The café sat tucked between two brick buildings on the edge of campus, the kind of place that still used real sugar cubes and charged extra for oat milk even though it was 2008 now and everyone pretended the economy hadn't kicked them in the teeth.

Art sat across from you at the small round table near the back, the one with the wobbly leg he kept steady with the toe of his sneaker. He'd chosen it on purpose—far enough from the counter that the barista couldn't overhear, close enough to the window that he could watch your reflection when you looked away. His iced coffee had melted into something watery and forgotten; the condensation pooled on the saucer beneath the glass, darkening the wood in slow, spreading rings.

You were laughing at something he'd said; some half-assed story about Patrick's latest hotel-room disaster, the one where he'd apparently tried to microwave a burrito still in its foil wrapper and set off the fire alarm at 3 a.m. Art had told it with just the right amount of affection, the kind that made it sound like he was in on the joke instead of sharpening the knife.

"Classic Patrick," you said, shaking your head. Your fingers toyed with the paper sleeve on your latte, peeling it in thin, curling strips.

Art smiled—small, careful, the one he used when he didn't want to show teeth. "Yeah. He's... consistent." He let the word hang there a second too long, let it settle like sediment in still water.

You glanced up, eyes catching his. They were the same eyes he'd first noticed in 2006, courtside at the Junior Open, when Patrick had elbowed him and muttered, "Dude, check out the girl in the blue top." Art had looked. And looked. And hadn't stopped looking since.

Now those eyes were softer, unguarded, framed by the faint smudge of last night's mascara that you hadn't quite washed off. Your hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.

He leaned back, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the cotton of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders. He'd come straight from morning drills; there was still the faint scent of chalk and sweat on him, undercut by the cedar of his deodorant. He knew you noticed things like that.

"So," he said, voice low enough that it felt private even in a room full of other people. "How's it feel having the apartment to yourself for once?"

You shrugged, but there was a flicker in your expression; something small and unguarded. "Quiet. Kinda nice, actually. I can actually hear myself think without him blasting that godawful playlist."

Art huffed a laugh. "The one with all the early-2000s emo? Yeah. I've begged him to delete it since high school."

You smiled, but it didn't quite reach your eyes this time. Your thumb traced the rim of your cup, slow circles. He watched the motion like it was code he could crack if he stared long enough.

"He called last night," you said after a beat. "From Cincinnati. Said the tournament's brutal. He's playing some guy ranked like two hundred spots above him tomorrow."

Art nodded, sympathetic. "Patrick's always had a thing for punching up. Makes him feel alive." He paused, let the silence stretch just enough. "Does he... call every night when he's on the road?"

Your gaze flicked to the window, watching a couple walk past with linked arms, scarves wound tight against the chill. "Most nights. Sometimes he forgets. Or falls asleep. Time zones, you know."

"Right. Time zones." Art's voice stayed gentle, almost tender. He leaned forward now, elbows on the table. "Must get lonely, though. Waiting for the phone to buzz."

You met his eyes again. There was a question in them, but you didn't voice it. Instead you gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. "I'm used to it. We've been doing this since... God, since right after that summer."

He took a slow sip of his ruined coffee, buying time. The ice clinked softly against the glass. "You ever wonder," he said quietly, "if he's... I don't know. Keeping options open out there?"