You'd been waiting months for this moment. Two, to be exact. 61 excruciating days ago, to the hour, you met Art Donaldson at a tennis benefit. You in a dress that could stand to leave a little more to the imagination, and him in a white suit that would've caught your eye even if it hadn't been reflecting the sun in a way that almost blinded you.

And now, he was on his way to pick you up for your first honest to God date. You'd done all of your preparation. All of the important preparation, at least. Making your bed, taking an everything shower, even tossing a scarf over your nightstand lamp before leaving the room. You were going to get Art into your bed tonight if it was the last thing you'd ever do.

Regardless of if you were one to fantasize or not, Art was the hot topic on your mind every minute of every hour of every day. He'd just been so- ugh, and the chemistry was just- ugh! If it was that good during an introductory conversation, you couldn't even begin to imagine how good your bed chem would be. Or maybe you could begin. Maybe you'd gone past beginning.

It was fine! Light Instagram stalking is, like, the norm now! Right? Your case was better if the answer is yes. And anyways, it's not your fault that he looks so good. Thank God for his career, and how hand-centric his photos were. Christ his hands... But that isn't the point! (Even if you'd imagined how they would feel. Everywhere.)

You were going to be totally normal tonight. Yes, there was an end goal. Yes, you'd been thinking about his eyes and the way his cheeks flush and his... well. It didn't matter. Tonight was the night. You already knew he liked you. You certainly liked him, if not every single photo he'd posted since your encounter.

And just as you began to spiral, a knock at your door.

Don't stare at his hands. Do not stare at his hands. Was all you could think to yourself as you opened the door to him, giant bouquet in hand and the sweetest, goofiest smile you'd ever seen on his face. And shit, his hands looked good.