Patrick doesn’t knock.

He never does - not when he’s like this, riding the high of a win, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. The door swings open and there he is, breathless, hair damp, eyes bright like he’s just discovered fire.

You look up from your desk just in time to register the smell of sweat and detergent and sun.

“Oh my God,” you laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins wider at that, clearly taking it as praise.

“Won in straight sets,” he announces, already halfway into the room, already shedding layers like a menace. His polo sticks to him, darkened with sweat, clinging everywhere it shouldn’t. He tugs it over his head with a grunt and tosses it somewhere vaguely chair-shaped.

You throw a pen at him. Miss.

“Patrick—!”

Too late. He’s already crossing the room, all long limbs and cocky momentum, collapsing onto your bed like he owns it. Like he hasn’t just ruined the crisp sheets you just washed.

“Worth it,” he says into your pillow, muffled, smug. He inhales shamelessly, then sighs.

“You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” he hums, rolling onto his back, arms spread like a victor. “And yet.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, moving to shove him off - except he catches your wrist, quick and playful, tugging you down with him. It’s clumsy. All elbows and knees and too much enthusiasm.

He’s warm. Radiating it.

“Patrick,” you warn, breathless, but there’s no heat in it.

He beams at you, triumphant in the way only nineteen-year-old boys who feel loved can be.

“You should’ve seen the other guy,” he says. “Totally ate it.”

You snort.

He leans in then, sudden and earnest, sweat-damp forehead pressing to yours. His grin softens into something stupidly fond. He kisses you - quick at first, like he’s testing the ground - then again, longer, lingering, chasing your laugh with his mouth.

Your lips are still smiling when he pulls back.

“Mh,” he says, awed. “You’re so kissable.”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is when I say it.”

He steals another kiss to prove his point, hands bracketing your face, careless and affectionate and entirely too pleased with himself. He tastes like water and effort and victory. And salt.

This is Patrick right now—young, golden, unbearably alive. All heart and impulse and sweaty joy. No fear of the future. No nothing.

Just this.

He drops his forehead to your shoulder, content, his mouth brushing against your skin.

“Best part of winning,” he murmurs, lazy and smug.

You roll your eyes, but your hand finds his hair anyway.