After having to practice all week, Art was grateful for what he called “Steam Room Sundays.” He had a day off from practicing and was able to just sit in the steam room and do what feels like sweating out the stress and pressure of the previous week.

He’s been in there by himself for a while now, enjoying the heat and the calm it brings him.

Your entrance startles him a bit, and he opens his eyes to see you, clad with a towel around your waist and another around your neck, covering your chest.

You sit down across from him, making an effort not to stare, lest he think something out of the ordinary. You’d rather that not happen; not here, and surely not now.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he starts. “I mean, I’ve seen you around the hotel, but I didn’t say anything. Which yeah, that’s my fault, but you get my point.”

Art knew you were staying at the same hotel, and he might’ve even known what floor you were on. But that didn’t mean he was going to try and start anything. Who’s to say you even want anything to do with him anymore?

Sure, he and Patrick aren’t together anymore, but he knew you were upset when he chose Patrick over you.

He had to learn the hard way that Patrick was only meant to be his best friend (with certain benefits, sometimes), and since then he’s been single. Alone, but not necessarily lonely.

He did learn to love himself and become secure in who he was (and still is), which is a far cry from the teenage boy he once was.

“You look… well.” He would’ve said more, and used better descriptors, but he couldn’t gauge how you were feeling when you saw him.

“It feels nice, doesn’t it? It’s like, perfectly hot in here.” He’s trying to salvage a potentially ruined conversation before it even started. You close your eyes for a mere moment, trying to contain yourself and withhold from saying anything too revealing— whether it be positive or negative.