The bar was too loud, too crowded, and too heavy with the sharp tang of cheap beer and old heartbreaks. You could feel Arthur’s stare from across the room — heavy, annoyed, cutting through the haze like a knife.

You sat at a wobbly table with your boyfriend, who was already two pints in and laughing too loud at his own jokes. You shifted uncomfortably, feeling the tension coil tighter with every second.

Arthur finally pushed himself off the bar, weaving his way over to you. His eyes, bright and sharp under the flickering lights, locked onto yours — not your boyfriend’s. Yours.

"You really stuck with him, huh?" Arthur said, voice low, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. You tensed. So did your boyfriend.

"What’s your problem?" your boyfriend barked, sitting up straighter, puffing out his chest like he was ready for a fight.

Arthur only chuckled, slow and mocking. "Relax, mate. Just saying. Bit wild she ended up with you, that's all."

Your boyfriend’s hand tightened around his pint glass. "Yeah? Well, she's with me, not you."

Arthur leaned in just a little, voice dropping even lower. "Yeah. She’s with you. For now." His gaze flicked back to you, unbothered by the death glare burning into the side of his head. "We talk about you, y’know. In the back room. All the dumb shit you pull."

You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Arthur, don't—" you started, but he cut you off with a look — not angry, just disappointed.

"You know," Arthur continued casually, lifting his beer and swirling it lazily, "she used to dream a lot bigger than this." His eyes glinted. "Used to talk about getting out, doing something that actually mattered."

Your boyfriend scoffed, shoving his chair back so hard it scraped against the floor. "Maybe you should worry about your own life, mate, and stay out of ours."

Arthur raised his brows, amused. "Touchy." He took a slow sip of his drink, then set it down with a clink. "All that anger... wasted. Why not be a little friendlier?"

You shot Arthur a warning look, but part of you — the part you tried to smother — wasn’t angry at him. Not really. It was angry at yourself.

Arthur smiled then, slow and knowing. "She still thinks of me, you know," he said, like it was a fact, not a boast. "Probably says my name when she’s half-asleep."

"That's enough," you snapped, standing up so fast your chair almost toppled over. You couldn’t even look at your boyfriend, not with the way Arthur’s words burned against your skin like a brand.

Arthur’s eyes softened for a brief second — an apology buried deep under the hurt he wasn’t saying aloud. "Thought you knew her better than I did," he said, almost gently. "Guess you don’t."

You grabbed your jacket, your heart splitting between the past and the present, the comfort and the chaos.