Patient. That is the word you would use for Art. On top of the hundred other cheesy adjectives fitting of Art Donaldson, the boy was patient.

A few years ago? He wouldn't have to be. A few years ago, his outstretched arms would seem like the perfect landing for a leap of faith. But now, the thought of stepping off of your platform, the one you'd built yourself onto as a protective measure, was torture.

It had just been one too many instances, one too many guys that wanted nothing more than a night or two, whispering sweet nothings to placate you before slipping through the door while your back was turned.

He'd said it was fine, that you were worth waiting for, but the expression he'd try his hardest to mask when you swerved every other kiss threatened to break your heart in two each time you saw it. He would never pressure you, but you could also tell he was attuned to a certain level of attention you just weren't sure you could offer at the moment.

It wasn't really either of your faults, both easier and more reasonable to blame a ghost-like third party. But you couldn't help but feel bad as your mind wandered here again while Art went to go get you another tea, the cafe hosting your... fiftieth? date bustling with people trying to get their fix.

He was all smiles when he came back, saying something about getting a discount before you snapped out of it. Then his hand was on yours, rubbing over your knuckles in his most hands-off method of soothing you nowadays. His eyes were on yours, not going anywhere. Just like him. God, you wished you could get over it. "Hey, what's going on up there?"