Work Text:
Art Donaldson is fifteen minutes late.
Again.
You're not surprised, honestly. He'll come in and say he was stuck with practice or some silly excuse, but anyway, it was you who offered to give him the tutoring.
You’ve already arranged the chairs in your favorite study room at the library, highlighted key points from the essay rubric, and opened the annotated Frankenstein you forced him to borrow last week. The empty chair beside you, however, remains insultingly empty.
You don’t even hear him walk in as you scroll on your phone to kill time — just feel the gust of air when the door swings open and the telltale thunk of a duffle bag hitting the floor.
"Before you say anything," he says, holding up a peace offering in the form of an iced drink, "I got stuck in the traffic trying to get these” he gestures to the drinks. “I was behind a marching band. Like a literal one. Who has a parade on a Tuesday?"
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, how convenient. And so tragic.” you say as you roll your eyes playfully for dramatic effect.
You can hear him let out a soft chuckle as he sets the drink down in front of you with a grin, then slouches into the chair beside yours, sipping on his own drink. "You know, some people would appreciate a little sympathy.”
“Some people would appreciate a fine essay ,” you say, flipping to the page where he last gave up. “Let’s start with that.”
Tutoring with Art started as a joke. A few sarcastic comments during a group study session, one muttered “you write like shit”, and suddenly he was texting you for “just a quick look” at his paper.
Now, it's a standing trade: English help in exchange for weekly tennis lessons. You’re still terrible, but you like how he laughs when you mess up. You like that he never makes you feel dumb — not when you forget which way to hold the racket, not even when you suggest Victor Frankenstein just needed better boundaries.
You also like the way he listens. Really listens. Like your analysis actually matters. Like you matter.
Dangerous territory.
Two days later, you’re on the campus courts, winded and mildly sweaty, pointing your racket at him like a sword.
“You’re literally sabotaging me.”
Art wipes his forehead with the edge of his sleeve. “You keep hitting the ball into the net”
“It was a metaphor.”
“It was a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’ve decided you’re a bad coach.”
He smirks. “I’ve decided you’re a menace.”
You’re still smiling when you both collapse on the bench, passing a water bottle back and forth like a peace treaty.
Art leans back, eyes squinting up at the dusk sky. “Pat showed up today.”
You glance over at him. “Zweig?”
“Yeah.” His jaw tightens a little. “Didn’t even text. Just waltzed in like he owns the fuckin’ court. Said he was here to ‘check on the vibes.’”
You hide a smile. “Oh, so Tashi then”
Art groans. “Obviously. He always says he’s here to say hi, but he’s just looking for her. I swear, the guy only remembers I exist when I’ve got an extra churro.”
Of course he told you about Patrick, he told you all about him, about the MRTA and the Junior's US Open, and of course he told you about Tashi Duncan and the whole hotel room thing.
He also mentioned the way their friendship changed after Patrick won her number. For some reason he felt comfortable venting with you.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “Must be hard. Being the most dramatic tennis player on campus.”
He laughs — a full, head-thrown-back kind of laugh — and for a moment, the silence between you feels different. Charged.
You look away first.
He doesn't.
Eyes lingering on you a little longer than they should.
You pretend you didn't notice.
Then, he finally looks away.
Later, he walks you back to your dorm. Your hands brush once, and neither of you pull away. Just a few meters from your door, you stop, your voice low.
“Hey,” you say, “you actually wrote a good paragraph today.”
Art rubs the back of his neck. “You make it easier. I don’t know. The way you explain things — it’s like I can finally see what it’s supposed to be.”
You swallow. “Yeah. That’s how it feels when you talk about tennis.”
He’s quiet. Just looking at you in that way he does sometimes — like you’re a puzzle he wants to figure out slowly.
And then: “Another round next week, right?”
You smile. “On the court or on the page?”
“Both,” he says. Then adds, a little softer, “If you’ll still have me.”
You nod.
And when he walks away, you find yourself already counting the days until you see his charming smile again.
You’re terrible at tennis.
You know this. Art knows this. The entire Stanford tennis team probably knows this too.
But somehow, every Thursday afternoon, you still show up for the lessons.
And somehow, every Thursday afternoon, Art still smiles when he sees you.
Today, he’s already at the court when you arrive, bouncing a ball off his racket with absent precision. His baseball cap backwards and his red Stanford t-shirt on, a white turtleneck underneath, a sighs you're already used to.
There's a duffle bag tossed unceremoniously on the nearest bench, a textbook sticking out the side like it’s fighting for its life.
You drop your own bag next to his, contemplating the scene for a moment. “Did the literature monster get you again?”
He shakes his head, tossing the ball high and catching it without looking. “Nah. Passed my midterm, thanks to you.” He pauses, almost sheepish. “Actually did pretty decent.”
You give a dramatic gasp. “Was that a compliment? To me?”
Art chuckles. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
You step onto the court, adjusting your grip the way he showed you. He's watching you — not your racket, not your stance. You.
"Alright, coach," you tease. "Lay it on me."
He tosses you a ball. “Today we’re working on not sending projectiles into outer space”
You swat it immediately into the net.
“Solid start,” he deadpans.
About an hour later, you’re both collapsed on the bench, sweaty and laughing and sipping from the same battered water bottle, it feels almost like a ritual at this point.
His baseball cap is somewhere on the floor, golden curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed, and you know he looks gorgeous like that — not that you'd admit it to him, though.
The sun’s starting to sink and painting the court in gold as Art leans back, wrist draped over his eyes. "God. I needed this."
You nudge him with your knee. "Tough week?"
He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow and heavy.
"Patrick and Tashi," he says finally. “It’s like... they're living on their own planet now. I really feel left out everytime I try to get close to them.”
You wait, giving him space to unravel it at his own pace.
"Zweig was supposed to hit the court with me this morning. Blew me off. Guess where he was?"
You hum. "Stuck at Tashi's dorm again?"
Art snorts. “Exactly. And Tash... well, she’s the star of the tennis team, the freaking Duncanator as they call her” he pauses, “I don't know how they are still together… I don't think she’s ever needed anyone, you know? Not the way I..."
He cuts himself off, frowning at the pavement.
You tilt your head. "Not the way you need people?"
He shrugs, a small, defeated motion. "Maybe."
For a second, you see it: past the big smiles and easy charm, the part of Art that wants to be chosen. That maybe he's tired of competing for scraps of their attention. That maybe, deep down, just wants someone to love him like he loves, to need him like he needs.
You set your racket down, careful, deliberate.
Then softly, the words come out of your lips "You have me." You're not even sure you said it out loud, but it felt like the right thing to say at the moment.
It feels too small, too simple. But when he turns his head to look at you, there’s something raw in his eyes. Something that says it matters anyway.
Art bumps your knee with his. "Yeah," he says. "And I'm lucky to have you"
Later that night, you're in your dorm, half-asleep studying for some upcoming exam, and maybe a little distracted thinking of that conversation with Art earlier.
I'm lucky to have you.
These little words are on repeat in your head till the train of thoughts is interrupted by the notification sound of your phone.
> Art Donaldson:
u free tmw? gym’s boring without u embarrassing urself
> You:
shocking u’d miss my tennis disasters
what’s in it for me?
> Art:
loser buys smoothies
deal?
> You:
deal.
You set your phone down, heart stupidly loud in your ears, louder than the thwack of the tennis ball against your racket.
Maybe he’s not gravitating to their planet anymore.
Maybe — just maybe — he’s starting to orbit yours.
You’re getting better at tennis.
Not good — no one would dare to say that — but definitely better.
You've managed to serve without launching the ball into the next county, you can rally for at least three strokes, and once — once — you even won a point against Art.
He teased you for a week straight.
But now, under the heavy, humid press of early May, the courts are quieter. Finals loom, summer plans scatter your friends to internships and hometowns. And still, you and Art keep meeting here, as if you made a promise neither of you ever said out loud.
Tonight, the campus feels half-asleep.
The lamps around the court buzz.
The sky is deep blue velvet.
You're hitting lazy shots back and forth when Art suddenly jogs toward the net, balancing the ball on his racket.
"Alright, literary genius," he says, smirking. "End of semester final challenge."
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"
This sounds interesting, typical of Art.
He spins the racket around like he'd holding a lightsaber in his hand. "If you get three volleys past me — three — I'll buy you dinner."
You squint. "And if I don't?"
He leans forward, resting his arms casually on the net.
"I still buy you dinner," he says, a little too easily.
You laugh, heart stuttering. “That’s rigged.”
"Maybe I want it to be," he says, almost under his breath.
You pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips. You take the challenge anyway. You lose — gloriously. By the end of it, you’re breathless, doubled over, laughing so hard you can’t stand straight.
Art catches the ball in one hand and tosses it aside.
"You," he says, grinning, "are the best worst tennis player I’ve ever seen."
You salute him with your racket. " Think I’ll put that on my resume."
Later on, dinner turns into ice cream. Ice cream turns into sitting on the edge of the bed of his dorm, passing a pint back and forth.
Art is quiet for a while, staring out over the quad where the old ceiling fan is on, an attempt to keep the room fresh.
"Remember when we started this?" he says suddenly.
You lick the edge of the spoon, thinking. "You mean when you almost failed English and decided it was my problem?"
He laughs, but there’s something softer under it.
"I was... kinda a mess," he admits. "Still am, sometimes."
You nudge his shoulder. "Nobody's perfect"
He’s silent again, fiddling with a crumpled napkin. You watch him, the way the light turns the ends of his messy curls shine like gold.
Then he says, very quietly:
"Sometimes it felt like... everybody else was already paired off, you know? Patrick and Tashi, the team guys, even random people in classes. Like everyone had their person. And I was just... floating around."
You swallow.
"You're not floating around anymore," you say.
He finally looks at you — really looks at you — and there it is. All of it. The thing you’ve been pretending not to see for weeks, months. The reason your heart feels like it’s racing even when you’re standing still.
You don't move. You hardly breathe.
"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "I’m not."
Slow, careful, he leans in.
You could stop him. You could joke. You could pretend you don't feel this like lightning burning under your skin.
But you don’t stop him.
You don't even try.
You tilt your chin up and meet him halfway.
The kiss is gentle at first, — shy, tentative, like a question.
When you don't pull away, Art sighs against your mouth like he's been holding his breath for a year.
He tastes like vanilla and salt, and something sweeter on his tongue that you can't name.
His hand finds your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw like he needs to memorize you.
And it feels like a thousand fireworks are going off inside you, like this moment was truly meant to be, and now that is happening, it feels surreal.
When you finally pull apart, you're forehead to forehead, both of you smiling like idiots, he whispers:
"You’re my person."
You squeeze his hand.
"You always were."
It’s been five days since the kiss.
Not that you’re counting.
(You are. You’re absolutely counting.)
Five days, two tennis practices, one english tutoring, a very intense smoothie debate, and exactly fourteen texts where Art somehow found excuses to send you memes at two in the morning.
Now you’re back on the court, empty and golden in the late afternoon, pretending to practice your serve.
You toss the ball. Miss.
You toss again. Miss worse.
"You’re overthinking," Art calls, lounging against the net while adjusting his baseball cap.
You glare at him. "Maybe I’m just allergic to serve"
He pushes off the net and hops over the net, not even bothering to walk around, that familiar easy grin tugging at his mouth.
"You're not allergic," he says. "You're just tense."
He steps close enough that you have to look him in the eye.
Close enough that you can smell the faint, sun-warmed scent of his hoodie.
"Let me show you," he says.
Before you can protest, he’s stepping behind you, hands light on your waist, guiding your stance. His voice is low, soft against your ear.
"Relax your shoulders," he murmurs.
"Don’t force it. Just... trust it."
You could argue. You could snark.
But instead, you just breathe.
You toss the ball up in the air — and this time, when you swing, it sails cleanly over the net.
A small, surprised laugh bursts out of you. You turn, grinning.
Art's face is pure pride — and something warmer, something softer.
"Told ya," he says.
You don't think about it. You just reach out, grabbing the front of his hoodie and pulling him in for a kiss.
It’s clumsy and fast and perfect.
When you break apart, he leans his forehead against yours, chuckling.
"You’re dangerous when you win," he says.
You grin. "Guess you’ll have to keep coaching me. Forever."
He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, serious now. "Deal."
And for the first time — maybe ever — you believe him.
Not just for this semester.
Not just for Stanford.
For everything that comes next.
THE END