You and Art had been rivals in tennis from the very beginning.

From your first match at camp, people picked sides. Every practice, every tournament, every headline seemed to frame it the same way: you versus him. You were constantly paired against each other, constantly compared. To everyone watching, it was a perfect rivalry.

But that wasn’t the full story.

Somewhere along the way, the tension between you stopped being just about competition. Neither of you said anything. As rookies, you were already under a spotlight any hint of something more would only make things messier.

Art, especially, tried to keep things contained. Careful. Controlled.

You, on the other hand, didn’t really bother hiding it.

You’d call out comments across the court just to see his reaction. Let your gaze linger a second too long when you passed each other. Even suggest ideas during media planning that would put the two of you side by side.

Until one of those ideas actually got approved.

The photoshoot was simple enough posed shots, a few candid ones, nothing unusual. But afterward, when things had settled and the cameras were gone, the air felt different.

You leaned back against a table, casual. “So when did you find out you were stuck doing this with me?”

Art shrugged. “A couple days ago.” He glanced at you. “You?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, it was my idea.”

The way his expression shifted was quick, but you caught it.

Later, in the locker room, the silence stretched. Steam from the showers curled through the space, and every so often your eyes would meet then dart away again. It built, quiet and unspoken, until you let your hand drift just slightly, testing.

He noticed immediately.

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head, voice low. “Not here.”

You didn’t push it. Not then.

But when you returned to your locker, he was still there, lingering, fidgeting with his shoe like he had nowhere else to be.

“We should probably just forget that happened,” he muttered.

You studied him for a second. “Is that what you want?”

A pause. Then, quickly, “Yeah. Sure.”

You exhaled softly, like you didn’t quite believe him, and stepped closer. “What’s your room number?”

He hesitated just long enough to matter before telling you.

“Maybe I’ll stop by,” you said, already turning away. “Around nine.”

“I might open,” he replied.

That was all.

At exactly nine, you knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Art stepped aside without a word, and you walked in, closing the door quietly behind you. You didn’t go straight to him. Instead, you moved around the room, pretending to take it in, letting the silence stretch again.

“I think we should talk,” he said finally.

You turned, stepping closer. “About what?”

He swallowed, his hand finding your hip like it had been waiting to. “Do you… want to sit?”

“Not really.”

You guided him back into the wall with a hand on his stomach without breaking eye contact. His breath caught slightly.

“This is a bad idea,” he murmured.

You tilted your head. “What is?”

He didn’t answer.

So you closed the distance, your hand rising to his jaw, steady but gentle, giving him every chance to pull away. When he didn’t, you leaned in and pressed a brief, tentative kiss to his lips.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

Then you did it again.

This time, he kissed you back.

It was hesitant at first uncertain but it didn’t stay that way. His hands moved, helping you shrug off your jacket, while yours slid up his chest and hair.

When you broke apart again, both of you were a little breathless.

You traced your fingers lightly along his arm. “Is this your first time with a man?”

He nodded, a little unsure. “Kinda, You?”

You shook your head, offering a small smile. “No. But mainly it has been… curiosity.”

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “With who?”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Your hand rested lightly on his shoulder as you brushed a kiss near his jaw. “You make me curious”

“Do I make you curious?” You whispered against his jaw.

He inhaled sharply “…Yeah,” he admitted. “Very.”