This felt weirdly comfortable. You were in Art’s lap on the sofa, across his thighs, legs spread out of the sofa so your feet were in Patrick’s lap— as weird as it sounds, yes, it felt comfortable, so comfortable. Art had introduced you to Patrick when you first started dating and Art took on the role of boyfriend and coach, and you three were fine.

Right?

Truth is, both boys were gone like the Titanic for you, you pretty thing. You rocked tennis getup, had gorgeous eyes and kissable skin— it automatically drew their eyes, but Art got the prize first. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t up for a little sharing, though, it’s why Patrick was rubbing your ankle soothingly.

Both of their presences made you feel almost dizzy, it was overwhelmingly strong, the way Art would whisper praise in your ear while watching your matches’ replays— smoothing back your hair, kneading your thigh while the pads of Patrick’s fingers pressed to your ankle. And you didn’t even mind.

Oh, could you concentrate? No, and Art saw that, a low chuckle coming from him, sharing a look with Patrick— you, gorgeous, got distracted too easily sometimes. “Hey.” He kissed your cheek to grab your attention. “Eyes on the video, baby.”

Eyes on the video, of course— you forgot amid Patrick’s gentle tracing of your ankle. You were Art’s girlfriend, him holding your ankle like porcelain should feel wrong, but no it fucking didn’t and you didn’t know why. “You wanna get good, right?” Patrick grinned. Yeah, you were Art’s girl, that was clear.

But Art didn’t mind sharing.