finchyclarkemd

[finchyclarkemd]

#cryinguncontrollably

When the Noise Fades

Summary: James Marriott is the loudest in every room—but silence tells a different story. You’ve always seen the cracks in his armor, but he’s never let you close enough to mend them. One stormy night, the façade finally breaks. And for the first time, he doesn’t just let you in—he asks you to stay.

The rain had started hours ago—light at first, the kind you could ignore. But now it beat against your windows like it was trying to get in, drenching the already-dark sky in a deeper shade of grey. You liked it, usually. Rain gave the world permission to be still.

But tonight, the stillness was tense. Wrong. The kind that filled a flat too large for one, wrapped around your chest too tightly. James was late.

He wasn’t supposed to be, not really. There wasn’t a plan. Just a vague text sent around four: “Might come by later if that’s cool.” Your response had been short and obvious: “Always is.”

That had been three hours ago.

You didn’t text again. James hated being smothered. He hated expectations even more. So you waited. Lit a candle. Put on the playlist you’d built together over late-night takeaways and the soft, in-between hours of friendship that teetered on something else. Something unspoken.

When the knock finally came, you weren’t surprised. You’d known he would come. You just hadn’t known he’d look like this.

Hair wet and matted. Hoodie clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go. Eyes rimmed red—not from crying, but from the lack of it. From holding everything in.

“Hi,” he said simply.

“Hi,” you echoed, stepping aside to let him in.

He walked past you, dripping slightly on the hardwood floors, hands shoved deep into his pockets like if he let them out, the weight of his own body might become too much to carry.

You waited for him to say something. He didn’t.

So, you broke the silence the way you always did—with a question.

“Did you walk here?”

A half-laugh left him, humourless and low. “Yeah. Didn’t feel like waiting for an Uber.”

You nodded. “Do you want to change? I think I still have one of your hoodies.”

He gave you a faint smile—grateful, maybe. Tired, definitely. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

You disappeared into your room, grabbing the navy hoodie he’d left here last winter. When you returned, he was still standing in the middle of the living room like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

He took the hoodie and disappeared into the bathroom.

When he returned, he looked warmer, but not better. His hair was still damp, curling at the edges. He smelled like rain and familiarity.

You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching him as he hovered like a ghost near the edge.

“Sit, James.”

He did.

Silence again. Not the comfortable kind.

You shifted. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His jaw tensed, and he shook his head. “No.”

But he didn’t move away when you reached for his hand.

Fingers cold. Rough. Calloused.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Then don’t.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, like just having the choice meant something.

The rain softened outside. The playlist shifted songs. You recognized this one—James had played it for you months ago, claiming it was his favorite when the world got too loud.

You turned to him. “Why did you come here?”

The question wasn’t sharp. It was soft. Curious. Honest.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, finally: “Because here doesn’t feel like everywhere else.”

Your heart clenched. “And what does everywhere else feel like?”

His grip on your hand tightened.

“Loud,” he said. “Fake. Like I have to smile or say something clever or be this person everyone thinks I am.”

“And here?”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you.

“Here… I can be quiet. And you won’t try to fix me.”

“I don’t want to fix you, James.”

“I know,” he said, voice cracking for the first time. “That’s why I’m here.”

You shifted closer, knees touching. He let go of your hand, only to reach for your face instead—fingers brushing your cheek like he was memorizing the shape of someone real. Someone safe.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he whispered.

You leaned into his touch. “Then rest. You don’t have to say anything else.”

But he did. Voice breaking, words quiet and raw.

“I feel like I’m falling apart, and no one’s noticed. I joke, I post, I make music—but none of it matters when I’m alone. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I feel like if I stop performing—if I stop being what they expect—everyone will leave.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed hard. “But I didn’t want to be alone tonight. And I didn’t want to pretend. So I came here. I walked in the rain for an hour just to get to you.”

You reached for him, gently pulling him into your arms. He didn’t resist. He collapsed into you like a wave finally hitting shore—body shaking from something deeper than cold.

Your fingers ran through his hair. “You’re allowed to fall apart. Just… don’t do it alone.”

He nodded against your shoulder, breath hitching.

“I won’t leave,” you whispered.

“I’m scared I’ll make you hate me.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “James. I couldn’t hate you if I tried.”

He stared at you like he wasn’t sure he believed it. But he wanted to.

You kissed his temple. Soft. Barely there.

“Show me where it hurts,” you said. “And I’ll sit with you there. As long as it takes.”

James closed his eyes. Let the weight drop. And for the first time, he let you in without apology.

Word Count: 3865

m.list

james m.list

[finchyclarkemd]

Of course, thanks for your new GC fic. I deeply appreciate all witers who take the time to write something for free and gift it to us.

Once I've said that, how dare you do that to my heart and my emotions? What have I ever done to you to hurt me this way? Did you really need to do that?

It was brilliant in the sense that it hurt, but because it was good, even though it was sad 💖

Ahh don’t worry the next fic i’m doing will be a fluff!!

[finchyclarkemd]

Things you don’t remember

~Angst/fluff~

The first time you see him, he's leaning against the hospital doorframe like he’s holding up the whole damn world with one shoulder. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares.

You study him, trying to place the dark circles under his eyes, the tired set of his jaw, the way his hands stay clenched at his sides like he’s holding something back- grief, maybe. Or worse: hope.

The nurse clears her throat behind him. “Mr. Clarke… she’s awake.”

He walks in like the floor might shatter beneath him.

“You don’t remember me,” he says, voice rough.

You blink. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but so does your own, and neither comes with a face. You try to find something in his eyes that stirs recognition, some warmth or flicker of home, but there’s just… blank space.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Should I?”

He exhales, and it’s the saddest sound you’ve ever heard. Like a man mourning something still alive.

“I’m George,” he says. “George Clarke. I-” He swallows. “We were engaged.”

Your breath catches. You glance down at your hands instinctively, searching for a ring. It’s not there. Of course it’s not. You don't even remember what love feels like. But when he steps closer, voice low, he says your name like a secret only he knows. Like someone who’s said it a thousand times, through laughter, through tears, through every version of you that you've forgotten. And in that moment, though your mind doesn't recognise him- your heart clenches like maybe, just maybe, it still does.

You stare at George like maybe if you look long enough, something will click into place. It doesn’t.

“I don’t feel anything,” you say quietly, and immediately regret the words. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does, like he’s been punched in the chest but refuses to fall.

He nods once, like he’s been preparing for this.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t come here expecting a miracle.”

You look down at the blanket on your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge. “Then why did you come?”

He hesitates. Then: “Because I made you a promise. And you don’t remember it, but I do.”

Your eyes lift slowly. “What promise?”

George steps closer, then pulls a small, weathered notebook from his coat pocket. It’s old, edges frayed, the pages inside bent and loved. He holds it out to you, but doesn’t let go when you take it.

“You told me,” he says, voice like gravel, “if anything ever happened to you, if you ever forgot, you wanted me to bring this. You said it had the truth in it. Not just facts, but... the way things felt.”

You gently tug it free from his hand. On the front, in your own handwriting, are the words: “Just in case.”

You open it.

Page one is a sketch of a coffee mug. His, you think. The caption underneath reads: He drinks it black and complains every time, but won’t admit he likes it that way.

Page two is a scribbled quote: "I think I could love him forever. Maybe I already do."

You look up at him. His jaw is tight, eyes unreadable.

“How long were we together?” you ask.

He swallows. “Four years.”

“And I don’t remember any of it?”

“No.” His voice is barely audible now. “But I do. Every day.”

You flip through the pages- doodles, ticket stubs, half-finished thoughts. Every one of them proof that something real existed between you. That it wasn’t just his memory holding you here. It was yours, too, tucked into paper and ink.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “I won’t push. But I’ll stay as long as you let me.”

You look at him, and even though your mind is still a fog, there’s something grounding about his presence. Like gravity, pulling you toward something you don’t understand but maybe want to.

You nod.

“Stay.”

George visits the hospital every day. He doesn’t bring flowers or balloons like the others. Instead, he brings pieces of the life you used to share. The first day, it’s a playlist.

“Your favourite songs,” he says, setting his phone gently on your bedside table. “You said music made you feel things faster than memory ever could.”

You don’t say anything. But when he leaves, you press play. By the third song, your chest aches with a feeling you can’t name.

The next day, he brings your cat.

“He hated me at first,” he admits as the nurse raises an eyebrow, “but I bribed him with tuna and dignity.”

The cat, Garfield, is unimpressed by the sterile room but curls instantly into your lap like he knows exactly where he belongs. Like he knows you. And maybe, for a moment, you believe you know you, too.

Each day, George brings another puzzle piece.

A Polaroid of the two of you at a winter market, noses red, hot chocolate in hand.

A chipped ceramic mug with your initials and a tiny heart carved in the bottom.

A dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre with sarcastic notes scribbled in the margins.

“We used to argue about whether Rochester deserved redemption,” he says one evening. “You said he didn’t. I said he was just a man who made mistakes.”

You pause, gaze drifting over his face.

“And now?” you ask softly.

George smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Now I think maybe we both were right.”

You start to ask more questions. Not big ones. Just quiet, everyday things.

“How did we meet?” “At a bookshop. You made fun of my Hemingway pick. I pretended not to care.”

“What was our first fight?” “You were convinced I didn’t like your cooking. I was just scared I’d mess things up if I admitted I did.”

“What did I say when I told you I loved you?” George looks down at his hands. “You didn’t say it. You wrote it. On a napkin. Slid it across the table like a secret.”

You feel the echo of it, just a tremor, but it’s there.

One afternoon, as the sun spills gold across the hospital floor, George sits beside you, close but not touching. His hand hovers near yours, respectful of the distance between the past and the now.

“Do you ever… resent me for forgetting?” you ask quietly.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Never. Losing you once was enough. I’d rather have the pieces than nothing at all.”

Your throat tightens. And then, for the first time, you reach for his hand. Not because you remember. But because something inside you wants to.

It happens on a Tuesday. The sky is grey, the kind of heavy-clouded quiet that feels like it’s waiting for something. You and George sit on a bench just outside the hospital’s rehab wing. It’s your first real time outdoors since the accident. Everything feels too sharp. The air, the light, the smell of wet pavement.

George unwraps a sandwich but doesn’t eat it. He’s watching you again. He always does when you’re not looking. Like if he stares hard enough, he can will your memories back. You don’t mind. You’re starting to look at him, too.

He says something about a coffee shop you both used to visit Cedar’s describes it with the kind of affection that feels like a prayer: mismatched chairs, cinnamon in the air, the table by the window you always stole because you liked the light. You blink. Your fingers tighten around the Styrofoam cup in your hands. The cold coffee sloshes.

“Wait,” you say, voice suddenly thin.

George freezes. “What?”

You close your eyes. There’s something. Cinnamon. Wood polish. A squeaky chair. A sound. Your laugh? His. A moment: his hand brushing yours across a chipped table. The curve of his smile when he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.

“I remember… that table,” you whisper. “Just for a second. You… you spilled something. I think it was tea? I made fun of you.”

He doesn’t speak. You open your eyes and see the look on his face, pure disbelief, breaking slowly into something softer, something wild with hope.

His voice is hushed. “You always made fun of me when I spilled tea. You said I held the cup like it owed me money.”

You let out a breathy laugh, startled by the sound of it. There’s no full scene. No name. No clarity. Just a flicker. A sensation. But it’s yours. And it’s real.

You glance at him. “It was chamomile.”

George nods once. His throat moves like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling like a man who’s been holding his breath for weeks. “It was.”

You don’t reach for him this time. But you lean just slightly in his direction. And that’s enough, for now.

It’s raining again. A cold, slanting drizzle that turns the sidewalks into mirrors and blurs the world into greyscale. You’re back in the hospital lounge, curled under a too-thin blanket, flipping through the memory notebook George gave you. You’ve read the same five pages for days now, waiting for something else to surface.

He stands at the window, arms folded, jaw tight. Silent. You can feel the storm in him before he says a word.

“George?”

He doesn’t turn around.

You set the notebook down, uneasy. “Is something wrong?”

He laughs, but it’s brittle. “Wrong? No. Not at all. I’m just watching it rain on the day that should’ve been our wedding anniversary. So, no�� nothing’s wrong.”

The words land like stones in your chest.

You sit up, slowly. “I didn’t know…”

“I know,” he says sharply, then softens. “Of course you didn’t. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He finally turns. His eyes are tired. Not angry. Just… tired. The kind of tired that lives in the bones.

“I’ve been trying not to say this,” he murmurs. “I’ve told myself over and over that it’s selfish, that you’ve been through enough. But it’s killing me, watching you look at me like I’m a stranger.”

You flinch. Not because of his tone, but because he’s right.

“I never wanted to make you feel like-”

“Like I don’t exist anymore?” he finishes. “Like the last four years of my life evaporated the moment your head hit the dashboard?”

You look down at your hands. Shame rises hot in your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

George exhales, dragging his hand through his hair. “I’m not mad at you,” he says, quieter now. “God, I’m not. I’m mad at fate, or the universe, or the idiot who ran that red light. I just… I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

You meet his gaze. And for the first time, you really see it. The cracks behind his calm, the way love and grief have been eating him alive in silence.

“I remember chamomile tea,” you say suddenly. “And the cinnamon. And you… smiling at me, that way you do.”

His breath catches.

“I know it’s not much,” you add. “But it’s something, isn’t it?”

He walks over slowly, kneels in front of your chair like you might disappear if he moves too fast.

“It’s everything,” he says.

And then, for the first time, you reach for him. Not out of obligation, or guilt, or the faint echo of who you were, but because you want to. And maybe that’s the beginning of a new memory.

Spring comes softly. It creeps in through the windows of your new apartment. Smells like rain on warm pavement and the hint of lilacs blooming somewhere unseen. The air hums with quiet promise.

George is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in deep concentration over an omelet that’s probably going to fall apart. He still can’t cook. You’ve confirmed that much.

You lean against the doorway, watching him with a warmth you can’t explain. Or maybe you can. You just don’t have all the pieces yet.

“I remember something new,” you say.

He freezes. Slowly turns.

“Oh?” he says carefully. Hope flickers in his eyes, but it’s guarded now. He’s learned not to expect too much. You walk over to the table, where a familiar mug waits. Chipped. Painted blue. You pick it up.

“You used to bring me tea in this,” you say. “You’d pretend you didn’t know which one I liked, but you always got it right.”

George says nothing for a long moment.

Then he smiles. Not the broken, uncertain kind you saw in the hospital, but something real. Full. Alive.

“I never forgot you,” he says softly. “Not even for a second.”

You take the mug in both hands. It feels like yours again. Like home.

“I think…” you pause, feeling your heartbeat rise. “I think I want to fall in love with you. All over again. From the beginning.”

George crosses the room in two steps, but he doesn’t rush. He touches your face gently, like you’re fragile porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

“You don’t have to fall,” he whispers. “You can choose me. Every day. I’ll do the same.”

You nod.

“I choose you.”

And that’s the truth of it, in the end: The memories may come back. They may not. But love isn’t always something you remember. Sometimes, it’s something you decide to build, again. Together.

——————————————————————————————————

First time writing again in a while! I hope you enjoyed! I will try and post a little more now university has finished.

Tags

@themdera

@tyna-19

@smzyyx

[finchyclarkemd]

Hi all! I am so sorry for being so absent! University has now finished for me which means I shall be returning to fic writing! I have also currently started a new job so I shall try and write as and when I can! A George fic will be posted in the very near future (hoping maybe next week?!) and I will try and post more fics more frequently!!

Hope you’re all well and slaying!!

Maddie 🫧

[finchyclarkemd]

As promised, a poll for who you want to see next when i get back to writing!

[finchyclarkemd]

Hello gang,

There will be no fic this week or maybe for a few more weeks (many apologies). I am on holiday this week then in the next few weeks I will be preparing for my final exam. After that I should be all good to get back to writing again. I will set up a poll at a later date for who you want to see next!

Stay safe

Maddie 🫧

[finchyclarkemd]

Whenever you’re ready

~Angst/ fluff~

TW- Mentions of poor mental health !!

It was just after ten when James found you on the fire escape again, legs dangling over the edge like you were testing gravity. The city buzzed below, distant and indifferent, while your thoughts ran louder than traffic. You didn’t look at him when he opened the window, but you didn’t flinch either. That was something.

"Didn't think you'd be out here tonight," he said, voice soft, like he was afraid the wrong tone might tip you off the ledge- even if only metaphorically.

You shrugged. "Hard to sleep when your brain won’t shut up."

James sat beside you, knees pulled to his chest. He didn’t press you, didn’t ask what thoughts were keeping you hostage. He’d learned not to rush silence.

Instead, he offered you half of his hoodie sleeve. "Here. Snot privileges granted. One-time offer."

You gave a half-smile. Fragile, tired, but real. And James, who noticed everything, counted it as a win. You took the sleeve with a quiet laugh, wiping your nose without shame. James always had a way of making you feel like you didn’t have to hide the messy parts. Not your cracked voice, not your puffy eyes, not even the thoughts you were still too afraid to say out loud.

“I brought snacks,” he added, like it was some grand peace offering. “And by ‘snacks’ I mean two granola bars and a very squished banana.”

You turned your head, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. There was a softness there, something unspoken that hovered in the space between you like steam from a mug left untouched.

“Wow,” you said dryly. “You really know how to spoil a girl.”

He grinned, and for a second, everything felt lighter. “Only the best for you.”

Your heart did that annoying thing again- skipped like a scratched record, because he always said stuff like that. Light-hearted. Casual. But there was a weight to it tonight. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to say more but didn’t know if he had permission. And truthfully, you weren’t sure if you were ready to hear it. Not when your mind had been so cruel to you lately. Not when you were still trying to remember how to breathe without it hurting. Still, you leaned your head against his shoulder, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

“I hate this,” you whispered. “I hate how my brain lies to me. Makes me feel like I’m broken.”

James was quiet for a moment. Then he tilted his head, resting his cheek gently against your hair.

“You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re just tired from holding yourself together for too long.”

You closed your eyes. And in that moment- surrounded by sirens, stars, and someone who saw you even when you didn’t want to be seen, you started to believe him.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. James had a way of making space feel safe, like the quiet wasn’t a void but a place to rest. He didn’t shift or fidget, just sat with you, the two of you tucked into a corner of the world that didn’t ask anything of you for once. You felt the words stirring long before they found their way out.

“I didn’t think I’d make it through last week,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I smiled at people. I said I was fine. But I was just… barely holding on. Every day felt like I was walking through mud with weights tied to my chest.”

James didn’t speak right away, and somehow that made it easier to keep going.

“I kept thinking… what if I just disappear? Would it even matter? Would anyone notice? I know that sounds selfish or dramatic or whatever, but it’s just…” Your voice broke, and you didn’t bother to hide it this time. “It’s so heavy, James. And I’m so tired.”

You felt his arm shift behind you, gentle and slow, wrapping around your shoulders without pulling you in too tightly. Just enough that you knew you weren’t alone.

“Hey,” he said quietly, the kind of quiet that comes with care, not fear. “I’d notice. Of course I’d notice.”

You swallowed hard, staring out at the lights bleeding into the night sky.

“I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

“I don’t,” he said immediately. “I just look at you and wish I could carry some of it for you.”

You turned your head just slightly, and he looked at you like he meant every word.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Your chest ached in a different way now- one that had nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with the way James saw you. Not as broken. Not as a burden. Just… you. And somehow, that was enough.

“I think I’m ready to try,” you said, voice trembling but true. “But I might need you to remind me. A lot.”

He smiled, small but steady. “Good thing I’m annoyingly persistent.”

You laughed through the tears. And this time, when his hand found yours, you didn’t let go.

The city below kept moving. Cars humming, windows glowing, lives unfolding. But up on that fire escape, time had slowed, like the universe had carved out this moment just for the two of you.

James didn’t let go of your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small, absent movement, like he was trying to ground you. Or maybe himself. Neither of you said anything for a long while, and for once, that didn’t make you anxious. There was comfort in the quiet, in the shared air and heartbeat proximity.

“I get scared, too,” he said eventually. His voice was low, almost like he wasn’t sure he should say it. “Not in the same way, maybe. But sometimes I feel like if I let people see all the parts of me, the messier ones, they’ll… I don’t know. Leave.”

You turned to him, surprised. James always seemed like he had it together- steady, warm, unshakable. But now his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on a point far away, like he was confessing to the night itself.

“Even with you,” he added quietly. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. Or not say enough. And I’ll lose… this.”

You squeezed his hand. “You couldn’t lose me. Not like that.”

He glanced at you then, the tiniest flicker of hope in his eyes, like your words were something he’d been waiting to hear but didn’t think he deserved.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said. “How we can be surrounded by people but still feel completely alone. And then one person shows up and suddenly… things don’t feel so impossible.”

James nodded, and his voice was thick when he spoke. “You make things feel less heavy. Even when you’re hurting.”

You looked down at your joined hands. It was such a small thing, fingers tangled together, but it felt monumental. Like something sacred had passed between you, unspoken but deeply understood.

“I don’t want to be a weight to you,” you whispered.

“You’re not,” he said, fiercely. “You’re not a weight. You’re someone I care about. A lot. And if all I can do is sit with you on rooftops and hold your hand through the hard parts, then I’ll do that. As long as it takes.”

Your throat tightened, emotion rising like a tide you couldn’t hold back. So instead of speaking, you leaned into him again, this time fully, your head pressed to his chest. He wrapped both arms around you, holding you like something fragile and precious. Like you mattered. And in his heartbeat- steady, patient, there just for you- you started to believe that maybe healing didn’t mean fixing everything. Maybe it just meant being held through the storm.

The wind shifted, brushing against your skin with that early spring chill- soft but biting. You stayed curled into James, his warmth anchoring you in the moment, but your mind tugged elsewhere. You’d been quiet for a few minutes, your body still, but James could tell something was shifting. He didn’t rush you. He never did. When you finally spoke, it came out as a whisper, the words catching on the edge of your breath.

“I almost did something last night.”

James stiffened slightly beside you- not pulling away, but more alert now, every part of him listening.

“I was sitting in the shower. Lights off. Just… crying. For hours, I think. Everything in me hurt. Not just in my head, but like my body was too tired to keep going. And I kept thinking, maybe if I just… stopped trying. Let the water keep running until it was all quiet. It felt like the kindest option.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. The shame rose like smoke, thick and cloying.

“I didn’t want to die, not exactly,” you added quickly. “I just… didn’t want to be anymore. Not like this.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful this time- it was heavy, electric. James’s arm around you had gone rigid, his grip on your hand tighter than before. When you finally dared to glance up at him, his expression was raw- eyes glassy, jaw clenched tight. Not angry. Not at you. But scared in a way you’d never seen on his face before.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, voice low, hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to scare you,” you said, tears rising again. “And I didn’t think it would matter. I thought… maybe I’d just sleep it off and pretend it was fine again.”

His breath caught, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes like he was trying to physically push the emotion back down.

“It does matter,” he said, voice cracking. “You matter. God, I…”

He cut himself off, swallowed hard. You could see the way he was trying to hold it together, and it broke something in you to know you’d hurt him by keeping it all in.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

James turned to you, gently taking your face in both hands so you had to look at him. His eyes searched yours, and for a second it felt like he was trying to memorise every line, every flicker of pain.

“You don’t ever have to go through that alone again,” he said, voice trembling. “I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care if you think it’s stupid or too much- I want to be there. Even if all I can do is sit in the dark with you.”

You nodded, tears falling freely now. Not from fear this time, but from the way his words felt like shelter- solid and real. James leaned his forehead against yours, still holding your face like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I almost lost you and I didn’t even know it,” he whispered. “Please don’t shut me out like that again.”

“I won’t,” you said, your voice shaking. “I promise.”

And as you sat there in the cold with his arms around you, your pain still real but no longer invisible, you realised- sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks or grand gestures. Sometimes it’s just someone refusing to let you drown in the silence. James was quiet again, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. This one felt heavier, like he was holding something back- not from you, but from himself.

You leaned into his shoulder, eyes still damp. “What is it?” you asked gently. “You’re somewhere else.”

He exhaled slowly, like he was working up the nerve to pull something out from a place he rarely touched.

“There was this night,” he said, after a long pause, “back when I was sixteen. My mum and I had this huge fight. One of those stupid blow-ups where everything gets said all at once. And afterward, I just... walked out. Didn’t even take my phone.”

You stayed still, letting him speak.

“I ended up on this overpass. Just stood there, watching the cars. No plan, no intention. But my head... it was loud. Loud in a way I’d never felt before. I remember thinking, ‘No one would even know I was gone until morning.’” He gave a bitter, breathless laugh. “And that thought didn’t scare me… it felt like relief.”

You turned to him slowly. He wasn't looking at you. His eyes were somewhere far away, locked on a memory he rarely let surface.

“What stopped you?” you asked.

He was quiet for a moment.

“There was this guy,” he said. “Stranger. Probably mid-twenties. He just… stood next to me. Didn’t say anything at first. Then he offered me a sandwich.” James smiled faintly, but there was sadness in it. “Just said, ‘Figured you could use something real to hold onto.’”

You felt your throat tighten.

“That stupid sandwich. I didn’t even eat it. But it was enough to pull me back.” He finally looked at you, his eyes shining. “And after that, I promised myself, if I ever saw someone I cared about standing on that edge, even if it was only in their head, I’d be the one with the sandwich.”

A shaky laugh broke through your tears. “I can’t believe you just emotionally devastated me and made me want a sandwich.”

He chuckled softly, brushing his thumb along your cheek to wipe away a tear. “Sorry. I know it’s a lot.”

“No,” you said, pressing your hand over his. “Thank you for telling me.”

James looked at you then- really looked- and there was something fragile in his expression. Not fear. Not regret. Just honesty. Shared pain. That quiet, raw understanding that maybe, just maybe, neither of you had to carry everything alone anymore.

“You’re not the only one who’s had those nights,” he said. “You’re not alone. Not in this. Not ever again.”

And in that moment, two souls stitched together by silence and storms, you realised that what he was offering wasn’t just comfort. It was himself.

The night air had gone colder, but neither of you noticed. You were still sitting close, limbs tangled in quiet trust. After everything that had been shared, your breaking point, his own brush with the edge, it felt like something had shifted between you. Not just in words, but in the way he looked at you now. Like he wasn’t just seeing your pain. He was seeing you. You rested your head back against his shoulder, heart still thudding with the weight of everything, but steadier now. Safer.

“Thank you for telling me about that night,” you murmured.

James tilted his head toward you. “I’ve never told anyone before,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I ever would.”

“Why me?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly “Because you matter to me. In ways I don’t think I’ve let myself say out loud.”

You lifted your head just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. There was a vulnerability there that mirrored your own from earlier- raw, unguarded.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice almost too soft to hear.

James let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped for years.

“I mean… I think about you. All the time. Even when you’re not around, you’re there. In my head, in the way I look for excuses to text you stupid things, in the songs I skip because they remind me too much of you.”

Your heart skipped. There it was- just a glimpse, not a confession, but more than friendship could contain.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit. “But I didn’t want to push. Not when I knew you were struggling. Not when you needed space to heal, not pressure.”

You sat up a little, enough to really see him. His posture was tense, but his face was open, like he wasn’t hiding anymore.

“I never felt pressured by you,” you said quietly. “Only… held. In a way no one else ever has.”

James gave a small, aching smile. “That’s all I ever wanted. For you to feel safe. Even if I have to bite my tongue sometimes.”

There was a long pause. The kind of silence that felt alive with everything unsaid.

“I think about you too, you know,” you whispered, your voice barely holding itself together.

His eyes flicked to yours again. Hopeful, surprised, but still cautious. Like he was standing at the edge of something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to reach for yet. You reached out, lacing your fingers through his once more.

“Not ready to say it yet,” you said gently. “But I’m not scared of it anymore.”

James nodded, eyes softening.

“I can wait,” he said, squeezing your hand. “I’m really good at waiting for the right things.”

And so you sat there, tired hearts pressed close, unspoken feelings lingering in the quiet. But this time, the silence didn’t ache. It promised.

The night stretched on, the city slowly dimming as the hours slipped toward dawn. The sky above you had begun to shift, inky black giving way to a soft, bruised blue. The kind of colour that only exists right before the light comes back.

You and James hadn’t spoken in a while. You didn’t need to. His shoulder was a steady place to rest, his hand still wrapped around yours like he had no intention of letting go. The fire escape, once a place you went to disappear, now felt like the safest corner of the world. You watched the horizon quietly, your breath rising in pale clouds.

“I never thought I’d see a morning like this again,” you murmured.

James didn’t answer right away. He simply turned, gaze warm, like the sunrise had found its way into his eyes.

“I’m glad you stayed to see it.”

You looked at him then, really looked. Sleep-tousled hair, tired eyes rimmed with worry and something softer, deeper. He looked like someone who’d carried you without complaint. Someone who’d waited at the edge, not to save you, but to hold your hand as you came back to yourself. The air between you hummed, quiet and electric.

You didn’t plan it. You didn’t think about it. You just leaned forward, heart thudding painfully loud in your chest, and pressed your lips to his. It was brief. Gentle. The kind of kiss that wasn’t meant to declare anything, but simply be a thank you, a promise, a breath of warmth in the cold morning air. When you pulled back, you found him watching you like you’d just given him something sacred.

“I thought we weren’t ready,” he whispered, almost like he didn’t trust his own voice.

You gave him a soft, tired smile.

“We’re not,” you said. “But maybe... we’re allowed to hope anyway.”

James smiled back, forehead resting gently against yours.

“Hope looks good on you.”

And there, as the first light of morning spilled over the rooftops, painting you both in something golden and fragile, you let yourself believe, for the first time in a long time, that maybe healing didn’t mean being whole again. Maybe it just meant having someone who knew how to sit with you in the dark, and stay long enough to watch the sun rise.

—————————————————————————————————

A James fic for all the James girlies! I also apologise for yet another angst! Some of this is based on a true event from issues I have personally experienced. Remember someone is always here to listen and help you. You are never alone and you are loved!

Tags-

@themdera

@tyna-19

[finchyclarkemd]

Something I have to get off my chest

After the last ChrisMD video, Bach in the latest Sidemen Video and things I've seen on SM I am seriously concerned for some of the UK Youtube community.

People demanding to know what George is doing instead of streaming, following them around, demanding things when they are filming, swearing when they decline.

THEY.DONT.OWE.US.ANYTHING

Some behaviour is getting really unhinged.

[finchyclarkemd]

your fics are so dramatic, i'm obsessed 🩷

Thank you! I’m cooking another one this week i’m hoping for it to be out by the end of the week !!

[finchyclarkemd]

MASTERLIST ❤️

Keys-

🧸 fluff

🌧️ angst

🔥 smut

——————————————————————————————————

ChrisMD

No more secrets 🧸

A heartfelt beginning 🧸

Breaking apart 🌧️

Between us p1 (ft George) 🌧️🔥

Between us p2 (ft George) 🧸🌧️

Not a big deal (ft George) 🌧️🧸

Riding into love 🧸

Arthur Hill

A ray of sunshine and a thundercloud 🧸

Arthur TV

With you, always 🧸

George Clarke

Shielded hearts 🌧️🧸

Between us p1 (ft Chris) 🌧️🔥

Between us p2 (ft Chris) 🌧️🧸

Embers of the past 🌧️🧸

Things you don’t remember 🧸🌧️

Harry Lewis

Shattered pieces 🌧️

Through rose tinted glasses 🌧️

Willne

Unspoken words 🧸

James Marriott

Whenever you’re ready 🌧️🧸

[finchyclarkemd]

Yo family!

Just a little info for you all! So, I am hoping to write another fic within the next week as well as work on just master list! I still have two exams left at university which are tying me down and I am also going on holiday on the 14th April for 5 days! I am so sorry for there not being a fic for a while but I can assure you one is coming within the next week!

Maddie 🫧

[finchyclarkemd]

Are there more fan fics on the way?

i should be back on it next week as i’m finishing off a uni exam currently!

[finchyclarkemd]

Do you have a master list please?

I do not but i can try and create one!

[finchyclarkemd]

please put your fanfics under a read more

Hey thank you for this! i will try too but sometimes i just post them that quickly that i forget

[finchyclarkemd]

No more secrets

~Fluff~

The game had begun ten minutes ago, and you had found the perfect hiding spot- a cramped supply closet tucked away at the back of the warehouse. Dust floated in the sliver of light that peeked through the gap beneath the door, and distant laughter echoed through the open space outside.   

You pressed yourself against the cold wall, heartbeat steady but alert. Hide and Seek was supposed to be a fun, lighthearted shoot for the crew, but for you, it was another test. Another chance to keep a secret you had spent months perfecting.  

Then the door opened.  

A shadow slipped inside, shutting it quickly behind them. Your breath caught for half a second before you realised who it was.  

Chris.  

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t supposed to be here.  

He turned, eyes finding yours in the dark, and despite the situation, a slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Really?” he murmured, voice just above a whisper. “Out of all the places to hide?”  

Your pulse kicked up. Not just from the risk of being caught, but from the way he was looking at you- like he wasn’t sorry at all to be stuck here with you.  

“I was here first,” you whispered back, arms crossing. “You should leave before someone-”  

Footsteps echoed nearby.  

Chris’s gaze flickered to the door, then back to you. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. Calculated. He wasn’t leaving.  

You swallowed, pressing yourself further into the shadows. The space was small, too small, and Chris was too close.  

It shouldn’t have mattered- you had been careful, after all. No one had noticed the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. No one had caught the way his hand always lingered just a second too long when passing something to you. You had played your parts perfectly.  

But now, in the dim light of a too-small space, you weren’t sure how long you could keep playing.  

Chris exhaled slowly, and then- before you could stop him- he reached up, fingers brushing against your jaw. It was the lightest touch, but it unraveled you in an instant.  

“We shouldn’t,” you breathed, but your voice lacked conviction.  

“I know.” His voice was soft, his eyes unreadable in the dim light.  

Then he kissed you.  

Slow. Deliberate. Like he had waited for this moment, like he was tired of pretending it didn’t matter. His lips were warm, his hand steady as it curled around your waist, pulling you against him. It was reckless, but in that second, neither of you cared.  

And then-  

The door swung open.  

Light flooded in, and you barely had time to jerk apart before a familiar voice cut through the air.  

“Wait- what the hell?”  

Harry.  

The silence was damning.  

You didn’t move. Chris didn’t move. But it didn’t matter.   

Because despite months of secrecy, despite all the careful glances and hidden touches- one look at Harry’s face told you everything.  

You hadn’t been as good at hiding as you thought.

Harry’s eyes flicked between you and Chris, his expression shifting from confusion to realisation in real time. The way you were standing- too close. The way Chris’s hand was still resting on your waist, like he hadn’t quite convinced himself to let go yet. The way neither of you had an excuse ready.  

His mouth opened, then shut. Then opened again. “Wait… Are you-”  

“Nothing,” Chris cut in, too quickly. His voice was calm, but you knew him well enough to hear the slight edge in it- the scramble to cover something up that was already out in the open. “Just hiding.”  

Harry scoffed, stepping further into the doorway. “Oh yeah? Because it looked like you were-” His eyes narrowed, and then, almost gleefully, “Holy shit. You were kissing.”  

Your stomach dropped. “Harry-”  

“Oh my god.” His grin widened. “No way. No actual way. How long?”  

You shot Chris a look, heart pounding, but he only ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “Harry-”  

“No. No, I need to know.” Harry leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He was enjoying this too much. “Because I’ve been saying something was going on for months, and no one believed me.”  

Chris let out a slow breath, finally dropping his hand from your waist like that would somehow undo what Harry had just witnessed. “You’re imagining things.”  

Harry scoffed. “Chris. Come on.” He gestured vaguely between you. “The tension? The stolen looks? The fact that you just kissed in the middle of a game when literally anyone could’ve walked in?” He smirked. “Which, by the way, I did. You’re welcome.”  

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “Okay, fine. Just… keep your voice down.”  

Harry’s eyes widened. “So it’s true?”  

Chris sighed. “Yes, okay? It’s true.”  

Harry grinned like he had just won the lottery. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”  

Chris rolled his eyes. “Glad we could make your day.” 

“Oh, you have no idea.” Harry’s smirk softened slightly, and for the first time, there was something other than pure amusement in his expression. Something almost… sincere. “I won’t say anything. Not unless you want me to.”  

You blinked. “Really?”  

“Hey, I can be cool.” He shrugged. “I just can’t believe you two actually pulled it off this long.” His grin returned, teasing. “Well. Almost.”  

Chris shot him a glare, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching, like he was resisting a smile. You exhaled, tension slowly easing from your shoulders.  

Maybe you hadn’t been as good at hiding as you thought.  

But at least, for now, your secret was safe.

Harry lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, a smug expression still plastered across his face. He was enjoying this too much, and you weren’t sure whether you wanted to shove him out of the room or bribe him into forgetting the last five minutes entirely.  

“So,” he said, dragging the word out, “just to clarify- I’m the only one who knows, right?”  

Chris sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Harry. You’re the only one who knows.”  

“For now,” you muttered under your breath, shooting Chris a pointed look.  

His lips twitched, but he gave a small nod, as if acknowledging that, yeah, that close call had been way too close. You had been so careful for months, but now, all it had taken was a single stolen moment- one lapse in judgment- and the secret you’d built had started to unravel.  

Harry’s grin widened. “And, just so I’m clear, how long have you two been-”  

“None of your business,” Chris cut in.  

Harry gasped dramatically. “Oh, that means a while then.”  

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Harry, please.”  

He laughed, but it wasn’t cruel- it was lighter, softer. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop prying. For now.”  

Chris narrowed his eyes. “Harry-”

“I said for now,” he repeated, smirking. Then, with a glance toward the hallway, he added, “But, seriously, you two need to get out of here before someone else comes looking. I might be able to keep my mouth shut, but if it had been Arthur or George who walked in?” He let out a low whistle. “Game over.”  

You and Chris exchanged a glance, and you hated how right Harry was.  

Chris sighed. “Fine. You go first. We’ll wait a few minutes.”  

Harry held a hand to his chest. “Wow. So sneaky. So romantic.”  

“Harry.”  

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” He turned toward the hallway, then hesitated.  

When he looked back, his expression was softer- still teasing, but there was something else behind it. Something genuine. “For real, though,” he said, quieter this time, “I won’t say anything. And… I’m happy for you guys.”  

The sincerity caught you off guard. You exchanged a glance with Chris, and his expression softened, too.  

“Thanks,” you said finally.  

Harry nodded, then grinned again. “Just don’t get caught next time.”  

And with that, he slipped out the door, leaving you alone with Chris once more.  

The silence stretched between you, thick with everything that had just happened. Chris ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.  

“Well,” he muttered, glancing at you, “we almost made it.”  

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah. Almost.”  

His gaze lingered on you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. The touch was reassuring, grounding- like he was telling you that, no matter what happened next, you were in this together.  

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

A week had passed since that close call in the supply closet, and, to your surprise, Harry hadn’t said a word to anyone. The air between you, Chris, and Harry had remained surprisingly normal, almost like that moment in the warehouse had never happened. Chris and you were back to being as careful as ever- more so, really- and Harry had gone back to his usual teasing self, though there was always a knowing glint in his eye when he looked between you two. He didn’t push. He didn’t ask.  

For the most part, it was as though he had genuinely respected the quiet unspoken agreement.  

You and Chris were still masters of secrecy, no one suspected a thing. The glances you exchanged in crowded rooms, the moments where your hands brushed just a little too long, the shared smiles when no one was looking. It was easy.  

But easy didn’t mean comfortable.  

Tonight was another late shoot, another rushed set change with only a few hours before the next scene. You and Chris were separated for most of the night, caught up in different parts of the set, doing your best to pretend like everything was normal. You kept it together. But it was harder tonight. 

Your heart raced when Chris walked into the room, a few steps ahead of the crew, and his eyes met yours across the space. That same old tug of familiarity, of the quiet connection you shared, was stronger than ever. It was like he was pulling you in, gravity refusing to let you ignore it.  

But you couldn’t. You had to ignore it.   

The shoot was almost over, and soon you’d be back to pretending, to keeping your distance.  

You were halfway through touching up your makeup in the corner when Chris approached. He glanced around the room- quick, subtle- before stepping closer.  

You barely had time to breathe before his hand found yours. A fleeting touch, barely noticeable to anyone but you.  

He gave you a soft smile. “You good?” His voice was low enough that only you could hear it.  

You squeezed his hand, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”  

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Tired? You look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up.”  

You chuckled softly. “It’s nothing. Just the usual.”  

He stepped in closer, his hand still on yours, and for a moment, you didn’t care who saw. It was just the two of you, your connection quiet but undeniable. Your heart beat a little faster in your chest. It was a reminder of everything that had been, everything that still was, even if no one else knew.  

But then, just as quickly as he had come, Chris released your hand. His eyes flicked to the door, checking for anyone in the vicinity. When he saw no one, he gave you one last lingering look before turning back to the crew.  

You exhaled slowly. Even though the brief moment felt like a stolen piece of heaven, the truth was clear. This was all a game of balance now. It was a game of when and where and how, never why- because no one could ever know.  

A few moments later, Harry appeared beside you, leaning against the makeup table with a raised brow. “I saw that,” he said, his voice a little too casual, though his eyes danced with amusement.  

You shot him a glance. “Saw what?”  

“Chris. Hand. Yours.” He grinned, an almost teasing edge to his voice.  

“Harry.”  

“Hey, relax.” He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’m not saying anything. Just wanted to check if the 'secret relationship' is still a thing.”  

You glared at him, but there was no anger in it- only exhaustion. “It’s still a thing.”  

“I figured.” He paused, then lowered his voice, his expression softening. “Look, I’m not going to make it weird. But… just make sure you’re being careful. I know you two. You can only hide it for so long.”  

You swallowed, looking away for a moment. “I know.”  

Harry’s smile softened. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.” He pushed off the table and moved toward the door, but then, just before he left, he added, “But you really should stop looking at each other like that. If you keep doing it, you won’t be able to hide it much longer.”  

You didn’t say anything in response, just watched as Harry disappeared out the door. His words echoed in your mind, heavy and real. The secret wasn’t just a secret anymore, it was a weight.  

You glanced at Chris again, and he was busy talking with someone on the other side of the room, his back turned. A small, aching part of you wondered how much longer you could keep this up.  

You looked down at your hands, your fingers still tingling from where Chris had held yours moments before.  

You didn’t have an answer. 

The soft hum of the city outside Chris’s flat was a quiet contrast to the warmth that filled the space between you two. The familiar clutter of his apartment was a comforting reminder of how much you’d grown accustomed to the moments you shared here, hidden in plain sight, in the secrecy of these four walls. The world outside had no idea- no idea how much more there was to you and Chris than what people saw when you were together on set, when you exchanged stolen glances across rooms.  

But tonight was different.  

You sat on the couch, your fingers tapping nervously on the edge of the armrest. Chris was across from you, his laptop open on the coffee table, his fingers hovering over the keys. The same tension that had followed you both for months was still there, but now there was something else, too. Something new. Excitement, perhaps. Maybe even relief.  

“Are you sure?” you asked quietly, breaking the silence.  

Chris glanced up from the screen, his eyes soft, but there was something determined in them too. He leaned back, his lips curling into a small smile. “We’ve been hiding it long enough.”  

You took a breath. “I know… but it’s just…”  

He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. The simple gesture felt like an anchor, steadying you in the whirlwind of what was about to happen. “It’s just time. We’ve spent enough time pretending, and now we don’t have to.”  

You squeezed his hand, nodding. "Okay. Let's do it."  

With a slow exhale, Chris clicked open Instagram on his laptop. He scrolled through his feed for a moment, pausing on a picture of the two of you laughing at some behind-the-scenes moment from a shoot. The picture was innocent enough, nothing that would give anything away. But it was the perfect one. He clicked it, tapping the “share” button.  

You watched as his finger hovered over the caption. The seconds stretched, but then, in a movement that felt both reckless and freeing, he typed.  

“Here’s to the best part of my life. #NoMoreSecrets #InThisTogether”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. This was it.  

Chris met your gaze, his hand resting on top of yours. “You good?” he asked softly.  

“Yeah,” you whispered, the word almost a breath. “I’m good.”  

Without another word, he pressed "Post."  

The notification popped up almost immediately: Your post is live.  

There was a quiet moment where everything hung in the balance. You glanced at the screen, your heart beating fast as you saw the first few comments rolling in. The likes, the hearts. Some from familiar faces, some from strangers. But there was one thing that stood out in the flood of reactions: it was official now.  

Chris pulled you toward him, his smile wide. “Well,” he said, his voice filled with something that sounded like both relief and joy, “there’s no turning back now.”  

You chuckled softly, leaning into him as he wrapped his arms around you. “Not that I’d want to.”  

As you both sat there, tangled together, the phone in Chris’s hand vibrated with notifications. Messages, comments, and, inevitably, a few people reaching out privately. The world had just found out about something you’d kept hidden for so long- but for once, it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like freedom.  

"Harry’s going to have a field day with this," you muttered, the thought making you laugh quietly.  

Chris laughed too, his lips brushing against your forehead. “He’ll text us, I’m sure.”  

And, as if on cue, Chris’s phone buzzed again. He glanced down, his grin widening as he read the message.  

“Yup. Here it is.” He held the phone out to you, where Harry’s text was displayed:  

“About damn time, you two. Finally, I can stop pretending I didn’t know. Congrats, lovebirds. I expect a celebration soon. 😏”

You both laughed, the sound light and carefree, and in that moment, everything felt like it had finally fallen into place. No more pretending. No more hiding. Just you, and Chris, and the world that was finally going to see what you had together.  

“I guess we can stop pretending to be casual now,” you said softly, turning your face toward his.  

Chris met your gaze, his eyes full of that same warmth that had drawn you to him all those months ago. “Yeah,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “now we can finally be real.”  

And for the first time in a long time, the secret was gone. You were both free.

——————————————————————————————————

Another Chris fic to feed your delusions (delulu is the solulu). Fic idea was from my friend again. Also, off topic, I got an Arthur TV cameo today and it was 8 minutes long!

Tags-

@themdera

@tyna-19

[finchyclarkemd]

A ray of sunshine and a thundercloud

~Fluff~

Mornings in our shared apartment always started the same way: with Arthur being insufferably cheerful and me regretting every single life choice that led to this moment.  

“Good morning, sunshine!” Arthur chirped as he practically danced into the kitchen, his ridiculous fuzzy socks sliding across the tile. “It’s a beautiful day! The birds are singing, the coffee’s fresh, and—”  

“Too loud,” I muttered, hunched over my steaming mug like a gremlin. “Too bright. Too you.”  

Arthur only grinned, completely undeterred by my suffering. He was always like this—obnoxiously happy in the mornings, like some overenthusiastic golden retriever in human form. And somehow, the universe had decided to curse me by making us roommates.  

Chris and George, our other roommates, shuffled in next, looking about as dead inside as I felt. Chris flopped onto a chair, grumbling something unintelligible, while George fumbled with the coffee pot like it was his last lifeline.  

Arthur, on the other hand, was already cracking eggs into a pan, humming some upbeat tune under his breath. The scent of butter filled the kitchen, and even though I wanted to be annoyed, my stomach betrayed me with a quiet grumble.  

“I made extra,” Arthur said, sliding a plate in front of me. “Since I know you forget to feed yourself like a proper human.”  

I glared at him over the rim of my coffee cup. “I do eat.”  

“Instant ramen and iced coffee don’t count as a balanced diet.”  

Chris made a noise of agreement, still half-asleep. George just nodded, sipping his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.  

I huffed but picked up my fork anyway. Arthur’s cooking was annoyingly good, and I wasn’t about to let my grumpiness stop me from eating.  

Arthur beamed, plopping into the chair across from me. “See? You do like me.”  

“I tolerate you,” I corrected.  

“Same thing.”  

I stabbed my eggs with a little more aggression than necessary. “You’re the worst.”  

“And yet,” Arthur said, resting his chin on his hand, “you haven’t moved out.”  

Chris snorted. George smirked. I scowled.  

Damn him and his sunshine.

Arthur was far too smug for someone who had just barely avoided getting stabbed with a fork. He knew exactly how to push my buttons, and worse—he enjoyed it.  

I ignored him and focused on eating, hoping he’d get bored and turn his relentless positivity on someone else. Chris, maybe. Or the potted plant by the window. But Arthur wasn’t one to give up so easily.  

“You know,” he said, tapping his fork against his plate, “I read somewhere that people who act all grumpy and broody actually have the softest hearts.”  

I shot him a deadpan look. “You should read better books.”  

Chris let out a wheezy laugh, finally coming to life as his coffee kicked in. George just shook his head, muttering, “You’re really pushing your luck, Arthur.”  

Arthur gasped, placing a dramatic hand on his chest. “What? I’m just observing! I mean, think about it—Y/N pretends to hate everything, but she still eats the food I make, puts an extra blanket on the couch when I fall asleep there, and—”  

I slammed my fork down. “Don’t.”  

Arthur grinned. “—and she saved a spider last night instead of killing it.”  

Chris choked on his coffee. George looked at me like I’d betrayed everything I stood for. “You saved a spider?”  

I groaned. “I didn’t save it. I just… relocated it.”  

Arthur beamed, looking far too pleased with himself. “My point stands.”  

Chris wiped away a fake tear. “I never thought I’d see the day.”  

“I hate all of you,” I muttered, standing up and grabbing my plate to put in the sink. But just before I could turn away, Arthur reached out and plucked a crumb off my sweater.  

I froze.  

“You had something,” he said softly, his fingers barely brushing against me before he pulled away. It was nothing, just an absentminded gesture, but my brain short-circuited anyway.  

Arthur smiled, the kind of easy, genuine smile that could melt glaciers. “See? You don’t hate us that much.”  

I scowled, shoving my plate into the sink harder than necessary. “You are the worst.”  

Arthur only laughed, the sound warm and bright. “And yet,” he teased, eyes glinting, “you’re still here.”  

Damn him.

For the rest of the morning, I did my best to ignore Arthur and his relentless cheerfulness. Unfortunately, Arthur had made it his life’s mission to be impossible to ignore.  

By the time we had all finished eating and migrated into the living room, he was already plotting his next attack. Chris had sprawled across the couch with his phone, George had claimed the armchair like a king on his throne, and I was about to retreat to my room when Arthur suddenly gasped.  

“Oh, no,” he said, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.  

I froze. “What.”  

“I just realised,” he continued dramatically, flopping onto the couch beside me, “you haven’t smiled today.”  

Chris snorted. “Dude, she doesn’t smile any day.”  

“That’s not true,” Arthur countered. “I’ve seen it. It’s rare, like a solar eclipse, but it happens.” He turned to me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”  

I stared at him. “No, you won’t.”  

Arthur grinned. “Oh, I absolutely will.”  

Before I could escape, he poked my cheek.  

I slapped his hand away. “What are you, a five-year-old?”  

Arthur ignored the insult and just kept going—lightly poking my arm, my shoulder, my side—until I was practically vibrating with irritation.  

Chris was wheezing. George watched like this was the most entertainment he’d had all week.  

“Arthur,” I warned.  

“Yes?” he said, still grinning.  

“Stop.”  

“Nope.”  

And then—before I could react—he tickled my side.  

A noise escaped me that I refused to acknowledge as a laugh.  

Chris straight-up fell off the couch. George covered his mouth like he’d witnessed something sacred.  

Arthur gasped, looking utterly triumphant. “Was that a giggle?!”  

I smacked his arm. “No, it wasn’t.”  

“Oh my God.” Arthur clutched his heart. “You’re capable of joy.”  

I was going to kill him. Right here. Right now.  

Chris, still half on the floor, gasped through his laughter. “Do it again!”  

Arthur made a move to try, but I launched myself off the couch before he could, retreating behind the armchair like it was a fortress. “I swear, if you come near me, I will throw you out the window.”  

Arthur just grinned, resting his chin in his hand like he had won something. “Worth it.”  

Chris was still laughing. George just shook his head, amused. “Man,” he said, sipping his coffee, “you two are ridiculous.”  

I glared at Arthur, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up my neck. “I hate you.”  

Arthur winked. “And yet,” he said, smug as hell, “you’re still here.”  

Damn him.

For the rest of the day, Arthur looked way too pleased with himself. Every time I so much as glanced in his direction, he’d flash me that smug, stupid grin—like he had unlocked some great secret about me.  

I ignored him. Or at least, I tried to.  

By the time evening rolled around, Chris and George had ordered takeout, and we were all spread across the living room, eating straight from the containers like the functional adults we definitely weren’t.  

Arthur, still riding the high of his so-called victory, was humming to himself as he twirled noodles around his chopsticks. It was maddening.  

I pointed at him with my fork. “If you don’t stop smiling at me like that, I will personally end your entire existence.”  

Arthur grinned wider. “I knew it. You did giggle earlier.”  

Chris cackled. “Bro, just admit it, she loves you.”  

I shot him a murderous glare. “I do not.”  

Arthur gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “Ouch. Right in the heart.”  

“You don’t have a heart,” I muttered. “Just an endless supply of obnoxious energy.”  

Arthur, still grinning, rested his chin in his hand. “Well, if I did have a heart, you’d be my favourite grump in it.”  

Chris choked on his food. George raised a brow. I? I wanted to die.  

Heat prickled up my neck, but I refused to let him win. I took a slow, deliberate bite of my food, keeping my expression blank. “I hope your pillow is warm on both sides tonight.”  

Arthur gasped. “Take that back.”  

“No.”  

Chris was practically on the floor laughing. “You guys are so weird. Just get married already.”  

I threw a napkin at his face.  

Arthur, ever the menace, just smiled wider. “Aw,” he teased. “You like me.”  

I huffed, crossing my arms. “I tolerate you.”  

Arthur winked. “And yet—”  

“If you say ‘you’re still here’ one more time, I will throw you out the window.”  

Arthur laughed, golden and warm, and for some infuriating reason, I didn’t actually hate the sound of it.

The next few days passed in a blur of shared moments and quiet, increasingly complicated interactions. Arthur was still his usual, annoyingly sunny self, and I was still… well, me. Grumpy. Cynical. Determined to keep my walls up. But there was a shift, subtle at first.  

It started one evening when Chris and George were out, and it was just the two of us in the apartment. I was curled up on the couch, half-watching a movie, half-sulking about the stress of the week. I didn’t expect Arthur to be in my space, not tonight.  

But he was.  

“Hey,” Arthur said, his voice gentle but still full of that irritating cheer. “I made you some tea.”  

I blinked at him, caught off guard by the simple act. I hadn’t asked for anything. He didn’t need to do that.  

“You don’t have to,” I muttered, not wanting to admit I was touched by the gesture.  

He smiled, like he’d already seen through me. “I know. But I thought you might like it.” He handed me the mug, warm steam rising from it. “It’s chamomile. It’s good for grumps like you.”  

I rolled my eyes but took the mug anyway. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had made me tea without asking for anything in return, especially not Arthur. He wasn’t that type. He had his own motives, didn’t he?  

“Thanks,” I said, my voice a little quieter than usual.  

Arthur didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he perched on the armrest of the couch, the space between us charged with something I couldn’t quite name. “You know,” he started, voice casual, “you don’t always have to be mad at the world.”  

I snorted. “And you don’t always have to be happy about it, either.”  

Arthur chuckled, his warmth radiating toward me. “I guess you’re right. But I like to think of it this way—if I’m the only one willing to smile, maybe I can get you to crack eventually.”  

“Not happening,” I said, lifting the mug to my lips.  

Arthur’s gaze softened, but I didn’t see it. I was too busy pretending that I wasn’t aware of how close he was. How the scent of his shampoo—the fresh, citrusy smell—kept drifting over, making it hard to concentrate.  

For a long moment, he just sat there, watching me drink. It felt strange. The air was a little too still, like we were both waiting for something to break. I couldn’t figure out what, but my chest tightened, and I didn’t know whether it was from irritation or something else entirely.  

Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You don’t have to be alone, you know.”  

I froze.  

It was such a quiet statement, so simple and without the usual teasing or humour that Arthur wrapped himself in. And somehow, it made everything feel too real.  

“I’m not alone,” I said quickly, a little too sharply. “I’m fine.”  

“Are you?” Arthur asked, his voice low now, a touch of vulnerability slipping through the cracks.  

I didn’t respond right away. I couldn’t. His words lingered in the air, and the space between us suddenly felt too small. Too intimate.  

“I know it’s hard,” he added, quieter now. “But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. Not anymore.”  

I turned my head sharply, meeting his eyes for the first time in a long while. His gaze was softer than I expected, more earnest, and for a fleeting moment, I felt the weight of something I didn’t understand—but wanted to.  

I swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”  

Arthur didn’t push. He just nodded, taking a slow breath and sitting back a little, as if giving me the space I needed.  

But there was something in his eyes that stayed with me long after he returned to his usual cheerful self. Something that hinted at a patience, a quiet understanding, I hadn’t been prepared for.  

The next few days were much like before. Arthur still smiled too much, and I still grumbled at everything. But now… now, there was this quiet undercurrent between us. It wasn’t much. A brush of fingers when we passed by. A shared look when something happened that only the two of us understood. And, most surprisingly, a part of me that started to soften—not because I wanted to, but because it felt right.  

It wasn’t love yet. At least, I didn’t think so.  

But as I found myself catching his gaze more often, as I started to notice little things—the way his smile reached his eyes when he saw me, how he made sure I had enough blankets when I fell asleep on the couch, how he always checked in when he thought I was having a bad day—I realised I was no longer so sure of my own defences.  

One evening, as we sat on the couch watching a movie—something ridiculously cheesy that I’d never admit to enjoying—Arthur, once again, leaned close.  

"Hey," he said softly, his voice barely a whisper against the background noise. "Thanks for being here. Even when you're being all grumpy."  

I felt a warmth bloom in my chest, an unexpected feeling I couldn’t name. "You're impossible," I muttered, but it lacked the usual bite.  

Arthur just smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Maybe."  

And, just for a moment, I let myself feel it—the soft, slow pull toward him that I had been resisting.  

Maybe he was right. Maybe I didn’t have to do everything alone.  

And maybe, just maybe, I didn’t mind him being around as much as I pretended.  

But I wasn’t ready to admit that yet. Not out loud.  

For now, I just took a deep breath and let it happen, because sometimes, the best things in life didn’t need to be rushed.

The days blurred into each other, marked by small, seemingly insignificant moments that, in hindsight, seemed to form the foundation of something I didn’t quite understand yet. Arthur’s persistent cheerfulness continued, but I found myself no longer bothered by it. Instead, it was almost... comforting. Like a steady rhythm in the background of my chaotic world.  

It happened one rainy afternoon when I had retreated to my room, curling up with a book and a blanket. I didn’t particularly feel like talking to anyone, but when I heard a knock at the door, I knew it was Arthur before he even spoke.  

“Hey,” he called through the door, his voice laced with that familiar warmth. “You good in there?”  

I hesitated, torn between my desire to be left alone and the quiet longing I didn’t want to acknowledge. I could have ignored him, but the thought of Arthur on the other side, just wanting to make sure I was okay, stopped me.  

“Yeah,” I replied, my voice rough from being holed up alone all afternoon. “Just reading.”  

There was a soft chuckle from the other side of the door. “I know you’re grumpy, but you should get some air. It’s nice outside.”  

I narrowed my eyes, looking out the window at the grey, drizzly sky. “Nice?”  

Arthur didn’t respond right away, but I heard the faint sound of his footsteps moving closer. And then, to my surprise, the door creaked open, revealing him standing there, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  

“I meant the weather for you,” he said with a wink. “I was going to bring you some tea, but I guess you already have that covered.”  

I didn’t know how to respond. I knew what he was doing—trying to coax me out of my mood again, trying to get me to stop being so closed off. The thing was, it was working, and that frustrated me.  

“I don’t need fresh air,” I muttered, glancing back at the book in my hands. It felt like the easiest way to avoid looking at him.  

But then Arthur did something unexpected. He sat down on the edge of the bed, not too close, but close enough that I could feel his presence. It was a strange thing—having someone be there, without expectation. I wasn’t used to it.  

“You know,” he started, his voice a little quieter now, “you don’t always have to push people away.”  

I stiffened. “I’m not pushing anyone away.”  

“You are,” he replied gently. “You think I don’t see it?”  

I wanted to argue, to tell him that he didn’t know anything about me, about how I’d learned to be alone because people always let you down. But I didn’t. The words were stuck in my throat.  

“I don’t want to push you away,” I said, almost too softly for him to hear.  

Arthur didn’t say anything at first, but there was a shift in the air, a soft tension that wasn’t uncomfortable, just… real. He didn’t push me for more than that, though. He simply sat there, as if he understood the fragile line I was walking.  

And then, without warning, he stood up and walked to the window, his back to me. “The rain’s kind of nice, though. Makes everything feel like it’s slowing down.”  

I couldn’t help it. I followed his gaze to the drizzling rain outside, the soft rhythm of it hitting the windowsill. There was something peaceful about it, something quiet in the way the world seemed to hold its breath.  

I didn’t know what made me say it, but it slipped out before I could stop myself. “You’re right. It’s… calming.”  

Arthur turned back to me, his eyes soft. “See? You don’t always have to be the storm. Sometimes it’s okay to just… let yourself be still.”  

There it was again. That quiet kindness in his words, that gentle understanding I wasn’t used to. I wanted to brush it off, to tell him to stop trying to fix me, but something inside me resisted. I didn’t want to be fixed. I just… wanted someone to see me.  

And Arthur, annoyingly enough, did.  

“I’m not good at that,” I said, almost like an apology. “Being still.”  

He smiled at me, the kind of smile that made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t explain. “It takes practice,” he said simply. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”  

The room felt heavy for a moment, thick with all the things left unsaid. I wanted to say something back, something that would push him away and protect the walls I’d built for so long. But I couldn’t.  

Instead, I just nodded, my eyes meeting his for a second too long. I quickly looked away, uncomfortable with how vulnerable the moment felt.  

Arthur didn’t press me. Instead, he reached for his phone from the bedside table and held it up with that same mischievous grin I’d come to recognise.  

“Alright,” he said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Movie night. You can pick this time. And no grumbling about it.”  

I raised an eyebrow. “You want me to pick? You’re asking the wrong person.”  

“I know,” he said, sitting back down on the bed, an unbothered smile on his face. “But I trust you to pick something terrible and watch it with me.”  

I scoffed, but there was no heat behind it. “You’re impossible.”  

“And yet,” Arthur said, his tone teasing, “you’re still here.”  

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. There was something in the way he said it, the way he knew it—he knew I was staying.  

Maybe I wasn’t ready to admit it, but slowly, piece by piece, I was starting to understand that the walls I’d built so carefully were crumbling, one quiet moment at a time. And, despite myself, I wasn’t as angry about it as I thought I would be.  

Maybe—just maybe—I didn’t mind Arthur’s constant presence as much as I’d thought.  

But I wasn’t about to say it out loud just yet.  

So, instead, I picked a movie. And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to be still, sitting beside him on the couch, letting the quiet moments stretch between us like a slow burn I wasn’t sure I was ready for. But, maybe, just maybe, I wanted to be.

The days that followed seemed to stretch on in a haze of quiet moments, soft smiles, and the constant hum of unspoken tension between Arthur and me. I could feel it now—the shift, the subtle tug that pulled me toward him. It was like an invisible thread, winding tighter each time he smiled, each time he looked at me like I was something worth caring about.  

But I was still trying to hold myself back. I wasn’t ready to give in to whatever this was. To feel the weight of something I wasn’t sure I could handle. But the more time we spent together, the harder it became to resist.  

One evening, after a particularly long day, the apartment was quiet. George and Chris had gone out again, leaving Arthur and me alone. It wasn’t unusual. The others had been in and out for hours, and I’d found myself sinking into the couch beside Arthur without even realising how much time had passed.  

We were watching something ridiculous—one of those awful rom-coms where the characters were just too perfect, too full of unrealistic optimism. The kind that always made me roll my eyes.  

But tonight, I wasn’t rolling my eyes. I was staring at the screen, yes, but I was also aware of Arthur sitting next to me. His arm was pressed against mine, so close I could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of our shirts.  

“I can’t believe you’re still watching this,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though it came out quieter than I intended.  

Arthur grinned, his gaze flickering from the screen to me. “I don’t mind it.”  

“Of course you don’t.” I snorted, nudging him with my elbow. “You’re way too easy to please.”  

His eyes softened, a subtle shift in his expression, the kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice. But I did. And for a split second, everything else faded—the movie, the apartment, even the world outside. All that was left was the quiet hum of his presence, and the way he was looking at me.  

Arthur didn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifted closer, his knee brushing against mine. The contact was electric, making the space between us feel impossibly small. I could feel his breath against my cheek now, could smell that same citrus scent I’d grown strangely fond of.  

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.  

I turned my head slightly, my breath catching in my throat. He was so close now, too close for comfort. His eyes locked on mine, a glint of something in them that I didn’t quite understand, but I felt it in my chest.  

For a moment, everything seemed to still. The silence in the room deepened, and I could hear the soft beat of my own heart. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to pull away or lean in. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to pull back and keep my distance. But another part of me—the part that had been holding itself together with nothing but stubbornness—was ready to let go.  

Arthur’s hand, almost tentatively, brushed against mine. It was a simple touch, but it felt like everything. His fingers slid against mine, the contact gentle but firm, like he was asking for permission in the softest way possible.  

My breath caught, and I swore I could feel the moment shift. There was no going back.  

“Arthur…” I whispered, but the word felt like it came from somewhere far away.  

His gaze flickered between my eyes and my lips. I could feel the tension between us building, a magnet pulling us together, inch by inch.  

And then…  

“Guys, we’re back!”  

Chris’s voice—loud, unmistakable, and completely timing it perfectly—broke the bubble between us.  

Arthur jumped back like I’d burned him. I nearly stumbled off the couch, heart hammering in my chest. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, the overwhelming sense of what could have been that I had to push away as quickly as possible.  

“Seriously?” I muttered, both relieved and frustrated beyond belief.  

Chris and George appeared in the doorway, grinning like they knew exactly what had been going on.  

“Didn’t think we’d be interrupting a moment, but I guess we did,” Chris said, his voice laced with mischief.  

I shot him a glare that could’ve melted ice, but George only shrugged, oblivious. “Hey, we’re just here to ruin everything. It’s a talent.”  

Arthur, ever the good sport, just chuckled awkwardly, shifting on the couch. “Yeah, um, just… wasn’t what it looked like.” His voice was too high, a little too eager to convince everyone—himself included—that nothing had happened.  

But I knew it had. I could feel the weight of it in the air, that strange, unsaid thing that had almost shifted between us.  

“Sure, sure,” Chris said, dropping his bag on the floor and flopping onto the couch. “Whatever you say, man.” He wiggled his eyebrows at us both. “Anyway, you guys got any snacks? I’m starving.”  

Arthur’s eyes flickered to me quickly, an apologetic look that I couldn’t quite decipher. And though I wanted to be annoyed—wanted to be really annoyed—I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips.  

I took a deep breath, pushing the confusing rush of emotions away. “I’m not making snacks for you,” I said, standing up from the couch. “You’re on your own, pal.”  

Arthur stood as well, following me to the kitchen. “You’re seriously not going to make us snacks?”  

“Maybe not you,” I muttered, more to myself than to him, as I reached for the chips.  

Arthur’s smile softened, a glint of something warmer in his eyes. “That’s fair,” he said with a grin. “But maybe I’ll let you make it up to me later.”  

I glanced at him over my shoulder, my heart thudding unexpectedly. “Yeah, maybe you will.”  

We stood in that quiet kitchen for a moment longer than necessary, both of us avoiding the words that were just on the tip of our tongues. The kiss that was still hanging in the air, unspoken and unfinished.  

But for now, the only sound was the crunch of chips, the hum of the fridge, and the overwhelming feeling that this—whatever this was—was far from over. And maybe, just maybe, it was only just beginning.  

The weeks that followed were a blur of quiet moments and lingering tension, the kind that wrapped itself around us in the most unexpected ways. Arthur’s relentless optimism still had the power to both annoy and soothe me in equal measure, but something else had started to shift between us. There were no grand declarations, no sudden bursts of confessions—just slow, steady changes that built up until I could feel them in my bones.

I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. Maybe it was the way Arthur had started leaving small notes for me to find—silly little things like "You’ve got this" or "You’re more than just grumpy." Or maybe it was the way we began to share moments that weren’t about being together as friends or roommates anymore. Late nights, just the two of us, watching movies with our legs tangled on the couch, our arms brushing as we reached for the same popcorn bowl.

We’d stopped hiding behind our walls, both of us letting the other in without really acknowledging it. But I couldn’t ignore the way his touch felt different now—the way his smile lingered longer, the way his gaze would drop to my lips, just for a split second, before he looked away.

But we never said anything. We never addressed it directly. At least, not until that night.

It was late, and the apartment was quiet. Chris and George had gone to bed early for once, leaving Arthur and me alone in the living room. I was on the couch, a book in my hands, but my attention was entirely on Arthur. He was sitting at the window, staring out at the city lights, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the streetlights.

“I was thinking about something,” Arthur said quietly, his voice barely breaking the silence. 

I glanced over, frowning. “What?”

He didn’t turn to look at me, but I could feel his attention on me. “About how long we’ve been doing this.”

“Doing what?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what he meant.

“You know… this. Us. This… thing.” He finally turned to look at me, his gaze soft but intense. “It’s been… nice, hasn’t it?”

I was silent for a moment, heart thudding. “I guess it has.”

“Yeah. It has,” he agreed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But I think… maybe it’s time to stop pretending we don’t know what’s been happening.”

I swallowed, suddenly unable to form words. I was too aware of how close we were, how the air between us had thickened in a way I wasn’t sure how to navigate. There was so much I wanted to say, but I didn’t know how. So instead, I just nodded.

Arthur stood, slowly, his movements deliberate. He crossed the room in quiet steps, and my heart beat a little faster the closer he got. When he reached me, he didn’t sit right away. Instead, he paused, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. The tension between us was unbearable, but it was also… right. It had been building for so long, the moment had finally come.

“You’re not what I expected,” Arthur said softly, his voice a little breathless. “You’re harder to read than I thought.”

“I’m not that complicated,” I said, though I could feel the words catch in my throat. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince him or myself.

“No,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was delicate, his fingers grazing my skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re a little more complicated than that.” His gaze dropped to my lips, and for the first time, the distance between us felt intimate—like I could feel every beat of his heart, every breath that hung between us.

I wasn’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was me, leaning up just slightly. Or maybe it was Arthur, taking that final step forward, closing the gap between us. All I knew was that, in the span of a breath, his lips were on mine, and everything else faded away.  

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if we were both testing the waters, unsure of what we’d find. But the moment his lips met mine, something inside me snapped. A flood of emotions I had been holding back crashed through me—everything from frustration to longing to relief. He was warm, and his lips were gentle but firm, as if he had been waiting for this moment too. I could feel his pulse under my fingertips as my hand found its way to his shirt, my grip tightening just slightly.

Arthur let out a soft sigh against my lips, and that was all it took. The kiss deepened, slow and searching, as if we were both finally allowing ourselves to feel everything we had been keeping locked away. The quiet moments, the touches, the almosts—they had all led up to this, and it was more than I could have ever imagined.

We pulled away slowly, both of us breathless. I could feel my heart racing, a rush of emotions flooding my chest.

“I think I’ve been waiting for that,” Arthur said quietly, his forehead resting against mine.  

I didn’t say anything at first. I didn’t need to. The answer was in the way I felt the warmth of his hand still on my cheek, in the way my heart had finally found a rhythm in sync with his. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually… do it,” I said, my voice a little shaky, though there was a soft smile on my lips. 

Arthur chuckled, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin. “I think you were waiting for me to, too.”

I shook my head, but there was a quiet happiness in my chest, something that felt like hope. 

“Yeah,” I admitted, voice soft. “Maybe I was.”

Arthur grinned, leaning in again. “Good. Because I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

And just like that, everything felt a little less complicated. The walls I’d built up around myself, the doubts and fears that had kept me closed off for so long—suddenly, they didn’t seem so insurmountable anymore. 

I didn’t have to be perfect. I didn’t have to have everything figured out. With Arthur, I could just be—and that was more than enough.

And as we leaned in for another kiss, I realised that, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid to let myself feel everything that was between us.

——————————————————————————————————

I loved writing this I won’t lie. I think I might do another Arthur one in the future!

Tags-

@themdera

@tyna-19

[finchyclarkemd]

not a day goes by where i don’t think about this chrismd video. stephen tries as ref, best teams in a pub golf video yet, how drunk everyone (arthur) got.