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Carlos posed for the final photo before finally turning back to his team. Checking the gorgeous watch on his wrist, he murmured,
"We can leave. I’m running short on time," he said with a bright smile, leaving Juan Carlos looking at him in confusion.
"Our flight isn't until tomorrow," Juan Carlos reminded him, but Carlos seemed electric.
"Jannik is flying to Vienna in the morning. I only have a few hours."
Juan Carlos groaned—here they go again. "Darren mentioned their suite is as big as ours, so..."
"Do you really want to spend time with your non-boyfriend in a country where homosexuality can carry the death penalty?" Alberto chimed in, approaching them.
Carlos just smiled, entirely unfazed. "Isn't it perfect?"
Committed
After a quick shower, a meal, and saying goodnight to his team, Carlos went straight to Jannik’s suite. He greeted Simone and Alex and walked straight into Jannik’s bedroom. Knocking softly before stepping inside, he found Jannik already in his sleepwear, wearing his glasses, and organizing a pile of clothes into one of his three suitcases.
"Hey, came to say goodbye?" the redhead asked with a smile. But seeing Carlos lock the door behind him, his smile instantly vanished. "Don't even think about it."
"I didn't say a thing," Carlos began, walking toward him as Jannik took a step back. "You're always so quiet in here."
"Carlos, I let it slide last time because everyone was focused on Novak and Rafa. There's no way we can pull this off now," the redhead insisted. But Carlos’s hand was already on his waist, and Jannik didn't pull away. "Carlos..."
"You're leaving for Vienna tomorrow, beautiful. I only get you tonight," Carlos pleaded, his voice laced with a subtle sadness. "Just a little bit. I promise I'll make it quick, and you'll like it."
Jannik bit his lip, hesitation gnawing at him. He knew this was going to end terribly, but as an unspoken rule, he could never say no to Carlos. He never could.
"Okay, but... but..."
He didn't get to finish. Carlos pushed him onto the bed, wiping every thought clean from his mind.
Morning had broken when Jannik woke up in an empty bed. He couldn't even remember falling asleep; all he remembered was an intense, shameless orgasm, stifled by Carlos's hand over his mouth, before completely passing out.
Glancing to the side, he noticed his bags were packed. Carlos must have finished packing for him after he drifted off.
A brisk knock sounded at the door, and Alex stepped inside.
"Hey, I saw Carlos earlier. Did he stay the whole night?" Alex asked. Jannik groaned, flustered. "Come on, Jannik, you know how dangerous it is here."
"I know," Jannik muttered, checking how his body felt. "But he... he's really persuasive, and we won't see each other until Paris, so..."
"You don't have to explain it to me, but you need to be more careful," Alex reminded him. "Simone is annoyed. He told me to wake you up and said no excuses—your flight leaves soon."
"I'm getting up," he murmured, checking under the sheets to see if he was wearing anything. "Alex, can... can you give me two minutes alone? I... I need to get changed."
"Okay, we're waiting outside," Alex said, turning to leave.
Once the door clicked shut, Jannik groaned, burying his face back into the pillows.
The night had been incredible; Carlos had taken such good care of him that Jannik had forgotten just how reckless the Spaniard could be.
They had been trapped in this on-and-off cycle for years. In the beginning, they were young and happy, intoxicated by the sport. Then Carlos started winning—he started shining brightly.
That brilliance somehow bred a bitter resentment in Jannik, and the only way he knew how to protect himself was to push Carlos away. That led to their first breakup. They spent a long time apart, up until Umag, where Carlos cornered him in the locker room after the final, pinned him against the wall, and fucked him for nearly an hour.
The sheer, relentless stamina of the man—if someone hadn't come to check on them in the locker room, Jannik was certain he’d still be there, being torn apart.
After that, they fell back into it—text messages and stolen kisses in hidden corners. Until the US Open, when Carlos destroyed him in five sets, and Jannik’s resentment flared up again.
That night, he blocked Carlos and walked away. He held onto that anger all the way until Indian Wells in 2023, when he lost to Carlos once more. But instead of letting Jannik drown in his own bitterness and pull away, Carlos broke into his hotel room. After a heated argument, they ended up having sex for a full day inside that cramped suite.
Texts were sent to both their coaches assuring them they were fine but needed time. Jannik remembered that day like it was yesterday—how Carlos refused to let him wear a single piece of clothing, insisting that the only thing touching his skin should be Carlos himself.
From then on, it was a long streak of secret hookups, locker room encounters, Carlos squeezing his ass when no one was looking, hot photos, and even deeper confessions.
Jannik started going to therapy to try to organize his thoughts, trying to accept that he couldn't hate Carlos for his success—that he should be happy for him. But the green-eyed monster of envy always saw Carlos as the light and himself as the shadow. So, when Carlos won Wimbledon, Jannik broke things off yet again.
That year, it wasn't until the China Open semifinals, where they faced off once more, that Jannik braced himself to be ambushed in the locker room or somewhere similar. But it never happened. He was already contemplating calling Carlos to check if he was alright when he decided against it and headed to the hotel sauna instead.
He sat there for a few minutes until he heard the door open. Through the thick steam, he heard the lock click, and only then did someone grab his arm. He remembered starting right there and ending up in the hotel's private pool.
They stayed together through the ATP Finals that year, where, after a painful loss in the final, Jannik realized he was bad for Carlos.
2024 was the longest they had ever spent apart. Indian Wells rolled around, resulting in just one hot, desperate night together after Jannik’s defeat. Jannik clearly remembered he hadn't even managed to take all his clothes off—by the time they finished, his underwear was still hanging off his ankle.
Carlos took the garment with him, keeping it like a trophy of his victory.
They didn't hook up again until Roland Garros. Jannik was facing doping allegations, resisting Carlos as hard as he could, insisting he didn't want to drag him down or put him at risk. But the Spaniard hit him with a reality he had never even considered.
"I can use a condom," Carlos had offered.
Despite being a reasonable suggestion, Jannik was stunned. For the first time, he realized Carlos had never used protection with him.
They had raw sex that night. A fiercely bitter part of Jannik couldn't accept that he had allowed Carlos to expose him to whatever trash he might have picked up on those damn trips to Ibiza.
Months later, they had a conversation about it, where Carlos admitted that Jannik was the only person he didn't use protection with.
"Jan, we're exclusive. The others are just... distractions."
"So there are others?"
"Only at parties. I don't even know their names," Carlos confessed, kissing Jannik’s bare shoulder. "I don't need to know. They're just bodies."
"And what am I?"
"The love of my life," Carlos said with such absolute sincerity that Jannik’s heart skipped a beat.
It led to months of a brutal internal battle, trying to ward off Carlos like a lingering spirit, only to collapse right back into his arms the second he reached out.
Roland Garros 2025 was the final straw. Furious, defeated, and humiliated, Jannik exploded at Carlos. He confessed that he didn't know how to do this—that he loved Carlos more than anyone or anything in his life, but in his selfishness, he could never separate what they had from who they were on the court.
And like a damn guru, still tipsy from his victory celebration, Carlos pulled him close by the waist.
"Don't separate it," Carlos said, staring straight into Jannik’s eyes. "Hate me. Despise me. Let me be the reason you get up and train harder than ever. But let me be the bastard who holds you when you cry. I can be both, I promise—so be both too, Jannik. Try. For both of us."
And that was it. Through losses, rage, and fights, they stayed together. Both of their teams hated it. They respected each other, but managing two high-profile athletes meeting in secret was a logistical nightmare no one wanted to deal with.
Jannik took two deep breaths, rubbing his eyes before his gaze finally landed on his hand.
On his ring finger was a ring.
He blinked in confusion, staring down at it. It was a stunning diamond ring that hadn't been there yesterday—a ring that was very clearly an engagement ring.
"Son of a bitch!" Jannik growled, sitting up in bed, furious.
Jannik was already on his way to the airport. Simone and Alex watched him with amusement as he left his fifth message.
"Carlos, you better answer and explain this bullshit before I throw it in the middle of a Riyadh street," he snarled, hanging up. He closed his eyes, taking three deep breaths as he stared down at the ring. "He wouldn't do this."
"It's pretty on-brand for him," Simone reminded him, making Jannik want to die.
He played Vienna with that ring hidden in the pocket of his racket bag. Carlos spent days texting him about everything except the damn ring, and Jannik was starting to think it hadn't even been him—until he received a link with the following message:
Carlos: Our accountants need to talk. Can you schedule a meeting?
Jannik: Mind explaining why?
Carlos: Prenup.
Jannik nearly shattered his phone when he read it. He dialed the number immediately, and Carlos finally picked up.
"You hypocritical bastard!"
"Stop being so dramatic. Imagine how much work they're going to have drafting this up. We have a lot of money, you know," Carlos reminded him, making Jannik practically growl in frustration.
"How about you remind me when I actually agreed to marry you?" he growled into the receiver, drawing the attention of Darren, who flashed a massive grin.
"When you were underneath me and my dick was—"
"You proposed to me while I was in the middle of an orgasm?" he asked in utter disbelief. "Carlos, I... I don't even remember that."
"Yes, you do. You said yes," Carlos continued in a totally casual tone. "Schedule the meeting, okay? Our parents are already looking for a good date to sign the papers. I was thinking we could live in Monte Carlo, or..."
"Carlos!"
"Jan," the Spaniard cut in patiently. "My love, set it up with your lawyer. I'll see you in Paris. And wear the ring—it looks beautiful on your long fingers."
And he hung up right in Jannik's face.
The Spaniard took a deep breath and turned back to Juan Carlos, who was watching him intently.
"You're a bastard," he laughed. Carlos just shrugged.
"He'll stop resisting. He always does," he commented, walking across the court. "I need this paperwork done before he loses his mind."
"Why get married?" Juan Carlos asked, finally walking over to him. "You two have been on and off for years. It's clear you're not stable, so why make it official?"
Carlos just offered a confident smile.
"Because," he said with a shrug. "I love Jannik, and even though his therapist keeps telling him we need therapy, he loves me too. Why not get married?"
"Don't you think it's a bit extreme?"
Carlos bit his lip and grabbed his racket.
"I am extreme," he confirmed. "Come on, I want to look somewhat decent for Paris."
It took little more than an hour after arriving at the Paris hotel before Jannik burst through the door of Carlos's room. Carlos smiled with satisfaction; the look on Jannik's face was everything he had anticipated—a mix of embarrassment from invading a space where Carlos's team was present and absolute fury at being kept in the dark.
"Good morning," Jannik said, holding back an explosion. "Can I talk to you?"
"I actually need to talk to you too. Your mom called mine, and we thought it'd be good to do everything during the off-season," Carlos began, stepping closer and grabbing his phone. He could see Jannik's Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "What do you think? Spain or Italy?"
"Carlos..."
"I'd love to do everything in Murcia, but..."
"Carlos, stop!" the redhead pleaded, reaching his absolute limit. Carlos finally met his gaze with total serenity.
Jannik gasped at the Spaniard's calm demeanor before turning to Carlos's team. "Guys, we need a minute. Can you give us the room?"
It took only a few seconds for the room to clear out until they were left alone, and it felt as though an anvil had been lifted off Jannik's chest. "Talk to me."
"We can't do this. You... you can't just make decisions like this... I..."
Carlos placed his index finger against Jannik's lips, silencing him. "Where's the ring?"
"Carlos..."
"The ring!" Carlos demanded again.
Jannik whimpered, pulling the ring from his pocket and holding it out. Carlos looked at the massive gem, took Jannik's hand, kissed his ring finger, and slid it back on.
"Take this off your finger again, and I'll make sure to find another kind of ring to put down below, got it?"
Jannik swallowed hard, looking around in desperation, utterly unable to comprehend how the hell Carlos had thought of this, planned it all out, and how everyone seemed completely fine with this madness.
"So... we're going to..."
"We're going to," Carlos confirmed, gently leading Jannik toward the bedroom. "And now I'm going to take care of you for a little bit, okay? It'll feel good."
Carlos took care of him for what felt like nearly three hours, and then they didn't see each other again. Carlos lost early in Paris and headed out with his team to prepare for the Finals. Without Carlos around, Jannik could focus solely on playing tennis, but something inside his chest felt at ease.
A damn sense of peace that had surfaced right after he saw Carlos, as if the presence of that insufferable Spaniard was finally signaling that this wasn't a joke. He was going to marry Carlos, and now he had a ring.
"He asked your father," his mother surprised him by saying during a celebratory dinner.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"He asked. After that fight at Roland Garros, he went early to talk to your father," she continued, placing bread on the breakfast table. "It was such a beautiful speech. He understands you two won't be a normal couple for a few years, but he's willing to wait."
Jannik lowered his gaze, looking down at his long fingers. It was the perfect size—customized down to the millimeter. Not overly flashy, but subtle enough for him to wear every day.
Just like everything Carlos did for him.
It was perfect.
And that was exactly what terrified Jannik.
For years, he had tried to build a mathematical wall between what happened on the court and what happened off it. He needed to hate Carlos's consistency to beat him; he needed to turn his frustration into fuel to train ten minutes more, an hour more, a day more.
But Carlos never respected his boundaries. Carlos stormed into his life, kicking down doors, leaving diamond rings in the middle of the night, and arranging formal chats with his parents as if he were just scheduling a routine practice session.
Deep down, Jannik knew that the peace he felt in his chest wasn't resignation.
It was surrender.
The ATP Finals in Turin arrived. They didn't speak in the hotel—just exchanged glances across the corridors of the complex. Carlos always wore that mischievous smirk of his, while Jannik looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack.
The night before the big final, where the two of them were inevitably set to face off once more, Jannik was in his room channel surfing when the doorknob turned. He didn't even bother looking toward the door.
"You know Simone almost had a heart attack when he saw we were staying in the same hotel, right?" Jannik murmured, keeping his eyes glued to the TV screen.
Carlos kicked the door shut behind him, tossing his keys onto the table with a sharp click. He wasn't wearing his training gear—just an oversized hoodie—but the energy surrounding him practically crackled.
"Everyone on your team looks like they're on the verge of a heart attack," the Spaniard replied, walking slowly over to the edge of the bed. He sat down on the mattress beside Jannik, taking the Italian's wrist to stop him from flipping through channels. "You didn't pick up my last three calls."
"I was practicing," Jannik lied, finally meeting Carlos's deep brown eyes. "And thinking."
"Dangerous," Carlos teased with a half-smile, his hand traveling up Jannik's leg with a possessive firmness. "Reach any conclusions?"
Jannik sighed, feeling his skin burn everywhere Carlos touched him. He sat up, shifting until he was face-to-face with the man who was simultaneously his worst nightmare on the tour and his only safe haven in the world. Reaching into the pocket of the jacket resting on the chair beside him, he pulled out the small velvet box.
Without saying a word, Jannik flipped the box open, took out the diamond ring, and slid it onto his own left ring finger. It was a flawless fit.
Carlos froze for a fraction of a second, his eyes dilating at the sight of the gem glistening in the dim room light. His usual arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by something genuine, almost vulnerable.
"The lawyer said the prenup needs a clause about public image," Jannik said, his voice steady even though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "He thinks we're crazy. My mom thinks you're a poet. And I think you're a complete lunatic—I'm probably going to have a heart attack before I even sign these damn papers."
Carlos let out a low, husky laugh. Stepping forward, he cupped the back of Jannik's neck and pulled him into a deep kiss, pulling back just enough to keep their foreheads resting together.
"But you wore it," the Spaniard whispered, his breath warm against Jannik's lips. "Without me having to ask."
"I wore it," Jannik admitted, closing his eyes and surrendering to Carlos's weight as they sank back onto the mattress. "But tomorrow on the court... I'm going to destroy you."
Carlos chuckled against his throat, his hand already slipping under the Italian's shirt, ready to devour him.
"Try it. I wouldn't expect anything less from you."
---
The match was a high-level masterclass in destruction. Three sets of complete physical exhaustion. Carlos wielded his lethal drop shots and crosscourt forehands with his signature violence, but Jannik was playing in an absolute trance. With every deep ball he accelerated down the line, the Italian poured in the anger of the past, the weight of the forced engagement, the unmeasured passion, and the tactical composure he had worked on in therapy.
At match point, after an exhausting 28-shot rally, Carlos went for a down-the-line backhand passing shot, but the ball clipped the net tape and stayed on his side.
The arena blew the roof off. Jannik dropped to his knees on the hard court, burying his face in his hands as the Italian crowd chanted his name in unison.
He was the champion.
The net was the only place where the two of them could touch in front of millions of cameras. As they embraced, Carlos squeezed him so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him, whispering into Jannik’s ear over the deafening roar:
"You played out of your mind. But you know this victory is 50% mine for making sure you were relaxed last night, right?"
Jannik let out a muffled laugh against Carlos's shoulder, giving the Spaniard a quick pat on the back before pulling away to keep up appearances.
"Shut up, Carlos," Jannik murmured, though his blue eyes betrayed sheer happiness.
Later that night, the adrenaline of the trophy ceremony and press conferences finally wore off. Jannik’s hotel suite in Turin was quiet, illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the window.
Carlos walked in without knocking, wearing a dark hoodie and looking exhausted, but victorious in his own way. He walked straight over to the bed where Jannik was sitting in nothing but sweatpants, staring at the champion’s trophy resting on the nightstand.
Without a word, Carlos knelt between Jannik’s legs and took the Italian’s left hand. He pulled the ring from his jacket pocket—Jannik had handed it back to him before the match to avoid risking losing it in the locker room—and slowly slid the piece of jewelry back down to the base of Jannik’s ring finger.
"Finals champion," Carlos murmured, kissing the knuckle right above the ring. "And my fiancé."
Jannik ran his long fingers through Carlos’s newly bleached hair, pulling the Spaniard up until their lips met in a deep, slow kiss—devoid of the desperate rush of locker rooms. It was a kiss of total acceptance.
The December sun in Murcia was surprisingly warm, but the inside of the Alcaraz family home was absolute chaos.
The kitchen looked like a culinary warzone. Carlos’s mother was talking loudly in Spanish while adjusting dishes on the table, Carlos’s younger brothers were running through the living room arguing over video games, and his grandmother shouted at everyone to shut up every five minutes. In the middle of that whirlwind of voices, laughter, and the smell of home-cooked food, Jannik sat on the corner of the sofa.
He wore a comfortable beige sweater and held a cup of hot tea between his hands, taking it all in with a soft, genuine smile. For someone who grew up in the calculated, reserved silence of the Northern Italian mountains, that loud, affectionate mess of Carlos’s family didn't scare him—on the contrary, it brought him a strange, profound sense of peace.
That was when the front door swung open and Carlos walked into the living room alongside Alberto and Alvaro, who seemed locked in an argument of their own. Carlos looked like he had just emerged from a telephone marathon—his hair ruffled, clutching a bulging leather folder under his arm.
"Mami, the Italian accountant called back!" Carlos announced, cutting through the commotion and flopping onto the couch right next to Jannik with a dramatic sigh. "Jan, thank God you're calm. My head is about to explode."
"You were the one who wanted to organize everything in a month," Jannik reminded him softly, taking a sip of his tea and giving the Spaniard an amused look. "What is all this?"
Carlos unzipped the folder and pulled out a thick stack of stapled sheets, packed with official stamps, yellow highlight marks, and pre-registered signatures at the bottom of several pages. He placed a heavy pen on top of the stack and handed the block of papers to the Italian.
"The lawyer said he needed this signed today before the notary's office closes for the holiday. Just sign here on the last page and initial the sides, please."
Jannik didn't even blink. He set his teacup down on the coffee table, picked up the pen, and with impressive practicality, flipped through the pages, rapidly signing wherever Carlos had marked. Jannik Sinner. Initial. Next page. Jannik Sinner.
Carlos stopped breathing for a second. He blinked, wide-eyed, watching the speed at which Jannik’s long fingers scribbled across the paper without stopping to read a single paragraph of the legal Spanish text.
"Wait... Jan," Carlos stammered, his voice losing all its usual swagger. He caught Jannik's wrist right as he finished the last page. "You... you're not going to read it?"
Jannik handed the pen back into Carlos's hand and closed the folder with a soft snap, picking his tea back up.
"Read it for what?" the Italian asked serenely, looking into Carlos's brown eyes. "I trust you."
Carlos froze. For the first time in his life, the Spaniard looked utterly at a loss. He swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing slightly as he looked down at the papers in his hand and then back up at Jannik's calm face.
"It's just..." Carlos scratched the back of his neck, his voice low and flustered. "Jan, that was the prenup... and the official, binding civil marriage register."
Jannik stopped the cup halfway to his mouth.
"What?" he asked, his tone completely deadpan.
"The lawyers and the justices of the peace from both families expedited the paperwork through the embassy so we wouldn't have to deal with press at the courthouse tomorrow," Carlos explained, pointing with his pen to the signatures at the bottom of the document. "I signed it this morning with my dad as a witness. Your dad signed the international consent form last week. You just signed the civil registry..."
The living room felt like it had been sucked into a vacuum. The sound of the brothers running around, the TV playing in the background, and the voices from the kitchen completely faded from Jannik's mind. The silence that settled on the couch between them was almost tangible.
Jannik looked at the folder. He looked at the pen in Carlos's hand. He looked at the diamond ring on his own left ring finger. And then he looked at the sheer nerve—and visible nervousness—of the Spaniard sitting beside him.
"Carlos..." Jannik murmured, blinking slowly as he tried to process what had just happened. "Are you telling me I just married you... sitting on your parents' couch, wearing slippers, and drinking tea?"
Carlos offered a small, guilty, and hopelessly in love smile, shrugging his shoulders.
"Technically... yes, mi marido."
Jannik stared at Carlos for five long seconds in sheer shock until he let out a low, nervous laugh, covering his face with his hands as Carlos dragged him out of the room.
The guest bedroom door shut with a muffled thud, and the sudden silence fell over Jannik’s head like a heavy hammer.
He took two steps away from the door, stopped in the middle of the room, and stared down at his hands. The diamond ring suddenly felt like it weighed a ton on his ring finger. The teacup had been left downstairs, but the sensation that his entire world had shifted in a three-minute window was still burning in his throat.
"Calm down, Jan..." Carlos started.
"Calm down?!" Jannik's voice cracked, a octave higher than normal. He began pacing in circles around the double bed, his hands flying to his red hair. "Carlos, I got married! I got married on a couch! In slippers! With your brother screaming at a video game in the background!"
"Jan, listen..."
"I didn't read the paper!" The air started thinning in Jannik's chest, his breathing accelerating drastically into short, ragged gasps. His blue eyes widened in sheer, reflexive panic. "I signed a legal civil document without reading it! What if my accountant has a heart attack? What if the press finds out we're married because some notary intern in Spain leaked the paper? My God, Carlos, my life is chaos and you are irresponsible—I'm going to have a heart attack right now!"
Carlos stopped laughing the second he saw the color drain from Jannik's face. The cocky demeanor vanished entirely, replaced by the sharp, focused gaze of someone who knew every single millimeter of this man.
"Jannik. Look at me," Carlos said, his voice dropping into a firm, low, and ridiculously calm register.
He closed the distance between them in two swift steps, cupping Jannik's face in both of his large, warm hands. Carlos's palms pressed against the Italian's cold cheeks, forcing him to meet his brown eyes.
"Breathe. In... out. Come on, with me," he instructed softly, keeping unbroken eye contact until the erratic rhythm in Jannik's chest began to slow down. "That's it. Focus on me."
"You're insane..." Jannik murmured, his voice still trembling, though the panic had stopped spiraling.
"I am. But this wasn't an accident, Jan." Carlos used his thumbs to stroke the redhead's cheekbones, his eyes filled with disarming tenderness. "Did you really think I'd want a wedding with two hundred people staring at us? With photographers in helicopters trying to take pictures of us at the altar? With the press turning the most real thing in my life into a circus?"
Jannik blinked, air finally filling his lungs properly again as Carlos's words sank in.
"It was meant to be like this," the Spaniard continued, offering a small, earnest smile. "Just us. In our weird, messy, perfect way. No spotlights, no tour, no one telling two guys at the top of tennis how they're supposed to do this. Just you signing because you trust me... and me pulling off the craziest thing in my life because I can't live without you."
Jannik let out a long sigh, all the weight of the stress melting off his shoulders. He rested his forehead against Carlos's shoulder, closing his eyes as he felt the Spaniard's arms wrap completely around him in a protective embrace.
"But the circus part..." Jannik murmured against the fabric of Carlos's hoodie, his tone suddenly suspicious again. "What about the official dinner with our families tomorrow? Do your parents know it's already signed?"
"Well..." Carlos hesitated for a second. "My mom thinks today's signature was just filing the paperwork. If she finds out we're already officially married before tomorrow's dinner, she'll kill me for not wearing a suit."
Jannik froze in his arms. His head snapped up immediately, his blue eyes widening in a second wave of impending panic.
"Carlos! You lied to your mother?! She's going to hate me, she's going to think I—"
"Hey, hey, hey!" Carlos laughed out loud, pulling Jannik back in and kissing the corner of his mouth before the meltdown could restart. "Relax! Tomorrow we'll just pretend to sign the duplicate for the family photos. Everything's under control."
Jannik stared at Carlos's amused face for a few seconds. The anger evaporated, replaced by a warm, sweet, undeniable feeling spreading through his chest. He looked down at his hand, still held in Carlos's, where the engagement ring was now, officially, a wedding band.
A slow, genuine smile finally broke across Jannik's lips.
He wrapped his arms around Carlos's neck, pulling the Spaniard into a deep, quiet kiss, savoring the taste of this new reality. When they pulled apart, Jannik rested his nose against Carlos's, his eyes shining with pure happiness.
"My God... you're going to give me a heart attack," Jannik murmured, letting out a low, disbelieving laugh. "You're a nightmare, Alcaraz."
"The nightmare of your life," Carlos corrected with that arrogant, radiant smile Jannik loved so much. "Now relax, okay? You're always one step away from a heart attack—I'm the one keeping you alive."
A few months later
Melbourne Park was packed under the scorching January sun. The pre-Australian Open charity event always had a lighthearted atmosphere, with Center Court filled with microphones, loud music, and an enthusiastic crowd in the stands.
At the side of the court, Jannik leaned against the bench with his racket between his legs. He calmly adjusted his grip, wearing his practice t-shirt and a cap. The ring, of course, was not on his finger—it remained safely hidden on a discreet chain beneath his shirt, resting right over his chest. Still, the weight of that secret made everything so much more fun.
The master of ceremonies picked up the microphone, his voice echoing across the entire stadium:
"And joining forces on the south side of the court... the reigning Roland Garros champion and world number one, Carlos Alcaraz!"
The crowd exploded into applause.
Carlos trotted onto the court with his signature infectious energy, waving to the stands with a huge, radiant smile. He was dressed in his vibrant green kit, oozing the usual confidence that journalists loved to dissect. He took long strides, walking straight over to Jannik's side.
To the public, the TV cameras, and the millions of fans watching around the world, this was simply the image of two young prodigies of modern tennis—great rivals who maintained an extremely respectful, friendly professional relationship.
But when Carlos stopped just inches away from Jannik, the dynamic shifted subtly.
Carlos looked up at him from under his cap, his smile curving into a slightly teasing smirk as he tilted his head.
"Ready to watch me save your team, Sinner?" the Spaniard teased in a low tone, audible only to the two of them.
Jannik didn't even flinch. He simply raised his blue eyes slowly, adjusting the brim of his cap. A knowing glance passed between them, loaded with silent intimacy and months of inside jokes that no one else in the world could decipher.
Nobody in the stands had any idea that those two had signed a civil marriage registry on the couch of a house in Murcia, wearing sweatpants and drinking tea. Nobody imagined that just the night before, they had spent two hours arguing over a video call about the color of the sofas for their Monte Carlo apartment.
Jannik offered an almost imperceptible half-smile, crossing his arms and keeping a flawless deadpan expression in front of the cameras.
"Try not to hit the ball into the net this time, Alcaraz," the Italian replied softly, his calm voice hiding the laugh he wanted to let out. "My husband will kill me if we lose an exhibition match."
Carlos let out a quick, muffled laugh, covering his mouth with his hand as if he were just adjusting his mouthguard, his eyes sparkling with pure amusement. He gave Jannik a quick, light pat on the back before taking his position to receive.
"Your husband is a lucky guy," Carlos whispered, flashing a wink before turning back to the net.
Jannik shook his head with an amused sigh, settling into his stance on the court.
Nobody knew a thing, and that was precisely the best part.