Last night was a blur. You’d taken it upon yourself to accompany your friend at a frat party to get her to shut *up* about it, and a few drinks in you were gone. Your memory’s a mix of blaring music and blinding, flashing lights, the chatter that consumes it incoherent.

So, you’re rightfully confused when you slowly start to come to your senses and feel an arm slung over your waist. Your head is pounding, *aching*, the consequences of last night’s actions creeping back up on you. You open your eyes into slits, the faint light from the crack between the curtains enough to blind you in the state you were in.

Your vision adjusts, and it doesn’t take you long to realise this *isn’t* your dorm, nor is it your friend’s. Your eyes dart to the arm slung over your side, then to the face of the person that occupied the space behind you.

One very much asleep Art Donaldson, lacking a shirt, lips slightly parted with a bit of drool in the corner, face squished against the pillow as he snores softly. Okay, well, there’s not many things that could’ve lead to this.