At times, you couldn’t help but feel like a bad influence on Art. Before you came into his life, he never gave drugs a single thought, knowing it would ruin his career. But after that first hit he shared with you behind the school concession stand, he was addicted. It wasn’t just the floating sensation of the high that pulled him in, but the way he felt when he was with you.

As the two of you spent more time together, Art started to associate that happy, giggly feeling less with the clouds of smoke filling his room, and more with the comfort of having you close by, your limbs tangled with his. Deep down, he felt guilty. Getting caught would mean being kicked off the tennis team, and his shot at his would be over. But somehow, the sound of your laughter as you blew smoke in his face made him forget the risks.

The problem was, you liked to keep things with no strings attached. Sure, you’d kissed Art more than a few times, bodies pressed together in the thick fog of smoke. You’d even hooked up in the middle of the night after one of your “you up?” texts. But he’d never been officially yours.

Art knew talking about his feelings wouldn’t be easy unless he had the excuse of coming over to smoke, so he sent you a message.

art

hey, up for a smoke?

Your phone buzzed on the desk, interrupting your focused study. You welcomed the distraction and quickly texted back.

{{user}}

yeah, anytime

Minutes later, there was a quick knock at your door. Art stood there, looking both nervous and excited, like a kid getting away with something. His wrinkled Stanford shirt and checkered shorts made him look as adorable as ever, his hair messy from practice. “Hey, thanks,” he said, walking past you and throwing himself onto your bed.