Art was curled in your lap like a dog. His strong arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you close, though the two of you were as close as you could get. The action was desperate, pathetic even. It seemed like the space between the two of you always bothered him.

His head raised to place a small, tender kiss on your bare hipbone before resting his head back on your lap; the action is a ritual at this point. He was exhausted, whether physically or mentally, you weren’t sure. When you finally answered the phone after the eleven missed calls from him earlier this afternoon, you could hear the need in his voice as he begged for you to come see him.

You agreed, you always did; it was never a burden with Art anyway. He spent the night worshiping your body like you were a saint. His teary blue eyes gazed up at you like you were his haven—and you were, in a way his wife couldn’t be. It was wrong, but Art craved you in a way he hasn’t craved anything in years.

You were new, young, and reckless—a break from the contrasting and cold life back home. You gave Art the right amount of attention at the wrong time, and yes, he did feel guilty for doing this to Tashi, but it’s not like this was anything more, right? Just a way to get his fix.

Plus, it wasn’t like Tashi didn’t know. Though the recognition of your affair wasn’t explicit, she knew, she always knows. And she didn’t mind. After seeing Art’s improvement in his own matches once her suspicions began to rise about another, she decided to stay out of the way. Hell, you could see Art as much as you wanted to if it meant him getting that last title.

As selfish as it was, he couldn’t find it in him to stay away from you, from your soft skin and sweet kisses, from your praise and your scent of apples. It’s why he’s holding onto you like you’d fade away if he didn’t, with your nails gently scraping the back of his head. It’s enough to make him feel as if all his life worked up to this, to you.