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ktownshizzle · 1 month ago

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Nerd & Nerdier | Chapter 4

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x reader, Jeon Wonwoo x reader; endgame? x reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Attempt At Comedy, Roommates au, Love triangle

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Moving in with two introverts should have been easy. Not when it’s Min Yoongi and Jeon Wonwoo, who decide they both want you. Unhinged, awkward, and nerdy as hell, they proceed to compete for your attention in the most unnecessarily dramatic fashion that culminates into a… rap battle.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Wildly gratuitous, You might 100% chance you’ll fall in love with both of them so that’s a problem, no mxm dynamics to be expected

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: NO ROOMMATE RULES this time, Two gorgeous men simping over you - like you ain't gonna find that anywhere else ;) , making out in public (twice!), some mild guilt trip, surprise reveal at the end!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 4.1k (longest one yet!!) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: March 9, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: It's the birthday of the love of my life. I made it part of my writing goals to release a Yoongi fic, but I was not able to do standalone one. Sorry, babe. But I think this has all the trappings of what we love about him, so I hope you like it. HBD to @diame93 and thank you to @angellekookie for steering that Woo date in the right direction.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3

You don’t know what you expected from a date with Jeon Wonwoo. Or Min Yoongi. But you were about to find out. Because, as unhinged it may sound, you had agreed to date both your roommates and at the end of it all, potentially pick one of them to be your… boyfriend? It sounds insane, but this is your life now. Congrats.

So yeah, back to Wonwoo. Just dress casually, noona, he tells you that morning. Made sense. But walking into a neon-lit arcade, the sound of metal clinking and game machines buzzing around you, yeah, this makes sense.

It’s just so him to bring you to a place like this. Look, you're not opposed. You just know he’ll be quietly competitive and the night will be full of little moments where for sure he’s going to secretly gloat when he wins.

Wonwoo’s already got that calm, unreadable look as he loads up a beat up game card from his wallet, handing it to the cashier. When he turns back to you, proffering his juiced up plastic to you, you can’t help but grin.

“What?” he asks, lips twitching.

“Nothing,” you tease, taking the card. “You just seem… confident. Cocky, even.”

He chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. “That’s not true…”

You squint at him, because he is obviously lying. “Are you gonna tell me you’re good at literally every game in this place?”

“Okay. Maybe.”

“Oh my God, you’re going to try to beat me at everything, aren’t you?”

Wonwoo tilts his head. “Noona, thought you wanted me to show you how I feel, not go easy on you.”

This punk bitch.

“Alright bet,” you say, rolling up your cardigan sleeves dramatically. “Bring it.”

🎮🕹️👾 Game 01: Air Hockey 🎮🕹️👾

Wonwoo, to his credit, does let you score the first point.

But then the moment he sees the smug grin on your face, his eyes narrow, and you know you’re done for.

“Hey, noona,” he calls out, voice all smooth and teasing.

Your instincts scream at you not to look—but like an idiot, you do.

Which is exactly when he slams the puck with an irritatingly loud clang! into the goal, the disk ricocheting into the slot barely an inch from your slack hand.

“Fuck, that’s cheating!” you blurt out, scowling.

He just laughs, and you have no choice but to just slide the puck back into play.

You groan when he scores three times in a row. “Are you kidding me?”

“You’re the one who challenged me,” he replies, spinning the mallet in his hand smoothy. “I’m just playing.”

“You’re showing off,” you grumble, hitting the puck.

Wonwoo grins, eyes sharp. "Maybe it's ‘cause I want to impress you.”

A comeback never comes as you fight the warmth creeping up your neck. But that doesn’t deter you from wanting to at least score another point to save face. Just one more point goddamit.

You push the puck with the force of a thousand suns and wham! the it hits Wonwoo’s fingers. Hard.

Wonwoo jerks his hand back with a sharp inhale, hissing through his teeth.

“Shit! Wonwoo—oh my god, are you okay?” You’re already reaching for his hand, cradling his fingers in yours before you even think about it.

His palm is warm—bigger than you always seem to remember, his skin calloused from hours of gaming—but right now, all you care about is checking for any sign of injury.

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, but his voice is slightly strained, and that doesn’t reassure you at all.

“It’s not fine!” You glare at him, shifting his hand under the light to check for swelling. “I literally just assaulted you with a plastic disk—oh my god, does it hurt? Can you move your fingers?”

Wonwoo blinks at you.

Then, slowly, deliberately—he intertwines his fingers with yours.

Your brain can only register question marks.

His grip is solid, firm.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Feels fine to me.”

🎮🕹️👾 Game 02: The Claw Machine 🎮🕹️👾

After suffering a humiliating 1-9 loss, you are desperate to humble Wonwoo.

Your eyes land on a pile of plush keychains inside the most rigged contraption in the entire arcade.

“Okay,” you say, grabbing Wonwoo’s sleeve and pulling him toward the claw machines, “if you’re so good, win me one of these.”

Wonwoo raises a brow, eyeing the display. “Really?”

“What? You scared?” you tease.

He scoffs under his breath, tapping his card against the reader. “No. Just wondering how many I should win you.”

You’re about to fire back when something catches your eye.

A tiny, grumpy-looking black cat plushie, its little embroidered frown somehow way too familiar.

You nudge Wonwoo’s arm, snickering. “Oh my god. That one looks exactly like Yoongi.”

Wonwoo leans in, and when he spots it, his lips twitch. “Shit, you’re right.”

You both dissolve into laughter, the absurdity of it hitting you all at once.

But then, before the moment fully fades, Wonwoo clears his throat and—almost too casually—asks, “Is that what you want?”

His voice is quieter than before, and something about the way he says it—hesitant, just slightly weighted—makes you pause.

It’s just a fuckin’ plushie. Just a joke. But for some reason, his question feels like it holds a different meaning altogether.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the sleeve of your cardigan as you glance at the machine again.

Then, as lightly as you can, you point at another plushie—one a few rows back. A small, round purple cat (or is it a fox?) with oversized round glasses.

“I think that one’s cute,” you say.

Wonwoo follows your gaze, and then he beams.

A slow, lopsided, utterly adorable grin that makes your stomach flip, because now he’s the one with the plushie doppelgänger. And you wanted it.

So that’s the one he goes for.

It takes him three tries, but when he finally catches it, he’s so stupidly pleased with himself that you can’t help but be so endeared.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to you, looking way too proud.

“Thank you,” you take it and snap it on your bag’s zipper.

“Anytime.”

🎮🕹️👾 Game 03: Dance Dance Revolution 🎮🕹️👾

“Absolutely not,” Wonwoo makes an X with his arms when you drag him to the dance machine.

“Absolutely yes,” you shoot back, already stepping onto the platform. “You said you wouldn’t back down, remember?”

Wonwoo runs a hand through his hair, sighing dramatically. Fuck. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yup. No turning back now.”

To your surprise, Wonwoo’s actually… not terrible at the game.

He’s a little stiff at first, but by the second round, he’s matching your energy step for step.

When you stumble slightly, he goads. “Need me to slow down?”

“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, aiming to push his arm, but he catches your hand and he ends up not letting go until the last beats of Dub-I-Dub rings out.

After two hours of battling it out at nearly every machine in the arcade, you’re both sitting at the bar for a nightcap.

Wonwoo takes a slow sip of his Jack and Coke, his gaze still amused from your last failed attempt at beating him in a game.

"So," you start, resting your elbow on the counter. "How’s the whole streamer life treating you?"

He shrugs. "It’s fun. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You wouldn’t believe some of the weird shit people say in the chat."

You perk up immediately. "Oh, do tell."

Wonwoo gives you a pointed look, but you can see the corner of his lips twitching. "I probably shouldn’t."

"Oh, now you have to," you insist, nudging his arm.

He sighs dramatically, setting his drink down. "Alright, well… the other night, someone offered me, and I quote, ‘one month’s rent to step on them.’"

You nearly choke on your drink. "WHAT—"

"Yeah." He leans back, stretching an arm along the back of your chair. "And they were dead serious, too. Said they could Venmo me immediately."

"I—" You blink, processing this information. "So, did you?"

Wonwoo raises a brow. "What do you think?"

You smirk. "That you seriously considered it."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "I did not."

"Tragic. Could’ve been easy money."

"I’m not stepping on people for money."

"Noble of you."

"Thanks."

A beat of silence.

Then, your curiosity gets the best of you.

"Okay, but have you ever been propositioned?"

Wonwoo tilts his head. "What do you mean?" Honestly, you expect him to say, everyday.

"Oh, you know—" You wave your hand vaguely. "You’re cute, you know that. Has anyone ever slid into your DMs like, ‘oppa, I’d let you ruin my life’ or something?"

He snorts. "That’s oddly specific."

"Listen, I know how unhinged people can get in the chat." You narrow your eyes at him. "You have to be getting nudes."

Wonwoo makes a horrified face. "Fuck. I do not want to talk about that with you."

You burst out laughing. "OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE—"

"I HAVE NOT—"

"YOU TOTALLY HAVE—"

"I DELETE THEM." His ears are turning pink, which only makes you laugh harder.

"You could’ve just said no!" you tease, nudging his leg with yours.

"I was trying to say no, but you kept..." He stops mid-sentence, exhaling sharply. Then, shaking his head, he leans in slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Wait–you jealous?"

Your brain short-circuits. You weren’t expecting that.

And now, he’s watching you closely, waiting.

You flounder for a response, but Wonwoo is smirking now, fully enjoying this.

You cross your arms. "Why would I be? Those girls don’t even know you like I do."

"And how do you know me?"

"I—"

But before you can say anything else, he leans in just a little closer—enough that you catch the warmth of his breath, the subtle hint of his cologne.

"Because if you really knew me, noona…" His voice is low, teasing, but there’s something heavier underneath it now. "You’d know I don’t care about anyone else."

The air shifts completely. And in a way, you’re glad. Because all night it’s been friendly, lighthearted, like you’re just two pals hanging out. You’ve been waiting for a moment where it could be something more–this was it.

“You know,” you say, swirling the straw in your long island iced tea, “I didn’t expect this.”

“Expect what?” Wonwoo asks, watching you over the rim of his glass.

“You.” You chuckle, a little sheepish. “I thought it’d be more awkward.”

“Wow. High praise.”

“Shut up, I didn’t mean it negatively.”

Wonwoo’s lips curl into a faint smile. “I’m glad it’s not.”

“What now?”

Wonwoo’s expression softens.

And finally, there’s no smirk, no teasing, no competitive edge—just Wonwoo, kind of vulnerable, looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll break his heart.

The silence stretches between you, until he exhales softly and his eyes drop to your lips.

“Noona…?”

He doesn’t finish the question, but you know. And you feel it too, that pull. For a moment you hesitate.

You agreed to date both of them, to figure things out. You’re not supposed to feel like you’re already losing control—like you’re getting swept up in the way Wonwoo looks at you, in the way he makes you feel like you’re a teenager with butterflies in your stomach as you anticipate being kissed.

And if you do kiss him now, does it mean you’ve already chosen?

But even when your brain lagged, your body has already responded. You nod, just barely, and Wonwoo leans in. You meet him halfway.

His lips are softer than you expect, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours as you share your first kiss, slow and unhurried. He tastes like cola but something else is fizzing in your stomach, warm like rum.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. When you part your lips, he takes the invitation without hesitation—a gentle, teasing swipe of his tongue against yours, just once, like he only wants the tiniest taste of you for now.

When you pull back, his glasses are slightly fogged, his breathing uneven.

You can’t with how cute he looks in this very moment, lifting his specs to clean with your shirt before settling it back on his nose.

He’s looking at you like he has a million questions.

“What are you thinking?” You ask.

He exhales, “Thought it’d be more awkward.” Of course, he’s using your words against you.

You shake your head at him but something is pulling you towards him like a magnet, and you find yourself slipping down from the bar stool to stand in front of his parted legs. Wonwoo takes this as a sign to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into him.

“Wanna know the truth?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking that it’s worth the wait.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder for a second. You should probably pull away, is this too close too fast, but something about this feels… right. You pull back a bit, this time fixing the collar of his shirt, smoothing it down.

“You always do that,” he murmurs, voice lower now.

You shift slightly. “Do what?”

“Take care of me.”

You blink, caught off guard.

“Hmm—”

“I notice it, you know.” He leans back slightly, just enough to look at you, his fingers still resting lightly at your waist. “How you always remind me to eat. How you tell me to bring an umbrella even when it’s barely drizzling. How you sneak snacks into my room when you think I haven’t noticed. How you try to fix my hair or my shirt and stuff…”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “It’s not a big deal—”

“It is to me.”

The words are soft, but firm, landing somewhere deep in your chest. Because you do dote on Woo. Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re older, maybe it’s cause he told you once about his social anxieties and it made you want to protect him.

“I guess I just never thought about it,” you admit. “It’s just… you. I like looking out for you.”

Wonwoo studies you for a moment, his thumb absently brushing against your side.

“But starting tonight,” he says, firmer now, “I want to take care of you, instead.”

Oh wow…

“Did I do okay?”

You exhale a laugh, but it comes out shakier than you expect. Because suddenly, you realize how much this meant to him.

“Yeah.” You tighten your grip slightly on his jacket. “You did more than okay.”

Wonwoo smiles, nose crinkling with genuine glee, and suddenly, you think this—him, this night, everything that’s been building between you—might be a little bigger than you let yourself believe.

Four days after

When Yoongi told you to be ready by 4 p.m., you didn’t ask questions. You figured whatever he had planned would be very Yoongi—low-key, no-frills, but somehow effortlessly perfect.

What you didn’t expect was to find him waiting by the door with a picnic basket in one hand and a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

You blink at him. “Are you… serious right now?”

Yoongi smirks, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “What? You don’t think I can be romantic?”

Oh my god, you are going to perish.

“I just didn’t think you’d be this prepared.” You reply coolly, slipping on your jacket.

He shakes his head at you, but you don’t miss the slight curve of his lips. “Come on. Before the sun disappears.”

The Han River Park isn’t crowded—just a few couples walking hand-in-hand, kids laughing as they run through the grass.

Yoongi leads you to a quiet spot near the water, where the breeze is light, and the sun is beginning to slip lower on the horizon.

“Sit,” he says, kneeling to lay out a gingham blanket from the basket.

You do, watching as he unpacks a familiar looking gimbap—one he’s made many times before, your favorite fruit, and a big thermos of americano.

You start with the fruit and some light conversation.

Yoongi unscrews the cap on the coffee, pouring it into two cups before handing you one.

You take a slow sip, sighing in contentment. "Damn. This hits. You really thought of everything."

"Of course I did," Yoongi deadpans, popping a shine muscat into his mouth. "I had to make sure you wouldn’t whine about being hungry the whole time."

You narrow your eyes. "You say that like I complain a lot."

"You do."

You gasp, pressing a dramatic hand to your chest. "Wow. The audacity. I’m literally the best roommate you have."

"You mean the only one who talks."

"Excuse me—Wonwoo talks too!"

Yoongi scoffs. "He barely says five words unless he’s talking about a game or trying to piss me off."

"Okay, but that’s not my fault. Besides, at least I make things interesting." You lean back on your hands, staring out at the river.

Yoongi hums in amusement. "Speaking of which, did you see the guy in 3B finally left his apartment?"

"Mr. Eyepatch?"

"Yeah. He was outside yesterday, just standing in the hallway staring at this tiny box in his hand."

"Oh my god—do you think he has a tragic backstory?"

"Obviously. No one wears an eyepatch unironically unless they have a past."

You snort, shaking your head. "At least he keeps to himself. Unlike the couple in 5C—"

"Jesus Christ." Yoongi groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “Those two are fuckin’ annoying.”

"I went to do laundry the other night, and they were full-on screaming at each other over piles of underwear."

"God," Yoongi sighs, looking genuinely exhausted. "And then they’re fucking like rabbits five minutes later. It’s exhausting."

"It’s insane," you mutter, shaking your head. Then, after a beat, "So… do you think they actually hate each other or do they just get off on the drama?"

Yoongi raises a brow, considering it. "Honestly? Fifty-fifty."

You nod sagely. "Fair."

There’s a moment of quiet, just the two of you sitting there, sipping coffee, enjoying grapes, watching the river. The kind of comfortable silence that only comes with knowing someone deeply enough to not need to fill every gap with words.

“This is… cute,” you admit, smiling softly.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he grumbles.

“Why this?” you ask, curious. “Why here?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances at the river, his free hand absentmindedly drumming against his knee.

“I like it here,” he finally says. “It’s quiet. Gives me time to think.”

You tilt your head. “And you wanted to bring me here?”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—something softer.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought maybe I’d want to think about you here, too.”

Your breath catches.

“You say things like that so casually,” you murmur.

Yoongi quirks a brow. “Because I mean them.”

Oh he’s so fucking unfair.

You clear your throat, glancing at the food. “You made us food and drinks. What’s next? A serenade?”

Yoongi smirks, reaching for his guitar. “You joke, but—”

You straighten. “No—” you start but he did bring his guitar so obviously he planned on using it.

“Shut up and listen.”

Before you can even process what to say, Yoongi settles the instrument in his lap, fingers moving effortlessly over the strings as he plays a soft melody.

It’s not a full song—just a quiet, unfinished piece, but there’s something achingly personal about it.

Then, halfway through, he looks at you.

And you realize—This is his confession. Just Yoongi, letting the music say what he won’t.

His voice is barely above a murmur when he speaks again. “I kinda wrote it for you.”

You swallow. “Yoongi…”

He exhales, setting the guitar aside. “I know this whole thing has been stupid. But I’m serious about you. I don’t want you to think this is just about… competing with Wonwoo. It’s not. It never was.”

Hearing the sincerity in his voice, you feel your chest tighten. “Now I know.”

Yoongi watches you carefully, his gaze steady and unguarded. “So…”

“So?”

“Can I kiss you now? Or is that too cliché?”

“It’s a little cliché.”

“And?” he murmurs, leaning in just slightly.

“And… I guess I don’t mind.”

A warning bell should be going off in your head right now. Just a few days ago, you were kissing Wonwoo at that arcade bar. Are you really about to kiss Yoongi, too? And if you let him, you can’t take it back. This won’t be something you all would just laugh off in the morning over bowls of cereal like it’s normal. It’ll mean something. It’ll change everything.

But Yoongi stares like he’s somehow smoothing all the wrinkles in your brain and the part of you that should care about the consequences goes poof.

With the barest tilt of his head, he murmurs, “So c’mere.”

He looks at you in a way that steals all the air in your lungs. He doesn’t move an inch, like he has all the time in the world. He doesn’t pull—you’re the one who leans in first, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

The moment your lips meet, something explodes in your chest. There is a confidence in the way his lips slots and moves against yours, unshakably sure.

Yoongi kisses like he’s imprinting something on you—like he wants every bit of him to sink under your skin, settle in your bones, leave something permanent. Fingers slip through your hair, tilting your head to how he wants you. His lips slide across yours, controlled but devastating, his thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw as if he’s grounding himself in the feel of you.

He angles his head the other way, deepening the kiss, swallowing your gasp, and suddenly, you’re dizzy. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as your heart pounds between you. He licks into the seam of your lips, staking his claim, like he knows you’re already his for the taking. You move your tongue slowly against his, white hot heat dancing low in your belly.

God you’ve never had a kiss quite like this before. Like it’s consuming you whole, ruining you for anyone else.

When he pulls back, it’s not abrupt and it’s not by much. He lingers, teeth barely tugging at your lower lip, like he’s reluctant to let you go. You moan as he moves to nip at your jaw, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You're still breathless. “Hmm?” Is the only sound you can manage, your grip still tight in his jacket.

Yoongi chuckles, low and rough. He is close enough that you can feel him smirk against your skin. You don’t push for any further explanation. He also didn’t seem like he was going to give you one.

He pulls back fully now, a hint of satisfaction lingering in his gaze as he wets his lower lip.

The sky behind him is painted in gold and violet, the sun dipping below the horizon—but right now, you can’t think about anything except the fact that Min Yoongi just kissed you senseless and looks like he’s already planning on doing it again. And you’re so going to let him.

“Sunset kiss,” he mutters, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Told you I could be romantic.”

You let out a shaky breath, still trying to collect yourself. “I believe you.”

Yoongi watches you, smug but quiet. Then, after a pause, he teases, “You good, or?”

And somehow, that is what makes you laugh, pressing your forehead to his shoulder as warmth floods through your chest as you sit side by side to look at the sky.

“Stop it. I’m fine…” you admit, feeling the tension in his shoulders melt slightly when you lean into him.

“Good,” he murmurs, placing an arm across your shoulder. “Then stay close a little longer.”

Just as the last sliver of sunlight disappears beyond the horizon, he murmurs—casual, offhand, like it’s not about to drive you mad:

“By the way… it’s my birthday.”

You freeze. Pull back just enough to see his face. “Yoongi—”

But he only smirks, shrugs. “It’s okay. No big.”

Your stomach twists. This entire evening, the picnic, the song, the kiss— and he didn’t tell you once?

“You idiot...” You shove his shoulder, but your voice comes out softer than you intend. “You should’ve told me.”

He chuckles, catching your wrist before you can swat at him again. His grip is loose, familiar. Safe.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “I just… I wanted to spend it like this. With you.”

And fuck.

If your heart wasn’t already completely ruined by him, it sure as hell is now.

“Happy birthday, Yoongi.” Your voice is quieter this time, but you mean it.

He smiles, a thin straight line that makes his cheeks puff out, fingers lacing briefly with yours before he squeezes once and lets go.

“Yeah... It is.”

Chapter Five >

A/N: Happy birthday, Yoongi, my love. The absolute man of my dreams. I wish you more days where you only get to smile and laugh and feel happy. And Wonu, my baby, I wish you a swift and safe service. I will miss you so much.

I know this is such a niche and wildly gratuitous story about my two biases. But I am glad you took the time to read it and hopefully enjoy it as well.

Thank you for reading, you beautiful, lovely human xo See you in the next part!

And please leave a comment or give this one a reblog if you're able to! I'd really appreciate it! <3

PS. Made subtle/vague references to 2 BTS music videos in the scene where Yoongi and you are gossiping about the neighbors. If you guess the 2 MVs correctly, I'll give you a prize. :)

Permanent Taglist: (the rest to follow in a reblog)

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@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

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@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm @angellekookie

Divider by: @cafekitsune (thank you!)

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myladybelle · 4 months ago

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𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter sixteen

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.9k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, reference to reader wearing a dress at one point, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: alright lovelies, this chapter reeeeallly love triangles hard. that’s right, it’s the famous sauna scene and we will be going back and forth in time so keep your eyes peeled for the date changes!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗.

The sauna door creaked open, letting in a brief gust of cool air before it swung shut. Art, seated on the bench with a towel draped over his head, felt his heart thud heavily against his chest as his fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of the bench, freezing at the voice that followed.

“Can you do me a favour?” Patrick’s tone was casual, yet it carried that familiar edge—cocky, confident, a touch too rehearsed. Art’s eyes flickered with recognition, yanking the towel off his face, but he stayed silent. Patrick smirked, stepping further inside and closing the door behind him. “Can you not, like, demolish me tomorrow?”

Art tried not to betray the slight shock of seeing his former friend standing there. Beads of sweat clung to his brow, trickling down his temple in the suffocating heat that seemed to press down on his chest. The stifling air felt thick, making every breath a conscious effort and sending a constant prickle of irritation across his skin. The heat amplified the tension in his body, his heart thudding heavily as though matching the oppressive pulse of the sauna. Patrick’s grin widened, closed-lipped, as if he’d expected that exact reaction.

“Hey,” Patrick said lightly. He clapped Art on the shoulder as he propped one leg up on the bench, leaning in too close for comfort. “Congrats on being a Phil’s Tire Town Challenger finalist.”

“Yeah, you too,” Art replied, his tone just shy of sincere. His fingers curled into a loose fist on his lap, his knuckles slightly whitening.

“Hopefully, the wind dies down before tomorrow,” Patrick went on, undeterred, “and we can have a fair fight.”

Art shifted along the bench, putting a sliver more distance between them. The wood beneath him felt slick with sweat, the heat intensifying his irritation. “Yeah.”

Patrick sighed and crouched slightly, leaning in again. “Art. Come on.” His voice dipped lower, almost coaxing. “Can we talk?”

Art met his gaze with a neutral expression, his voice calm but cutting. “Can you put your dick away?”

Patrick chuckled, glancing away briefly before locking eyes with Art again. “This is a sauna.” He shook his head, amused, and Art allowed the faintest smirk to twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Look, we’ve been here a week and we haven’t said two words to each other. It’s silly, man. It’s dramatic.” Patrick walked to the adjacent bench and sat down, draping a towel over his lap. One leg stretched out toward Art, the other planted firmly on the floor. “I mean, really, why are you so angry with me?” He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. Art folded his hands and stared at Patrick, unimpressed. “Look, I don’t buy that it’s because of Tashi, or what happened to her. I think maybe you’re still just really disturbed by the fact that she and Y/N could’ve been into someone like me.”

Art’s gaze didn’t waver. Hearing Tashi and your names leave Patrick’s lips made his blood boil, but he refused to give Patrick the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. A droplet of sweat traced its way down his cheek.

“When we were practically still teenagers,” Art pointed out.

Patrick blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “Huh.” Patrick’s smile turned devilish, echoing Art, “When we were practically still teenagers.”

𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍’𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟐.

The stadium erupted in deafening cheers as you stood tall, racquet still in hand, your chest heaving with adrenaline, sweat soaking through your hair and clothes. The crowd roared, chanting your name, but you barely heard them. You were too focused on the feeling that surged through you—relief, triumph, but also something else. A deep, gnawing emptiness.

A male voice cracked over the loudspeakers, his words trembling with awe, his elation palpable as he shouted into the mic, unable to contain his amazement. “And there it is! Y/N Y/L/N—she’s done it! She’s completed the impossible! A Calendar Year Golden Slam! She’s won all four Grand Slams, and the Olympic gold, in the same year—something only one other player in history has done! This is history! She is now one of the greatest players the world has ever seen!"

A woman’s voice followed, breathless, her tone filled with disbelief as she struggled to comprehend what they had just witnessed. The emotion in her voice was raw, tinged with admiration and shock. “Absolutely incredible! Y/N Y/L/N, at just 24 years old, has redefined the sport. To do what she’s done—winning the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon, the Olympic gold, and now the US Open, all in the same year—this is beyond anything we could have dreamed of. She isn’t just a legend in the making, her name will go down in history forever!"

The sound of their voices faded into a blur, drowned out by the sound of the crowd’s relentless applause. You dropped to your knees, your racquet falling from your hand, landing on the hard court beside you. Your face crumpled, the floodgates opening. Tears streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the court, your chest hitching with each sob.

They weren’t the tears of a champion, though. It wasn’t just about the accolades, the records, the headlines.

You were alone. Alone in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. Your eyes scanned the stands, your heart sinking as you realised there was no one there. No family, no friends. Even your dad—who had promised he’d be there—couldn’t make it. He was with your grandmother, tending to her medical emergency, and you couldn’t be more alone than you were right now.

The sobs turned more jagged, more raw. The truth was, you weren’t just crying because of your accomplishments. You were crying for everything you’d given up, for all the moments you let slip by. For the silence that sat heavy in your chest when you thought of Tashi, of how everything you thought you had with her came crashing down the night you found out about Tashi and Patrick. How Tashi’s words from Stanford echoed in your mind: “You’re going to be fucking miserable, and you’re going to hate your life just as much as your mother hates the fact that she had you.”

You sobbed harder, clutching the ground, feeling the weight of it all—the broken pieces of your heart, the pieces of yourself you hadn’t even known were broken until then. Tashi’s betrayal. Patrick’s disregard. The ones who walked away or stayed just long enough to hurt you, and then vanished.

Your mind drifted back to Art—the one who truly stood by you. The one who could have been it. You remembered how you were supposed to fight for each other, but you let him go. You let him go because of how the end of your friendship with Tashi had broken you. And now here you were—holding this huge accomplishment, yet it felt like a hollow victory, a shadow of what you wanted. Because you didn’t have anyone to celebrate with.

And then there was Patrick. Patrick, who proposed to you, and whom you turned down, convinced you weren’t ready. You couldn’t see it at the time, couldn’t see that the life you wanted was right there, that someone was ready to stand by you. But you turned it down, and now you were here, kneeling on the court, the applause of the world ringing in your ears but not in your heart.

Everything you’d sacrificed, all the love you’d let go, it hit you all at once. Your whole career—these trophies, these titles—were pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t fit together, no matter how hard you tried. The golden trophies, the fame, the fortune... they couldn’t fill the hole inside you.

The crowd continued to cheer, but you didn’t hear them. You didn’t see them. You didn’t see anything but the emptiness that echoed in your chest. You didn’t feel like a champion right then. You just felt... alone.

The tears were a quiet, desperate thing now, and the world had no idea.

Later that night, you sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, your knees tucked tightly against your chest, your arms wrapped around yourself like a shield. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the silence felt almost suffocating. The faint hum of the city outside barely penetrated the thick walls of the hotel room. It was as if the entire world had gone to sleep, and you had been left alone in your own chaos.

You hadn’t expected to feel like this. You had just made history. You had just achieved the unthinkable. The Golden Slam. Four Grand Slams, Olympic gold. It should have been the happiest moment of your life, the pinnacle of everything you’d worked for. But instead, it was just another hollow victory, another trophy to add to the shelf, another achievement that felt like it belonged to someone else.

The weight of it pressed down on your chest, the emptiness expanding with every breath you took. You had told yourself you’d be fine. You had told yourself that you could handle this, that the fame, the success, would fill the spaces where nothing else had. But it wasn’t enough. Not without someone to share it with. Not without the people you loved, the ones who had walked away or who you had let slip through your fingers.

After the interviews, the pictures, the party celebrating your victory, you had retreated to your hotel room, needing the silence, needing space to breathe. But when you closed the door behind you, it felt like stepping into a void. You had crumpled against the wall, the tears coming too fast, too overwhelming to control. You’d stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over you, hoping it would wash away the ache, but it only seemed to make it worse, the sobs shaking your body, the hot water mixing with the salt of your tears.

Now, you sat in the oversized Stanford t-shirt that belonged to Art in college, the soft cotton comfortingly familiar but not enough to ease the pain. You wore the plaid boxer shorts that had belonged to Patrick, the ones he’d left behind at your mother’s house after you broke up, and you hated yourself for keeping them. They felt like a betrayal, a reminder of a past that was both yours and someone else’s.

You wiped at your eyes, smearing the tears on your cheeks.

The knock at the door startled you, and for a second, you sat frozen, unsure if you had imagined it. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, but your eyes were still red and swollen from crying. You didn’t want to answer it. You didn’t want to see anyone, not now, not like this.

Another knock. More urgent this time.

You exhaled a shaky breath, rubbing your face once more, and stood, almost reluctantly, to cross the room. You walked to the door, your heart thudding erratically in your chest. You didn’t know who it could be.

With a deep breath, you swung the door open.

Patrick stood there, his hand raised to knock once more, his expression soft, hesitant. Your breath hitched in your throat. You didn’t know whether to scream, to slap him, or to fall into his arms and let everything out. It was a gut reaction, something you had trained yourself not to feel for so long—resentment, anger, pain, mixed with the overwhelming need for comfort. The betrayal still stung, fresh and sharp in your mind, but the sight of him was enough to break down all the walls you had built.

You felt the tears start again, hot and sudden, and before you could react, his arms shot out, pulling you into him. Patrick didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around you instantly, like he had been waiting for this moment, and caught your weight as your knees buckled. Patrick’s touch was warm and steady, and you clung to him as if he were the only thing anchoring you. Your face pressed into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the familiar smell of him—cologne and something else you couldn’t place—filling your senses.

“I hate you,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt, your breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I know,” he murmured, his hands running gently over your back. “You have every right to.”

You didn’t know if you could hate him anymore. You wanted to, you really did. But as much as he had hurt you, there was still a part of you that never learned to stop loving him, to stop wanting him.

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “Not after everything...”

Patrick’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt protective, comforting. It was everything you hadn’t realised you needed. It was everything you had been yearning for but hadn’t known how to ask for.

“You don’t have to be,” Patrick said softly, his voice low, almost a whisper. He brushed your hair from your face, his fingers gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were red and raw from the tears, but you still saw the same Patrick you’d known—the one who had always known when to show up, when to be there, even if it was never enough.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were red and raw from the tears, your cheeks flushed, but you still saw the same Patrick you’d known—the one who had always known when to show up, when to be there, even if it was never enough. Even if you never let him be enough.

“You came,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as though you couldn’t believe he was really here, that after everything, he was still the one who’d come.

Patrick brushed away the tears that had started to spill again, his thumb gently caressing your skin, his touch soft but full of purpose. “I’ll always come when you need me.”

Your heart twisted, and for a moment, you thought you might break apart completely. You hadn’t realised how much you needed him until this very moment, until he was standing here, holding you, offering you a kind of solace you couldn’t get from anyone else. You were scared, so scared, that this might be a moment you would regret later, but it didn’t matter right then. You didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

You didn’t know why your feet stayed planted, why your hands didn’t push him away. You could feel the heat radiating off Patrick’s body as he stood so close, his presence as solid and familiar as it was agonising. Every part of you wanted to scream at him, to hurl every piece of bitterness and betrayal you carried straight into his chest. And yet, you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The silence between you was thick, weighted with too many memories.

Patrick’s eyes, those warm deep green-blue eyes that you used to know better than your own, searched yours, but for what, you couldn’t tell. His hand hovered near your shoulder as if he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. The hesitation in his movement sent a pang through your chest. He’d never been hesitant with you before. Patrick had always been certain, steady, and unshakable—the kind of person who knew exactly how to reach you, no matter how far you’d tried to run.

“Y/N,” he said softly, your name barely more than a whisper. The way he said it, like it still meant something to him, unravelled you.

You hated the way your body betrayed you. The faint tremble in your hands, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your skin prickled under his gaze. It was like your body remembered him even when your mind begged it not to.

Patrick took a small step closer, and you felt the distance between you collapse. His scent hit you first—clean, with the faintest trace of cedar and something that had always been uniquely him. Your throat tightened, a lump rising you couldn’t swallow down. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, but it didn’t help. Being this close to him, you felt like you were being pulled into the past, into a time when his touch had been your sanctuary, not your torment.

“I saw you out there,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I was in the stands. You were... gorgeous. My gorgeous girl.”

You looked away, your lips pressing into a thin line. Compliments felt like daggers, sharp and undeserved. You didn’t want to be gorgeous. You wanted to be whole. You wanted to go back to a time when being you meant more than trophies and records.

“Don’t,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “Don’t say that like it means anything.”

Patrick’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushed your arm—light, tentative, as if testing your reaction. Your skin burned where he touched you, the contact igniting a million sensations you didn’t want to feel. Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Y/N,” he said again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to, but your eyes betrayed you, flickering up to meet his. The sight of him up close was almost too much. His face was achingly familiar, and yet time had changed him in ways you hadn’t expected. His hair was a little shorter, his jawline littered with faint stubble, but the look in his eyes—that deep, earnest intensity—was exactly the same. It undid you.

“It still means something,” Patrick said, his hand sliding down your arm to your wrist, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch sent a jolt through you, your heart slamming against your ribcage.

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It doesn’t,” you choked out. “Not anymore. Not after everything.”

Patrick didn’t let go. Instead, his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. It was such a small, quiet gesture, but it shattered you. Your pulse quickened beneath his touch, your body reacting instinctively, pulling you back into the ghost of what you used to have.

You felt yourself trembling, your breaths coming shallow and uneven. “Why are you here, Patrick?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Because I knew you’d need someone,” he said simply. “I knew you’d be here, alone.”

The honesty in his voice cut you like a knife. It was the kind of thing Patrick had always been able to do—cut through all the noise and say exactly what you needed to hear. You wanted to push him away, wanted to tell him that you didn’t need him, but the words wouldn’t come.

Your hands, almost of their own accord, found his chest. The solid weight of him beneath your palms sent a wave of longing crashing over you, so strong it nearly knocked you off your feet. You hated him for being here, for making you feel like this again. But more than that, you hated yourself for letting him.

Patrick’s hands slid up your arms, his touch firm but careful, like he was afraid you might break. His fingers skimmed your shoulders, then settled on either side of your face, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t look away. The warmth of his palms against your cheeks was too much. It was everything.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice trembling now, heavy with something you couldn’t name. “I’m so sorry.”

Your lips parted, a soft, shaky exhale escaping you. His apology hung in the air between you, unspoken for so long that hearing it now felt like reopening a wound that had never fully healed.

“It doesn’t change anything,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

“I know,” Patrick said. “But it’s true.”

Your eyes searched his, and for a moment, you thought you might drown in them. The longing you saw there mirrored your own, and it was unbearable. It was everything you had been running from, everything you had tried to forget.

Your heart ached, a physical, visceral pain that spread through your chest as his thumb brushed away the tear that rolled down your cheek. The gesture was so tender, so familiar, that it left you breathless.

The tension between you was suffocating, the air thick with everything you couldn’t say. You could feel your resolve crumbling, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. You leaned into his touch without meaning to, your body betraying you again, seeking the comfort you knew you shouldn’t want.

“Why do you still do this to me?” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Before you could think twice, you pulled him into a kiss, desperate and hungry, the salt of your tears mixing with his lips. It was a kiss that was broken and beautiful all at once, a mixture of longing, regret, and the kind of comfort that only came from someone who had once been yours. Patrick kissed you back, his hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer. The world outside seemed to vanish.

There was no stadium, no trophies, no records—only the feel of Patrick’s lips against yours, the warmth of his arms around you.

It surprised neither of you when you dragged Patrick into your room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝟒:𝟑𝟎𝐏𝐌.

Art rolled his eyes, the sharp motion betraying the frustration that clenched at his gut. He leaned back against the smooth wooden panelling of the sauna, the heat pressing in from all sides, stifling the air. His muscles tensed involuntarily, the strain evident in the way his jaw tightened, veins in his neck standing out like ropes under his skin. The air felt thick, clinging to his skin in a sticky layer of sweat, each bead trickling down his back, a constant reminder of the suffocating heat. His pulse quickened, its rhythmic thudding echoing in his ears, mixing with the oppressive warmth until it was all he could feel. The air felt like a heavy blanket, weighing down on him, making his breath shallow and laboured.

His mind drifted back, as it always did when he let his guard down for even a moment. He thought of the paparazzi pictures from that morning in 2012—Patrick, wearing a baseball cap to hide his face, leaving your hotel the morning after you had secured your Calendar Year Golden Slam at the US Open. The images, splashed across every tabloid, seared into his memory. He could still remember the way the photos twisted in his gut, the bitterness rising like bile in his throat. He hadn’t been prepared for it, not after everything.

Art recalled how, after the finals, he had spent hours at his kitchen table, knotting friendship bracelets in vibrant colours to commemorate your achievement. Each knot was a silent wish, each bracelet a small piece of himself he had hoped would mean something to you. He had left the envelope of bracelets with the concierge at your hotel, telling himself he was giving you space, that he didn’t want to intrude. The heat of that day still lingered in his chest, a fire that never quite burned out.

But, as always, Art had stayed on the periphery, never pushing, never demanding. He was respectful of your boundaries, even when his heart ached in ways that were hard to explain. And Patrick, with his effortless charm and unrelenting persistence, had wormed his way back into your life, into your heart.

The thought of it made the room seem even hotter, the suffocating air pressing harder against Art’s chest.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice flat. “I do find it disturbing.”

Patrick shook his head, still smiling, though the edges of the grin seemed too tight, too practiced. The words came out with an almost exaggerated nonchalance, as if he were trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “There’s no need, man. Lots of girls were into me.” His gaze flickered over Art briefly, the smile on his lips wavering before he shrugged, a smooth, almost imperceptible gesture meant to veil the hurt. “None of them wanted to marry me.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, as if they were a well-rehearsed line he had said too many times, and yet it was clear now that they didn’t come out as easily as they once had. Patrick’s gaze darted away, focusing on some indeterminate point across the room, and the usual mockery in his tone seemed to fade. “That’s not what I was for.”

Art could hear the subtle shift in Patrick’s voice—the crack beneath the surface of the confident facade. It wasn’t just about Tashi, and they both knew it. The truth lingered in the spaces between their words, unspoken and raw. Patrick’s hurt was subtle, but it was there, tucked away behind the deflection of casual dismissal. Art could feel it, could see it in the way Patrick’s shoulders tensed, the way his voice faltered just for a fraction of a second.

It was about you. Patrick’s failed proposal, his hopes that had crumbled into dust when you had turned him down. Art knew, even without the words being spoken, that Patrick still carried that rejection, as sharp and fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

And Art? Art couldn’t help but feel that old pang in his chest—the twisted mix of sympathy and guilt that always followed Patrick when your name came up. Art hadn’t been the one to hurt Patrick—rather, him sleeping with Tashi the night of the proposal had tormented Art unspeakably—but in some strange way, Art felt like he had inherited the consequences of Patrick’s heartbreak.

The weight of it pressed on both of them, invisible but undeniable.

“What were you for?” Art’s words came quick, sharp, like a sudden gust of scalding air.

Patrick’s grin widened, and Art matched it with a wry smirk, but there was something about the way the smile stretched across his face that felt off—too forced, too quick. Then, just as quickly, Art’s expression shifted. The smirk faded, and his gaze dropped, as if he couldn’t hold it up anymore. He shook his head slightly, a subtle movement that didn’t quite match the energy in the room.

The air felt thick, the heat pressing in on him, amplifying the thudding of his pulse until each beat felt too loud, too insistent in the silence between them. Art leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly to steady himself. The breath he exhaled was heavy, drawn out as if he were trying to hold on to something that kept slipping away, something unspoken but present.

Patrick followed his lead, leaning back on his bench with his forearms propped behind him. The heat pressed down on him, making his breaths shallow, the steady drip of sweat from his brow adding to the suffocating tension. His thoughts churned uneasily, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features as he tried to maintain a composed façade. Beneath his casual posture, the weight of unspoken guilt pressed against his chest.

“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy I was in the draw. I mean, you always wanted to beat me in a tournament,” Patrick said, the grin creeping back onto his face.

Art rolled his head around his neck and grinned knowingly, staring ahead at the wall. “I know what you’re trying to do right now.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Art,” Patrick said, chuckling. “This is a challenger. I don’t need to play mind games with you.”

Art turned to him, his expression finally cracking into something sharp and incredulous. The layers of frustration he'd buried for so long surfaced in a flash, something between anger and disbelief. “Right. You don’t give a shit,” he said, voice low but cutting.

Patrick’s gaze flickered, shifting away briefly as if he could find something else to focus on—anything to avoid the sting in Art’s words. But there was nowhere to hide. When he finally looked back, his face was a little more guarded, though the guilt in his eyes was undeniable. He lifted his hand in a half-hearted gesture, an open palm meant to calm the air but failing to ease the tension between them.

“I didn’t say that,” Patrick replied.

A pause hung heavy between them as they stared at each other, tension thick in the humid air. Sweat dripped steadily from Patrick’s chin onto the towel across his lap. Art stared at him for a beat, feeling the weight of all the years they had spent together, now stretched thin and fraying at the edges. It wasn’t just tennis, it never was—it was about their ruined friendship. It all seemed so disposable to them now, something that had never truly mattered.

“We both know you have considerably more at stake here than I do,” Art said finally, his tone measured and factual. His fingers drummed on the bench, but his jaw remained locked tight.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do I?”

Art chuckled, the sound low and dismissive, but Patrick joined in, their laughter more like a contest than genuine amusement.

“Oh, fuck,” Art said through his chuckles, rolling his head back. “Where do you get your swagger from, man?” Patrick laughed, and Art sniffed. “I mean, you come in here swinging your dick around like I’m supposed to be afraid of it, but do you realise how embarrassing it is that you’re here right now?”

Patrick’s grin tightened, though the slight twitch of his jaw betrayed a ripple of tension. The oppressive heat magnified his discomfort, the pulse in his temples pounding harder as he fought to maintain his composure. “Not quite as embarrassing as you being here.”

Art leaned forward slightly, his smile turning sharper. “I’m just stopping by, man. This is where you live.” He tapped his fingers on the bench and tilted his head. “You know, I always tried to figure out what happened to you. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realise—” He sighed, his voice dropping into a lower, almost pitiful register— “It’s what didn’t happen. You never grew up.”

Patrick’s simper vanished instantly. His eyes flickered with something raw and unguarded, a mix of anger and unease. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against his towel.

Art pressed on, his words measured and devastating. “You still think you can talk to me like you’re my peer because we came from the same place. But it’s not about where you come from in tennis, Patrick. It’s about winning. And I do. A lot.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint hiss of steam rising from the heated stones. Patrick’s gaze dropped to his hand resting on the bench, fingers curled tightly around the edge as if holding on to something that had slipped beyond his reach. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, the words weighed down by something unsaid. “You’ve never beaten me.”

Art’s laugh was quiet, almost dismissive, but there was a sharp edge to it—like the sound of something fragile cracking beneath pressure. “So what? I haven’t beaten most of the guys who play at these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.”

Patrick looked up at him then, the vulnerability in his eyes stark and raw, something that Art hadn't seen in him for a long time. “I don’t matter?”

Art’s gaze was unflinching, his expression unreadable. But there was a flicker, a hesitation before his eyes locked onto Patrick’s. His lips tightened, and for a moment, Art could almost feel the weight of their shared past, the things they had been—things that neither of them fully understood anymore. “Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world.”

Patrick’s lips twitched, pulling into a sad, almost self-deprecating smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re not talking about tennis.”

The words hung in the air, and the deeper meaning of them—what they had both been avoiding—was unmistakable. Art’s facade cracked slightly, the layers of detachment that had protected him for so long slipping just enough to reveal a crack in his own carefully constructed armor. He was talking about them. The friendship they had once shared, the way Art had been so central in his life, and now how distant everything felt. Patrick wasn’t talking about tennis—he was talking about Art, and how he had come to feel like an afterthought in Art’s life.

Art’s tone sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. “What the fuck else do I have to talk to you about?” For a fleeting moment, his mask slipped, and something painful flashed in his eyes.

Patrick blinked, then pressed his lips together and nodded slightly. “I wanted to come in here and wish you luck, Art,” he said quietly.

Art turned his head away, staring at the opposite wall. He shook his head slightly, his voice firm. “That makes no sense.”

“I wanted to say I’m looking forward to it,” Patrick insisted. His voice softened. “And I miss playing with you.”

Art looked back at him, a sceptical smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” Patrick nodded. Art stood, looming tall and intimidating, his movements deliberate, almost menacing. Rather than feeling threatened, Patrick leisurely ran his eyes from below Art’s waist to eventually meet his gaze. “I don’t miss playing with you, man.” Art’s voice was cool, resolute. “I’m too old for it.”

The oppressive heat clung to Patrick’s skin, amplifying his sense of isolation as the Art pounded the door open. “And don’t think you’re the only person Y/N comes to when she needs someone,” Art declared before he left the sauna.

Then, the door slammed shut behind Art. The faint sting of his words lingered, and for a moment, Patrick felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like the suffocating air in the sauna. Alone in the thick, suffocating heat of the sauna, he sat and stared at the now empty spot Art had occupied.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 – 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔. 𝟏𝟏:𝟒𝟔𝐏𝐌.

You padded quietly around your Airbnb in the outskirts of Paris, your bare feet brushing against the cool wood of the floor. The space was expansive, a beautiful kitchen stretching out in front of you, gleaming under the soft light of the chandelier. You were comfortable, a stark contrast to the intensity of the party you'd just left—celebrating your victory at the French Open, yet still feeling the weight of the exhaustion that came with the adrenaline of the match.

A bruise was starting to bloom on your knee—right behind the scrape—visible below the hem of your soft pink pyjama shorts, but hidden during the party earlier. You had lunged for a ball in the last set, your foot slipping and your knee grazing the clay court when you fell, but the pain was nothing compared to seeing Art at the party.

The soft sound of ice cream scooping echoed through the kitchen as you searched through the drawers, finally finding the ice cream scooper buried beneath a stack of utensils. A small smile tugged at your lips as you pulled the French Vanilla ice cream tub from the fridge. The rich, creamy sweetness was exactly what you needed after the whirlwind of the evening. You knew you should've gone to bed, but something about Paris at night—this quiet, unfamiliar stillness—was drawing you out, making you want to linger in the calm before tomorrow's inevitable whirlwind of travel and heading back home.

The doorbell rang.

You froze mid-scoop, the motion of your wrist halting. You glanced at the clock—it was so late, and you hadn’t been expecting anyone. Your heart did a quick flutter, your body tensing in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You set the ice cream down carefully and padded barefoot to the door, wondering if it was someone from the party, perhaps your publicist or a late-night well-wisher. But when you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat. Standing there, with a rueful half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, was Art.

Your heart skipped, but you couldn’t find the words. Not after the way you’d nearly kissed only an hour ago—at the party, just before you'd stopped yourself. You hadn’t been able to let yourself cross that line, not with everything that had come before. Not with Tashi.

“Art?” you asked, still trying to process the unexpectedness of it all.

He smiled, the same easy grin you remembered from college days, though something about the way his eyes looked at you now made your stomach flip. “I know this is random,” he began, his voice casual, though there was an undertone of something deeper, something you couldn’t quite place. “But I really had a craving for chocolate ice cream.” Art held up a tub, looking a bit sheepish. “And I walked on foot to the only 24-hour store in Paris, and I asked your publicist where you were staying at the party, and noticed it was closer than my hotel, so I figured I’d stop by.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “And I really, really had a hankering for chocolate.”

You stood there, mouth agape, not quite sure if you should laugh or stare at him in disbelief. Of all the things he could have said. Of all the things you could have expected from him. A soft laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “You walked all the way here... for ice cream?” Your voice was amused, though part of you didn’t know what to make of this. Art wasn’t the type to do things without a reason—at least not in the straightforward way he just had.

“Yep.” He shrugged, unfazed, holding out the tub. “So, do you have an ice cream scooper, or what?”

You chuckled again, stepping aside. Art gave you a sheepish smile, clearly not expecting to be let in so easily, but you had already moved aside, and he couldn’t help but take a step into the kitchen, where the ingredients for your sundae were spread out on the kitchen island. Sprinkles, whipped cream, fresh strawberries, chocolate syrup.

His eyes flicked over everything, and a small, knowing grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Well, looks like we're both craving the same thing.”

You couldn’t help but smile back. “You’re in luck. I was just about to make a vanilla sundae. But—” You gave him a pointed look as you took the chocolate tub from his hands, “Vanilla is nowhere near as good as a vanilla and chocolate sundae. Perfect timing.”

Art laughed quietly, more to himself than to you, and you felt something inside you flicker at the sound. It was easy. So easy, almost like you hadn’t missed a beat since college. Even though everything between you had changed, this moment felt like something you used to share—a small, silly comfort. You grabbed a bowl and opened the vanilla tub, preparing to scoop when Art moved beside you without hesitation.

“I’ll cut up the strawberries,” he offered, already grabbing the knife from the block and beginning to slice the berries with deft movements. His arm brushed against yours briefly, and your breath caught. Each accidental touch—quick and fleeting—sent a jolt through you, a rush of electricity that felt like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The silence in the kitchen felt thick, filled with the weight of unspoken words. The tension was back. The same tension that had nearly spilled over at the party earlier when you’d almost kissed. It hadn’t gone away, not really.

You could feel his presence in every corner of the kitchen. The quiet press of his arm against yours as he worked, his slight chuckles every time he added a new ingredient to the sundae. His movements—steady and confident—had an easy familiarity that made you feel like you were slipping back into something natural. Something you both understood.

You felt a warmth inside your chest as you watched him—his hand, notably ring-free now that the party was over, moving with fluidity, and the muscles in his arms flexing as he sliced the strawberries. You couldn’t help but notice how close he was. How comfortable it felt, even in the midst of the strange charge that simmered just beneath the surface.

You reached for the whipped cream, your fingers brushing against his again, and this time, the touch lingered. It was barely a moment, but it was enough for you to feel it—his presence, his energy pulling at you in ways you couldn’t shake.

When Art turned to look at you, the light from the kitchen catching in his pale blue eyes, you felt the pull again. That familiar, dangerous pull. You swallowed hard, catching your breath for a moment, before you forced yourself to focus on the sundae.

“Here,” you said, handing him his bowl with the sundae now complete.

Art took the bowl, his fingers grazing yours as he accepted it. He smiled, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. And you couldn’t stop yourself from looking back. Neither of you had moved. The kitchen, the air between you, felt too heavy with what was unsaid.

For a moment, the world felt small and simple again, like it was just the two of you in this kitchen. But the tension was impossible to ignore. You both knew why you hadn’t kissed earlier. You both knew why you couldn’t kiss now.

Yet somehow, neither of you seemed willing to walk away. Not just yet.

You and Art sat side by side on the barstools by the kitchen island, your sundae bowls in front of you. The silence between you was comfortable at first, but as you ate slowly—more for the moment than the sweetness of the sundaes—you both became aware of just how surreal it felt to be here, together, in this space, in this quiet. The night had been full of noise, both the celebration of your shared victory at the French Open and the tension that had been simmering between you all evening. But now, here in this soft light, there was only the faint hum of the fridge and the gentle scrape of spoons against the sides of bowls.

Your eyes flicked over to Art, watching him take slow, deliberate bites of his sundae. His focus seemed entirely on the sundae, but there was something else in the way he sat—relaxed, at ease, like the tension of the day had melted away in the presence of this simple, sweet moment.

You smiled, the sugar kicking in, and you couldn’t hold back a small giggle. Art’s gaze snapped to yours, his brow furrowing in playful confusion.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice light and teasing.

You couldn’t explain it, but the way he looked at you—so genuinely confused, like he was just as caught up in the moment as you were—set something off. It was silly, but you giggled again, harder this time. The laughter felt contagious, and before you knew it, Art was laughing too, your giggles tumbling into one another like two little kids who couldn’t stop. Your laughter echoed in the quiet of the kitchen, filling the space with a warmth that was entirely different from the heat of your earlier exchanges. It was pure, unburdened, and—for the first time all night—completely real.

You finally calmed down, the sugar rush mixing with the exhaustion of the day, and you found yourself staring at Art. The absurdity of the moment—the ridiculousness of you two sitting together in a foreign city, eating ice cream like you were the only two people in the world—made your chest swell with something you hadn’t expected. Affection, maybe. No, it was more than that. It was the kind of warmth that made you feel like everything was somehow... right. Even if it wasn’t.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you leaned in and kissed him, your lips crashing against his with an intensity that surprised you both. The kiss was fierce, hungry, driven by everything you had been too afraid to say, too careful to act on. It was everything that had been building between you for years, a collision of emotions, of past hurts and desires that neither of you could shake off.

Art’s hands came up to your waist, pulling you onto the kitchen counter in one fluid movement, as if the space between you had never existed. The kiss deepened, sweeter now, but still urgent, as if neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips were soft against yours, his hands gentle as they cupped your face, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you let yourself fall into it. Let yourself fall into him.

Then, suddenly, you pulled back, gasping for air, your heart racing as the full weight of what you had just done crashed down on you. Your mind scrambled to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions, but the only thing you could think was, What have I done?

Art’s gaze softened, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes that was almost... vulnerable. “Angel,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. His old nickname for you made you want to cry. “Tashi and I—we have an agreement. We’re separated. We don’t owe each other anything anymore.” He looked directly at you, his expression earnest. “And if I want to kiss you, I’m going to kiss you. No excuses, no apologies.”

Your chest tightened. You felt the sting of guilt, the part of you that still couldn’t ignore the fact that he was still married, still tied to someone else in ways that you couldn’t simply overlook. “I know,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I get that. But it’s complicated.” You paused, trying to gather your thoughts. “I don’t want to get involved in something like this, not unless you figure out what you want. If you’re really done with Tashi, then... then maybe we can talk. But I can’t—” You stopped yourself, looking away, unsure of what to say next.

Art watched you closely, his eyes steady, understanding. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “I don’t want to drag you into something that’s unfinished. But I also can’t ignore what’s between us. I can’t pretend like I don’t feel it.”

You felt a surge of warmth and confusion inside you. The tension between you was still there, so palpable it nearly hurt. “I’m not sorry I kissed you,” you said, meeting his eyes, your voice firm. “But it doesn’t change anything. Not until you figure this out. Either you leave Tashi for good or you stay with her. And when you know what you want, then maybe... maybe we can talk about us.”

Art nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I will,” he said quietly, the weight of his words settling between you. “I promise, I’ll figure it out.”

A week later, pictures of Tashi and Art kissing on a beach in the south of France were plastered across every corner of the internet. You saw them—your heart sinking just a little as the image confirmed what you’d feared. You were right to let him go.

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. – 𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟏𝟖, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕.

Missing the Australian Open because of a wrist injury was your worst-case scenario, but it was also unavoidable. Your physical trainer had been insistent: “No playing tennis with that wrist. Take some time off, get a cup of coffee or something. Just take a break.” You had smiled and nodded, but even stepping into the little coffee shop on the corner felt like a defeat. Alone on your day off—what did that say about your life?

The shop smelled of cinnamon and espresso, the warm scent wrapping around you like a blanket, though it did nothing to settle the knot in your stomach. You were alone. You weren’t used to it—especially not in places like this, where couples sat close together at tiny tables, their conversations a soft hum in the background. You hovered awkwardly at the counter, your fingers brushing the edges of the cup in front of you as if it might somehow offer you solace. You ordered a cappuccino to-go, the barista’s friendly chatter seeming far away, out of reach.

You stood at the end of the counter, scrolling absently through your phone, your thumb moving on autopilot. It was a tactic you used when you wanted to disappear into the background. No one noticed you then—not as the tennis star, not as the girl whose life was constantly under a magnifying glass. Alone in a coffee shop, you were just another person trying to navigate the awkwardness of solitude. You didn’t fit in, not completely—too self-conscious about how you stood, how you held yourself, as if everyone was watching, waiting for you to do something wrong.

The soft chime of the doorbell snapped you out of your thoughts, but your eyes darted nervously to the woman near the window, phone raised high, aimed straight at you. Not discreet. You tensed, your heart skipping a beat. The woman’s gaze flickered between you and the screen, the kind of look you had become too familiar with. A gawker, someone who saw you less as a person and more as a curiosity, an object to capture.

You didn’t even check your cup when the barista called out your name. You grabbed it and bolted, the weight of the warm cardboard in your hand a poor substitute for something more comforting, something that might hold you together. You pushed through the door into the cool afternoon, the winter breeze biting at your cheeks as you rushed down the street, head low, fingers gripping the cup as if it were a lifeline.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

You froze, your shoulders stiffening. The voice was male, sharp but not unkind, and too close for comfort. Your pulse quickened. You turned, hands shaking, clutching the coffee too tightly. A man was jogging towards you, holding out a cup that looked identical to yours. He was tall, his black hair slightly tousled, and his almond-shaped eyes were dark and warm, framed by soft brows. His expression was a little unsure, but his gaze was steady, sincere—something about him made you feel like maybe you weren’t invisible after all.

He was wearing scrubs, the deep blue fabric slightly rumpled from a long shift, and his sneakers—the kind worn by people who spent their days on their feet—scuffed at the edges. His hands were slightly calloused, evidence of years of hard work. He was just... normal.

“You grabbed my coffee,” he said, his voice awkward but genuine. “I think I’ve got yours.”

Your eyes flicked to his cup, your name scrawled messily on the side in the barista’s hurried handwriting. You glanced down at your own, noticing the name August written in thick, bold letters. For a moment, you stood still, dumbfounded by the absurdity of it all. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside you, but it was small, shaky.

“Sorry,” you murmured, feeling heat creep up your neck. You reached for his cup. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No problem,” August said, his smile shy but genuine. He handed you the drink, his fingers brushing yours, and you couldn’t help but notice how soft and unguarded he seemed. “Your name’s Y/N, right?”

You nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “That’s me. August, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, hi!” He tilted his head, his smile widening in a way that made him seem almost endearingly unsure. “Sorry, you’re just very radiant and it’s throwing me off my game a little.”

You paused, the absurdity of the situation suddenly making you feel lighter. “You think I’m radiant?”

August studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though considering the question seriously. After a beat, he tilted his head again, his smile softening. “I really do.” Then, he smiled shyly, and there was something about the way he said it that made you feel like you were meeting him for the first time in a way you hadn’t expected. There was no attempt at impressing you, no flashy gestures. Just an honest, unpolished interaction that felt completely normal.

You weren’t sure why, but it made you feel seen. In a good way, for once.

“I don’t mean to pry,” August said, glancing at you carefully, as if trying to gauge whether you wanted to talk. “But you seemed like you were in a bit of a hurry. Everything okay?”

You hesitated. The instinct to hide was strong, but his tone wasn’t intrusive, just... curious. “Just didn’t want to stick around,” you said, your voice quiet.

“I get that,” he replied, shifting his weight, his eyes sparkling with that awkward, kind energy that made him so unexpectedly likable. “Crowded places can be... a lot.”

You could tell it was a lie; a soft, white lie to make you feel less self-conscious. But it made you feel seen, in a way that had nothing to do with fame or expectations. He wasn’t asking for anything, not even for you to acknowledge who you were.

“You seem like you like coffee,” August said after a beat, his hands shoved deep into his scrub trousers. “Maybe we could grab one together sometime?”

You blinked. It had been so long since someone had asked you out without a second thought, without some hidden agenda. His eyes didn’t flicker down to his phone, didn’t try to sneak a picture. He just looked at you like you were... just another person. And it felt normal.

You could say no. You could keep your walls up and walk away. But hadn’t you been doing that long enough?

“What about dinner instead?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them. Your heart raced, a quiet thrill blooming in your chest.

August’s smile was slow, hesitant, but genuine, and you could see something softening in his eyes. “Dinner works too. It’s better, actually. I was just too nervous to ask you to dinner.”

You nodded, a spark of warmth flickering in your chest. For the first time in ages, it didn’t feel lonely. It felt like something was beginning—like you could finally stop hiding and start fresh, without anyone’s expectations or judgements hanging over you.

August fumbled in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a card with neat, embossed lettering. He handed it to you. Dr. August Lee, Paediatric Surgeon. You stared at it for a moment, processing. A surgeon? Your eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, but the warmth in his eyes was unchanged.

“Maybe you’ll want to double-check I’m not just handing out fake business cards,” August said, his voice laced with self-deprecating humour.

You smiled, feeling the first genuine connection you’d had in a long while. “I’ll call you.”

August blinked, clearly surprised, but his smile softened, and the warmth in his eyes deepened. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, his voice almost shy, like a promise he wasn't sure he was allowed to make. He raised his hand to wave at you in an endearingly awkward gesture, and you shared a quiet smile before turning away.

As you walked back to your car, the cold afternoon air brushing against your skin, something shifted inside you. Your footsteps slowed, then lengthened, as though the ground beneath you was softening, lifting you in tiny, unspoken ways. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were just moving through space, ticking off the minutes until the next obligation, the next camera flash. Your body hummed with something you hadn’t felt in so long: the gentle, fluttering sensation of anticipation, like the first stirrings of spring in the heart of winter.

It started low, deep inside you, a faint stirring that quickly blossomed, like the first warmth of sunlight breaking through the brittle branches of a cold, tired tree. You weren’t sure where it came from at first, but it swirled inside you, dancing like tiny sparks of light gathering into something more—a fire, maybe, or a sparkler, and you felt it twine through your chest, threading along the spaces where something had once been hollow.

Your body hummed with the sensation of something new, something real. Your breath caught in your throat with the awareness of it—how your chest rose and fell, almost quicker now, as though it were catching up with the rhythm of your heartbeat. There was a soft tingling beneath your skin, not the kind of restlessness that made you want to escape, but something else—a pulse, something warm and steady, that made you feel more alive than you had in years. It was as if your body were waking up from a long, dull slumber, its senses more alive, more attuned to the world around you.

And then it hit you all at once—this was what it felt like to want something. To feel something. To not hide from it, but to embrace it. You hadn’t realised how long it had been since you’d truly felt this alive. You’d been running for so long, trying to outrun the emptiness, the loneliness, but now—now, in this simple, ordinary moment—something had changed. Something had shifted, and it was like you had suddenly found yourself standing in a new light. The world wasn’t so cold anymore. It wasn’t so distant. There was a new rhythm to it, a pulse that felt connected to your own.

You paused beside your car, your hand on the door handle, and let out a soft breath, almost laughing at yourself. You felt like you had just rediscovered something you had thought you’d lost forever. Maybe it was too soon to call it hope, but it was something. A beginning. A whisper that made you think—just maybe—there was more to life than being the person everyone expected you to be. You could be more than a tennis star, more than a picture in a tabloid. You could be you.

You smiled, your heart beating a little faster, your chest lighter than it had been in years. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you weren’t running away from yourself. You were just... standing there, breathing it all in, and feeling the kind of excitement that filled you up, that made you believe in the possibility of something different, something new.

For the first time in years, you weren’t thinking about your mother, or your father, or Tashi, or Patrick, or Art. You were just thinking about yourself, and the handsome doctor whose coffee you had accidentally taken.

#art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson imagine #patrick zweig imagine #art donaldson x you #patrick zweig x you #challengers #challengers fanfiction #challengers x reader #challengers fanfic #tashi duncan #mike faist x reader #josh o connor x reader #fic: guilty as sin?

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