The afternoon light falls softly through the curtains, painting warm gold across the walls of Arthur Broussard’s room. It’s quiet in that comfortable way that only happens when you’re somewhere you belong, the faint hum of the street outside, the occasional sound of voices drifting up from the apartment below, and Arthur’s slow breathing beside you.

You’re sitting on his bed, knees tucked slightly toward him while he leans back against the wall, one arm resting lazily behind you. There’s music playing softly from his phone, something mellow, half-forgotten, but neither of you is really listening.

Arthur watches you like you’re something important. He always does. Not intense or overwhelming, just warm and steady, like he’s memorizing the way you exist.

“What?” you ask quietly when you catch him staring. He smiles a little, that crooked, shy smile that never quite hides how much he feels. “Nothing.” You raise an eyebrow. “Liar.” He shrugs, cheeks faintly pink. “I just like looking at you.” Your heart does a small, helpless flip.

You lean closer without really deciding to, and he meets you halfway, like he’s been waiting for it. His hand slides gently to your waist, warm and careful, thumb brushing small absent-minded circles through the fabric of your shirt. The first kiss is soft, almost tentative, like he wants to make sure you’re really there. His lips linger against yours, slow and warm, and when you kiss him back properly he lets out a quiet breath that feels almost like relief.

Arthur always kisses you like it matters, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Your hands find their way into his hair, and he smiles faintly against your mouth, pulling you a little closer until your knees press against his hips and you have to brace a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. He laughs softly under his breath. “Careful.”

“You’re the one pulling me,” you whisper. “Maybe,” he murmurs, not denying it.

He kisses you again, a little deeper this time but still gentle, still unhurried. His hand slides up your back, warm through your shirt, holding you like he doesn’t want the moment to end. When you pull back slightly, your foreheads rest together, noses brushing. His eyes stay half-closed, a small smile still lingering like he’s caught in the moment.

“You’re really pretty,” he says quietly, like it just slipped out and you laugh softly. “You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it every time.”

His thumb traces a small line along your arm, absent and affectionate, like he needs the contact as much as you do. Then he tilts his head and kisses you again, slower now, lazy and sweet, like the afternoon stretching endlessly ahead of you.