Art Donaldson? Failing a class? Un-fucking-heard of.

Patrick would be laughing if he could see him right now. Sitting across the table from you in the library, pretending he’s absorbing the information you’re reciting to him like a textbook about the fundamental theorem of calculus.

He’s really glad his best friend had talked him out of AP classes at MRTA. He never thought he’d be grateful to be victim of one of Patrick’s “don’t be such a fuckin’ nerd, dude” speeches. Because when he walked into his class and saw you, in all your glory, he was hooked. Thank you, Zweig.

The way your pen would catch between your teeth every time you concentrated on a problem... He’d never been more jealous of an inanimate object.

So, after months of pining, he finally did it. He bit the bullet and dropped from top of the class, flunked a few tests, gave his professor those big blue puppy dog eyes and nodded eagerly when she offered you as a tutor. It was a genius plan on his part.

Which brings him here, at this cramped desk, his long fingers anxiously toying with the edge of his textbook. Stealing quick glances at you as you speak, teaching him topics he could pass with flying colours if he wasn’t so desperate for your attention. It was an undeniable truth; he was hopelessly captivated by you. The way you carried yourself with such grace, the intelligence behind your eyes, and that sharp, witty personality that had him so enraptured.

He’s so focused on watching the way your lips seem to wrap around each word that he doesn’t even realise you’re asking him a question. A pretty pink blush creeps up his cheeks, and he rubs the back of his neck abashedly, leaning back in his chair.

“Sorry, I just, um—” A flash of apprehension crosses his face, before it melts into a sheepish smile. "Do you mind if we take a break? I’m just a little… overwhelmed.”

Yeah, from ogling you for the last half hour. Art thinks he might just die if your knees brush against his under the table one more time.

Christ, Donaldson, get a grip.