The first button refuses him.
It's a small thing. Insignificant, really. Hae-Min doesn't even notice it at first, not consciously. He's standing in front of the mirror, shirt half open, sunlight leaking through the curtains in thin, ordinary lines. Morning smells like detergent and toast. Ye-Joon's laughter echoes faintly from the living room, followed by Ha-Yoon's voice telling him to slow down.
Hae-Min pinches the fabric between his fingers and guides the button toward its hole.
It slips.
He exhales through his nose, amused more than anything. His fingers try again. Slower this time. Careful. He's been careful his whole life, on the field, with people, with promises. Precision is not new to him.
The button slips again.
He frowns, adjusts his grip. His thumb feels… wrong. Not numb. Not painful. Just unreliable, like it's slightly delayed, as if the signal from his brain has to travel a longer road than it used to.
"Hey," he mutters to himself, a soft reprimand. "Don't start this early."
He steadies his hand against his chest and tries a third time.
The button finally slides through, crooked and unsatisfying.
He doesn't smile.
Instead, he stands there a second longer than necessary, staring at his reflection. The man looking back at him appears the same, broad shoulders, familiar face, faint scar near his eyebrow from an old match. Someone who should not be losing battles to buttons.
"You okay?" Ha-Yoon calls from the other room.
"Yeah," he answers automatically. "Just, one second."
He finishes dressing slowly, methodically, as if speed might expose something he's not ready to name. When he steps into the living room, Ye-Joon barrels into his legs, nearly knocking him off balance.
"Appa!" the boy laughs. "You're slow today!"
Hae-Min laughs too, but it lands a beat late. "That's because you're fast," he says, ruffling Ye-Joon's hair with his left hand. He avoids using his right.
Ha-Yoon watches him from the kitchen, eyes soft but observant in the way only love sharpens. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a rock," he lies easily.
The rest of the morning unfolds without ceremony. Breakfast. Shoes. Forgotten water bottle. Life behaving as it always has. And yet, beneath it all, something hums, quiet, persistent, wrong.
He drops Ye-Joon off and drives to the hospital alone.
He doesn't tell Ha-Yoon. Not because he's hiding something dramatic. Just because… he doesn't want to make space for fear yet. If it's nothing, it should stay nothing.
The neurologist's office smells faintly of antiseptic and old paper. The doctor is younger than Hae-Min expected, glasses slipping down his nose, voice calm in a way that feels practiced.
"Let's start simple," the doctor says, rolling his chair closer. "Can you grip my fingers?"
Hae-Min nods and wraps his hand around the doctor's. He squeezes.
"Harder," the doctor says gently.
Hae-Min does. Or thinks he does. The effort shows in his forearm, the tendons standing out like drawn lines. But the doctor's expression shifts, not alarmed, not surprised. Just… noted.
"Okay," the doctor says. "And now release."
Hae-Min releases. His fingers lag, just slightly, as if reluctant to obey.
The doctor makes a note.
They go through more tests. Reflexes. Pressure. Resistance. Each instruction delivered kindly, professionally, without judgment. And yet with every movement, Hae-Min feels it, that widening gap between intention and action.
At one point, the doctor places a pen on the table.
"Pick this up," he says.
Hae-Min reaches for it without thinking. This is nothing. He's signed contracts, lifted trophies, held his son with these hands.
His fingers close around the pen.
It slips.
The sound is small. Plastic against tile. But it echoes in the room like a dropped glass.
Hae-Min freezes.
He stares at the pen on the floor as if it has betrayed him personally.
The doctor doesn't rush. Doesn't speak immediately. He waits, giving Hae-Min the dignity of reaction.
"I.....sorry," Hae-Min says reflexively, already bending down.
"It's alright," the doctor says. "Take your time."
Hae-Min picks the pen up successfully on the second try, but his hand is trembling now. Not violently. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make denial harder.
The doctor clears his throat. "Have you noticed any changes recently? Fine motor skills. Fatigue. Weakness."
Hae-Min thinks of the button. The crooked stitch of it. The way his thumb felt like it belonged to someone else.
"A little," he admits. "I thought it was overtraining. Stress."
The doctor nods. "That's common."
There's a pause. The kind that stretches.
"We'll need to run more tests," the doctor continues. "But I want to be honest with you. These signs suggest early neurological involvement."
Hae-Min's mouth goes dry. "You're saying...."
"I'm saying it could be the early stages of paralysis," the doctor says carefully. "Early. That matters. It gives us time."
Time.
The word lands oddly. Too big. Too vague.
Hae-Min doesn't speak for a while. When he does, his voice is steady enough to surprise even him.
"How long?" he asks.
The doctor exhales softly. "That's not something I can answer today."
Hae-Min nods once. He's good at nodding. He's nodded through coaches' speeches, injuries, losses, births, weddings. Nods are easy.
"Can I still play?" he asks.
Another pause.
"We'll talk about that," the doctor says gently.
When Hae-Min leaves the hospital, the sky is painfully blue. The kind of blue that feels unfair.
He sits in his car and rests his hands on the steering wheel. For a moment, he presses his palms together, just to feel them respond.
They do.
But not like before.
He thinks of Ye-Joon's small fingers curled around his. Of Ha-Yoon's hand finding his in the dark, instinctive, unquestioning. He thinks of all the things his hands have done without asking permission.
And all the things they might one day refuse to do.
When he gets home, Ha-Yoon is folding laundry on the couch.
"You're back early," she says, looking up.
"Practice got cancelled," he says smoothly.
She smiles, accepting it. Trusting him.
He sits beside her and reaches for a shirt, folding it slower than usual. His fingers hesitate, then comply.
For now.
Ha-Yoon glances at him, brow furrowing just a little. "Are you sure you're okay?"
He meets her eyes and smiles, the real one. The one he's perfected over years.
"I'm fine," he says.
And maybe, for this moment, that's still true.
But later that night, when everyone is asleep, Hae-Min sits alone at the table and tries to button and unbutton his shirt again.
Just to see.
Just to know.
The button slips.
And this time, he doesn't laugh.