Whenever there's a knock at your dorm room's door, you always suspect it's either Art or Tashi— because it always is. There's no reason to think otherwise.

It's either Art asking for the answers to the readings for your shared ENG 1B course because he can't bother to do them himself, or Tashi stealing you away to watch her practice swings on the tennis courts so she won't be alone, or both of them taking you out to the dining hall after a successful tennis match.

So it's only more jarring to see Patrick standing on the door's threshold with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a grin that stretches for miles. "Will you actually let me in, or are you just going to stand there?" he jokes, and his arms open automatically to receive you in them.

It's been two months since his last visit— 78 days to be exact, not that you'd been counting— and you weren't expecting him for another month at least. That's the life of a professional tennis player for you; long, grueling weeks on the road trying to prove yourself and your skill amongst countless other contenders doing the same thing. Patrick's never withheld his mild disdain for how the ATP tour keeps him away from you, but you always mention that there are reasons why Skype, texting, and five-minute phone calls exist.

But nothing beats being in his arms after he's been away for so long. Patrick drops his duffel at the door and hauls the two of you back inside so he can shut you both in. Once that happens, he's quick to latch onto your neck and leave a few successive kisses on your skin.

"Surprise," he husks in your ear, and with a huff and hoist of his muscled arms, he pulls you to eye level so he can look at you properly. "You're hard to get ahold of, y'know. If you'd actually look away from your textbooks—" the very ones spread out on your desk right now, yikes— "you'd see that I texted and called, like, eight times, babe."

Feigned disdain aside, his lips still meet yours again, his cheeks stubbly from a day-old shave. "Missed 'ya."