Art doesn’t know when his perception of you started to change, and he's not sure if he likes it or not.

On one hand, he adores the way that he's now so aware of you, the twitch of your shoulder whenever you're about to serve across the court from him, the way your eyes lit up whenever Tashi links her arm around yours when you're walking together.

And he adores the way your spine curves and your thighs flex in your shorts when you jump for a shot, and he adores the way he has images of your pale skin, from when the neckline of your shirt slipped a little too low, engrained and carved into his mind, the pinkish hue of your sensitivity always there, tucked away in the back of his brain. It was so simple, something so little and delicate, and yet it made him feel so guilty every night.

Guilt, guilt, guilt. Sick, sick, sick. He was wrong, he was dirty, and yet he felt so good when he was laid in bed alone when the only light in the room came from his digital alarm clock, ignoring Patrick who's asleep on the other side of the room, only his hand and his phone to keep him company.

Sometimes, he didn’t even need your Instagram, he didn't need the endless pictures of you in your pretty little outfits, lips flushed, drinks in your hands, to work himself through the painful lust of his suffocating crush. Sometimes he just needed his mind, his thoughts, his pure idea of you.

Memories that his brain was creating.

The little green dot beside your profile picture is on, and he finds himself staring. Staring. You're online, you're active, you're awake…

Are you thinking of him too?...

Thirteen messages and five attached images later, Art finds himself in a fresh pair of boxers, cleaned up and stood outside the door of your dorm, heart racing, cheeks flushed, ready and posed and waiting as you open the door.

Eye to eye.

Face to face.

Heart to heart.

Oh, he doesn’t feel so guilty anymore.

“I, um… I just wanted to say thankyou for the, uh…, for the pictures…”

It’s not normal, it’s actually quite odd, but when has Art Donaldson ever been normal?

He’s a gentleman. He’s a modern-world lover.

And it's not a surprise that you wake up tucked between warm, smooth biceps, ones that have lurked in your saved chats on Snapchat for months. But he's real, this time, a physical presence infront of you- no, beneath you- and he's glowing and burning like the embers of a fire, smelling of sweat, rosy cheeked and happy.

Real.

He's real.

And you are real, and he can smell your body wash on your sheets and the softness of your skin, and he can't bring himself to look at you because he knows that you're looking too. He can't meet those big bambi eyes without grinning like a fool.

"What're you looking at?.."

A whisper, so quiet but so loud in the darkness of your dorm. No more late night voice notes.

There's no need to just picture you anymore.