KY

Y/N knew footballers had one universal rule: if they could still walk, they were “fine.” Kenan Yıldız was no different. For three days, she’d watched him quietly favor his left thigh, wincing whenever he thought no one was looking—until he finally left training early. That was all the proof she needed. One look sent him straight to the medical room, where he dropped onto the treatment table with his usual dramatic sigh, already wearing that innocent little smile she knew meant trouble. She reached for the tape and massage gun. Kenan watched her. She folded her arms. He smiled wider. Neither said a word. But Y/N already knew exactly how this was going to go: he’d try to convince her he was perfectly fine, she’d refuse to let him leave until she checked him properly, and somehow, between the arguing and teasing, the quiet room would start feeling a little too intimate.