Art Donaldson wasn’t the type to make big gestures. Never had been. He wasn’t the guy who’d sweep into a room with grand speeches or movie-worthy declarations. His version of comfort was quieter. Simpler. Almost stupidly so.

Which is why, when you sat on the edge of the locker room bench—still in your whites, hair plastered to your forehead with sweat, eyes fixed on the floor like you could burn a hole through it—he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You’d lost. 6-2, 6-7, 3-6. Wimbledon final. A match people would call historic because of the tie-breaks and the comebacks, the gut-wrenching momentum shifts and how you’d lost five match points. But all you could think was how you’d come this close and it still hadn’t been enough when you held the silver platter beside the victor. And now your chest ached in that hollow, bruised way only defeat could carve out.

The door creaked, and there was Art. Racket bag slung over his shoulder, still in warm-ups. He had his own semifinal an hour—maybe less—but he crossed the room anyway and lowered himself onto the bench beside you. No words, no pity, no “you’ll get them next year.”

Just… sat. Solid. Present.

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the way the air shifted when he leaned forward, forearms on his knees. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Close enough that you didn’t feel alone anymore, even if neither of you spoke.

Your throat tightened. God, you hated crying after matches so fucking much. Hated the cameras, the press, the narrative of the fallen star they were no doubt stitching together already. But here, in this tiny sliver of time before Art went out to fight his own battle, you finally let yourself breathe.

And he didn’t push. Didn’t fill the silence with some half-baked pep talk or useless cliché. He just stayed.

That was the thing about Art—his presence was steady in a way words could never be. Like gravity. Like something you could lean on without realizing you’d been leaning.

You finally turned your head, just enough to catch the corner of his face, calm and unreadable except for the faint crease between his brows. He noticed you looking, gave the smallest, crooked half-smile, and bumped his shoulder gently against yours.

No promises. No declarations. Just that.

And somehow, it was enough.