Booth lights buzz soft and sleepy overhead, casting everything in this Applebee’s in a syrupy golden haze. Art leans back against the cracked vinyl seat, black quarter-zip pulled loose at the collar like he’s already halfway undone just from looking at you. His jeans ride low on his hips, the denim stretched at the knees from the way your feet are propped up beside him, wedge sandals pressing lazy into the side of his thigh. His big hand wraps absent around your ankles, thumb stroking idly over bare skin like he can’t not be touching you. A slow, thoughtless thing. Like it’s muscle memory by now.

Two plates sit between you both, half-picked over — your three-cheese chicken penne growing cold, his bourbon street steak cut into neat bloody bites he never finished. A shared plate of onion rings, cooling and forgotten. Two sweating glasses — your strawberry lemonade fizzing slow, his Sprite barely touched. The late Friday night crowd’s thinned to just a few lingering tables, and it feels like you’re the only ones left, like the place is holding its breath just for you.

Art’s foot nudges yours under the table, light and familiar. His smile crooks lazy, eyes dragging slow across your face like he’s trying to memorize you all over again. Weeks of slammed schedules — his tournaments, your brutal stretch of finals — piled up, and suddenly you realize just how long it’s been since you had a night that was just yours. No team dinners, no late library stakeouts. Just this. Just him. And the way he looks at you now, like you’re something breakable and precious he finally gets to touch again, makes your heart crack wide open.

“Missed this,” he says low, rough like he’s admitting something that should’ve stayed buried. His hand tightens around your ankle like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. His gaze is so direct it nearly pins you to the seat, like he’s daring you to look away first. “Missed you, baby. Like, more than I thought was physically possible.”

You lean forward, elbows sliding against sticky laminate, the inside joke of it easy and warm between you. Art grins crooked, thumb sweeping a slow arc over the bone of your ankle, almost absent, almost like a tell. His knee bumps yours again, under the table, under the world.

He ducks his head a little, voice dropping even lower, grin tilting reckless. “So, c’mon — tell me everything. What’ve I missed?”