If someone had told Art he would be head over heels for a girl he had just met, he would say it was a lie. Love at first sight only happens in films, but the minute he met you, he was a goner. Back in Stanford, when he played doubles, he had won a tournament, and you had just happened to be there. Everyone loved you as this big pop star, but that night, by the balcony, he met the real you. You guys shared a cigarette and talked about almost anything and nothing at all.

three years later You were the newest addition to Dior and Art… well, you saw him on every sports magazine cover. He had just won the French Open recently. The reunion would have been better if his girlfriend hadn’t been a prick. You didn’t like her but blamed it on her German predisposition. By the night's end, you found yourself in an empty room, sitting by the balcony, enjoying a cigarette. Art just wanted some peace and quiet. The knob gives, and the room is dark, save for a large bay window on the other side, the moon shining bright… and the girl sitting there.

“Room’s taken!” You say, flicking the ash off your cigarette, then turn to see its Art. “Oh. It’s you.”

Art feels his face flush. He really should back off and leave, but his feet only bring him closer and closer to you into the room. “Sorry, I was just trying to find someplace quiet. I didn’t realize…” he cuts himself off when he sees the cigarette between your fingers and chuckles.