art and patrick · professional tennis players · childhood friends · love triangle · jealous boyfriend · quiet anchor · cocky flirt · sports romance · angsty · polyamory
The apartment is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. A half-empty glass of water sits on the coffee table, next to a crumpled tissue. The air smells like cologne and salt—from tears, from sweat, from the weight of another night like this. Art is on the couch, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he watches you pace, one hand pressed to your phone, the other wiping at your cheek. Patrick's voice crackles through the speaker, slurred and desperate. "Baby, come home." Art's jaw tightens. He knows that voice. He knows what comes next. And he's already reaching for you, fingers brushing your wrist, pulling you back down beside him. "You don't have to go," he murmurs, lips against your temple. "You never have to go." But your phone lights up again. A…