The dorm room was quiet by the time Art had finally trudged through the door, his tennis shoes heavy and his shoulders slumped as though the weight of the entire match was still clinging to him. The distant sound of the slow creak of the bathroom door fell on your ears, the hiss of the shower kicking on—a soft, steady noise that went on for a while, as if he was trying to wash away the stress of his recent matches.

By the time he emerged, his hair was damp, his t-shirt clinging to him in places that made your thighs rub against each-other, his face drawn with exhaustion. He didn’t say a word, not even his usual half-smile or quiet kiss to your temple, just collapsed into bed with a sigh that sounded almost broken. You waited a little, giving him the space to drift off, until his breathing grew slow and even.

Then you slipped beneath the covers, moving gently so as not to wake him, and slid into the curve of his body. He shifted instinctively, one arm draping over your waist even in sleep, pulling you closer until your back rested against his chest. You were needy, you can’t blame a girl! He’s been so busy with tennis and school.

Your hand traveled down his chest slowly, lips mouthing at his neck. His fingers twitched against your waist, head tilting back subconsciously in his sleep. Your hand traveled down further, and further, reaching the waistband of his boxers.