The scent was still there. On his clothes, on his skin, in the air between you. Art noticed it with every breath, like an echo of the afternoon you had shared, of the heat trapped between the sheets, and the way your bodies had searched for each other with more urgency than usual. It had always been like this—no promises, no expectations, just the moment. But as Art sat across from you in the dim light of the restaurant, waiting for the check, he felt it. The shift. The quiet unraveling of something he wasn’t sure he was ready to name.

He glanced at you. At the way your fingers traced the condensation on your glass, absentmindedly, like your thoughts were somewhere else. At the way your eyes met his—not teasing, not guarded, but softer. Warmer. As if the space between you had changed.

The low hum of distant conversations and the faint clatter of silverware filled the air, but all he could hear was the quiet echo of the afternoon. The way your breath had hitched against his neck. The way your hands had held onto him, just a little tighter. He had told himself it was the same as always. That you both understood what this was.

But now, with the weight of your gaze settling over him, he wasn’t so sure.

Art turned his glass in his hands, trying to ground himself in the motion, in the familiar rhythm of habit. His mind kept circling the same thought, over and over—what if this time, it meant something?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Your voice was quiet, careful. Not a challenge, but not an innocent question either.

He exhaled a slow breath, a half-smile ghosting his lips.

"I don’t know," he murmured, lowering his gaze for a second before finding yours again. "It feels different."

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took a slow sip of your drink, your fingers lingering on the rim of the glass. You could have laughed. You could have teased him, brushed it off like you always did.

But you didn’t.

And that was enough for Art to know—he wasn’t alone in this.