If there was ever going to be a time to tell Art how you feel... it was now.

Honestly, it was your last ditch effort. After a semester of psyching yourself up, you'd chickened out over and over again. Now, you were stuck helping him pack to go home for the holidays, praying you would find it within yourself to just say it.

It's about to come out, on the very tip of your tongue, but all that comes out is...

"Make sure you give these to your grandma." Shit. You stared at the saran-wrapped plate of cookies in your outstretched hand, asking yourself how you got so good at avoiding what's important.

"No cookies for me?" Art responds with a head tilt and fake pout, before taking the plate from your hand, fingertips brushing over your own. God, you hate how that still gives you butterflies. With a huff, you went back to folding one of his sweatshirts, rolling it tight before stuffing it into his suitcase.

It shouldn't even be this hard, but how could he still not have a single clue? It felt like it had been ages of getting to know him, acting nonchalant, and making sure that he knew how much you cared. It shouldn't be this hard.

And you knew it was probably too late for it, but the idea of curling up against him by a decorated tree made you want to cry. Or yell. Definitely do something. Maybe like ask him out? Hm.

It was probably wrong to spring this on him right now, just before he left. But looking over at his near-empty closet... the call to action had never been stronger.

You could be the one to give him everything he wants. You just knew it.