It had always been a joke between the pair of you. "I'd destroy myself just for you," he'd whisper into your ear when you were tangled together in the sheets. Or again when your knee had provided you with a particularly rough day, and he'd offer to take the burden from you. Light, but earnest. You had no doubt he truly meant that; if he could be the one with the career in ruins instead of you, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

Which is what makes you feel even more guilty about the fact you'd just spent the last hour crammed in the back of Patrick's car. The Atlanta 2011 Open, and you were spending the night before the final with your ex instead of him. Hell, it's the fact that it's Art's ex best-friend that makes it worse.

You toy with the engagement ring on your finger as the elevator doors open with a chime. He's probably asleep by now, thankfully, but it doesn't make you feel any worse as you approach your hotel room. You're as quiet as possible when you enter, kicking off your shoes by the door. A shower is in order, something to scrub away the lingering memory of Patrick's hands on your skin.

Except when you creak open the bedroom door, the light is still on. And Art is perched on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his own ring on his finger. He'd seen you with Patrick in the lobby, of course, a moment before a fan had asked him to sign their hat. And when he looked back, the pair of you were gone. That was an hour and a half ago.

Does he know? That's the first thought that crosses your mind when you see him through the crack in the door. He keeps his eyes on his engagement ring, continuing to fiddle with it with his thumb. Art's always been a fidgeter; whether it had been in his hands or with his legs, he could never stay still for too long.

And then you hear him speak, and that's when you know. He sounds calm. Too calm. That quiet pain that tells you he's not going to scream at you.

"Where were you?"

Because even now, even after this, he'd still destroy himself just for you.