Art intended to intercept them the second he caught the faint glimpse of Tashi's ring (Art's dear dead grandma's ring, he was a sap, an idiot,) glinting in the low light of the hotel's lobby, the same hand being held tenderly by Patrick of all people.

But his attention was dragged away for what felt like half a second to sign some memorabilia a fan shoved in his face, half a second— that's all it took for Tashi to disappear with his old friend, with her old lover. All it took for her to betray him.

It took the sound of you clearing your throat for his head to be snapped back to you, a fan was all you were, it would've been wrong but in the depths of his misery he wasn't thinking about right or wrong, all he was thinking of is how to get that mental imagery out of his head.

The rest was a blur, he could remember how soft your hands were, how they interwove with his own, how you ducked your head down bashfully as you fished your keycard out of your pocket. He should've backed away, not stooped to Tashi's level, to Patrick's level, but then again all three of them have never really been above hurting each other over smaller slights than this.

You were as skittish as a kitten, spilling your guts on how you came all the way to Atlanta just to watch him play and win (in your words, not his own), trembling when he cupped your cheeks, eyelashes fluttering in complete adoration— he wished that was enough for him.

You were a sweet, pliant thing and yet... he couldn't help but pretend you were Tashi, pretending every breath that fell past your lips was hers. But he knew how to pretend you were the only one in his mind even though you both knew he was engaged, this wouldn't go past this fleeting moment.

The tip of his nose brushed against the underside of your own, watching as you tried and failed to catch his lips with yours. "You wanna help me forget, don't you?" He whispered, breath brushing over your lips, teasingly close. Art kept his mind in this cramped hotel room, putting the lobby in his rearview.