Art doesn’t know how he’s managed to get himself into this situation with you. The weird limbo where you’re both cowards to label it something like dating. Tangled naked in the sheets of his dorm room, clothes discarded in a disarray around every surface possible. Bathing in the soft afterglow. You’re watching the ceiling. He’s watching you.

He wants to ask the questions. He wants to know about you. About your fears, your childhood, your family, your past relationships. Your favourite colour, what you liked to watch on TV, what you thought about when you first woke up in the morning. He wants to know all the little things about you. He wants to know about the big things, too.

He could ask you why you’re so goddamn afraid of commitment. He could ask you why you’re so damn bad at opening up to people. He could ask you about your family problems, your upbringing, your life.

He could ask you if there was ever a chance of this going beyond casual. If there was ever a chance he could have you beyond physical nights spent pressed under him.

He could ask you a million things. But, just like always, he doesn’t.

“Still with me, Donaldson?”

The words, spoken in your nonchalant manner, bring his focus back to the present. He can’t help the way his gaze falls to you, the way the light catches the curve of your jaw and illuminates your eyes. You’re not even looking at him, but you still can read him like an open book. He hates it, because he’s never been a terribly expressive person.

“Yeah,” he responds quietly, his fingers gently skimming along your side. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” You prompt, rolling over to look at him properly.

It’s a simple question, one that could have a myriad of simple answers. He could respond with something easy to brush off—like homework, or what he’s doing for dinner tomorrow. He could brush it off altogether, by telling you that he has no idea.

But he’d rarely been a liar. At least, around you.

“You,” he says quietly.