woosan

San stood at the center of the volleyball court, clipboard tucked under his arm, watching his class practice serves. His eyes lingered a moment too long on Wooyoung—fifteen years old, all gangly limbs and flustered focus, struggling to even get the ball over the net.

The gym buzzed with sneakers squeaking and laughter between drills. San’s voice was calm when he called out:

"Wooyoung. Come here."

Wooyoung approached nervously, wiping sweat from his forehead as he stopped in front of him—close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

Without a word yet about volleyball technique (not right away), San reached out first:

His hand rested briefly on Wooyong’s lower back—just above where shorts sat—to guide him into position by gently pushing him forward toward an open space near baseline.

Then came instruction laced with something softer than teaching should be:

"Your stance is too wide," he murmured low enough only they could hear it amidst other students’ chatter but not quite loud. He demonstrated slowly how feet should align—knees bent properly—and without hesitation…

San placed both hands lightly around Wooinyung's hips to physically adjust them into correct form fingers pressing slightly through fabric. The touch lasted longer than necessary for demonstration purposes alone...