summary: art gets benched for three months after he injures his arm. with patrick busy on tour and tashi being a star in campus, he ends up with too much time on his hands and starts wondering, what is he without the sport he has built his life around? then he meets you.
pairing: standford!art x fem!reader
tags: meet-cute, friends to lovers, hurt-comfort ish?, fluff, angst, happy ending, just art being restless and reader being head over heels for him over everything but tennis!!! two idiots in love!!!
"Good news is you don't need surgery. Bad news is you're done playing for a while. No tennis for at least twelve weeks, assuming physical therapy goes well".
Art stared at him for a seconds that felt like hours.
"Three months?"
"Minimum. You shouldn't push it before that, or you'll be risking a temporary injury into a permanent one".
The doctor hands him a brown paper bag with medicine he's supposed to take like clock-work. Naproxen every six to eight hours. He has done much more with much less, he thinks. Back in boarding school he used to feel this type of pain and just sucked it up, put ice on the swelling and it healed up after a week or two. Three months for a labral tear is ridiculous.
"What if I only hit backhands?"
"No".
"What if I don't serve?"
"No".
"What if I-"
"Art, if you'd stopped six weeks ago, we'd be talking about a few weeks of rest. Now we're talking about months. No tennis."
He leaves the office and has to restrain himself from slamming the door on his way out. The instructions to treating his injury keep circling in his mind: ice pack, pills, rest, and therapy every three days. And no tennis. He almost huffs out loud as he walks to his dorm. Maybe if he wasn't such a coward and just sucked it up as he usually did, he wouldn't have gone to the doctor and his coach wouldn't have explicit orders to give him mandatory rest.
Three fucking months.
What was he even supposed to do?
The answer arrived at six thirty the next morning. His clock going off, the incessant beep-beep-beep of his alarm filling the empty room. He opens his eyes slowly, still a little groggy from sleep as he stares at the ceiling. He doesn't reach to turn the thing off. Not yet.
Because for as long as Art Donaldson could remember, waking up and getting the day started had been easy: Practice. Class. Training. Repeat. He didn't have a place to be this morning. Class didn't start until 9am and he usually had a quick breakfast with his teammates once practice was over.
Beep-beep-beep-beep. Regular people didn't wake up this early unless they had class, right? Maybe he should go back to sleep. He doesn't even try after a few seconds of careful consideration — he knows he won't be able to, something about his inner clock. Patrick used to make fun of him for it. Freshman year, Art had shown up at five in the morning ready to practice because he'd woken up and couldn't think of anything else to do. After a month of that, they'd both agreed that mercy was moving their schedule a few hours later.
Beep-beep-beep-beep. Tashi was probably in practice right now, so getting breakfast with her wasn't an option. Patrick is in Japan of all fucking places. His teammates are doing what he should be doing, had he not been so negligent to his shoulder pain a month ago. He checks his phone, only a text from his mom asking how his doctor's appointment went and a text from Patrick.
"don't let them amputate it"
He scoffs. In other circumstances he would answer with something like "already picked out a hook" or something equally stupid. Not today. He throws the phone in the mattress, beside him. Beep-beep-beep-beep. Three months. He's not in the mood to humor Patrick.
Beep-beep- he slams his hand on the off button hard enough to make it squeak and sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his tennis bag that's currently propped up beside the door. For a moment he considered grabbing it. Just grabbing it, walking to the courts and pretend yesterday never happened. The thought lasted all three seconds. His coach had already been informed. So had the athletic department. If Art showed up to practice, he'd be sent right back to his dorm with a lecture he had no interest in hearing.
He was supposed to do nothing.
With a deep sigh he got on his feet and walked to the shower.
Every movement became a test. Reaching for the shampoo. Rolling his shoulder back. Scrubbing at the back of his neck. He paid attention to each one, waiting for that familiar pinch beneath his shoulder blade, the dull ache that had followed him around for weeks. The hot water beat against his skin as he lifted his arm again. Slowly. Carefully.
Did it hurt less today?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
It was impossible to tell.
Art squeezed a handful of chamomile-scented shampoo into his palm and worked it through his hair. The motion felt awkward now that he was thinking about it. Everything felt awkward now that he was thinking about it. He raised his arm again. Still there.
The ache wasn't sharp anymore, just stubborn. He wondered if this was what the next three months would be like: standing in showers, stretching in front of mirrors, taking pills and trying to convince himself he was healing.
None of it felt anything like tennis.
None of it felt anything like cracking a serve down the T or catching the sweet spot of his racket on a clean forehand.
The doctor had said rest.
Art wasn't sure what to do with a body that wasn't allowed to do anything.
When he steps out into campus he notices it's still half asleep. It’s around 7:15 and anyone who isn’t already in class is in bed. He hates it. He hates the morning light reflecting on the dorm building’s windows with that searing light. He hates how people clutch their coffees as if someone would try to steal it from them. He hates feeling cold when outside is also cold; he’s used to be sweating by this hour.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt reading "STANFORD" and keeps walking. The original plan had been to grab breakfast after practice. No practice meant no plan. Art wandered past the athletic center, deliberately and trying really hard to keep his eyes fixed on the sidewalk. He didn't need to see the courts. He definitely didn't need to hear them.
Somewhere ahead, a machine hissed. The smell of coffee hit him just a second later. Coffee. He didn't drink coffee, he wasn't particularly fond of the stuff. Patrick drank coffee. Tashi drank coffee. He didn't drink coffee and even prided himself, secretly, in not doing so. He didn't need caffeine to function so much as Patrick did, he didn't have a single vice.
Still, it was warm.
More importantly, it was somewhere to be.
Immediately, a wave of heat washed over him.
The bell from the store rang overhead when he stepped in. There were only a handful of people scattered around the room: students hunched over laptops, someone asleep on a textbook in the corner, a girl arguing with someone that clearly wasn't listening on the phone. Normal people.
Art had never felt further away from them.
Patrick ordered americano, right? But that had always smelt too strong and he didn't want to waste a whole three bucks on something he wouldn't particularly enjoy. He orders a latte and carries it to the nearest empty table.
The coffee was still too hot to drink. Not that it mattered.
He sat there for a few minutes, staring out the window and pretending not to think about tennis. It wasn't going particularly well since he could still hear the hard thwack of the ball in the courts.
The bell above the door chimed again. Art looked up automatically.
A girl walked in carrying enough books to qualify as a workplace hazard. Three hardcovers pressed against her chest, a canvas tote bag slipping off one shoulder, and a notebook tucked awkwardly beneath her arm. One of the books hit the floor before she even made it to the counter.
"Shit."
Nobody looked up.
She sighed, crouched to retrieve it, and immediately dropped another. She gave up, and walked to the window table, dropping everything then going back to retrieve the book that was still on the floor.
After ordering and within thirty seconds she'd spread out two novels, a yellow legal pad, three highlighters, and enough loose papers to cover half the table. Art watched her underline a sentence, flip a page, underline another sentence, then immediately cross out whatever she'd just written.
She looked deeply unhappy. Which was strange, considering she was voluntarily reading for fun. English major, he guessed.
A minute later she groaned.
Not sighed.
Not huffed.
Groaned.
The sound was loud enough that three people glanced up from their laptops but she didn't mind it, just glared at her blank page as if she could intimidate it into giving her the answers she needed.
Art had looked up too.
The girl crossed out an entire paragraph, stared at it for a moment, then dropped her forehead against the table with a soft thud and a defeated sigh.
Art snorted. Her head immediately lifted.
"Something funny?"
He should've looked away and pretended none of this interaction happened. Let her be miserable with her stack of books and apparent hatred of whatever she was reading.
Instead he said, "You look like you're being tortured."
She stared at him. Then at the stack of books.
Then back at him with a little smirk.
"That's because I am."
"What class?"
"Victorian literature."
Art blinked slowly.
"That sounds made up."
"That's because you're probably an athlete majoring in economics."
"Business, actually."
"See?" she smirks, a little giggle escaping her lips, gesturing vaguely in his direction, as if that proved her point. "Meanwhile, I decided to dedicate four years of my life to decoding what dead people were trying to say."
"Sounds awful."
"It is." But she doesn't seem like she means it. She seems almost fond.
"Then why do it?" God he's already in whatever this is, might as well keep the conversation going.
"Because I'm stupid enough to major in my passion with a field that isn't hiring."
That got an actual laugh out of him. The first one that morning.
"How'd you know I'm an athlete?" He stirred his latte absently, his mind drifting towards backhands and serves and match-points briefly.
"You have shoulders like a fridge."
Art looked down at himself.
He supposed she wasn't wrong.
The gray Stanford sweatpants were enough to give him away on their own, but even without them, there wasn't much mystery to solve. Years of training had settled into him in ways he rarely thought about anymore. Broad shoulders. Strong arms. The kind of posture that came from spending half his life on a court with a racket in his hand.
He used to like that. No- He still liked it.
He liked looking like the result of all those early mornings and aching muscles and hours spent hitting the same shot over and over until it was perfect. He liked that people could look at him and know, immediately, that he was good at something.
But sitting here with a cooling latte and a shoulder that throbbed whenever he forgot not to move it, the certainty felt a little fragile.
Athlete.
Twenty-four hours ago, the word would've felt right. Now it felt like something he was borrowing. Like a shirt he'd forgotten he would eventually have to take off. His gaze lingered on the Stanford logo stitched into the fabric of his sweatpants.
Tennis.
The word followed him everywhere. Across campus. Into classrooms. Into doctor's offices. Into coffee shops where strange English majors compared him to kitchen appliances. For a brief, ridiculous moment, he wondered what she would've guessed if he wasn't wearing the sweatpants.
If she would've looked at him and seen something else.
Then again, Art wasn't entirely sure there was anything else to see.
"A fridge?"
"A very athletic fridge."
"That's not better." He smirks.
They spent the rest of the morning talking. His latte lays forgotten in the table, half drank through. An hour into the conversation, she closed her books with a dramatic sigh and pushed them aside. Because after the fridge comment, tennis or athleticism isn't brought up any more. It felt weird. Not the conversation itself. Art could talk to people. He gave interviews. Talked to sponsors. Made polite conversation at donor dinners and alumni events with people triple his age and quadruple his money.
This felt different.
Easy.
The kind of easy that sneaks up on you. One minute they're arguing about whether books should be allowed to end sadly, and the next he's checking the time and realizing nearly two hours have passed.
Two hours. Time for class now.
And he hadn't thought about tennis once after the fridge comment. The realization hit him so suddenly that he almost looked toward the courts. As if his thoughts might be waiting for him there. They came rushing back a second later, of course.
The injury.
Practice.
Three months.
But for a little while. For an hour and fifty-three minutes, according to the clock above the counter, he'd forgotten.
"Oh fuck" she gasps softly as he glanced at the clock.
8:57.
"Late?"
"Very."
She started shoving papers into folders with all the urgency of someone who'd forgotten time existed in this little bubble of conversation with a pretty blonde and pathetic man.
"That's what happens when you spend two hours insulting my major."
"I think I was defending literature." He smirks, passing her the pens and papers that were still scattered around.
"You called Dickens a loser."
"He had nine hundred pages to prove me wrong and all he did was prove me right."
"Goodbye, Art."
He blinked.
"I never told you my name."
She paused.
Then pointed at his sweatshirt. Right. Stanford Tennis. Art Donaldson.
Embroidered directly over his heart.
"See you tomorrow," she said with a wave.
Then she was gone.
Tomorrow?
Art knows better than to get ideas over that word. It was a simple, absentminded, meaningless word of goodbye people said all the time. Yet, he couldn't help but take it as a promise. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would come here and talk with this girl he just met and spend two hours not thinking about tennis or his shoulder or his shoulder keeping him away from tennis. Hope.
The next morning, Art showed up with a sandwich.
Yesterday's latte had been a terrible breakfast. Somewhere between arguing about useless majors and defending the existence of sad endings, he'd forgotten to eat. By the time he got to class, he'd been hungry enough to consider chewing on his notebook.
He wasn't making that mistake again.
The sandwich sat in a paper bag under his arm as he pushed open the café door. The bell chimed overhead. Art glanced automatically toward the table by the window. The table by the window wasn't empty.
She was already there, now actually getting some work done. A stack of books sat beside her coffee, though there appeared to be fewer of them today. Art hated how relieved he felt. They won't sit at different tables today, he decides and so sits in front of her.
She smiles.
Tomorrow turns into many tomorrows. And in that time, Art learns she takes her coffee with too much sugar. She learns he peels the paper sleeve off his cups when he's thinking. They learn each other's schedules. Somewhere along the way, Art realizes he likes rainy mornings. Not because they cancel practice—he's always hated canceled practice. Just because the coffee shop gets quieter.
He realizes he likes listening to people talk about things they care about, even when he doesn't understand half of what they're saying. He realizes he likes sitting by the window. He realizes he likes sandwiches more than protein bars.
He realizes he likes making her laugh.
That one sneaks up on him.
The first morning she wasn't there, Art assumed she'd overslept.
He arrived at the coffee shop with enough time to spare before class, sandwich tucked under his arm and latte already ordered. The chair across from him remained empty, but that wasn't unusual. Sometimes she arrived first. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she spent ten minutes waiting in line because she couldn't decide between coffee and tea.
So he sat down and waited.
The bell above the door chimed.
Not her.
It chimed again.
Still not her.
After twenty minutes he pulled out his phone, texting with Patrick more out of boredom than anything else, and spent the rest of the hour pretending he wasn't checking the entrance every time someone walked in.
The next day she wasn't there either.
That was unusual.
By the third morning, he knew something was wrong.
Not wrong wrong. Not emergency wrong. Just enough wrong to leave a hollow feeling in the center of his routine. A text arrived halfway through breakfast.
dying
have been murdered by a cold
if i don't survive tell mr. wilson i hated him
Art stared at the message for a second before laughing into his coffee. The relief came embarrassingly fast.
Not dead.
Just sick.
He typed back before he could overthink it.
tragic
Three dots appeared immediately.
thank you for your sympathy
it means a lot
The conversation lasted less than a minute. Somehow the coffee shop felt emptier afterwards. It took him another day to understand why. Because the problem wasn't that he was bored, or that he missed tennis. The problem wasn't even that he missed talking.
The problem was that he missed her. The realization arrived quietly.
No dramatic lightning strike. No sudden revelation or epiphany. Just Art sitting beneath a tree near the lake one afternoon, staring at a sandwich he'd bought fifteen minutes ago and still hadn't touched.
A month ago he would've spent this time practicing.
A month ago he would've known exactly what to do with himself.
Now he found himself noticing things, which was something like it. The way sunlight reflected across the water. The old man who fed birds every afternoon at almost exactly three, she had noticed and told him. The freshman who spent entire lectures asleep on the grass. The smell of cut grass after the groundskeepers finished mowing.
Tiny things. Pointless things. Things that didn't improve his backhand or his ranking or his serve percentage. Things he would've dismissed as distractions before.
Sometimes he brought one of the novels she'd abandoned on the coffee shop table and forced him to borrow. The books themselves weren't really the point. Half the time he wasn't even sure what was happening. But every few pages he'd stumble across a sentence she'd underlined, a note she'd scribbled in the margin, a sarcastic comment squeezed between paragraphs.
And suddenly he could hear her voice again. It made the campus feel less empty. That realization bothered him. A lot.
Because recovering from a stupid shoulder injury was one thing. Recovering from missing somebody felt considerably less straightforward.
By the time she came back the following week, pale and armed with enough tissues to survive a natural disaster, Art had accidentally built an entire routine.
Morning coffee. Class. Walks around campus. Reading exactly five pages before giving up and staring out a window. Lunch. Physical therapy. The lake. More coffee.
It wasn't much. It certainly wasn't tennis. But it was something. And for a little while, that was enough. Until one afternoon it wasn't.
They'd taken their drinks outside to escape the noise inside the café.
The weather had finally begun warming up, sunlight stretching across the courtyard and filling the campus with students who had collectively decided studying was much less important than existing outdoors.
She was talking. Something about a movie. Or a professor. Or maybe both. Art wasn't listening. Across the quad, faint but unmistakable, came the sharp crack of a tennis ball.
His head turned automatically.
A serve.
Another.
Then another.
The rhythm lived somewhere deeper than thought. Muscle memory. Instinct. Home. His stomach tightened. The courts sat partially hidden beyond a line of trees, but he could imagine everything perfectly. The smell of hard court paint warming in the sun. The squeak of shoes. The familiar weight of a racket handle against his palm. The feeling of striking the ball perfectly. God he hadn't touched his racket in weeks.
Weeks in which he'd managed to avoid thinking about it. Not because he'd stopped caring but because he'd gotten distracted. Now the reminder stood directly in front of him.
A life continuing without him. Some freshman was probably taking his place in practice right now. Improving. Getting better. Moving faster. While Art sat here drinking coffee and discussing nineteenth-century literature, that freshman was closer to getting an actual career in tennis than him. Something ugly settled in his chest. Jealousy. Frustration.
Grief.
Whatever it was, it made him feel restless beneath his own skin.
"Art?"
"What?" The word came out sharper than intended. She blinked and frowned softly.
Immediately he regretted it. But not enough to apologize. Not yet.
"Nothing." She said and sounded a little hurt. The conversation stalled.
Students passed around them and she fell quiet, fidgeting with a loose string on her sweater, suddenly very interested in it. Laughter drifted through the courtyard. Somewhere in the distance another tennis ball cracked against strings.
Art clenched his jaw.
"I said nothing."
"Yeah, I heard you." she said softly, a little defensive but more hurt.
After a beat, she studied him for a moment. Not offended. Not angry. Just patient. Which somehow made everything worse. Because patience implied understanding. And understanding implied she could see straight through him. Finally she glanced toward the courts.
Then back at him.
"Oh." Just that. Oh. No lecture. No questions. No attempt to fix it.
She simply understood.
Art looked away first, clenching his jaw at the realization of how pretty her eyes looked in the sunlight at this particular time of day and someone cheered in the courts and his eyes sharpened. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It settled between them softly.
Like shade.
Like forgiveness. A few minutes later she nudged her untouched cookie toward him. He stared at it like it called him a failure. Then at her like she called him sane.
"You know that's not going to solve anything." he scoffs, a slight roll of his eyes not at her but at the whole situation.
"No." She took a sip of coffee. "But you're less annoying when you're eating, and it's easier to pretend we're silent because you have a cookie mouthful instead of the actual reason, which is your toxic wife, tennis, making you grumpy".
Against his will, he laughed and she smiled.
The sound surprised both of them. And just like that, some of the tightness in his chest loosened.
Not gone.
Never gone.
Just lighter.
Manageable.
For the first time since the doctor's office, Art realized he didn't always need someone to fix things. Sometimes he just needed someone willing to sit beside him while they hurt.
Patrick comes back on a Thursday afternoon with two suitcases, three new stories, and exactly the same amount of self-preservation he left with.
Art almost doesn't go pick him up.
Not because he doesn't want to see him. Because physical therapy had run late and traffic was awful and he had spent half the morning trying not to think about the fact that he was still weeks away from touching a racket again.
Still, he goes.
Friendship, apparently, required effort.
The drive back is easy. Familiar. Patrick talks enough for both of them, filling every silence with stories from Japan, complaints about airports, and increasingly ridiculous claims about things that definitely did not happen but are somehow still entertaining. Art laughs more than he means to. The shoulder injury has made everyone around him unbearably careful. Coaches. Trainers. Teammates. Even his mother, somehow, has developed a talent for sounding worried through text messages.
Patrick remains blessedly immune to concern.
By the time they reach campus, Art almost feels normal again. Almost.
The next morning, Patrick wakes up just after seven and finds Art already dressed. He slept in his room because Tashi hates his kicking in sleep. Art has never minded.
Art's already dressed. That part isn't unusual.
Art has always been awake before everybody else. Patrick once described him as a retired sixty-year-old trapped inside the body of a college athlete. Art had considered that rude. Patrick had considered it accurate.
What is unusual is the fact that Art is putting on shoes instead of grabbing his tennis bag, he usually doesn't give a fuck about injuries and just sucks it up... but this time he's actually resting? Patrick watches from his bed as Art checks the time. Then checks it again. Then picks up his phone. Then puts it down. Then checks the time one more time.
A slow smile spreads across Patrick's face.
"Where are you going?"
Art glances up. "The coffee shop."
Patrick frowns. Not because he's confused. Because he's trying very hard not to laugh.
"The coffee shop?"
"Yes?" Art frowns, almost annoyed, what's so weird about a coffee shop? "Does Japan not have coffee shops?"
"The coffee shop where?"
"The one by the humanities buildings."
Patrick props himself up on one elbow. "You don't even like coffee."
Art shrugs.
"I like the sandwiches."
Patrick has known Art Donaldson for years. He knows when Art is nervous before a match. He knows when Art is lying. He knows when Art is pretending not to care.
Most importantly, he knows Art has never once in his life voluntarily traveled across campus for a sandwich.
The realization lands all at once.
Oh.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
The walk across campus confirms every suspicion. Art walks faster than necessary. Not enough for anybody else to notice, but enough for his best friend to notice. Every few minutes his gaze flicks toward the clock tower. Toward his phone. Toward the path ahead. He's excited.
The idiot is excited.
By the time they reach the coffee shop, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. The bell above the door chimes. The smell of espresso and baked bread fills the room. And then Patrick sees her.
She's sitting by the window exactly where Art said she'd be. Books scattered across the table. Pen between her fingers. Hair falling into her face as she reads. The fascinating part isn't her.
The fascinating part is Art.
Because the second she looks up, something changes.
It's tiny. Almost invisible. His shoulders loosen. The tension leaves his face. Something warm settles into his expression so naturally that Patrick would have missed it if he didn't know him so well. Like somebody opening a window in a stuffy room. Like relief.
She smiles. Art smiles back. Neither of them seem particularly aware they're doing it.
Patrick nearly loses his mind.
Because suddenly every weird thing from the past month makes sense.
The coffee shop.
The sandwiches.
The mysterious improvement in Art's mood.
The fact that he'd stopped talking about tennis every five minutes.
The way he'd seemed less angry. Less restless.
The answer had apparently been sitting in a coffee shop reading Victorian literature. "You're late," she says. Patrick watches Art pull out a chair. "I had to pick Patrick up." Her eyes shift toward him for the first time. Recognition flickers almost immediately. Which he finds offensive. Patrick extends a hand.
"Patrick."
"You're Patrick."
The wording makes him pause.
Not nice to meet you.
Not I've heard about you.
Just: You're Patrick. As if she's been hearing about him for weeks. Patrick turns toward Art slowly. Art suddenly finds the table incredibly interesting. The little traitor. Something starts to bloom inside Patrick's chest. Not jealousy. Not annoyance. Something far more dangerous. Affection. Because for the first time since the injury, Art looks happy.
Not distracted.
Not coping.
Happy.
The realization hits Patrick with surprising force.
For years, Art's entire world has been built around tennis. Around practice schedules and rankings and tournaments and expectations. Every decision leading toward the next match. The next win. The next goal. Then his shoulder gives out. Everything stops. And somehow, in the empty space left behind, somebody wandered in carrying too many books and started teaching him how to live when he wasn't playing.
Patrick watches them fall into conversation without effort.
Watches Art laugh.
Watches him listen.
Really listen. Like there isn't somewhere else he'd rather be. And for one brief, horrifying moment, Patrick realizes something before Art does: Art Donaldson is absolutely screwed.
The conversation starts because Tashi notices.
Of course she does.
Patrick notices because Patrick notices everything. He collects information the way some people collect souvenirs, storing away every embarrassing detail he can weaponize later. Tashi notices because she pays attention to things that matter.
Which means Art should have known he was doomed the second both of them ended up at the same lunch table.
The dining hall is loud around them. Trays scraping against tables, conversations overlapping into an indistinct hum, somebody dropping a fork somewhere across the room. Normally Art likes the noise. It reminds him of tournaments. Of airports. Of movement.
Today it feels like background music to his own execution.
Patrick has spent the last ten minutes watching him with the barely-contained excitement of somebody waiting for a surprise party to start. Tashi has spent the last ten minutes watching him the way a coach watches an athlete making a preventable mistake.
Neither expression bodes well.
Art stabs his fork into a piece of chicken. Immediately regrets sitting down.
"So," Tashi says eventually. The word is perfectly innocent. Art still feels his stomach drop. "No."
Tashi blinks. "I haven't asked anything."
"You were about to."
A smile flickers across Patrick's face. The bastard actually looks proud.
Tashi leans back in her chair, folding her arms. Sunlight from the tall cafeteria windows catches in her hair and turns the edges gold. She studies him for a moment.
Not unkindly. Just thoughtfully. Like she's trying to solve a problem.
"How's physical therapy?"
Art exhales slowly. A trap. Definitely a trap.
"Fine."
"And your shoulder?"
"Fine."
"Recovery?"
"Fine."
"Tennis?"
The word lands differently than the others. It always does. For a second Art's attention drifts. Past the cafeteria windows. Past the crowds of students moving across campus. Toward courts he can't see from here but can still imagine perfectly.
Tashi notices immediately. Of course she notices.
"You've been watching your old matches, right?"
Art takes a drink before answering. Not because he's thirsty. Because it buys him time.
"Sometimes." The lie hangs between them.
Not a huge lie. Not an unforgivable one. Just enough of one that Tashi recognizes it immediately. Her expression changes. The slightest narrowing of her eyes. Disappointment.
Not in him, he hopes. In the answer. Art knows that look. She's already imagining all the things he could be doing.
Breaking down old footage. Studying technique. Analyzing weaknesses. Improving strategy.
Even injured, Tashi believes improvement should never stop. The difference between them has always been that Art wants to win. Tashi wants to understand why people win and replicate it.
"Art." His name leaves her mouth with the same exhausted patience she'd use on a child refusing medicine.
"You have months of recovery. You could be studying every match you've ever played."
Patrick makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Tashi ignores him.
"You could be analyzing technique. Looking for patterns. Identifying weaknesses. You could come back better than before."
Art rubs a hand over his face. The speech feels familiar. Not because she's wrong. Because she isn't. That's the problem.
Somewhere beneath all the frustration and resentment and self-pity, he knows she has a point. A few months ago he would've been doing exactly that. A few months ago the thought of wasting time would've made his skin crawl. Now, somehow, entire afternoons disappear.
Coffee turns into conversations. Conversations turn into walks.
Walks turn into evenings spent sitting on campus lawns discussing books he has no intention of reading. The realization feels oddly embarrassing. Patrick finally stops pretending to stay out of it.
The grin spreading across his face is positively demonic. "Tell her."
Art closes his eyes. "No."
"Tell her why."
"No."
"Tell her why you've stopped watching tennis." His fucking tone is like a kid pressing another into doing something reckless that'll get them into trouble.
"I haven't stopped."
"You absolutely have." Patrick has the audacity to laugh, mockingly.
"I watched a match last week."
Patrick looks delighted.
"Oh, good! One match"
"It was a long match."
"It was one set."
Art hates him. Truly. Deeply. With his entire soul.
Across the table, Tashi is beginning to understand. Art can actually see it happening. The pieces clicking together. The sudden shift in her expression as she reaches the correct conclusion.
"A girl? Are you serious, Art?"
Patrick lights up immediately. "Oh, she got there."
Art considers throwing his drink at both of them.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"You like her?" The words are spoken so casually that for a second they don't even register.
Then they do. Art immediately scoffs. Not because he's offended. Because the alternative is acknowledging the heat suddenly creeping up the back of his neck.
"She's my friend." Patrick actually laughs. Not a polite laugh. A genuine one. The kind that makes him lean back in his chair.
"Oh my God."
"Shut up."
"You've been spending every morning with her for weeks!"
"We drink coffee, we're not holding hands or- or fucking or-"
"You've read books." That laugh again.
"Parts of books." Art scoffs, rolling his eyes and dropping his fork to stare daggers at Patrick.
"You voluntarily attended a poetry reading, Art-"
Art points a finger at him.
"That was an accident."
"It lasted three hours."
"I didn't know it was a poetry reading."
"What a bullshit excuse! You didn't notice it was a fucking poetry reading when they snapped instead of clapping-"
Tashi watches the exchange unfold in silence. Then something catches her attention. Her gaze shifts beyond Art's shoulder. Toward the entrance. Immediately Patrick follows. Then both of them stop talking. The silence is so abrupt that Art notices. He turns.
And sees her.
She's standing near the cafeteria doors, pushing hair behind her ear as she looks around the room. For a moment she doesn't seem to find whoever she's looking for.
Then her eyes land on him.
The change is immediate. A wide smile spreads across her face.
Huge. Soft. Effortless.
The kind of smile that exists before somebody even realizes they're smiling. Art feels something warm unfold inside his chest.
Relief. Recognition. Happiness.
Whatever it is, it arrives so naturally he doesn't think about it. He simply smiles and waves back. Nothing else happens. No dramatic moment. No conversation. No grand gesture.
Just two people spotting each other across a crowded room. A second later she's being pulled toward another table by her friends. The moment passes. Art turns back around.
Patrick is staring at him.
Tashi is staring at him.
Neither says a word. Neither has to.
Because for the first time, Art understands exactly what they saw. The way his entire mood shifted. The way the tension disappeared from his injured shoulder. The way seeing her felt like finally exhaling after holding his breath all day.
His stomach drops.
Oh.
Across the room she's laughing at something her friend said. Completely unaware that his life has just become significantly more complicated. Patrick's grin grows impossibly wider. Tashi pinches the bridge of her nose.
And Art, for perhaps the first time since his injury, finds himself facing a problem he has absolutely no idea how to solve because suddenly it occurs to him that they've never actually gone anywhere. Not really.
Coffee shops. The quad. Campus benches. Library steps. Always Stanford. Always between classes. Always tomorrow. The thought settles heavily in his chest.
Because wanting to see her tomorrow feels very different from wanting to see her on purpose. And for the first time, those two things no longer feel the same.
The next morning, Art arrived before she did. He tried not to think too much about what that meant. The coffee shop had become familiar enough now that he barely noticed it anymore—the hiss of the espresso machine, the warm smell of coffee and baked bread, the students half-asleep over textbooks. A month ago he felt trapped here. Restless. Like every minute spent sitting still was a minute stolen from something more important.
Now he found himself checking the door every few seconds. The realization should have embarrassed him more than it did. He wrapped both hands around his drink and stared out the window, pretending to watch people crossing the quad. In reality, he was counting. Three minutes. Five. He'd cry if she had a cold again. Eight minutes.
Then the bell above the door chimed. The shift inside him was immediate. Embarrassingly immediate. Before he even fully registered it was her, some part of him already knew.
She was carrying too many books again. Not enough to drop this time, but enough to make him wonder if she experienced the world under a permanent avalanche of paper and ink. The oversized sweater she wore today swallowed her whole. One sleeve hung slightly over her hand as she adjusted the strap of her bag. Her hair looked messier than usual, as if she'd left in a hurry. There was a faint crease pressed into one cheek from a pillow.
Art stared. Not because she was doing anything remarkable. Because she existed. Which somehow felt remarkable. The problem wasn't that she was pretty. He'd known she was pretty for weeks. The problem was that once he'd admitted to himself he liked her, he suddenly became aware of how much attention he'd been paying all along.
He knew which rings she wore most often. Three silver bands. One plain, one slightly twisted, and one with a tiny stone set into it. He knew she preferred sweaters to jackets even when the weather clearly called for a jacket. He knew she tucked loose strands of hair behind her left ear but never her right. He knew she always ordered before sitting down, even when the line stretched halfway through the shop. He knew her laugh changed depending on what she found funny. There was a polite laugh, a sarcastic laugh, and a genuine one that arrived so suddenly it seemed to catch her by surprise.
The terrifying thing wasn't noticing.
The terrifying thing was realizing he'd already memorized all of it.
Without trying. Without meaning to. Like his brain had quietly decided she was important weeks before he'd caught up.
She looked up from the line and spotted him. Immediately she smiled. And just like that, his entire morning improved. The simplicity of it almost made him angry. Months of discipline. Years of training. Endless hours spent learning how to control his body under pressure.
Yet apparently all it took to completely derail him was his girl smiling from across a coffee shop. His girl? Jesus fucking Christ.
She sat down a few minutes later and launched into a story about a professor who had somehow managed to spend forty minutes discussing symbolism without ever explaining what the symbol meant. Art listened. Or at least he tried to.
The problem was that Patrick had ruined him.
Ever since lunch, ever since the cafeteria, ever since watching her walk through those doors and feeling something in his chest rearrange itself, Art couldn't stop seeing her differently.
Not differently. More honestly. He noticed the movement of her hands when she spoke. The way she grew animated when she was passionate about something. The way her eyes widened before she made a point she was particularly proud of. The way her mouth curved when she knew she was right.
And Christ that wasn't helping either. Because she'd always been beautiful. He knew that. What he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge was that she was hot.
Not in the distant, objective way people described celebrities. Not in the casual way college students pointed out attractive strangers.
Hot in the deeply inconvenient way that made him suddenly aware of the shape of her mouth while she was talking. Hot in the way that made his gaze linger too long before he forced himself to look away. Hot in the way that made him think things he absolutely should not be thinking at seven-thirty in the morning.
The realization nearly made him choke on his coffee.
Which was unfortunate because she immediately noticed.
"Are you okay?"
He coughed into his fist. "Fine." Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She narrowed her eyes. "You don't look fine."
"I'm fine."
She kept staring. Art looked away first. A tactical retreat. The only one available. Unfortunately, retreating didn't solve the problem. Because now he was painfully aware of the fact that he wanted more.
Not more coffee shop mornings. Not more accidental meetings. More her.
The whole thing. The afternoons. The evenings. The parts of her life that existed outside the two-hour window they'd carved out for themselves. The thought settled into his chest with surprising weight.
Because suddenly it occurred to him that despite everything they knew about one another, they had never actually spent time together on purpose. Not really. The coffee shop had happened by accident.
Every morning after had happened because of habit. Because routine. Because convenience.
Yet somehow he knew what she ordered for breakfast and what kind of books she liked and how she laughed when she forgot to be self-conscious. He knew all that.
And still had no idea what a day with her looked like. The realization lingered. Growing heavier. More persistent. Until eventually he stopped hearing whatever story she was telling and simply found himself looking at her.
Really looking.
Trying to imagine her outside this place. Trying to imagine what she'd be like when there wasn't a class waiting afterwards. When there wasn't somewhere else she needed to be. When there wasn't an excuse.
She paused mid-sentence. The expression on her face shifted. Slowly. Suspiciously.
"What?"
Art blinked.
"What?"
"You keep staring at me."
Heat immediately climbed up his neck. Not ideal. Especially because she was right, he had lost track of time thinking.
"I wasn't staring."
"You absolutely were."
She leaned back slightly. Studying him now. The irony wasn't lost on him. For a second neither of them spoke. The coffee shop hummed quietly around them. Students coming and going. Espresso machines hissing. Morning sunlight spilling across the table between them.
Then, before he could lose his nerve, before he could overthink himself into silence, Art heard himself ask:
"Are you busy today?"
And the second the words left his mouth, he knew.
This wasn't coffee anymore.
This wasn't habit.
This wasn't routine.
This was on purpose.
The thing was, Art didn't have a plan.
People always assumed he did. Coaches, reporters, teammates. Even Patrick liked to joke that Art approached life the same way he approached a tennis match: calculate, prepare, execute.
Usually that was true.
Not today.
Today he'd asked her if she was busy and somehow found himself walking off campus with no destination in mind and no desire to find one.
The morning was cool enough to justify a sweater but warm enough that the sun lingered pleasantly on their skin. Students hurried around them carrying backpacks and coffees and obligations. Art should have felt guilty about skipping class.
Instead, he felt strangely light. Like he'd forgotten something important and couldn't quite bring himself to care. They wandered into a bookstore first. Not because either of them had planned to. Because they passed it and she stopped mid-sentence to stare through the window.
"Oh."
Art followed her gaze. Books. Thousands of them. He looked back at her. The excitement on her face made him laugh. "You already own books." he smiles
"I know." she replies looking at him sheepishly
"You have too many books."
"I know."
"You complain about carrying books." he giggles
"I know." she giggles
Yet five minutes later she was standing between shelves holding three more. Art spent most of that time following her around and pretending he wasn't enjoying himself. The place smelled like paper and dust and old wood. She drifted through the aisles as if she belonged there, running her fingertips lightly along spines and occasionally pulling one free just to show him a passage she liked.
Not the whole passage. Not enough to bore him. Just a sentence. A paragraph. A line she'd underlined years ago in another copy that she had back at home with her parents. Every single time she handed him a book she looked hopeful.
Like she genuinely wanted to know what he thought. As though his opinion mattered. That alone was enough to undo him. The first time he realized the coffee shop version of her wasn't the whole story happened outside.
A little boy stood on the sidewalk beside his mother crying with the kind of complete devastation only children seemed capable of achieving because his ice cream had fallen. One scoop sat upside down on the pavement. The tragedy was apparently immeasurable.
Art barely registered him. Kids cried. Ice cream melted. Life went on.
She stopped walking immediately. Her expression softened. Then she crouched down beside him. Art stayed where he was, watching. The conversation was too quiet for him to hear. Whatever she said made the boy pause.
A few moments later he laughed. Actually laughed. Still sniffling and sticky-faced but laughing.
When she stood up again, she looked pleased with herself. Not proud. Not self-congratulatory. Just happy he'd stopped crying. As though that alone had made the interruption worthwhile. Art found himself staring. She noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
The answer came too quickly. She narrowed her eyes. Clearly unconvinced and curious as to why he was acting so strange today. Then moved on.
The moment lingered on Art as everything with her apparently did. Not because it was extraordinary but because it wasn't. That was the problem. She hadn't helped because anybody was watching. Hadn't helped because it benefited her. She'd helped because somebody was upset. And apparently that was enough.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded the same way. A hundred tiny discoveries. A hundred tiny surprises. At one point she stopped to pet a golden retriever tied outside a café.
Not a quick pat. Not a polite hello.
An entire conversation while she looked into its eyes and made exaggerated expressions when talking to it. The dog seemed delighted. So did she.
Twenty minutes later she was talking to a cashier she'd never met before as though they'd been friends for years. Then she spent ten minutes pointing out architectural details on buildings Art had walked past hundreds of times without noticing.
The shape of windows. The carvings around doorways. The strange little gargoyles perched above rooftops.
"How do you even see these things?" he asked with a laugh. She looked genuinely confused.
"How do you not?"
That answer stayed with him. Because she seemed to notice everything. Not in a critical way. Not in a judgmental way like Tashi did. In a curious way. Like the world was constantly offering her things to discover. And she accepted every single one with open arms and a gentle disposition.
By the time they ended up in a movie theater, Art already felt slightly overwhelmed. Not by the day. By her.
The movie itself was good, or at least he assumed it was. He spent most of the first half distracted. The second half held his attention better.
Until he heard a sniffle followed by another.
Art glanced sideways. She immediately pointed at the screen.
"Don't, s-shut up."
"I didn't say anything." he snickered, a mix of worry and amusement in his tone.
"You were going to." she whispered yelled, cleaning her face.
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
Her eyes were suspiciously shiny. A tear escaped. She looked betrayed as she pouted and tried holding them in as she stared in wonder at the screen. Betrayed as though her own face had turned against her.
Art laughed. She glared. Which only made him laugh harder.
By the time the credits rolled she was openly wiping her eyes.
"I just think people should communicate." she offered in a tiny hiccup
"They did communicate."
"They communicated too late." she groaned, and Art wondered if she actually understood people on screen were actors and not real people.
"That's the entire plot."
"I know."
The earnest frustration in her voice nearly killed him. Outside, they spent another ten minutes discussing alternate endings. As though fictional people had personally wronged her. Art listened and contributed to her little fantasy. Smiling like an idiot.
At some point they stopped for dinner. The restaurant wasn't fancy. Neither of them cared, they were used to sandwiches and lattes that weren't even that good.
Halfway through the meal she interrupted herself. Mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-breath. Everything stopped.
"Oh my God."
Art blinked. "What?" A hair in her food? After everything today he swore he'd personally annihilate whoever was at fault if she was displeased with her food-
"This." She pushed her plate toward him. "You have to try this."
No hesitation. No self-consciousness. Just immediate certainty. Ah.
As though sharing was the most natural thing in the world, Art took a bite.
Immediately understood. The food was good and yet that wasn't the point. The point was the way she watched him while he tasted it.
Waiting.
Hopeful.
Wanting him to enjoy something simply because she enjoyed it. The gesture lodged itself somewhere deep inside his chest. The deeper they got into the day, the more it happened.
Tiny moments.
Tiny kindnesses.
Tiny pieces of her.
By sunset, Art felt as though he'd spent the entire day discovering rooms inside a house he'd mistaken for a single door. The coffee shop version of her had always felt complete. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. He'd thought that was the whole picture.
Instead it turned out she'd barely fit inside the frame he'd built for her.
There was so much more. Kindness that seemed instinctive. Curiosity that touched everything. A way of moving through the world that made ordinary things feel worth noticing. And perhaps worst of all, every new thing he learned only made him like her more.
By the time they were walking back toward campus beneath a sky streaked pink and gold, Art felt strangely overwhelmed. Not because he'd spent the entire day with her. Because it still didn't feel like enough. Because tomorrow suddenly seemed too far away. Because he could already feel himself wanting another day.
And another.
And another after that.
The realization settled quietly into his chest. Heavy. Certain. Terrifying.
He was in love with her.
Completely.
Hopelessly.
And judging by the way she was laughing beside him, completely unaware of the crisis unfolding in his head.
By the time they reached her dorm, the campus had quieted considerably.
The rush of students heading to classes and dining halls had long since faded into the background. Most windows glowed warmly against the darkening evening, scattered rectangles of yellow light tucked between old brick and ivy. Somewhere in the distance, somebody was playing music badly enough that Art couldn't identify the song. The air had cooled just enough to justify the sweater she'd tied around her waist hours ago and forgotten to put back on.
Neither of them seemed particularly eager to acknowledge they had arrived. The conversation had slowed naturally during the walk back. Not because they'd run out of things to say. Quite the opposite; Art felt as though they could have continued talking until sunrise.
She stopped at the foot of the steps leading toward her dorm entrance and shifted her bag higher onto her shoulder. For a moment neither moved. Neither spoke. The day settled softly between them.
The bookstore.
The movie.
The dinner.
The countless tiny moments Art knew he would replay later. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I had a really good time today."
The words shouldn't have made his heart pound that harshly. They did anyway.
Art looked at her. Really looked at her.
At the way the fading light softened the edges of her face. At the faint flush still lingering in her cheeks from laughing. At the familiar rings glinting beneath the campus lights. He thought about the last few months.
About the injury.
About the coffee shop.
About every morning that had followed.
About all the ways she had quietly become the best part of his day. Then he thought about how unbearable it suddenly seemed to leave.
"Oh." The sound escaped before he could stop it.
She laughed softly. "What?"
Art rubbed the back of his neck. Immediately regretted it. Because now he had to say the thing. The realization was terrifying.
He'd played championship matches with less anxiety for Christ's sake.
"Okay."
Her smile widened. "Okay what?"
Art exhaled slowly. "I'm going to do something."
She blinked with a laugh. "What kind of introduction is that?"
"A necessary one!" He groaned, nerves on edge
"That doesn't answer my question."
"It will in a second just- listen!"
The amusement in her expression deepened. God. He was gone. Completely gone.
"If you hate it," he continued, "you have full permission to punch me into next year and never talk to me again, I-I'm serious."
She stared at him. Then laughed. "Art—"
He kissed her.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was confident.
Mostly because if he waited another five seconds, he thought he might pass out. For one terrible, horrifying fraction of a second, his brain supplied every possible worst-case scenario. Then she kissed him back.
The relief nearly knocked the air from his lungs. Her hand found his sleeve first. Then his shoulder. Carefully. Always careful with that shoulder. The realization hit him with almost painful tenderness.
Even now.
Even here.
She remembered.
The kiss deepened naturally, neither of them particularly interested in being the first to pull away. When they finally did, Art found himself staring. Again.
Apparently that was simply going to be a permanent condition now. Her cheeks were pink. Her smile was impossible.
"You know," she said quietly, "that would've been significantly more romantic without the threat of physical violence."
Art laughed. The sound surprised both of them. Then she kissed him again. And somehow that felt even better.
Exactly one week later, Art found himself standing outside her lecture hall trying not to bounce on his heels.
The three months were over. Officially. Completely. Finally.
The physical therapist had cleared him that morning. Limited training. Careful progression.
No heroics.
But cleared.
The words still felt unreal. She emerged from the building bidding goodbye to one of her friends. Art smiled immediately.
She smiled back. Immediately, every time. Without fail.
The consistency of it still made him ridiculously happy.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"That's a lie."
"Probably."
She narrowed her eyes. "What are you plotting, Art?"
Art considered his answer. Then decided honesty was easier. "Would you come to practice with me?"
She blinked. "Practice?"
The confusion was genuine. Completely genuine. Not polite. Not pretend.
Actual confusion.
Art opened his mouth. Then paused. Because for a second he'd forgotten. Forgotten that there had been a time before the coffee shop.
Before them.
Forgotten that the person standing in front of him wasn't part of the Stanford tennis ecosystem. "Tennis," he said. "Practice. The doctor cleared me this morning."
Her entire face brightened. "Oh!" Not because of tennis. Because he was happy. The distinction struck him immediately. "Oh my God, Art." She threw her arms around him. Nearly knocking some papers out of her own hands. "That's amazing!"
"I know." He answered with a grin, blushing.
"I knew you'd be okay."
"I wasn't exactly dying." He giggles as she kisses his forehead.
"You were very dramatic about it." She smirks, ruffling his hair softly
"I was injured." Art laughs trying his best shot at mock offense.
"You were dramatic."
Art rolled his eyes. She grinned. Then, after a moment:
"Of course I'll come." The answer arrived so quickly it caught him off guard.
"Really?"
"Obviously!"
The word settled somewhere warm inside his chest. Obviously. As though there had never been another possible answer. As they started walking, another realization slowly followed. One he couldn't quite ignore.
"You know," he said, "it's weird."
"What is?"
"You forgot."
She looked up. "What?"
"Tennis."
She frowned. "I didn't forget tennis."
"You forgot I played."
Art stared. She laughed harder. "I'm sorry."
"No, seriously."
"I am being serious!"
"You forgot."
"I didn't forget."
"You looked genuinely confused."
"Because when you said practice, I thought you meant physical therapy." Art stopped walking. She stopped too. The campus moved around them. Students hurrying to classes. Bikes passing. Leaves rustling overhead. None of it mattered. Because suddenly he understood something.
All those mornings.
All those conversations.
All those weeks.
She'd never cared about Stanford Tennis.
Never cared about rankings. Or scholarships. Or campus fame. Or any of the things people usually attached to him before learning his name.
To her, tennis had simply been... a thing. Something he did. Not who he was. The realization felt strangely emotional.
"Then why do you like me?"
She stared at him. As though he'd asked why the sky was blue. "Art."
"No, seriously."
A smile slowly appeared. Soft. Affectionate. Dangerously fond.
"You really don't know?"
He didn't.
Or maybe he did and just wanted to hear it. The books shifted slightly in her arms. She adjusted them before answering. "Because you're kind." Art immediately scoffed. She ignored him. "You're kind," she repeated. "You pretend you're not because you think kindness has to be loud to count."
"That's not true."
"You spent twenty minutes helping me carry books after we met and acted like it was an inconvenience the entire time."
"I was being polite."
"You remembered my coffee order before I remembered yours."
Art opened his mouth. Closed it.
She continued.
"You're patient. You listen. You care about people even when you pretend not to."
"I do not pretend not to."
"You absolutely do."
The certainty in her voice made him laugh. She smiled. Then softened.
"You work harder than anyone I've ever met." His chest tightened. "And you're brave." Art immediately looked away.
"No."
"Yes."
"Definitely not."
"Art."
The way she said his name stopped him cold. Simple. Certain. Like fact. Like truth. "You spent your whole life building something," she said quietly. "Then you lost it for three months and still figured out how to be yourself without it." The words landed harder than anything else. Because she didn't understand. Or maybe she understood perfectly. The injury had felt like losing himself. And somehow, without meaning to, she'd helped him find himself again.
She smiled.
Small.
Warm.
The same smile from the coffee shop.
The same smile from the first day.
The same smile that had ruined his life in the best way possible.
"And," she added, "I think you're funny."
Art stared. "That's your final argument?"
"It's a very strong argument."
"I hate you."
She laughed. "I know."
Then she slipped her hand into his. As naturally as breathing. As though she'd been doing it forever. And for the first time since the doctor had told him three months, Art realized he no longer measured his life in tennis seasons or tournaments or rankings.
Not first. Now he measured it in mornings. In conversations. In tomorrows. And in the girl who had accidentally taught him there was more to him than the game he'd built his entire life around. ♡
⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔
author's note: this is my first fic after a while, I'm surprised it ended up being this long lol I hadn't written any fanfiction since 2023 so excuse this if it's a little rusty. thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed. -L.
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