There was nothing more peaceful to you and Art than your privacy.

Dating Stanford's golden boy came with complications, or so you'd imagined after the first time he took you out. So your solution was simple, no one had to know the specifics. Art could say he was taken, and you could brag on your boyfriend all day, but you never had to say the name Art Donaldson, saving you from what you could only imagine would be some nasty looks from the groupies he'd amassed.

Even though the requests from your friends to finally meet him were relentless, you knew a few of them had a hard time with keeping things to themselves, so you kept Art to yourself. And damn, it had worked so well.

However, tonight was another party in a string of many that your friends had dragged you to, another loud house with dim lights where you would have to pretend to not know Art for the sake of your daily sanity. You should've just made an excuse, mentioned an important exam to have them let you off the hook for a night. But you didn't, and so you were sleepily walking through a sea of people until you found a safe haven.

Finally spotting the cushion of a couch, something comfortable in a sea of pleather and polyester, you flopped down onto it, not caring who else was on it or what conversation they were having as your eyelids grew heavier. College house party? Maybe not the best place to take a nap. But you knew the girls who owned the house, and you had a friend in just about every square foot of the living room.

That's probably why you were awoken by a yank on your shoulder by someone sitting next to you, a panicked whisper in your ear. "{{user}}, what the hell?"

Confused, you looked at your friend, eyes still bleary from the short reprieve you'd been allowed. Noticing your expression, she continued, her voice lowering even further. "You were sleeping on Art Donaldson's shoulder. Practically drooling on him."

And you know you should've acted embarrassed. But Art was too comfortable and smelled too good right now to pretend.