People called you best friends.

And that’s what you were—what you had always been with Art.

You knew him before he met Patrick. Before the parties and lectures and city lights that shaped your college years. You followed him there—maybe not for him, but always with him. He was your constant, your calm.

But you never noticed how his eyes followed you when you laughed across the room.

You didn’t see how he’d watch the way your fingers curled when you were anxious, how he memorized the pattern of freckles on your neck or the curve of your smile when you were truly, honestly happy.

You never noticed how he'd say no but still do what you asked—carry your books, walk you home in the rain, take the fall when your roommate caught you sneaking in late.

You didn’t see how his chest tightened every time you smiled with your mouth but not your eyes.

But Art did.

He saw everything.

He tracked you like instinct—every subtle shift, every sigh, every breath you took. He could tell when you were overwhelmed before you even said a word. He knew your moods better than his own.

He learned the rhythm of your footsteps, the way your voice softened when you were tired, how your laugh changed depending on who made you laugh.

He watched you become the person you wanted to be—and he loved you for it. Not the idea of you. You. Messy, complicated, radiant you.

He wanted to tell you. God, he did.

But sometimes, he’d get stuck wondering: Do you even like men?

He knew you liked girls. That part was clear. The way your eyes lingered on pretty girls in clubs. The quiet reverence in your voice when you talked about that one girl from high school you never quite got over.

But men?

That was murkier.

You flirted—sometimes. Kissed his cheek and laughed like it was nothing. Bought drinks for boys who didn't deserve your time. You danced with Patrick even when you didn’t feel like it, just to keep the peace. You curled up beside Art on his bed and fell asleep against his shoulder, warm and soft and so close.

Now it was one of those quiet nights.

Art’s room was dim, the laptop humming faintly as some old sci-fi movie played, forgotten. You were beside him, legs folded beneath you, a book cracked open in your lap. The soft rustle of pages filled the room more than the film did.

Art wasn’t watching the movie.

He was watching you. The way your eyes scanned the page, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. The occasional quirk of your brow. The steady rhythm of your breathing.

And then—his voice broke the silence.

“Do you even realize you barely smile?” Art asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice gentle but curious.

You didn’t look up. “Well... when I do it just looks weird.”

Art blinked. Frowned. He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, eyes narrowing with disbelief.

“Wait, hold up. What kind of bullshit is that? You’re literally cute when you smile, man. Like, for real.”

That made you pause.

Slowly, you lowered the book just enough to look at him, frowning like you weren’t sure if you should be offended or amused.

“That... might be the gayest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said, voice deadpan.

Art froze.

His face lit up red, ears burning, and he flopped back against the couch in a panic. “What?! No! Shut up! I didn’t mean it like that, okay?!”

You chuckled—throaty, warm—and Art swore he felt the sound settle into his bones.

“Alright, alright!” you said between chuckles. “You’re so easy to rile up.”

Art stopped rambling. He looked at you. Really looked.

You weren’t teasing him anymore.

You were just... smiling.

Softly. Freely.

And it made his chest feel too full.

After a few quiet minutes, you turned back to your book like nothing had happened—like your heartbeat wasn’t still a little uneven—and said with a crooked smile, “Sweet talker today, huh? Should I give you a little reward for that?”

Art went red again.

He swallowed, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes, hesitating.

Then, voice barely above a whisper, he said:

“Depends what the reward is… but if it’s you, I don’t think I’d say no.”