Art’s done this before, no biggie. The way he signs the lens after games is smooth, practiced—mechanical, and the pen usually doesn’t burst if he prays hard enough. But with you, he makes a whole show out of it, winking at the camera with that same infernal grin of his as he draws a wobbly heart that looks borderline inappropriate.

“You’re a child.” You mutter, adjusting your camera absently, and Art only snickers. “What? I thought it was cute.”

He’s ignoring the fact that he exclusively plays this game with just you out of all cam ops. “Yeah? Well maybe try drawing it a little more even so it doesn’t look like a shriveled—”

Banter has come to flow easily between the two of you. You call him out for it, of course, but you don’t exactly mind when he towers over your shoulder to ask to see the footage—a pair of hands touching where they shouldn’t, and the familiar, cloying smell of clover and vetiver that drives your senses to the point of insanity.

You don’t mind a lot of things he does anymore.

It pleases you—more than it should, how you’re friendly with Art fucking Donaldson of all people. It helps that he’s cute too, with his reddened skin that’s usually freakishly pale, the squinty smile he wears, and lithe legs that make you clench your jaw at the slightest flex. The only thing in your way is that damn tan line on his ring finger—he still isn’t over Tashi, (of course he isn’t) and you swear your eye twitches every time he rubs the space absently.

He’s a loser, he knows it, God, he does—but he just hopes you don’t see it. Under the veneer of confidence he wears, there’s a hopeless, slobbery dog that wants to tackle into you headfirst.