first slam for sascha

The crowd at Roland Garros roared like thunder, a sea of cheers and camera flashes as Alexander Zverev raised his racket in victory. His chest heaved with exhaustion, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead. But amidst the noise, the applause, and the chaos of photographers surging toward him, his eyes searched for one thing—

You.

You stood at the edge of the players’ box, hands clasped over your heart. The moment your eyes met his, time seemed to pause. His fierce expression melted into something softer, something only you ever got to see.

Zverev walked off the court with his head held high, trophy in hand. But the first place he went wasn’t to the press room or the locker room—it was to you.

As soon as you were within reach, he pulled you into him with surprising strength, his arms wrapping around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I did it,” he breathed, voice muffled against your skin. “For you.”

You laughed softly, stroking the back of his neck. “No, Sasha. You did it for you. I’m just… lucky to be part of it.”

He pulled back, just enough to see your face, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve been there through everything. Through the surgeries, the rehab, and the media chaos. Every time I doubted myself, you believed in me.”

“I always will,” you said, standing on your toes to kiss him.

It was a brief kiss—public, respectful—but electric. The kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.

---

That night, Paris was alive, but you and Alexander had escaped the limelight. No afterparties, no interviews. Just a quiet hotel room tucked away from the madness.

He emerged from the shower in grey sweatpants, towel-drying his hair. You sat on the bed cross-legged, flipping through photos of the match on your phone.

“You know,” he said, flopping next to you and stealing a glance at your screen, “that shot of me holding the trophy? That’s gonna be everywhere.”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Better get used to being a legend.”

He grinned, eyes glinting with a mix of pride and mischief. “But I don’t care about any of that.”

You raised a brow. “No?”

He shifted, gently taking your phone and setting it aside. “No. All I care about is that tonight, I get to fall asleep with you next to me.”

You softened. “You’re being extra sweet.”

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all,” you whispered, leaning into him as his hand cupped your cheek.

“I missed you the whole match,” he said. “Every changeover, I was wondering if you were okay, if you were warm enough, if you were nervous for me.”

You smiled against his lips. “I was freezing, I was nervous, and I was ready to scream at the umpire.”

He laughed, really laughed. “God, I love you.”

The room quieted, the words still echoing. You felt your chest flutter at how natural those three words sounded from him—like he’d been saying them to you his whole life.

“I love you too, Sasha.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Less urgent. More reverent. His hand settled on your hip, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The city lights filtered in through the balcony window, casting soft golden patterns across the room.

You broke the kiss, noses brushing. “What happens now?”

“I keep playing,” he said. “But with you in my corner, I feel like I can win anything.”

“And what if I wanted to be more than just in your corner?”

He pulled back, searching your face with those intense eyes of his. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… maybe I travel with you more. Maybe I can help manage your schedule. Maybe… we take that next step.”

He blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You want to be part of my team?”

“No,” you teased. “I want to be part of your life. Fully.”

He grabbed your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Then pack your bags, baby. We’ve got a life to build.”

You laughed, heart full, eyes glossy. “Does it involve lots of airports, protein shakes, and watching you stretch in spandex?”

“Absolutely,” he said with a smirk. “But it also involves breakfast in Rome, walks in Monte Carlo, and maybe someday…” He paused. “A little place of our own. Maybe even a dog.”

Your chest squeezed in the best way. “You’ve thought about this, huh?”

“Every time I looked into the stands and saw you,” he said. “I thought about forever.”

You kissed him again, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to this moment.

Alexander Zverev—champion, fighter, lover—was yours.

And tonight, after all the headlines, all the lights, and all the battles he’d faced on court and off… he was finally home.

With you, my Y/N