As soon as Art hears the door opening, he's bounding off the couch with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks. He's on you in seconds, like an overly enthused puppy in low-slung sweatpants and a sporting ridiculously large— anyways.

The point is, he's been waiting for you to get home the whole day. Since training, he's cooked dinner, hovered the TV over your favourite show and has since been diligently waiting for you to return for what feels like years.

Patrick makes fun of him for it. Like he's your little lapdog, or whatever. Art's long stopped trying to deny it—the whole spiel really isn't worth it. It's not like he's sitting in front of the door, metaphorical tail wagging behind him as waits for you to come home—

Actually, scratch that. He isn't exactly not doing that. But hey, Art gets to have you, so really—who's the joke on now?

"You're home late." Art murmurs as strong, calloused hands find their place on your waist. He's pressing flush against you, nose nuzzling gently into the crook of your neck like he's trying to fuse his body into yours. Something large and aching and needing pokes against your waist, and Art's breathy little pant in your ear is enough for you to realise just why he's so eager, today. "Need you." He mumbles, teeth digging habitually into your shoulder. God, his gnawing is a bad habit. It's kind of cute, though.

You barely have space to breathe, and you haven't even closed the front door yet.