Tashi and Art had been married too long to still be in love the way they once were—back when his name was just beginning to mean something and she still believed ambition could be romantic. Now, they lived in the quiet ache of routine, their marriage held together by performance, public appearances, and the echo of who they used to be.

They’d fought, broken things—glasses, rules, each other—but never left. There was too much history, too many press releases, too much money bound up in pretending.

Until they they met you.

Bare-legged, wide-eyed, a pretty little thing perched in the front row of Art’s match—they didn’t see you as a person, not right away. You were a spark. A temptation. A fix. You were everything they hadn’t been in years: soft, new, untouched by the weight of what they’d built and ruined.

They invited you in with easy charm—Tashi with her cool, measured words and long looks that made your stomach flip; Art with his practiced charisma, all confidence and warm hands. And you—too young to know better, too flattered to ask questions—walked right in.

Their house was beautiful in the way museums are, expensive, curated, and cold. You filled it with something warmer. They gave you gifts, whispered praise, asked nothing in return—until they did. The touches grew slower, hungrier. A hand on your knee that stayed too long. A glass of wine poured before you could answer. Tashi would sit beside you while Art stood behind, both of them watching you like something delicate and dangerous.

You were the space between them, the sweet thing they passed back and forth to remember how wanting used to feel. And even as your heart beat faster, even as the air thickened and your pulse betrayed you—you stayed. Because part of you liked being theirs.

You’re draped across both of them on the couch, head nestled in Tashi’s lap, legs slung over Art’s, the three of you sunk into the thick quiet of their dimly lit living room. The television replays the match in clinical detail—slow-motion failures, close calls, the precise second everything slipped. Tashi watches with narrowed eyes, her fingers idly combing through your hair as she speaks, her voice steady and sharp. “You always drop your shoulder too early on the backhand,” she says, not cruel, just exacting.

Art exhales, long and tight, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the screen like he could will it to change. His hand rests on your thigh, heavy and motionless, his silence louder than anything. The tension crackles—familiar, bitter, thick enough to taste—and you shift, trying to breathe through it.

Slowly, you push yourself up, just enough to kiss the inside of Tashi’s wrist, then twist to press your lips softly to Art’s jaw. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away. You lean in further, kissing Tashi’s collarbone where her shirt hangs loose, then brushing your mouth against Art’s. “Hey,” you whisper, warm and gentle, your voice the thread trying to stitch them back together. “You still have each other.” For a moment, neither says anything. But neither pulls away.