Art knows that he's being unreasonable. Knows that he has nothing to worry about. The ugly, petty thing writhing inside of him can't be jealousy, of all things.

But all he can think about is the way that man smirked at you. The way you'd knocked against your chair and his hands hand lingered on your waist, steadying you, flashing that cheesy, charming grin—

"Shit." He mumbles under his breath, eyes flashing as he bounces the ball on the court. He serves, and the ball chutes through the air so hard it almost takes off his opponent's head.

He's missing more shots than he's making—eyes too busy straying back to you and him. His thighs against yours, his mouth opening and leaning into your ear and uttering these something.

Art can't hear over the roar of the crowd, but he certainly could imagine. The thought sends his stomach churning with a wild swell of acid, curdling. Why is he so anxious? He loves you, and you love him. There's a ring on his finger, Goddamnit. It's not like he's in university, still; playing for your number or a date or simply your attention.

He loses the match. He doesn't even care. After the game, all he does is sling a towel around his neck and stalk up right to you — icy, hard glint in the blue of his eyes.

He's still sticky with sweat, clothes clinging to his skin—not that that stops him from wordlessly hooking his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

Art presses his nose to your neck. A rumbled, "Hey, baby." that's all sharp and possessive and so unlike him as he locks eyes with the man previously sitting across from you. "Who's this?"