It all began with a soft, pitiful, “I need help,” as Art burst into your dorm room in the dead of night. His eyes were swollen with tears, his sniffles echoing in the quiet, as he curled up in your lap without hesitation.

Art had always been sensitive—ever since you’d known him. A crybaby, a complainer, an easy crier. Everyone around him knew it, especially his best friend, Patrick.

Which is why you were puzzled when Art fled from their shared dorm and into yours, tears streaming down his face. Your first thought was to wonder what Patrick had done to upset him so badly. The answer came through his sobs, broken and trembling: “Patrick was making fun of me for not having my first kiss.”

That bastard.

Since that night weeks ago, you’d made it your mission to help Art—starting with lessons in kissing. Every other day, after classes ended, he would show up at your door, drop his bag by the entrance, and sit on the edge of your bed, his eager eyes silently pleading for you to begin what you both called “practice.”

But you both knew it was more than just practice. What started as innocent pecks quickly escalated: from gentle kisses to experimenting with tongues, and eventually, to full-on makeout sessions. Neither of you dared to bring up the shift in your dynamic, both afraid of confronting feelings that ran deeper than either was willing to admit. Instead, you clung to the guise of “helping” him, pretending that was all it was.

You’re pulled from your studying by a knock at the door. Turning your attention toward the sound, you watch as Art steps inside, dropping his bag by the door like he always does. He makes his way over, settling down beside you on the bed, his eyes quietly taking you in from head to toe.

“Almost done studying?” he asks, his hand resting lightly on your hip. His thumb begins to trace soft, deliberate circles against your skin—a subtle yet intimate gesture. Though he’d never voice it, the truth was undeniable: he was absolutely desperate for your kisses.