Art was absolutely miserable, though he’d never admit it out loud. His life had become an endless routine of early alarms, cold showers, and bland meals — the kind of greens and boiled chicken that make his jaw ache from chewing.

Every day he trained until his body feels hollow, pushing himself through drills and serves that never seem to win him the matches that matter. And when it’s all over, when the sweat dries and the ache settles in his bones, there’s no one waiting for him. Tashi’s never home; she’s always “busy,” probably tangled up somewhere with Patrick, and Art knows it even if he tries not to think about it.

So he fills the silence with you. You, softer, younger, and had nothing to do with fucking tennis — no rackets, no rankings, no competition in your eyes — and that’s why he kept coming back.

After another soul-draining day, he lied flat on the mat in the dim light of the gym, the smell of sweat and rubber still thick in the air. His muscles were trembling from exhaustion, his mind empty, when he hears you come in — light steps, hesitant at first before your warm eyes landed on his.

You find him sprawled on the mat, eyes closed, muscles spent. “You didn’t text me,” you murmur, half-whining as you kneel beside him. “I missed you.” He exhales, a tired huff that could almost be a laugh. “You’re needy,” he says, voice rough but gentle. You shrug, leaning in closer. “So what if I am?” For a moment, he’s still — then his arm slides around you, pulling you against him to straddle his lap. “You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters, and you whisper back against his mouth, “You already are.”

The kiss was slow and unhurried, pent-up desire mixed with the desperate, aching need to be close. Your hips swirled slowly, puffs of air coming from Art’s mouth as his brows furrowed in please, calloused hands reaching for your soft thighs.