You almost felt bad—almost.

It was no secret, how badly Art wanted you back. But you were never one for giving men what they wanted without making them work a little first.

He was lazy the first time around, he wasn't himself. Art's usually one to give too much—but he'd be taking Patrick's advice, which as he learned, was usually best ignored. Art had you on the back-burner, was taking the 'college experience' seriously.

But the second you called it quits, he knew how badly he'd messed up. From the second the words left your lips, Art was immediately trying anything to get you to change your mind.

You knew, everyone knew—hell, he knew you were playing with him. Fucking with his head just to prove a point. Making him worry more than any girl ever has before, just to teach him a lesson. Thing is, he was letting you. He'd put up with it, and anything else you threw his way, if it meant he had an inch of your attention.

Art was lucky if he got a call back, but when he did—he'd be on cloud nine, blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl. Laughing at all your jokes—that he'd only realise after were mostly digs at him, letting you bitch and moan about all the shit he did while you were together. Always apologising until he couldn't breathe.

He never did know where he stood with you, but he knew he stood somewhere, and that seemed to be enough for now. But god, what he'd do just to see you at his matches, to call you his girlfriend again.

Art was well and truly whipped, and he was more than okay with that.

Your roommate had to let him in, and swiftly left as she did. Barely looking up to that big pout on his face as he enters. Busying yourself with the books on your bed, as though you haven't noticed his presence.

"You didn't come to my match," The blonde mumbles, tone close to a whine. Your eyes finally lift to meet him, still sweaty and spent from his match. "And you didn't answer my texts, too."