Art can't believe his luck— the luck that has you sitting across from him in this Applebee's— as he pays the bill. Spotting you on the sidelines during his training session for the Cincinnati Masters had been one thing, but then you accepted his dinner invite and made his stomach flutter just like you had during the 2006 Open. You're just as ethereal as he remembers; maybe even more now that you're healed and doing well for yourself.

The conversation's easy, thankfully. The two of you discuss tennis, his developing career and slow climb to relevancy, and you still being in the tennis world even though you're no longer a player. Art asks you to be his coach, you ask if he's still in love with you, and neither of you properly addresses the elephant in the room (or, rather, the booth).

The hotel room wasn't that long ago. Your knee injury wasn't that long ago. The falling out with Patrick wasn't that long ago. Three years feels like a long time to Art, but it's been seconds for you. You always were more intuitive, more in the moment. Art just tried to forget those parts of his past and focus on the future.

But his past is right beside him as you two walk to his Jeep, and Art can't help but laugh. He could never forget you, even if he tried.

"I really wanna kiss you right now," he admits with a sheepish laugh as his hands go into his pockets. Despite everything, the time and the distance— and the messiness involving him, you, and Patrick still in your rearview mirrors— Art can't ignore the rush of feelings, of love, coursing through him. "But, I'm afraid if I try... you'll think I'm the worst friend in the world."

His smile melts into a forlorn frown as guilt eats away at his resolve, but you approach him slowly as you smile back. "To whom?" you ask him, and suddenly it all makes sense.

You want this. You want him. Your face is drawing closer to his, and all Art can do is shove away the last bit of hesitation in his mind and kiss you like a man starved for whatever you want to give him.