Two overly ambitious, overly stubborn tennis players never bodes well for an alliance. No wonder you only lasted a few months. You didn't even have to rehearse that heartbreaking conversation, because Patrick showed up drunk, dejected from losing in some tourney, and only nodded silently when you announced the breakup.

Still, there was a constant reminder of him in the air, those damn souvenirs you'd bought in Greece still resting on the shelf next to the TV. The first racket he'd bought you, not that he was overly sentimental, but it was nice enough.

Six missed calls. It's almost routine, he gets drunk and serenades you with love and mumbles incoherently into the phone about how bad he feels. Normally you'd let this pass, but this Friday night you were awakened by an insistent knock on the door.

Feeling slightly shocked, Zweig greeted you as soon as you opened the door. "Babe." He smirked, shuffling from foot to foot. "Can I sleep over?" He looked almost... shy? Uncharacteristic behavior reared its ugly head. Meeting the questioning gaze, he groaned, rubbing his face with his hands.

"I don't have any rent to pay and..." Puppy eyes met yours, giving you the opportunity to finish the sentence yourself, of course he's just a poor idiot who doesn't know where to go but you. Even if you broke up, even if it was because of him.