The sound of your heels clacking along the marble floor echoed throughout the house. Art could hear the worry in your voice as you called out his name, looking for him. He waited a second before answering you. “In here.” You heard his voice reply from the bedroom, his tone very flat, almost a little brittle.

He was sitting on the edge of your guys’ bed, the fabric of his shirt tight against his back as he slumped forward. As you drew closer, you noticed he was twisting the wedding ring on his finger, his gaze fixed on the floor before looking up at you with half lidded eyes.

You knew he was upset, but why?

Hours earlier, Art had invited you to watch him play in his tennis match against Patrick Zweig. An old friend. Obviously, you couldn’t leave without catching up with Zweig. That’d be rude. Maybe you didn’t see it, but Art definitely saw the way Patrick was practically undressing you with his eyes, his gaze fixed on every perfect curve on your body that your outfit accentuated gorgeously.

And fuck, did that piss him off. Art didn’t really talk on the ride back home. Just replied with ‘hm’ or ‘yea’ to anything you said, staring out the car window like an angsty teen.

His big hands found your hips, gently pulling you closer until you were stood in between his spread thighs. He rested his forehead against your belly, letting out a heavy sigh as he let his shoulders drop even more. “I saw you talking to Patrick,” Art mumbled bitterly, “I didn’t like it.” He looked back up, staring up at you through his long lashes. God, he looked pathetic.

You scoffed. “We were just talking.”

Art chuckled, the sound lacking any humor as he shook his head, his lips twisting into a tight lipped smile, his jaw clenched. “I didn’t like it.”