
He let out a moan of pain, clearly uncomfortable, and you met his gaze in the short distance.
“Are you…Are you okay?” you managed to get out, between the compressing feeling of his body on you and the tension you felt.
“No, no.” He let out an annoyed scoff, most likely annoyed with himself. “Just peachy.”
You couldn't help but smile and took a step forward. “Let's get in there, big guy. Let’s get you better.”
To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched upward—barely, but it was there.
It vanished just as quickly as it appeared. His expression quickly shifted back to what it was before.
You walked him inside slowly, just far enough to get him to lean against the wall inside so you could grab his crutch. As soon as he had both, he maneuvered his way to the couch inside his living room and eased himself into the corner of the sectional. You watched as he lifted his leg by the bottom strap of his brace, his face contorting in pain, and settled uncomfortably.
You stood still at the entrance of his home, one foot in, one foot out, feeling as though there was a line drawn right down between you two.
“San?”
His eyes lifted. He didn't speak, though.
"Have you eaten?"
A pause. He ran a hand through his hair aggressively. "No."
You blinked. "What time did you get home?"
Another long pause. "Earlier," he said bluntly.
"San."
"What?" he basically hissed at you, grabbing a pillow and wrapping his arms around it as he sat there.
"How long ago?"
He looked away—that was answer enough.
You crossed your arms. You just met this man, but it felt natural to speak to him, even if you were a bit abrupt. "You haven't eaten at all."
He shrugged. "I'm not hungry."
"You are a professional athlete. You are absolutely hungry."
His eyebrows pinched together, but you stepped forward before he could protest again.
"Okay. New plan."
He rolled his eyes. "There is no plan."
"There is now." You pointed inside. "I'm coming in."
"No."
"I'm checking your medication schedule."
"No."
"I'm checking that you have food."
"No."
You crossed your arms. “Listen, I’m here to work. I understand that you think I'm just infiltrating your life, but this is my life, too.”
You stared at each other. Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Finally, he sighed—long, defeated, desperate—like a man losing a battle he didn't have the energy to fight.
"Fine...Five minutes." He blinked. “No more.”
Little did you know— this encounter, your fight to make sure he was taken care of—would be the start of something that neither one of you could avoid.
—
“Oh my god, he is difficult.”
You huffed into your phone, holding it in the crook of your shoulder to your head, your hands busy with getting Jun ready for daycare.
“I’m sure he's not that bad—”
You held your son’s hand as you left the apartment, shutting the door with your foot behind you. “Mingi, it took him to nearly fall over from the pain before he let me into his apartment…even after telling him I was there for work,” you scoffed, walking down the hallway. You smiled at Jun as he skipped down the hall. “Like, I don't want to be here either, but hey, this is how it is.”
Mingi paused. As you got onto the elevator, he spoke again. “I mean, I’m not giving him excuses, but…”
“But what?”
“Well… if someone like you showed up at my door when I was at my lowest, I would be hesitant, too,” he said. “Like, the poor man probably looked and felt a mess.”
You hit the ground floor button to get to the parking garage. “What do you mean, someone like me? I’m just the physical therapist.”
Mingi let out an obnoxious laugh. “Oh my god, y/n. I mean, like, you are super attractive. Pretty. He’s just a guy. Probably feels awful and embarrassed that a pretty woman is trying to take care of him when he should be looking strong and…stuff,” He paused. “Think about it.”
Your mind pondered the idea that Choi San found you attractive. You shook the thought away. “I guess I see your point.” As you trailed off, you looked at Jun, who was sporting Choi San’s jersey today for daycare. He has many different versions of the jersey. His soccer season was coming up soon, so he was all in the soccer spirit. “All right, I have to head out. I’m taking Junie to daycare, and I have to be back here asap for San.”
As soon as his name left your mouth, Jun perked up, looking at you with shining eyes.
When you ended the call, you ran a hand through your son’s hair. “Are you ready for soccer season?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes!” he fiddled with the bottom of his jersey. “What if we asked if… what if we asked San to come to my games?”
You couldn't help but chuckle. “Oh, bubs, we can try.” You knew what the outcome of that would be—a famous soccer star going to his physical therapist’s son’s youth game? His female, single physical therapist? Oh boy, lots of things wrong with that scene. He didn't even know you. Yet, Jun was so ecstatic—he’ll let go of that eventually.
After dropping him off at daycare, which was luckily only a few blocks away from your home, you were right back to where you started, standing in front of his door, heart beating a mile a minute.
You didn't let your thoughts wander, quickly lifting your arm to ring the doorbell. You felt bad that he had to get up to answer the door—with that nerve block most definitely gone, this might be one of the most painful days of his recovery.
You heard the crutches squeal on the other side of the door. He opened the door, and once again, he stood painfully beautiful in front of you. Today, his hair was pushed back, showing his gorgeous face fully. You shoved these thoughts deep inside yourself as quickly as you could, swallowing hard when you noticed that he didn't have a shirt on.
You forced your eyes upward. “Hi,” you breathed, forcing a smile.
God fuck, he was divine. Why did he have to look like that?
He nodded. “Hello.”
You stared at him for a second. Then another.
….And then you remembered how to function. That you had to function. This was your job, get it together.
"Okay," you cleared your throat, eyes lifting to meet his entrancing…sparkling…sexual eyes. Fuck. "Good. You answered the door. I was worried you wouldn't,” you tried to joke.
One of his eyebrows lifted—you weren't entirely sure if he was amused or offended. Maybe both. Probably both.
He stepped aside silently, allowing you into the apartment, making his way back to his couch. You watched the muscles ripple in his back as he moved.
A man should not be allowed to look like that while recovering from surgery. It was against the law somewhere.
Had to be.
You forced yourself to focus.
Professional. You chanted in your brain, your inner thoughts in utter chaos. You were a professional.
A professional who definitely wasn't noticing the way his shoulders took up an insane amount of mass… or the way his dark hair was pushed back today…or most definitely not the way his stupidly pretty face looked without it falling into his eyes.
You didn't even notice that he was settled on the couch now. "You can stop staring now,” he mused.
Your eyes widened, immediately looking away.
"I wasn't staring." Heat crawled up your neck.
"You were."
"No, I wasn't."
There was a moment of silence between you. He sat there, head tilted slightly, looking at you.
"...You were." The smallest hint of amusement reached his expression—it felt like a victory on its own.
Yesterday, he'd been so detached that speaking to him felt like speaking to a brick wall—today, small, tiny cracks were forming. Little glimpses of a personality underneath all that pain and frustration.
As you walked further inside, your eyes drifted toward the kitchen. Not a dish in sight—telling you that he still hadn't eaten anything. You set your bag down on the kitchen counter that separated the room from the rest of the apartment. The layout was similar to your home—however, it was clearly better funded and a more expensive unit, given the staircase that led to the second-floor loft and the gigantic, one-hundred-inch television spanning across the wall of the living room.
You looked at him, noticing the deep-seated bags under his eyes. You investigated him from where you stood, his position on the couch, his crumpled-up shirt across the room, his bare chest gloriously adorned with muscle—now you were off track again.
“You still haven't eaten?” you asked him softly, concerned.
You watched as his gaze dropped briefly toward the floor, almost as if he were shy.
The realization startled you. Shy? No. No way. That couldn't possibly be right.
This was Choi San. The Choi San.
The man who played in front of packed stadiums. The man who had thousands of screaming fans…and probably screaming women. Screaming without the s, that was probable.
Yet sitting here in his apartment, recovering, looking exhausted and irritated and painfully vulnerable...He didn't seem like that person at all.
He just seemed…young. Lonely, even.
Your chest tightened, your mind drifting back to the past. You swallowed the lump in your throat. Change the subject. "Did you sleep?" you asked gently when he didn't respond to your last question. He didn't need to, though. You knew the answer.
His expression tightened, almost as if he was embarrassed. "No."
You frowned, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "No?"
"I mean, a little." He scratched his head, eyes unable to meet yours.
"What does ‘a little’ mean?” you questioned. "How much?"
He looked away, his jaw flexed. You couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or sheer frustration with himself. You understood both.
The muscle ticked beneath his skin. "I don't know, like...two hours maybe."
You stared at him.
The first twenty-four hours after ACL reconstruction were already hell.
The swelling. The pain and inability to get comfortable. Don't even start with the complete loss of independence. You remembered every second of it. You remembered staring at your ceiling at three in the morning with tears running down your face because you couldn't figure out how to move without hurting. You remember crying and crying because no matter what you did, how you lay, how you did anything, nothing got better.
You remember having to get yourself up to get fresh air outside; only then did you feel a little better—the only time you could stop crying.
You remembered feeling trapped inside your own body. Terrified. Lost.
And looking at him now—you knew exactly where he was mentally, even if he refused to admit it.
Your gaze softened. "Did you take your medication?"
Silence was his response.
Immediately, your eyes narrowed. "San."
“I don't like all these damn questions.”
“San,” you said again.
He dragged a hand down his face. "Okay, fine. I don't like it."
You crossed your arms. "The medication?"
His eyes finally met yours, and for the first time all morning, genuine frustration flashed across his face. "It makes me feel weird. Like, really weird."
You groaned in frustration as well.
And suddenly, despite everything, despite the pain and the fear and the giant brace strapped to his leg—
You found yourself smiling. “You have got to be kidding me.”
In front of you was the nation's best soccer player, but all you saw was a young man lost in a new whirlwind of a setback.
The realization settled heavily in your chest.
People always talked about athletes like they were different from everyone else. Stronger. Tougher. Built from something that normal people simply weren't. They saw the trophies, the stadiums, the impossible performances, and convinced themselves that men like him existed outside the rules everyone else had to follow. But sitting here now, slumped against his couch with dark circles under his eyes and a brace strapped to his leg, he didn't look untouchable.
He looked exactly like you had.
"You know you have to take the medication, right?"
Immediately, his shoulders tensed. “I know, I know. I just…hate how it makes me feel.”
You pushed yourself off the counter, folding your arms as you stared at him.
"I feel..." He continued, exhaling heavily, clearly hating every second of this conversation. "Out of it. Not myself. I haven't felt like myself in a little while, though."
You nodded slowly. "Okay.” Is all you said.
His brows furrowed. "Okay?"
"Yeah.” you nodded. “Okay."
Confusion flickered across his face.
"I hope you know that if you felt normal, you would be superhuman,” you walked over to him cautiously, watching him turn away from you to look out the window behind him. “Part of getting to the finish line—wait, let me think of soccer terminology…” You paused playfully, sitting down on the couch near him. “Part of getting close enough to score a goal is taking the steps you need to achieve it. You don't just teleport to the goal and score, right?”
He still didn't look at you. However, once again, you saw the facade of his fear crack slightly.
“You have to bust your ass to score, don't you? Beat the defenders, get back up after you get pushed down. It's all part of the game.”
He let out a sigh now, peering down at his braced-up leg.
"You know..." You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. You were doing quite a lot of talking—man, you hoped he was hearing you. "The first night after my first surgery, I cried nearly the whole night."
His eyes snapped toward yours, surprised that you could relate.
You laughed quietly at his reaction. "I'm serious. I mean, we can get into my second surgery, too, but that would get too depressing."
His expression practically screamed disbelief. “Two?”
You smiled, looking down at your hands in your lap. "I thought my life was over. It felt over, honestly."
You were a bit hesitant to look at his expression. "I couldn't sleep. Everything hurt. I couldn't move without help. I hated needing people. I hated…being dependent when I’ve spent most of my life independent." You shook your head softly. "I remember sitting outside at three in the morning because it was the only thing that stopped me from crying."
When you looked back up, he was watching you.
Really watching you.
Not waiting for the conversation to end—listening to you. It looked as if he wished to say something with the way his eyes filtered over your face and the way his jaw tensed. He didn't speak at first, though, and you worried that you overshared. You’ve mentioned your history with previous patients—this was not your first rodeo with a grumpy ACL tear, but it was the first time you felt an immense pull to someone—enough to share your hardest moments for encouragement.
"How long?" he asked suddenly. His voice was quiet enough that you almost missed it.
You blinked, shocked. "How long, what?"
His eyes remained fixed on his leg. He pondered for a moment, as if he were fighting his thoughts.
He fiddled with his hands in his lap. "How long until you stopped feeling like…that?"
The question squeezed at your chest. You knew what he was asking—how long it took before you stopped feeling like a shell of yourself.
Your gaze softened. You picked the fuzz off your pants absentmindedly. "It wasn't all at once."
A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, and it hurt more than you expected.
You leaned back into the couch. "I wish I could tell you I woke up one morning and everything was fine again." You smiled faintly. "That would've been nice."
He hasn't spoken a lot, and this was the first actual day you were spending with him, so you couldn't ask for much. You worried if you were saying too much.
“You have to set small goals first.” You looked into his eyes for a moment, then stood up, facing him. “Like, the first time you sleep for more than a few hours. Or like the first time you walk without thinking about every single step." You shrugged lightly. "The victories are stupidly small at first. That’s what gets you to the big goal, though."
When he didn't say anything again, a breath of laughter escaped you. “Oh my god, I need to shut up,” you scoffed, irritated with yourself, slightly embarrassed. but…things felt…different with him. Oddly different. A good different. A frightening different.
“I—” he paused, sitting upright, eyes wide. “No, I—thank you. I feel better.” A smile clearly found its way through his boarded-up exterior.
The sight of it felt oddly rewarding.
You pointed immediately, gasping, unable to control your excitement. "There it is!"
"What?"
"That."
"What?"
"The smile."
It vanished, but you knew you just succeeded. "It wasn't a smile. You’re seeing things."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
A grin spread across your face.
The corner of his mouth twitched again before disappearing completely.
You stood there for a moment, looking at him, at the exhaustion still lingering beneath his eyes and the frustration he was trying so hard to hide.
Then your gaze narrowed, realizing that things needed to be done. "Medication." Is all you said.
A groan left him—totally dramatic, like a spoiled little princess.
“Oh, it will be okay,” you whined back. “Now, where do you keep them?”
–
After a fight to get him to tell you where the medicine was, you found yourself tending to him. You got him a glass of water, gave him the meds, and even helped him put on his shirt—thankfully, as he was a terrible distraction to your work. Without even realizing it, you were there already the amount of time you needed to be.
San was sleeping soundly; the medication, despite his disapproval of it, allowed sleep to be an option. You saw this as a good time to pack up and leave him be.
When you stood up from the kitchen table and shut your computer, you heard him rustle from behind you.
“Are you leaving?” he mumbled grogily, his voice raspy.
When you turned around, you noticed his position. His eyes were barely open, fighting sleep. The blanket was halfway off him, and the side of his face was reddened by the pressure of sleep.
You walked over to him, reaching down to fix his blanket. “Yes, I bet you’re ecstatic, huh?” you joked, smiling at him before turning away to grab your things. “I will be back tomorrow. We have some important things to get to from now on.”
He didn't say anything, but his hazy look did things to you. You blinked, your stomach flipping, and pushed all the feelings as far away as you could.
God, you needed to get laid. It's been a while—this had to be the only reason you were so infatuated with this man—that you've been starved of any connection since your divorce. He was also a bit younger than you, too. Injured, distressed—Jesus, there was something wrong with you.
You looked back at him one more time before leaving, and as you left, something inside you called to go back.
--
The next several days blurred together.
Recovery had a rhythm to it—a really frustrating one. The kind that moved painfully slowly. You knew it all too well.
On the fourth day after surgery, you found San sitting on the edge of the couch with a towel draped around his shoulders.
His hair was damp.
You immediately knew what had happened.
He looked up from where he was sitting.
You looked down at the untouched basin of water on the coffee table, then back at him. You didn't even say anything—he knew what you were thinking.
"I'm fine, I got it."
You sighed. "San—"
"I said I'm fine." his words came sharper this time. You knew, despite the tone of anger, it was more embarrassing for him than anything.
"There's nothing wrong with needing help." You crouched beside the coffee table. “I mean, this is literally my job.”
His laugh was humorless. "Like it's easy to ask for help.”
The words hung heavily between you. For a second, neither of you spoke. The air was thick with tension—his breathing was heavy, his expression pained.
"I can't even wash my own hair."
You noticed the defeated expression on his face—he was trying; you knew it. It was so difficult to break out of the funk of the injury—you could only imagine how terrified he was feeling, as he probably was thinking about how he lost the only thing that gave him purpose.
You reached for the basin.
His gaze panned over your movements. "What are you doing?"
You sighed. "You can either sit here and be miserable, or let me help."
His stare lingered on you.
Eventually, he looked away first.
That was answer enough.
—
Day five was worse.
You knew the signs immediately—the way he kept looking at the television without actually watching it. He was utterly exhausted mentally. Yet, even though he was clearly in deep thought, he got through all of the heel slides and quad sets for the day—a win.
"What are you thinking about?" you asked him gently.
He sighed, meeting your gaze. "My team leaves next week."
You nodded slowly, watching his expression tighten, afraid of you seeing his emotions.
He looked down at his brace. "I should be there."
You didn't know how to respond to that—so you didn't. You allowed your presence to help him through it. You nodded, understanding where he was coming from.
He got through the exercises of the day, and before you left, you hesitated once again. You felt like there was progress, but man, you were concerned about him more than ever—more than you've felt your whole career.
—
By the end of the first week, things were finally starting to improve. You were beginning to get a grip on understanding him and adapting your program.
His swelling had gone down a good bit, his quad was beginning to wake up, and the heel slides no longer looked like a terrible, idiotic form of medieval torture.
And most importantly—He had finally been cleared to shower.
You smiled as you reviewed the note on your computer. "Good news."
San looked up from where he was sprawled across the couch. The word good immediately made him suspicious.
You smiled widely. “You can shower now! Well, carefully.”
The silence that followed was strange.
You waited. Normally, patients were thrilled when they reached this point. This was a success for you at the time—and the best feeling ever after not being able to bathe properly.
But San looked like you had personally threatened him.
Your eyes narrowed. "...Why do you look upset?"
He scoffed, crossing his strong arms across his chest. "I'm not upset."
You watched the movement carefully, his eyes refusing to meet yours. He suddenly seemed fascinated by the coffee table—as if it were literally the most important thing in the room.
And then you noticed the way the tips of his ears had started turning red.
And then you realized.
"Oh..." you breathed, understanding him.
His eyes closed briefly as if he knew you'd figured it out.
The street outside the apartment was bustling. The TV was loud—yet suddenly, all you could hear was your own heartbeat.
"You know," you started carefully, unsure of how to approach this. "I've helped a lot of people through this."
His laugh was quiet. "I know." His gaze remained fixed on the floor, anywhere but you. The muscles in his jaw shifted. "It's…different."
You swallowed. "Different because it's me?"
The question slipped out before you could stop it. You weren't sure what you meant by it, anyway.
Damn Mingi and his wrong assumptions.
Immediately, his eyes lifted, as if he couldn't believe you just asked that.
Neither had you.
Great. Fucking fantastic. How professional. You were doing great.
His stare lingered longer than usual—longer than it should. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it was.
He looked away first, which somehow made everything worse. It might have been better, actually. Well, you weren't sure.
You weren't sure about anything, to be exact.
You sighed, gathering yourself. "Please don't answer that."
"No, it's not… It's not just because it's you, but," he scratched the back of his neck anxiously. "But…it doesn't help, you know?"
The corner of your mouth twitched. You needed to keep your head straight. "Well, unfortunately for you, I've already seen you nearly cry over pain medication."
His head dropped into his hands immediately. "Oh, my god, please—"
"And refuse to eat."
He groaned. "y/n—"
"And fall into me because you were too stubborn to admit you were hurting."
His face disappeared completely into his hands.
"So honestly?" you continued playfully. "The shower thing doesn't even make the list."
A reluctant laugh escaped him. He let go of his guard for a moment. It was nice.
You smiled. "You're okay, San."
His gaze held yours, and for a moment, something shifted. The silence felt less awkward, but more…dangerous. Tempting. More dangerous than anything, though.
His eyes searched your face briefly, and then he shook his head. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you? Messing with me?"
You grinned immediately.
"Oh, immensely."
–
The bathroom was filled with steam, swirling all around you while you made sure his incisions were prepped properly.
You were kneeling on the ground in front of him, and when you looked up after finishing the bandaging, you surprisingly saw him looking down at you, eyes lost in thought, lip tucked under his teeth. You looked at him for a moment too long, thinking impure thoughts about how delectable he looked.
He stood on his good leg in front of you, his brace off, as well as his shirt and pants. He was only left in his underwear, and by the looks of it, he was still embarrassed despite your encouragement. To be fair, you fought hard against the temptation to run your hands along the ridges of his muscles.
When he broke out of his haze and noticed you looking up at him, a blush flooded his cheeks. You were surprised—you saw him as a flirty, confident man who could have anyone he wanted, but here, you saw a nervous wreck.
You then realized that it most definitely had to do with the position you were in—on your knees, looking up, closer to his…
You stood up abruptly, clearing your throat.
He looked over at the running water in the shower. In the middle sat a shower chair to help him comfortably get through it. However, he did not budge from his spot.
"You know, eventually you have to get in."
“I know,” he breathed.
You reached for his forearm gently—the touch was light. Reassuring.
Still, you felt him still beneath your hand, his eyes dropping briefly to where your fingers rested against his golden skin.
Your pulse betrayed you immediately, but the embarrassed blush across his cheeks was distracting.
He fought hard to find words. "If I fall in this shower and die, I'm haunting your pretty self."
A laugh bellowed out of you, and you forced yourself out of replaying him calling you pretty.
"Come on," you said quietly, getting back to business.
For once, he didn't argue.
You helped steady him as he shifted his weight, guiding him toward the shower chair. Slowly. Carefully. "Come on, superstar."
His fingers wrapped around yours. "Don't call me that."
You smiled.
"Get in the shower."
—
That same night, you lay awake, mind spinning.
You kept replaying him in your mind, images of him. His expressions, his eyes. You only just began with him as your patient—quite literally only a week. However, he felt…familiar. You knew he wasn’t; obviously, you’ve never met him in your life before. But maybe it was all the screen time he got in your house. He was always on the TV. Always on Jun’s tablet. His name was on the back of the shirts you bought for Jun. He’s always been around you.
And now, well, he was right in front of you.
You always thought he was stunning, but you never had the chance to understand him as a person—he was only an image, an idea. But now, he was so real. Too real. And you were spending so much time with a young, beautiful, sexy man, and you needed to literally touch grass.
“Ugh!”
You huffed, rolling over to shove your face in your pillow, forcing yourself not to think about him.
—
A few days later, you found yourself standing outside San’s apartment again.
This time, not because you had to. Your workday with him had ended nearly an hour ago.
The container of homemade pasta balanced in your hands was still warm, and beside you, Jun bounced his soccer ball against his leg as you waited in the hallway.
You frowned at the apartment door.
San had looked exhausted during therapy today—more than usual. When you’d asked if he’d eaten lunch, he’d mumbled something unintelligible and immediately changed the subject. Which, in therapist language, meant no.
Absolutely not.
“Okay,” you told Jun quietly, turning from the door to face him. He stood enthusiastically, holding his ball still in his hands. “I’m just dropping this off, then we’re going home.”
Jun nodded.
You rang the doorbell. When there was no response after a long moment—one longer than usual—you reached to ring the bell again.
Your concern immediately spiked.
Okay. He could totally be sleeping. He did have a rough time today.
“Hold on, bubs,” you mumbled, trying hard to not show your concern. Luckily, Jun simply rolled the ball around his arms, clearly uninterested in anything else.
You rummaged for your phone in your bag and quickly found his contact and dialed it.
No answer.
You weren’t sure about what to do here, but before you could even think about knocking on the door aggressively and freaking out like an idiot, the door finally opened.
San stood there wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his crutches tucked beneath his arms. His hair was messy, eyes looked heavy. And still, somehow, he looked extremely breathtaking.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” you said immediately without a single thought.
His eyebrow lifted. “Hello to you too.” He looked down at the container in your hands. “…What’s that?”
“Dinner.”
His shoulders slumped. “…You brought me food?”
The question sounded strangely genuine—as if nobody had done that for him in a very long time.
Your chest tightened at the thought, wondering if you shouldn’t have come over. “It’s leftovers,” you lied straight through your teeth. You made dinner and, you know, specifically made extra to make sure he had some.
He looked unconvinced.
Behind you, Jun was patiently waiting exactly where you had told him to.
Mostly.
“Mommy.”
“One second, buddy.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“My ball.”
You turned just in time to see the soccer ball slip from his fingers. “Oh no—”
The ball rolled straight between San’s legs, then straight through the open doorway—and of course, directly into his apartment.
The hallway fell silent.
San looked down slowly, and as he did, a tiny head peeked around your leg right in San’s view.
Oh no. Here we go.
Jun’s eyes landed on San and immediately widened.
The world seemed to stop, and the soccer ball sat forgotten near the couch.
San stared at your son for a moment, eyebrows knit in confusion, speculation.
The little boy’s mouth fell open, eyes growing impossibly wide.
Jun could not hold himself back at all anymore. You were genuinely surprised by how long he lasted. “You’re HIM.”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You closed your eyes, taking in a breath. “Oh, my god.”
“Mommy,” Jun whispered loudly, still staring. “Mom!”
You pinched your nose. “... I know, Jun.”
“That’s Choi San.”
“I know.”
“THE Choi San.”
You could not meet San’s gaze. “I am painfully aware of that.”
Jun looked ready to pass out.
Meanwhile, San stood completely motionless—he looked more surprised than annoyed. He didn’t say anything, though. Just looked stunned, some other unknown emotions sparkling in his eyes.
“You’re my favorite player,” Jun blurted out, smiling so wide you wondered if it hurt him.
You closed your eyes. There it was.
But when you looked back at San, you noticed the gentle, soft, surprised expression on his face.
The hard lines around his eyes eased. For the first time since meeting him, you saw him looking at someone without pain sitting behind it.
Jun looked through the doorway at the soccer ball, then back to San, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. You weren’t expecting this to happen, but to be fair, it was your fault for not preparing for it.
San followed your son’s gaze to the ball, then you saw his eyes wander to the large jersey Jun sported—San’s team. San’s number. San’s name.
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You play?” San asked quietly.
Jun nodded so hard you thought his head might fall off. “Yeah!”
“What position?”
The answer exploded out of him.
And just like that, Choi San—the brooding, miserable, emotional man who barely spoke—started talking soccer with a five-year-old.
You stood there staring, completely bewildered. Interested.
Because somehow…the little boy who could barely get a full sentence out around his hero was getting more conversation out of San than you had managed in an entire week.
And for the first time since his surgery, San looked genuinely happy.
And something told you that neither of your lives would be the same after this.
this is messy af and not my neatest work but I needed to get it out of my brain asap because the amount of other ideas it sparked was unreal and now I’m gonna go work on those
