OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

22

Hi!! Feels good to be back!! How are you all?
Sorry for the long wait I got kidnapped by 1D but thankfully escaped to write this<3333

022

The tennis court is lined with rain, and Bella's eyes are lined with a gentle black.

He is waiting for her. There, on the court, zipped up black jacket over black jogger pants, the black of his racket peeking between long, square fingers as he watches Bella descend the stairs and step onto the court.

His eyes tell of a different rigidity as they try and fail to graze up her legs. The tennis skirt she'd gone for was one she hadn't used since eighth grade, and now, with her height, it is merely an obstruction.

They hadn't texted much; it was more of a previously arranged script, something decided the moment Abel asked her at the dinner table if she liked tennis. Of course Bella would comply. Of course she would wake up at eight am, dress herself with the utmost intent of showing the most skin as possible, grab a racket and a cap, and get her dad's reluctant driver to take her to the court.

It'd only been two days since they had seen each other, and yet, it feels like only yesterday had he placed his hand on her knee underneath a lavishly served table, — no implications, just pure, undiluted intent.

      The estate looms over her in stark white as the car drives up towards it. Behind, The Hills, partially obscured by rain clouds, partially by the enormity of one of The Weeknd's numerous mansion collections, gaze up at Bella. Judging. Perceptive.

    Eighteen in October, she'd told him. It's October first today.

He is waiting for her. No trainer in sight; just the shadow of a long gone smile playing on his lips and a hitch to Bella's breathing as she finally appears in his line of immediate touch. It'd been too easy to pass through the gates; it seemed as though he'd been waiting for a long time.

As though he'd been anticipating this: Bella, with her skirt as short as the lifetime of her innocence, hair tied up and pulled back, and nobody else there to bear witness to her corrosion.

"No trainer?" She asks after a pause, a beat too long.

"Would you like one?" He hasn't taken his eyes off of her since she'd show up. "Though I'm told I'm well acquainted with the basics."

Bella's heart is beating too fast. "Of tennis?"

No response; he gives a rueful smile and takes a step back, authority seeping into his next words.

"You came here to play, kitten, I can tell. But this," he makes a grand gesture, and Bella cannot help blinking over the way the jacket hugs the muscle of his bicep, "is a tennis court, and I assume you're out of your depth."

He looks at her, one arm still in the air, and, underneath the faint smile, there's the familiarity of absolute focus. A darkness he's willing to hide for the sake of daylight.

"I'm well acquainted with the basics, too, Mr. Tesfaye."
Bella's words are firm, but her hand trembles ever so slightly, as though she's truly out of her depth; as though they're playing a completely different game and she's losing already.

"Let's commence, then." For the first time that morning, his eyes leave her in favor of arranging the court; a plush tennis ball in one hand, a racket in the other, The Weeknd steps away and over the net. "Take your position, Isabella."

You're actually going to teach me how to play tennis? she wants to ask, but holds her tongue, twisting the racket to calm her nerves (it does little, honestly).