The morning sun was smug.
It beamed down like it knew something they didn't—like it had been watching the slow, awkward gravitational dance between one Ayumi Takahashi and one Kenji Arakawa, and was placing cosmic bets on how long it would take before someone slipped.
Ayumi arrived at the courts looking like mischief incarnate. Iced coffee in one hand, her racquet slung over her shoulder like a guitar, mismatched neon socks, and a new sticker on her grip that read: "Chaos Coordinator." Because of course it did.
Kenji was already there. Of course he was. Standing under the shade with arms crossed, he looked like a tennis-themed urban legend: cool, composed, and judging you quietly from the baseline.
"Good morning, Sunshine Spreadsheet," she chirped, tossing her bag down with theatrical flair.
"You're two minutes early," he said, eyes narrowing like this disrupted the laws of his private universe.
She offered a low, sweeping bow. "Trying to disappoint you less. It's a process."
His mouth twitched. Maybe a smirk. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.
Coach Nakamura appeared with his eternal clipboard and no-nonsense glare. "Pair up. Doubles drills. No fatalities."
The other students watched them pair like people eyeing an unhinged blender and an antique teacup. Interesting together. Also potentially catastrophic.
Warm-ups began. Ayumi twirled on her serve, as usual.
Kenji muttered, "Unnecessary."
She twirled harder.
"It's kinetic expression," she declared.
"It's a liability."
She grinned. "So is your attitude."
The drill began—and then something unexpected happened.
They clicked.
Sort of. Enough to raise eyebrows.
Ayumi's wild angles were met by Kenji's precise footwork. Kenji's sharp returns were anticipated by Ayumi's uncanny reflexes. They looked like an argument in motion, somehow syncing at the last possible second.
Coach Nakamura paused mid-scribble. "Huh. That shouldn't work."
But it did.
Sort of.
By the end of the hour, they'd managed a few clean points that looked suspiciously like teamwork.
Walking off the court, Ayumi wiped her brow dramatically and said, "So, on a scale of 'hate' to 'mild tolerance,' how thrilled are you to be my partner now?"
Kenji handed her a towel. "You moved better today."
She blinked. "Was that… praise?"
"A statement of fact."
"Well, don't get used to it."
"I won't."
She laughed. He didn't.
But.
There was a flicker. The corner of his mouth twitched, like a rebellious thought escaped containment.
She saw it.
She filed it away.
Ayumi 1, Kenji's Emotional Fortress 0.
Later, as they packed up, Coach muttered just loud enough for them to hear:
"If you two win a match without combusting, I'm buying lottery tickets."
Ayumi saluted. "We aim to confuse."
Kenji added, "And survive."
That earned them a side-eye and a grunt of approval.
As they walked away, Ayumi hummed under her breath. Kenji raised an eyebrow. She said nothing.
But she was already planning tomorrow's sticker.
Something subtle.
Like: "I Brake for No Logic."