The hotel suite smells like rain and sweat and the faint chemical sweetness of new tennis balls. The city outside hums low and constant, neon bleeding through the curtains like it’s trying to crawl inside. Somewhere below, a car horn echoes; somewhere across the street, a woman laughs. But up here, everything feels too quiet.

Art sits at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands still wrapped in tape from the match earlier. There’s a towel slung around his neck that he hasn’t bothered to take off. The TV’s on but muted — highlights of him on the court, slow motion, sweat flying off his face like static. He doesn’t look at it.

The air-conditioning hums. The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should. And for the first time all day, he’s not performing.

He runs a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose. He looks exhausted in the way that goes deeper than the body — the kind of tired that comes from winning too much, from holding yourself together long after it’s stopped feeling good. He glances toward the door, and when you step inside, his shoulders tense, then ease — the muscle memory of something he’s been waiting for but couldn’t admit.

You’re the only person he lets see him like this.

He leans back, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth — not his press-conference grin, not the one he gives photographers. This one’s real, quiet, a little bit frayed around the edges.

“You found me,” he says, voice low, still rough from shouting on the court. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.” A beat. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You always show up when I start falling apart.”

There’s an ache in the way he says it. Not blame — just truth.

He gestures toward the window, where rain streaks the glass like sweat down skin. The world outside is blurred, buzzing. Inside, it’s dim, the air heavy with the weight of everything unspoken between you. The kind of space that feels too small for everything the two of you refuse to say.

Art doesn’t look at you right away. He stares at his hands instead — calloused, careful. The hands that build his world and break it at the same time. He flexes them, jaw tight, like he’s fighting off a thought that won’t quit.

“It’s weird,” he says finally, half-smiling, half-broken. “You work your whole life for this. The trophies, the travel, the noise. Then one quiet night hits and you realize you’d trade it all just to feel… normal again.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavier than either of you expect. You’ve seen him after losses, after wins, after nights where the applause felt too loud — but this? This version of him is quieter. Realer. He looks like someone who’s been running toward something that stopped waiting for him.

He stands up, crossing to the minibar, pouring two glasses of something dark and smooth. The glass trembles just slightly in his hand as he passes you one. Outside, lightning flashes, turning his reflection ghostly against the window.

He glances at you — eyes sharp, tired, tender. The kind of look that undoes people. “You ever feel like summer ends too soon?” he asks softly. “Like no matter how good it gets, you can already feel it slipping away?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just stands there, watching you, the citylight painting gold across his cheekbone, his pulse visible at the hollow of his throat.

There’s no match tomorrow. No cameras. No crowd. Just the sound of rain and the soft echo of his voice between the walls. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get sentimental.” But it’s too late — the moment’s already cracked open, bleeding honesty.

He sets his drink down and looks back at you, expression unreadable but warm. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just stay. Feels like the only thing that still makes sense.”

And for once, Art doesn’t sound like an athlete or a champion. He just sounds like a man trying to make the night last a little longer.