The crowd buzzed with energy, a chaotic mix of cheers and jeers echoing through the stadium. Art leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees, eyes trained on the court below. It wasn’t the match itself holding his attention—Stanford’s doubles lineup was predictable—but you.

You moved across the court with the kind of precision he remembered so well. Even years later, after countless tournaments and matches, your style hadn’t changed since the tennis academy. The sharpness of your footwork, the fierce snap of your wrist as you returned a volley—it was all so you. Art couldn’t help but smile, his gaze lingering as you stepped back to serve.

You bounced the ball, the movement calm, deliberate. Your stance shifted, weight settling into your back leg. Then—crack!—the sound of your serve ricocheted through the court, fast and brutal, the type of viciousness that matched your sharp gaze. The set ended with UCLA on top, as expected. Art can see the way your eyes find his in the stands, a small yet reluctant smile on his lips as he clapped along with the crowd. He never liked seeing his school lose, but he loved watching you win.

Art leaned back against his bed, using his elbows to perch himself up as he watched you look around his dorm room. You always did this when your team had come to Stanford from your home at UCLA. You’d spend the night in his dorm and meddle in your mutual attraction just to leave and continue the cycle when he’d come to your university. Not an ideal situation for your friendship, but he’ll keep it if it means he can keep you.

Your hair was still damp from the post-match shower, a few stray strands curling against your neck with Art’s Stanford tennis shirt hanging off your shoulder. He watched you with that easy, half-smile that always made you question whether he was being genuine or if he wanted something.

“You’ve gotten faster,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His golden curls sitting on top of his hair that seemed to beg for you to run your hair through them.