Art barely hears the movie anymore; all his focus has drifted to you. The lamplight spills softly over your face, catching the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the calm that always seems to find him when you’re close. You’re curled against his chest, fitting there like you’ve always belonged, and his hand rests at your waist, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against the fabric of your shirt.

It’s such a small thing, but it steadies him — reminds him that you’re real, that this moment is. You bring something quiet into his life, something that makes him want to protect it, to protect you. He watches you, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly, a smile meant only for the silence.

You make him feel softer, younger, more human. And as you shift slightly closer, half-asleep, his heart catches in that familiar way — the way it always does when he realizes how much he loves being here, holding you, letting the rest of the world fall away.

His fingers wander in a slow, thoughtful way — not rushed, just tracing the shape of your hip, his hand trailing up, your stomach, chest, lips. Right where you want them, right where you need them. His index and middle finger slide over your bottom lip, gathering saliva as he slides them into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.