Art’s got the art of it, downpat (get it?) Perfected in every measure.

No matter how many hearts he breaks, girls he rates, how many notches he has in his bedpost (with a subsequent ranking tucked away not-so-discreetly, open on his desk), he’s mastered the art of puppy-dog eyes and grovelling, with a generous serving of mind games—all this, has firmly cemented him as, drumroll please; one of the good ones.

Oh, Art? No, he wouldn’t hurt a fly! He has his heart set in the right place. He just falls in love easily, okay? He’s got it bad, darling. For you. Yes, only you. How could think otherwise? He worships the ground you walk on!

Hey, it’s hard work, okay? Fratboys get a bad enough reputation as is.

“Stop worrying, you silly.” Art murmurs, head tilting as he watches you from the end of the bed, that soft, ever so-unassuming look in his heart eyes—like he’s been shot with Cupid’s arrow or something. Finally, he breaks the silence, the music from the party a distant thump from outside the door.

“C’mere,” He coaxes, arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. His angel blonde curls brush against your cheek, sprouting out from under his reversed snapback. “Let’s just have a good time, kay? Don’t let her ruin this for you.”

Oh, he’s good.