He’s Like A Toddler Exhausted A Long Hard Day Of Playing With Blocks For An Hour

loosely (heavily) inspired by talia's edgy sixth grade poetry. hope you enjoy. comments and critiques welcome as always.

When he was about six or seven, he picked up a racket for the first time. Something to get his small body’s endless amounts of energy out. A way for his parents to spend even less time with him. He remembers poking the tip of his pinky finger through the netting, curling his small fingers around the handle, and suddenly he felt whole. He spent the rest of that day bouncing around the otherwise neglected court in his backyard, playing against the gate. He fell, scraped his knees, and grinned down at the peeling skin, the dotting red of blood rising to the surface. A battle scar of sorts. When he came back inside, the sky had grown dark. His parents had forgotten to make him dinner. He couldn’t have cared less. He slept it with it next to him that night, body thrumming with excitement at repeating the same routine when the sun rose. Patrick Zweig was a child once, full of potential for being something.

Tennis stuck around just like the circumstances that bred his attachment to it, a huge house without the love of a home, a neglectful set of parents that felt love was fulfilling obligations. He struggled to understand how he came from them, someone so vivacious, so full of passion for the very act of living, them having died the second they met one another, and refusing to let go and live again. He felt things too deeply to let himself be sad. Sad didn’t exist for him. Sad was too little. He felt everything in extremes, including a deep-rooted melancholy that only tennis could distract him from. His parents had hired a coach, spent the money on a ball machine. He stands tall at his side of the net, moving swiftly, brash as his voice, uproariously as his laughter. Eyes laser focused at all times on the ball, the machine. He couldn’t wait for the day that there would be another person to focus on. He wouldn’t stop some days until he felt numb, certain that his legs would scream from soreness the next day. Until he forgot that he knew how to feel at all. Patrick Zweig was a soldier, racket wielded like a shield at times, a sword in others, defending himself from the knowledge that this was all he had.

He didn’t miss his parents the way other kids did when he got shipped out to Florida. He didn’t necessarily miss his house, either, outside of the convenience of its large size. He remembers his bunkmate, Art, who he hadn’t learned to care for like it was his job yet, crying on the first night there. He wanted to help, really, but what was there to say? It was late, later than two young boys should be up, and he found his bare feet traveling across old, scratchy carpet and into Art’s bed. There was no acknowledgement between the two of them when he wrapped his arms around Art’s shaking body, nor when Art turned around to hold him right back. It didn’t feel uncomfortable for any longer than a second, like the needlepoint pinch of a shot before all you feel is the application of a bandage. Art fell asleep, eventually, and he watched for a while, as soft breaths left his parted lips, the heat noticeable against his chest. His leg had gone numb about 30 minutes ago, but he wouldn’t move until Art did. Patrick Zweig was a blanket, soft, warm and looking to shelter. 

Tennis and Art were second nature, just the way his vices were. He was prone to a night of drinking, sneaking through the dorm halls to find some of the older students’ stashes of cheap beer, smoking cigarettes because he saw it in the movies and was horrified when he began feeling his hands shake when there wasn’t smoke in his lungs, and then there were the girls. Girls who wore too short skirts and had long, pretty legs for him to hold onto, girls who smiled with teeth and had glinting canines that would leave marks in his neck if given the chance, girls who had voices like a siren, and just a call of his name set his mind racing. He thought dating was just liking someone’s presence for a long time. Simply enjoying their proximity, their being, their taste. He wishes he’d learned that wasn’t true before Tashi. No one had ever really told him otherwise. It’s not like his parents were a great example to base his future romantic endeavors on. She handled him with care, in her own way. Let him ease his way into sharing himself with someone that wasn’t Art. She wasn’t gentle, necessarily, but careful. She held his face when they kissed, he remembers. Like he couldn’t keep it up himself. Like he was fragile. It killed him when she let go of him, some argument that never needed to happen had they both not been scared to let things be more than physical intimacy. Patrick wanted it, needed it, craved it like it was air and he’d had his head held underwater. He regretted every bit of harshness that he’d shown, even if he did mean some of it. She was allowed to be mean to him, it was still her attention. He had no right to act otherwise, he'd done nothing to deserve someone like Tashi's kindness. He left, and wanted her to realize that she was losing something beautiful, or at least, something with the potential to be. He doesn’t know what idea hurts worse: the idea she never realized, or that she did, and still let him go. Patrick Zweig was glass, soft and delicate until it shatters, and slices through you like you’re nothing more than paper. 

He imagines the sound that Tashi’s knee might have made sometimes, when he’s got nothing else to distract himself with. He wants to know what the sound of an angel losing its wings, crashing down to human mediocrity, sounds like. He saw it, though, the look on her face. So scared of feeling powerless she wouldn’t even cry with her world crumbling around her. She wasn’t strong, she wasn’t brave, she was just really, really stubborn. Maybe that’s why she’d started screaming when she saw him. Because he could read her. Because if she yelled loud enough, she’d be back at the Open, crying out victory. If her voice was the loudest, engulfing everyone else’s, she’d still won some kind of game. Art, though, didn’t need to do what he’d done. Art hurt him just to stand at Tashi’s side. He’d still forgive him, if he was given the chance. In fact, he did try. His messages never went through. Tashi picked up a call once, one placed in a lonely, slightly drunk stupor. They’d laughed back and forth, banter, insults that he considered playful. His were, anyway. He thought they were making it back to normalcy, until Tashi’s clear, crisp voice said “Go to hell, Patrick” and the only sound left behind was the dull beeping of an ended phone call. He stopped trying after that. Patrick Zweig was a dog, whimpering, waiting by the door for his masters to come home and kick him again. 

He stopped winning soon after that. He had no one to win for, not even himself. He’d left himself in the doorway of that little med area beneath the Stanford tennis courts. He wonders what they did with him. Was he swept away by a janitor with the other garbage? Stepped on beneath Art’s shoe? Silently, he hoped the failure, the constant code violations, would grab their attention for just a moment. It’s better that they think him pathetic than not think about him at all. He’s somewhat grateful for having hit rock bottom, because he no longer recognized himself without some kind of struggle. His parents had stopped caring years prior, and then again, they probably never cared at all. Tennis no longer a refuge, but an obligation, a way to make just enough money to buy himself some food, the gas to fuel his car. The car that’s become his home when no one is there to help him otherwise. Sex has become the refuge. Sex he doesn’t even want to be having anymore. He hardly feels anything but cotton sheets beneath his body, and that spurs him to keep going. Keep going and sleep. He usually leaves, regardless of if he wants to. Sometimes it’s nothing, leaving without notice. But there are times where he’d do anything to be a better man, someone these women deserve. He remembers a girl from White Plains that he would’ve let himself try something with, had he not been so scared. It made the nights leading up to his inevitable departure, wrapped up in her sheets, all the more painful. He watched her face contort and tried to memorize it, though it faded with time, like all things do. He liked knowing he’d done something for her, even if it was killing him inside. At least he’s still capable of doing something good. Patrick Zweig was a cigarette, burning from the inside out just to give someone else their fix, and he loved the ache. He was addicted to it. 

When he met you, he was prepared to make the most of his future loss. He would do anything to make his temporary stay something worth it. He would be good for you, even if he’d be nothing but destructive if he stayed. He didn’t know how to be anything other than self-sabotaging, really. He recognized the look in your eyes as one he’d had years before, youthfulness, passion, a need to make something of yourself, a hope to do that with someone accompanying you. Maybe he liked that he could treat you will, living vicariously through you, giving a version of himself the love he likes to think he deserved, but knows he didn’t. But, little by little, you chipped away at the layers of jadedness buried beneath his skin. He remembers one night, in your bed, you’d held his face for hours, silent, just looking at him, rubbing your thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks. He didn’t touch you in return. He was still scared that anything he laid a hand on would be ruined by him, would ruin him right back. Your hands didn’t come away bloodied, your eyes never turned cold, and when you did speak, it was never above a whisper. When you’d fallen asleep that night, bathed in moonlight, he knew. There was no avoiding the inevitability of being human. He’d forgotten that he still was one. But you’d cultivated him like a seed, feeding him tenderness he’d never been afforded until all he could find it in himself to do was give it back. He blossomed back into something under your hands. A man who laughs freely and touches without shame. The lover he’d always hoped to be, somewhere down the line. Patrick Zweig is just a man, and he’s happy to be something so simultaneously simple and complex. He’s happy to just be.

'oh but she's mean and manipulative' SHUT UP. LOOK AT HER. THAT'S MY DAUGHTER

i can't stop thinking about tashi duncan. like that's my angel right there

Pink in the Night

an: in honor of @blastzachilles birthday (i love you), @glassmermaids comeback (i missed you), and international women's day (go us). it's short but hopefully sweet because i love her so

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The rain hitting the roof above your head is taunting. A million little taunts. Each sound of watery, dull impact is a reminder that your skin is crawling to the point it may very well come off. No amount of tossing and turning, pressure to a new spot on your body, is undoing that nauseating tingly sensation. Stupid. You were, are, so, so incredibly stupid. 

She’s still here, sitting at your desk, like she hopes to forget by surrounding herself in familiarity. Your room was safe. Your room was a place of shared secrets and shoulders to cry on. Your room wasn’t the party you’d just left in some frat house. You hadn’t kissed her here. You don’t understand why she had come, much less why she still hadn’t left. A place she spends her nights where she can’t sleep, a welcome distraction from her exhaustion. Those night visits have grown quite frequent. She didn’t have to be here to watch you wallow. She knows that better than anyone. She’s above letting other people’s problems become her own. 

You told her you were drunk, which is probably why she’d still insisted on walking you home after everything. Her hair was damp to prove it, the hood of her sweatshirt still warming your cheeks. Still sweet to you. Just to you. Why you? Because you weren’t drunk. You had never been so clear-headed in all your life. It was still stupid, a moment of false confidence aided by flashing blue lights and glittery eyeshadow on honey brown skin. It wasn’t the grandiose gesture she deserved. It wasn’t a bouquet of white lilies, her flower of choice, it wasn’t candlelit dinner at the fancy steak place she wants to try, but you can’t afford, it wasn’t the carefully crafted note that’s folded into the drawer of the very desk she now sits at. It’s been sitting there for months, waiting for its turn under her eyes, the way most things do. Everyone waits to be beheld by Tashi, because it feels like being looked at by something divine. Even when scrutinizing, or cruel, there’s an otherworldliness to her. And here she is, a goddess watching her fake drunk friend roll around like a petulant child. A goddess who has to pick up her sweatshirt off of old, dorm room carpet when her hoodie is thrown there.

You lift your head just off your pillow, enough to strain your neck, enough to meet her eyes should she choose to reward you with such a thing. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip for a moment, sticky with gloss she hadn’t put there. Cherry-flavored gloss that she knows you gave her. She smiles, lifts her fingers to her lips to feel it. She wants to seal it to her skin. 

And even if she’s smiling, looking at you as she does so, you’re mortified. You’re never going to forget how she’d looked at you, pushing on your chest to recreate the space that you’d so unjustly taken from between your two bodies. She looked shocked, she looked horrified. Scariest of all, she looked disappointed. She’d never looked at you that way. And she was disappointed, yes, because she hadn’t expected it. Because she hadn’t made the move she was convinced she’d get the shot at. Because she hadn’t touched you when she got the chance. You tasted like cherry lip gloss and the Sprite you’d just tasted. You tasted like a diner Shirley Temple, how cliche. And you smelled like lavender and warm nights in and sex and soft skin and she didn’t even let it happen.

Her eyes shine against the glow of lampposts and the moon, aligned with it just so she shines like the light of it came from within her. Aligned with the celestial, aligned with the feminine, glittering and soft and sharp and witty. Sweet words, taut muscles, long, elegant frame. You admired her body not with hunger, necessarily, but with desire. And there’s a difference, not necessarily in intent, but the way it feels. Because each time she turns her head and more of her collarbone becomes visible, the dip of it shallow, the appearance of thin lines of muscle in her neck, is just another thing to worship. Another place to kiss. Another spot to let her know is well loved. Appreciated. Doing a wonderful job in keeping her whole. You love each and every part of herself she’d given you the honor of seeing. The secrets that you held tenderly in your palms, the insecurities you’d whisper praises into her skin to undo, the memories of smaller things in a world that seemed much bigger, missing teeth, frizzy hair, and you will sing a requiem to her past self. You love her, you love her, you love her. 

She’s still kneeling on that awful, scratchy carpet, the fabric of her poor sweatshirt in hand, and would hate yourself for making tonight one you regret entirely. You’d kissed her once already, just an hour ago, and she can already know what to expect. But you did it wrong. You did it without any of the soft hands, honeyed praise, fluttering lashes, and absolutely palpable adoration that she deserves. Not deserves, requires. It’s an unwritten rule, but one everyone knows is there. She allows you that second chance, long fingers to tear tracked cheeks, yours ghosting over every part you can reach. The position is uncomfortable, awkward, but you can manage. You will take any amount of pain the world can throw at you if you can bask in her presence as a result. You will continue to try and undo the nonexistent damage you’d done, again and again and again. Even when she’s no longer kissing you back, just giggling at the sensation of warm, soft affection to heated skin, you will continue to try. The rain is rhythmically tapping against the roof with each beat of your heart, each inhale and exhale, each touch of her body to yours. She doesn’t leave that night, and you get to watch her, bare-faced and clad in just undergarments, as she lays in your bed. She sleeps easily, peacefully, close but not atop you. She loves you, she loves you, she loves you, and that victory tastes like cherry lip gloss.

The war has returned again, Gaza is under bombardment and my area is being subjected to heavy shelling. We have lost hope in our rights. We must evacuate this city where there is no security. Donate to my family again, you are our only hope.

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let's be friends | tashi duncan x reader (patrick zweig x reader)

warnings: SMUT 18+, cheating

It starts with a look.

Not a dramatic one. Not a sweeping, heart-stopping, violins-in-the-distance kind of look.

Just a glance. Too long. Too soft. Too knowing.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor in Patrick’s living room, a beer in one hand, your chin tipped back with laughter—warm and open and a little too loud—over something Art said that wasn’t even that funny. The TV flickers in the background. Someone’s half-finished drink sweats on the coffee table. The room smells like takeout and fabric softener. And Tashi watches you laugh like it’s something private. Tashi’s on the couch behind you, sprawled out like she owns the place—because she kind of does. And when you tilt your head to glance up at her, something in her expression sticks.

It’s not surprise. Not amusement.

Interest, maybe.

And then it’s gone.

You blink. You sip. You look back to Patrick, who’s started ranting about some guy on the challenger circuit who swings like a puppet.

But it lingers. A seed planted.

---

The first time you met Tashi, she barely looked up from her phone.

You’d just started seeing Patrick—two dates deep, that giddy sweet spot where everything is effortless and full of potential. He brought you to a casual post-practice dinner with Art and Tashi, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t them.

Art had been polite. A little cold, but not unkind. Tashi had nodded at you once, then gone right back to whatever was happening on her screen.

You weren’t offended. You were the new girl. You were used to that.

But later that night, she’d called you smart. Offhand. Like she’d been listening the whole time.

After that, you started seeing them more. Group hangouts. Drinks after matches. Late nights in Patrick’s apartment where everyone ended up on the couch together, legs tangled and shoulders pressed close.

Tashi was magnetic without trying. Loud in bursts. Quiet in corners. She made fun of Patrick constantly. She never complimented you directly, but she remembered your favorite lollipop flavor, which bar bathroom had the clean mirror lighting, which playlist you always skipped the third song on.

At first, you thought she just liked knowing things.

Then you started noticing the way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

And the way your stomach flipped every time she did.

You told yourself it was fine. You were just becoming close. Girls got intense sometimes. Friendships could blur at the edges.

But the edges kept blurring.

And she never did anything about it.

Until she did.

---

One night, Patrick’s out getting another round, and Art’s halfway into an argument with the bartender about the definition of a double.

Tashi leans in close. Not too close. But closer than she usually sits.

“Do you always stare that much?”

You freeze. Your beer is halfway to your lips.

“I—what?”

She’s smirking. Lazy. Crooked. Her knee bumps yours.

“I’m just asking,” she says. “Because if you do, I could get used to it.”

You blink. The music is too loud. The lights too warm.

Then Patrick’s back with drinks and a stupid grin, and everything rearranges again.

But you’re not the same after that.

Neither is she.

And you both know it.

---

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It happens in moments. Small, dumb ones.

You start riding with her even when Patrick offers. You ride with her on slow mornings and fast ones, in silence and with music blaring. You ride with her because it’s easier. Because it feels better. Because it’s starting to mean something, even if you won’t admit it. You find yourselves pairing up on game nights, trading insults and high-fives that linger too long. Fingers brushing. Knees knocking. Looks held for just a beat too long. You steal sips of her drinks. She steals fries off your plate. You start texting her things that don’t need responses. She starts answering them anyway.

She starts calling you by your last name, in a voice that’s always teasing, always warm. You start finding excuses to touch her—grabbing her wrist to show her a song, brushing hair out of her face like it’s natural.

One night, you fall asleep on her shoulder during a movie, and when you wake up, she’s still there. Arm around you. Her fingers tangled lightly in the hem of your shirt.

Neither of you mention it.

But the next day, she texts you a selfie from her car, lip gloss perfect, eyebrows smug, with the caption: still waiting on my cuddle review.

You laugh harder than you should.

You send her a voice memo back. “Four stars. You run hot and you snore.”

She sends another photo immediately. This one’s worse. Or better. Her middle finger is up. Her lips are still curved in that smile you’re trying very hard not to memorize.

Five stars now? she asks.

And maybe it’s just fun. Maybe it’s just harmless.

But it doesn’t feel harmless when she watches you in group settings like you’re the only one there. It doesn’t feel harmless when you dream about her hands. When you wake up aching.

It doesn’t feel harmless when she shows up to a hangout in a tank top that’s definitely not for the weather, and you can’t stop staring.

And it definitely doesn’t feel harmless when she catches you.

When she licks a little melted ice cream off her thumb and says, without looking up, “You know, you’re allowed to want things.”

You don’t answer.

But you want.

God, you want.

And that’s the part that starts to ache.

Because Patrick is good. He’s kind. He kisses you like he means it and holds your hand like he’s proud of it. You like him. You really do.

But every time his lips find yours, every time his hand slides across your back and pulls you close, there’s a flicker of something traitorous at the base of your skull.

What would Tashi taste like?

It’s not a conscious thought. It’s not even loud. It’s just there. Present.

And when you open your eyes after a kiss, gasping, dazed, flushed from how sweet he always is with you—there’s still a name pressing soft against the edge of your thoughts.

And it isn’t his.

---

One night, it’s just the two of you. Rain tapping against the window, some old movie playing quietly in the background. Patrick’s hand finds yours where it rests on the couch cushion, fingers linking with yours like he’s done it a thousand times.

He kisses you slow, soft, like he wants you to feel how much he means it. And you do. You kiss him back, warm and grateful, even as something coils in your chest.

When you pull apart, he smiles against your cheek. “I’m really glad you get along with them,” he says, voice low. “With Art. With Tashi.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

He laughs a little. “Tashi’s hard to impress. But she likes you. You know that, right?”

You swallow. You try to keep your voice even. “Yeah.”

“She told me she was glad we were dating.”

That makes your chest clench in a way you can’t explain. Your heart aches, confused and guilty.

Patrick presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re my favorite person. And I think it’s kinda cool that my favorite people are becoming friends.”

You close your eyes.

You wish that was all it was.

---

It happens on a night that feels like any other.

You’re at her place. Music low. A bottle of wine cracked open even though you both swore you were only staying in for a quiet night. There’s a half-hearted movie playing, and she’s sitting close enough that your knees touch. Not in a dramatic way. Not even on purpose. Just enough to feel it.

You're laughing at something she said—something ridiculous and small, and the sound sticks in the air between you. She watches you for a second too long. And you feel it.

Your stomach turns over. The kind of flip that’s not new anymore, but still dangerous.

She shifts on the couch, facing you more fully. Her fingers drum lightly on the stem of her wine glass. You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. Your mouth keeps moving, but your brain is stuck on the way her eyes flick down to your lips.

The tension stretches—taut and humming and painfully quiet.

And then she says your name.

Soft. Careful. Not a tease. Not this time.

You stop.

Tashi leans in. Just a little. Enough.

“Tell me to stop,” she says.

You don’t.

So she kisses you.

It's not rushed. It's not wild. It’s gentle. Testing. The kind of kiss you give when you’ve thought about it too many times to pretend you haven’t.

You gasp against her mouth before you can stop yourself. Her hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

And when she pulls back, she doesn't move far. Just enough to murmur—

“Don’t you wanna?”

Your chest rises too fast.

And you nod.

You really, really do.

She kisses you again, deeper this time. Her hands are on your waist, sliding under your shirt, fingers spreading across your skin like she’s trying to memorize you by touch.

You moan—quiet, shocked by how fast it unravels you. Tashi catches it with her mouth, her tongue slipping past your lips with such practiced ease it makes your thighs press together.

“You always this easy to kiss?” she whispers, tugging at your shirt. “Or is it just me?”

You breathe out a laugh—shaky, dizzy. “It’s you.”

She grins against your skin. “Thought so.”

She’s pushing you back onto the couch before you realize it, hovering over you with one hand braced beside your head and the other sliding down your body.

When her hand slips under the waistband of your pants, your hips buck. You gasp again, louder this time, and she watches you—eyes heavy, lips parted, like she’s starving.

“You gonna let me?” she asks.

You nod, too fast.

She hums, pleased, fingers slipping lower, slow but deliberate. The first press of her thumb to your clit has you whimpering.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“God, you sound good,” she mutters, kissing your neck, your jaw, your cheek. “Been thinking about this every time you wore something tight and acted like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you gasp.

Tashi laughs. “Liar.”

And then she’s inside you, two fingers curling just right, and you’re gone—hips rolling, back arching, her name a broken whisper on your lips.

She takes her time. Watches every twitch, every breath. Brings you right to the edge and holds you there, kissing you slow until you’re trembling beneath her.

“Let go,” she whispers. “Come on. Let me have it.”

And when you do, it’s with a cry you couldn’t hide if you tried.

You collapse into her, flushed and panting.

And she kisses your shoulder like she's done it a billion times before. Maybe she has. Just not in real life.

---

After that night, nothing feels casual anymore.

You don’t talk about it. Not directly. But the way she touches you changes—more often, more deliberate. She stands too close. She doesn’t look away as fast.

And you let her.

You let her every time.

But it twists something sharp in your stomach when you see Patrick. When he kisses your cheek or brings you coffee or grins like he still thinks he’s the only one who gets to make you blush.

You can’t meet his eyes when he says, “Tashi says we should all hang out again this weekend. You in?”

You say yes.

You always say yes.

But it feels like lying now. Even though it technically isn’t.

Technically.

You think maybe you were fine until the second time it happened. The second time Tashi kissed you like she couldn’t help it. The second time she made you come with her mouth on you and a growl in her throat.

Because this time, when it’s over, she doesn’t move.

She stays. Curled up behind you on the couch, hand splayed on your stomach like she belongs there. Like she wants to be there in the morning.

You lie there wide awake, her breath warm on your neck, and you realize something you really didn’t want to know.

You’re not the only one who caught feelings.

And now it’s harder to pretend.

Tashi holds you like it means something. Like it has meant something. And you let her, night after night, long after the tension gave way to touch.

But something shifts in the quiet. In the way she presses her face into your neck when she thinks you’re asleep. In the way her fingers twitch when Patrick texts you.

You start noticing things.

Like how she doesn’t meet your eyes when she says his name. How she jokes about him less now. How she touches you softer after.

It should make you feel wanted.

Instead, it makes you feel split down the middle.

Because Patrick’s still sweet. Still good. Still smiles at you like you’re his whole world.

And you keep smiling back.

Even as part of you starts to wish he wasn’t in this picture at all.

---

It happens by accident. And then, almost instantly, it doesn’t feel like one.

You're at Patrick's. All of you. A lazy Saturday stretched too long, half-dressed in your comfiest clothes. Tashi’s curled in the armchair. You’re on the floor with your back to the couch, between Patrick’s knees. He's absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair while watching something dumb on TV.

And Tashi says something—something that makes you laugh. You throw your head back, and she catches your eyes. The smile she gives you is soft. Real.

Patrick notices.

You feel his fingers pause against your scalp.

“You two have been really tight lately,” he says, not accusing, not suspicious. Just curious.

You freeze.

Tashi shifts, unfazed. “She’s fun,” she says. “You did good.”

Patrick hums. “I mean… yeah. You’re both fun.”

There’s a beat.

Then he says it.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Your heart stutters.

“Thought about what?” you ask, even though you know.

He leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice low. “You and her. Together.”

You don’t speak.

You feel the way Tashi goes still across the room.

Then Patrick adds, quieter—

“If I walked in on something… I wouldn’t be mad.”

He squeezes your shoulders once. Just once. Then gets up to grab more drinks.

And the silence he leaves behind is electric.

You look at Tashi.

She’s already looking at you.

And there’s no hiding now.

---

He brings back beers and popcorn like nothing happened, and you pretend for a while. All of you do. The show keeps playing. The room keeps breathing. Patrick settles back into the couch behind you like the air hadn’t just changed.

But then you stand to stretch and say you’re gonna help Tashi grab something from the car.

There’s nothing in the car.

You don’t even make it to the door.

The moment it closes behind you, she grabs your wrist and pulls you in. Mouth on yours. Desperate. Sharp. Messy.

You kiss her like it’s your last chance.

“Is this what you want?” she breathes against your lips.

You nod. Hard. “Yes.”

Then Patrick’s voice calls out from the other room—“You two making out in there?”

Silence.

You look at her. She’s breathing hard, lip bitten, pupils blown wide.

Then he steps into the hall.

Patrick sees you both—disheveled, pressed together, the heat still clinging to your skin like fog.

He smiles.

“About time,” he says, and walks toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t. You expect tension. Jealousy. Confusion.

Instead, he kisses you. Then her.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “just ask if I wanna watch.”

And when Tashi grabs his shirt and pulls him in, you realize this is happening. Not a fallout. Not a crisis.

Just heat.

Just yes.

And when the three of you stumble into the bedroom, laughter and tension and hunger all tangled up in your mouths and hands, you think maybe it was always going to end like this.

Messy.

Beautiful.

Loud.

Tashi’s mouth is on yours again the moment you hit the bed, her hands already dragging your shirt up, exposing skin she’s seen but never rushed. Patrick’s behind you now, his breath hot at your ear as he lifts it the rest of the way, tugging it off like it’s a ribbon, not a barrier.

“Pretty,” he says, voice low and rough, as his fingers graze down your spine.

Tashi kisses your shoulder. “We know.”

Clothes hit the floor like they’ve been waiting. Hands overlap. You don’t know whose grip is tighter, whose mouth is lower, only that you’re unraveling fast and you haven’t even been fucked yet.

Patrick slides down first, tongue slow and sinful between your legs, while Tashi kisses you through every twitch of your body. When he moans against your clit, it sends a shock straight through your spine.

“Jesus,” you gasp.

“Not quite,” Tashi whispers, fingers sliding into your mouth as she watches you fall apart. “But close, right?”

It doesn’t stop. It just layers. Hands, lips, sounds, heat. You feel Patrick’s cock brush your thigh as Tashi pulls you into her lap, and when you sink down onto him, it’s all dizzy, all stretch and pleasure, with her mouth right at your ear.

“You’re so fucking good like this,” she purrs. “Look at you. Perfect.”

You ride Patrick with Tashi’s hands on your hips, her mouth on your neck, all three of you lost to it, to each other.

And when you come again, it’s Tashi who whispers you through it, and Patrick who groans into your skin like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear the sound you make falling apart between them.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You don’t care.

It ends in breathless laughter, bodies tangled, limbs sticky and flushed.

And when you finally open your eyes, they’re both still there.

Watching you.

Touching you.

Smiling like they’ve always known.

Like this was never a mistake.

And somewhere on the floor, someone’s sock is inside the popcorn bowl. Patrick swears it’s not his.

No one believes him.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

what is wrong with you

connor murphy perchance with a cheerleader reader who secretly has the same struggles and they bond over that if not them js getting high together and they confess

french exchange student reader with ATP maybe new kid in the academy or player against Tashi, wanting to get all close!!!

hiiii!!! i loved your requests so much. here’s the connor one first 🤭 umm also im sorry i kind of went overboard and felt angsty… don’t hate me

tw: depression, suicide

—

the thing about being a cheerleader is that people assume you’re always happy.

like glitter and pom-poms are a substitute for serotonin. like cartwheels and short skirts cancel out the quiet panic that curls into your ribs at 3am.

but you know better.

and so does he.

connor murphy sits like a shadow at the edge of the world (or at least the school parking lot), head down, eyes daring anyone to look at him too long. you don’t mean to sit next to him. it just happens. like gravity. or like bad decisions.

he looks over, slow and suspicious.

you offer a half-smile and a joint.

“world’s ending,” you say, as explanation.

he shrugs. “cool.“

you pass the joint back and forth like a secret. like a lifeline. smoke curls around you both, and the silence between you shifts from awkward to gentle.

“you don’t seem like the type, you know,” he says finally.

you raise an eyebrow.

“to sit on the ground with me. and do drugs. and not cry about it.”

you laugh. “give it time.”

when the stars come out, you’re still there. his head tilted back, yours resting against his shoulder in a way that feels accidentally on purpose. you tell him things. not the big things—just breadcrumbs. like how you hate pep rallies. how you once cried during halftime. how you wish you could just… not be this person.

he blinks. slow, languid. “same.”

and it’s stupid. and sweet. and kind of sad. and it’s the first time you feel understood in forever.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

he turns to look at you, like the moon’s caught in his eyes.

“i think i’m gonna like you.”

a pause.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“okay. good. me too. but like… don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold. i’m pretty popular.”

you grin. “oh yeah?”

“oh yeah.”

the joint burns out. the night drips quietly on.

—

you start seeing him more. not on purpose, at first. just… by coincidence. or fate. or whatever cosmic joke put the angriest boy in school and the sparkliest girl in the same orbit.

at lunch, you start sitting near each other. not at the same table, not yet. just close enough for the air to feel familiar. for a certain electricity to linger.

he nods at you. you nod back.

it’s stupid. it means everything.

eventually, he lets you into his world. little pieces at a time.

like how his mom keeps pushing therapy schedules into his hands like they’re birthday gifts. how his dad barely speaks unless it’s disappointment wearing a polo.

how his little sister, zoe, plays four instruments, volunteers at a vet clinic, and still finds time to win at everything.

“they love her,” he says, exhaling smoke out the passenger window. “like, it’s easy. natural. with me, it’s like—i have to earn it. and even when i do… it’s not enough.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just reach over and squeeze his sleeve.

later, you say, “my mom makes me smile in photos even when i’ve just had a panic attack.”

and he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole fucking world.

you hang out on rooftops. in empty stairwells. behind the bleachers, where the grass is too long and the world feels far away. you skip class sometimes. not together, but somehow you both end up in the same hallway, sprawled out on the floor like fallen angels.

one day, he mutters, “i’m supposed to be this freak. the scary one. i hear what they say. maybe they’re right.”

you tilt your head. “do you want to be?”

he hesitates. “not always. not really.”

“then don’t be. be whatever you want with me.”

he stares at you like he’s waiting for the punchline. it doesn’t come. just your hand brushing against his. just the ache of being seen.

he starts texting you. a lot.

everything felt perfect. a perfect friendship, a perfect maybe-more-than-friendship.

until it finally snaps.

you’re curled up together in the backseat of his car, parked under the old oak trees near the edge of town where the stars don’t have to compete with streetlights. the blunt burns slow between you, smoke curling like a lullaby.

he’s lying with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded, mouth a soft line.

“do you ever feel,” he says, “like you were made for sadness?”

you comb your fingers through his hair. “maybe. but then you happened. and now i think i was made for you.”

he looks up at you, eyes glassy but focused. his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile.

you expect a joke. a typical connor deflection. something sarcastic to break the tense moment.

instead, he says, “i love you.”

quiet. like it’s the first true thing he’s ever said.

your heart stutters. the world stills.

you whisper, “i love you too.”

and for a moment—just a moment—it feels like everything might be okay. like the universe hit pause on the bad parts and gave you this night, this breath, this boy who sees you like no one else does.

he kisses you, and it’s slow, deep. his lips taste like weed and that raspberry slurpee he’s always got and something saltier—regret, maybe, or all the things he can’t say out loud.

his hand moves to your cheek, unsure, like he’s checking if you’re real.

you are. you lean into him like gravity’s made of need.

your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer—not desperate, just aching.

the kiss deepens a little. not fast. just fuller. like an exhale you’ve both been holding since the first time you looked at each other and didn’t look away.

you fall asleep with your head on his chest, dreaming of maybe.

—

friday, no text.

saturday, nothing.

you send a stupid tiktok. no reply.

you try calling. voicemail.

you tell yourself he’s just spiraling. that he does this sometimes.

but not like this. never this quiet.

by monday, he’s not in school. you wait by your locker. you wait in the usual hallway. you check the parking lot.

his car isn’t there.

your texts pile up.

you start asking people. zoe doesn’t answer her phone. neither does his mom.

your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

you hear whispers in the hallways. an ambulance? a body found?

no.

he could be fine. he could be in the hospital. he could be anywhere. he could be—

you call again. straight to voicemail.

you leave one more message.

voice shaking.

tears falling.

“connor. please. i love you. you said you loved me too. you promised.”

—

eventually it’s confirmed, a monotone, grim announcement over the intercom.

a hushed assembly.

teachers blinking back tears they never showed him in life. posters about mental health taped crooked on hallway walls. a vigil with candles that don’t stop anything from hurting.

no one knows he kissed you like he was saying goodbye. no one knows you held him the night before. no one knows he said he loved you with the stars watching.

and now he’s gone, and you can’t say any of it without sounding insane.

you’re back in uniform the next week.

lip gloss. ponytail. fake smile stretched like skin too thin.

people pat your shoulder. say vague, hollow things like

“wasn’t he that angry kid?”

or

“i didn’t know you even talked to him.”

and you nod. and you smile.

and inside, something is rotting.

you go through the motions like a ghost trapped in the wrong body.

pep rallies feel like static. he was the only one who knew you hated them.

your bedroom walls are too quiet.

his last voicemail is still saved on your phone,

but you can’t listen to it anymore

because his voice feels like a knife now.

you try to tell your mom you’re sad. she tells you to take a bath.

you try to tell your friends you feel like you’re drowning. they say, “we miss him too,” but their voices don’t crack the same way yours does.

that’s because they don’t know. they don’t know you loved him. they don’t know he loved you.

they don’t know that when he died, he took something from you you’ll never get back.

and now you’re stuck.

stuck in this glitter-drenched version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore.

stuck cheering for teams you don’t care about.

stuck pretending your heart didn’t break in the backseat of his car.

stuck waiting for a text that will never come.

you still walk past that same hallway you always met in. you still glance toward the parking lot.

still half-expect to see him there, hood up, eyes tired, mouth already half-smirking at something only you would understand.

but he’s not. and the worst part?

no one noticed he was your whole world.

and now you’re expected to keep spinning.

taglist of my connor friends

@matchpointfaist @ellaynaonsaturn @elliotlovesmacncheese @newrochellechallenger2019

a revival

A Night Over

an: enjoy this cute picture of mike because i literally finished this like 2 hours ago and spent so long worrying about making it aesthetic i stopped caring

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He brushes past you as soon as you open the door, barely even a wide enough space to squeeze a body through. You huff, turn around just in time to get knocked into by his overstuffed messenger bag. It’s the same one you recognize from kindergarten cubbies and middle school lockers. 

“Well, hello to you too, Connor.”

You’ve done this all before. You recognize the sound of his body against the couch cushions before you see it, back turned to him to pull some blankets from the coat closet by the front door. You can feel his eyes, though, the way you always can. Intense in everything, even just in observing you move through your home. The home he’s been to more times than he can count on both his hands. He can’t help but to be fascinated by you, though, no matter how many times he’s been around you, bombarding his senses until the only thing his brain has a concept of is his existence relative to yours. 

He keeps a bag packed for nights like these, nights that are more frequent than they should be, and have just been growing more persistent. There’s a tone to his father’s voice he knows too well. Not necessarily anger, but a growing displeasure at everyone and everything around him, including the son that ruins his Facebook family photos and general public image of being a perfect, upper-middle class suburban family. He wouldn’t mind being in a miserable family if everyone agreed on the best way of doing it, but they still clash in that sense. So disjointed they can’t even find the same ways to hate each other, hate themselves.

You sit on the coffee table across from where he rests, hands clasped in your crossed thighs. There’s no need to talk about it anymore. The argument, the topic it took, isn’t the issue. It’s not what drives him out of his house at odd hours of the night to seek refuge in yours. It’s the feeling that if he stayed, there would be no escaping the idea that maybe, just maybe, his father is right. That he is ruining things. Sure, he’d internalized that feeling since birth, thinking and feeling it before his father could confirm he shared the same opinion, but it still hurt to know that he wasn’t his daddy’s little boy anymore. Now, he was the son that could’ve been better, should’ve been better with the resources provided to him. But he’s not normal in that sense, never has been. He wishes he could hit himself on the head hard enough to knock loose whatever is festering in his skull until it comes out his ears. Whatever neurochemical imbalance, whatever parasitic thought, whatever version of himself nestled its way in. 

You unclasp your hands, find your palms redder than they’d started, grabbing at his ankles to place them in your lap. 

“You can sleep in my bed, you know. Your back will thank you.”

You say absentmindedly, beginning the minutes long task of unlacing those scuffed, softened leather boots he always wears. They’d been a product of saved-up birthday money and weeks of not smoking, and he couldn’t help but to feel a little proud for having done something semi-responsible with himself. And now here they are, in your lap, sprinkling wet dirt onto your skin. It’s the same offer you’ve been extending his way for months, held in your palm like it’s fragile, like it means more than just a bed. He never takes it, curls your fingers back over it, nudges your hand back to your side. He means well. He means not to impose the way he does everywhere else. He knows how few places he’s truly welcome. He knows that the best one is wherever you happen to be. He won’t lose it, or he loses himself. But he can’t impose where he is invited. Welcome at all times. Your home is his home, because he doesn’t have one otherwise. Here he is wanted, and he just won’t let that be. 

You curl the undone laces around your fingers, watching the coils turn your skin just that little bit paler under the strained blood flow. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches, like he tends to do. You can feel his eyes follow the movement, whether it’s yours or the lace’s, you can’t quite make out. You look back up at him through weary eyes, the time of night clear in each fleck of color. It’s fairly late, but not late enough for you to look so worn. You’ve been tired for ages, and no amount of laying beneath woolen blankets has been able to rejuvenate you. Remarkably, there aren’t any real bags beneath your eyes. The one way you could cry out for the help you’d so desperately like without verbal confirmation of being anything less than mundane, and you can’t even supply yourself with it. How pathetic. He recognizes the look in your eyes, the plea for him to help himself so you can live vicariously through it. Feel better for having done something. He doesn’t give in though. 

So fine. He can have it his way. Boots are tucked beneath the couch, left to drip onto the wood beneath them. They can rot the whole house away for all you care. You squeeze yourself into that sliver of space he isn’t taking up, face to face so closely that it feels like this is the first time you’ve seen him at all. His left eye has a little spot of brown in it, stuck in amongst blue. A black sheep. He looks behind your head to the wall. It seems easier. He’s met with a framed photo of the two of you. No such thing as an easy way out. So, he does what he does best. Watches. Watches you move some humidity-frizzed hair from his face as if it won’t fall right back where it was, watches you attempt to get comfortable with the singular foot of room allotted to you, watches you pretend the proximity isn’t what makes your eyes look far away and yet so concentrated. He can’t point that part out, he’s sure he looks the same. He watches you sleep, too, for a while. Features softened, smushed, unfurrowed by stress. You look your age this way. You’ve shed years of forced maturation in a single shallow breath. He doesn’t feel it’s an invasion if it’s something beautiful to look at. Artistic, even. Biblical. He shivers, pretends it’s from the cold, the rain, the dampness of his clothes. You hadn’t actually put any of those blankets you’d grabbed to use. He doesn’t want to move. He can feel your heartbeat if he focuses enough like this, breath mixing with his own on your exhales. He thinks it’s almost kissing. It’s better. It’s nowhere near enough. He looks to the ceiling, then back at you. He smiles. Maybe someday he’ll say the obvious. Maybe someday he can impose. But for now feigned relative indifference will do. You know he cares more than he says. You will wake up rejuvenated.

ava. oh ava. my god you pull each nerve in my body until everything thrashes with hurt and need and still there's tenderness in the fact that you even know where to search to effect me at all. you are an artist, truly

lavender haze (acoustic) | art donaldson x reader

warnings: age gap (10 years), divorced!retired!art, divorce mention, cursing

The world is a blur of cameras and neon when you find him again.

Outside the Monte Carlo hotel, somewhere between a post-match press conference and the second glass of something too expensive, you see him—backlit in the haze of dusk, hands in his pockets like they don't remember how to hold a racket. Art Donaldson, former world number one, standing like a myth trying not to be remembered.

You don’t call out to him. You don’t have to.

He turns like he already knew you were there.

For a moment, you just breathe the same air. He in his shadow. You in your spotlight.

The lavender dusk of the city softens everything but him.

He looks the same as when you saw him this morning. Maybe a little undone. Hair slightly unruly from fingers running through it too many times. 

You’re still sweaty from the match. Still painted in makeup for the cameras. Still dizzy from the reporters who asked more about him than your fifth straight win on the tour.

Is it true you two were seen together in Ibiza?Are you dating a former champion to boost your media appeal?How does it feel to win on a court he made famous?

Your lips had twitched. You’d smiled like a good girl. Like you weren’t screaming underneath.

But now, here he is. And suddenly, you don’t want to be good anymore.

He doesn’t speak, just opens the door to the hotel like it’s a habit. Like you belong there. Like you always have.

And you do.

You’ve been in a committed relationship for nearly a year, not that it stops the press from acting like it’s still gossip. Like you’re still a secret. Like he didn’t sit courtside for every match of your first major title and kiss you in the hallway when no one was looking. Like he didn’t leave behind a legacy and ten million dollars in endorsements just to stop pretending.

You’re twenty-three. He’s thirty-three. It’s never mattered more than it does to everyone else.

To you, he’s just Art. Tired, brilliant, infuriating. To him, you’re the only thing that doesn’t make him feel like a ghost.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And the world falls away.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

Instead, he walks to the kitchenette, opens the mini fridge, and pulls out a bottle of water. Tosses it over his shoulder. You catch it one-handed, cap already half-twisted before he turns back around.

"You’re still favoring your right hip on the cross-court," he says.

You unscrew the cap. Take a sip. Let the silence stretch.

"You think I don’t know that?"

Art shrugs, leans against the counter. "Didn’t say that."

"Didn’t have to."

You cross the room. He doesn’t move. You stand close enough to feel the warmth of him through your sweat-damp dress.

“You watched from the lobby again?” you ask.

“Better view of you than the court,” he murmurs.

That pulls a breath from you. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. You let your forehead rest against his chest, eyes fluttering shut. His arms slip around your waist like he’s been waiting all night to remember how you fit.

He smells like something clean and simple. Not soap. Not cologne. Just him.

“God, they wouldn’t shut up about you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Just runs his fingers up and down your spine, slow enough to still your nerves, steady enough to make you ache.

“Then don’t talk,” he says eventually, like he’s trying to spare you. Like silence is something he can give you.

The words hit. Harder than they should. Not because they’re untrue. Because they’re too true.

“Come shower,” he says, fingers tracing the fabric at the small of your back. "You smell like sunscreen. And sweat."

“And you smell smug."

“Worked hard on that.”

You laugh against him this time, and he kisses the top of your head like punctuation.

There’s a comfort in this. In him. And it terrifies you, a little.

Because nothing this good stays untouched forever.

---

The bathroom is warm and fogged by the time you step out. Art hands you a towel without a word, like he’s done it a hundred times, like the rhythm of care comes easy to him in a way it didn’t used to. Not when he was still married to someone who saw him less as a person and more as a strategy.

He brushes a curl of damp hair from your cheek and presses a kiss just below your temple. Not hungry. Not possessive. Just there. Quiet and certain.

You dry off slowly. He changes the sheets.

Neither of you rush.

It’s the kind of night that unfolds like fabric—creased and familiar. You sit cross-legged on the bed, a hotel robe slung loose around your shoulders, watching him move around the room like he doesn’t need to be looked at to feel known.

You pick at your cuticles. The ring light burn still lingers behind your eyes.

“I don’t want to do media tomorrow,” you say softly, not really to him.

“I know.”

You nod. You want him to say more. Want him to say he’ll fix it, or call someone, or take you away from all of it.

But he won’t.

Because that’s what he used to want from her.

And she knew better than to give it.

Later, you both end up under the too-crisp hotel sheets, the TV glowing in the corner like an afterthought. Art flips through the channels until he lands on coverage of the day’s matches—your match. A rebroadcast already looping into highlights. Neither of you speak. He leaves the volume low.

You watch yourself on the screen, hair slicked with sweat, mouth tight with concentration. You know how it ends. You know the score. And still, your fingers curl into the duvet like you’re bracing for something.

Art’s hand finds your knee beneath the covers. It’s instinctive, steady. Grounding.

“…and while her performance today was characteristically aggressive,” the commentator says, “some are wondering if the pressure of dating former world champion Art Donaldson is beginning to weigh on her—certainly a lot of eyes on her for reasons that aren’t strictly tennis.”

You flinch.

Not much. But enough for Art to notice.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for the remote.

You stop him. “No. Leave it.”

He hesitates, then rests it on the nightstand.

You both keep watching, but something shifts. Not the volume. Not the camera angle.

Just the quiet.

A few seconds later, your voice comes through the screen. The post-match interview. You’re smiling like your cheeks are glass.

“I’ve been working really hard on my serve, and I’m glad it paid off today,” you say.

The reporter laughs. “And is Art Donaldson part of that training routine?”

The smile on the screen falters—barely. A blink. A breath. The kind of flicker no one notices unless they know you.

You feel Art watching you now, not the TV.

You shift your gaze toward the screen and force a smile. “They never asked you about her, did they?”

His hand leaves your leg.

“They did,” he says. “They just worded it differently.”

---

The next day, you win your semifinal in straight sets.

Your serve is sharp. Your footwork clean. Your game ruthless.

You walk off the court flushed and breathless and so full of adrenaline it feels like your skin might split open. You're about to head to your first Open final. The crowd roars. Your chest aches with something like disbelief.

A ball kid hands you a towel. A line judge nods with something close to reverence. Even your opponent lingers at the net longer than usual—something like respect in her eyes.

And then comes the press.

The room is cold. Bright. Every chair filled. You’re barely given time to sip your water before the first hand is up.

Microphone passed. Camera rolling.

“Congratulations on the win,” the reporter says. “You played an incredible match today. Given that you’ve now made it to the final—do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose if you take the title?”

The question lands like a bruise.

Your smile doesn't falter. You’ve practiced it too much for that.

But something in your eyes flickers. The corner of your mouth. The twitch of a muscle in your jaw.

You laugh. Not joyfully. Not even politely. Just—mechanically. Enough to smooth the space around the tension.

“I think I’m focused on the match,” you say. “Let’s keep the attention on the tennis.”

They laugh, too. Some of them. But it’s the kind of laugh that says we’re not done asking.

You field a few more questions—strategy, surface preferences, what you’ll do differently in the final, what the color scheme of your potential wedding may be, what Art's impact on your win was. You answer all of them. Not perfectly. But well enough.

Still, when you leave the room, the only part that echoes is Do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose?

No one asked if you thought you could win.

No one asked what it meant to be here.

No one asked about you at all.

---

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.

Art doesn’t ask how the press went. He must have watched it—he always does—but he says nothing, just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the space between you like he’s thinking about reaching for you and deciding against it.

You stare out the window, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on your knee.

The city moves past you in golds and grays. Traffic, sky, noise. None of it feels real. Your pulse is still drumming from the match, your skin still humming with everything unsaid.

In the room, he unzips your gear bag before you can. Peels your wristbands off. Unlaces your shoes. Not a word. Just care, mechanical and precise.

You pull away when he reaches for your towel.

“I’ve got it,” you say, sharper than you mean to.

Art’s hands drop back to his sides. He nods once and takes a step back.

You pace the edge of the bed, towel in hand, still breathing like you’re on court.

He stands by the desk, watching you for a beat longer than necessary.

“You played well,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“I thought maybe we’d order in. Celebrate a little.”

You laugh. It comes out wrong. Bitter, high in your throat. “Celebrate what?”

His brow furrows. “The win.”

“Oh, right.” You toss the towel onto the floor. “The one I apparently earned just to get proposed to. Lucky me.”

Art flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He says your name, quiet but firm.

And that—more than anything—makes you snap.

“You know what the worst part is?” you ask. “It’s that I knew it was coming. The question. I felt it before the words even left her mouth. I knew. And I still had to sit there and smile like some fairytale ending was more important than my fucking game.”

“That's not what they—”

“Yes, it is. That’s all they see. I could win a goddamn Grand Slam and they’d still find a way to make it about you. About us. About anything but me.”

His voice is low, careful. “You think I want that?”

You look at him, eyes blazing. “I think you’ve lived through it already. With her. And I think you still don’t know how to stop it.”

The silence is heavier this time. He doesn’t deny it.

---

The next day, you win the Open.

Straight sets. You don’t drop a single game in the second.

It’s one of the cleanest matches of your life. And when the final ball hits the back fence, you drop your racket and scream, but it doesn’t feel like joy. Not really.

You wave to the crowd. You thank the chair umpire. You wipe your face with a towel you can’t feel in your hands.

Art’s waiting at the edge of the court, behind the camera crew. His arms are open. He looks proud. Cautious. Already bracing.

You walk past him.

Not cruel. Not theatrical. You just keep walking.

He doesn’t follow.

And the cameras catch all of it.

---

Back in the hotel room, the trophy sits on the table beside the TV.

You haven’t spoken since the ride back.

Art ordered room service. He didn’t ask what you wanted, just got the usual. Pasta, grilled chicken, a green juice you’ll pretend to drink.

You eat half of it standing up. He eats none of his.

He moves around the room like a ghost—quiet, competent, unbearably gentle. Every drawer he opens, every charger he plugs in, every shirt he folds feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

The match plays on mute in the background.

You sit on the edge of the bed with your knees drawn up, watching yourself lift the trophy in slow motion.

Art disappears into the bathroom. The door doesn’t lock, but he closes it anyway. The sound of running water fills the silence.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest and breathe. In. Out. In.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

You lie down while he’s still in the bathroom. Face turned toward the wall. Back to where he’ll be. If he comes to bed at all.

He does. Eventually.

He doesn’t touch you.

You don’t ask him to.

---

You wake to light on your skin.

Gentle, warm, not quite golden yet. It filters through the curtains, spreads across the bed. The kind of light that feels like a hand on your back, like the world trying to tell you it’s okay to open your eyes.

You blink slowly. Turn your face toward the window.

And then, toward him.

He’s sitting in the armchair by the balcony doors. Hair a mess. One ankle tucked over the other. Elbows resting on his knees. Awake, but not fully. Holding the mug you always steal from him.

He looks like someone who stayed up too late thinking, then woke too early from not enough sleep.

You sit up.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice rough. Honest.

He doesn’t ask what for. He just waits.

“I shouldn’t have walked past you like that,” you go on. “I was angry, and I didn’t know where to put it. And I—” Your voice catches. “I wish I could take it back.”

His jaw works, like he’s trying to decide how much to let you see.

“You’ve got nothing to take back,” he says finally. “You were angry. You were right to be. I just wish it hadn’t hurt you so much to prove it.”

Your eyes sting. You pull your knees to your chest.

“I think I needed someone to blame. And you were there. And kind. And that made it worse, somehow.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just stands. Crosses to the bed.

He sits beside you, not too close. Not yet.

“I knew what they’d say about you,” he says. “When we got together. I knew what they’d reduce you to. I told myself I could protect you from it.”

You look at him. “You couldn’t.”

“I know,” he says.

You lean your head against his shoulder. This time, he lets it rest there.

And when he wraps his arm around you, it feels like morning for real.

Not just another day. Not just damage control.

But something softer. Something that forgives you both.

Something worth building from.

You sit like that for a long time. Not speaking. Just breathing. Just being.

And then, quietly, almost like you’re afraid to break it, you say, “I do want to marry you someday.”

You feel the way his body stills. The way his breath hitches. He turns just enough to look at you—like he needs to see your face to believe it.

His eyes are glassy. Open. Younger than they usually let themselves be.

And then he smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just… honest. Hopeful.

The way someone does when something they didn’t dare ask for is suddenly being offered.

You don’t need him to say it back. He already has.

You just lean a little closer.

And this time, he meets you there.

-----

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MICHAELLLLL DON’T LEAVE ME HERE MICHAELLLLLL

i am so... i just... this is my wife...