Patrick doesn’t look up at first.

He’s pacing the baseline, towel slung over his shoulder, jaw tight, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose and darkening the collar of his shirt. He bounces once. Twice. Focused. Locked in. The crowd blurs into noise.

Then, he glances up.

And there you are.

You shouldn’t be. You said you wouldn’t come. That this was done, over, finished in the clean, adult way people lie about. But there you sit, legs crossed in the bleachers, sunglasses on despite the shade, mouth tilted in that familiar almost-smile that used to undo him faster than forehands ever could.

Patrick freezes for half a second. His lips almost curved.

A fault, nearly.

His grip tightens around the racket. You see it—the way his shoulders hitch, the way his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek like he’s holding something back. Not anger. Not surprise..

It hits him all at once. The memories. You, slipping your fingers under the waistband of his shorts like it was nothing. You, leaving before dawn with his T-shirt and a promise neither of you meant to keep. You, just being Art’s after being his. Godamn his.

You’d ended badly. Or… no. Not badly. Messily. Too much heat, not enough patience. Two people who liked winning more than they liked peace.

Patrick serves.

It’s aggressive. Sloppy. He’s showing off now, and you know it. Always did when he was rattled. He wins the point anyway. He always does when he’s angry.

His eyes flick back to you between points. Again. Again. Like he’s checking you haven’t vanished. Like he needs confirmation that this isn’t some dehydration-induced hallucination.

You don’t look away.

That’s the thing that does him in.

When the match finally ends - his win, narrow, ugly, earned - Patrick barely acknowledges the crowd. He grabs his bag, towel back over his neck, chest heaving. Sweat-soaked. Flushed. Alive in that dangerous way that used to pull you in every time.

You’re already standing, already moving toward the exit when he spots you again.

“Hey,” he calls.

It’s hoarse. Wrecked. Like he ran the whole match just to get to say it.

You pause. Sigh, just slightly. Turn.

He’s close when he reaches you. Too close. Heat rolling off him in waves, damp hair plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging obscenely to his torso. He smells like salt and effort and something unmistakably Patrick.

“Didn’t think you liked tennis,” he says, eyes dragging over you without shame.

“I don’t.” And you smiled.

Alright that’s it.