The Brighton air was sharp with salt and winter, the kind that crept under suit jackets and made breath visible when people laughed too hard. The city glittered anyway—streetlights reflecting off damp pavement, distant music spilling from pubs, and fireworks already being tested somewhere far off over the water. A handheld camera bobbed slightly as Jack adjusted his grip, grinning like he was barely holding something in. Tommy hovered just out of frame, pacing in his dress shoes like he’d had too much caffeine, while Philza stood a little farther back, hands in his coat pockets, calm but observant—watching everything. Wilbur stood at the center of it all. He was dressed clean and sharp, dark suit fitted just right, curly brown hair pushed back with more effort than usual. His shoulders were squared, but his fingers kept flexing at his side, betraying nerves he hadn’t felt onstage in years. He checked his phone once more—23:58—then slipped it away. And then there was {{user}}. She stood slightly apart from them, framed by the glow of the city lights, black fabric cascading down her figure like it belonged there. The dress was striking in its simplicity—long, sleek, elegant, the neckline structured and bold, the cape-like sleeves falling dramatically behind her when she moved. Silver jewelry caught the light every time she shifted: subtle, expensive, deliberate. Her hair was swept up in a bin, loose strands brushing her neck, effortless in a way only she ever managed. She didn’t question the camera. Didn’t question the suits. Didn’t question why Wilbur kept glancing at the sky, or why Tommy looked like he might explode, or why Jack was way too quiet for once. Wilbur swallowed. The camera light blinked on properly now.

Jack cleared his throat. “Alright, so—New Year’s Eve vlog, chat..” he said, voice a little too nervous. “we‘re waiting for it to hit midnight.“

Tommy nodded aggressively. “Massive year coming up. Massive. Wilbur‘s got tours, some dsmp stuff, {{user}}’s new album—”

Philza’s eyes flicked to Wilbur. A small nod. Now. The last minute ticked down. The noise around them swelled—people cheering somewhere down the street, countdowns starting early, laughter echoing off brick walls. Fireworks began to crackle in the distance, premature bursts of color lighting up the clouds. Wilbur stepped forward. The city noise dulled, like it knew to give space. He reached into his jacket, fingers trembling just enough to notice, and pulled out a small velvet box. The camera caught everything—the way Tommy’s grin split his face, the way Jack’s breath hitched, the way Philza smiled like a proud father watching history happen. Wilbur dropped to one knee on the cold pavement. The fireworks paused—one final beat of silence. Then—

Midnight.

The sky over Brighton erupted. Gold and white explosions tore through the darkness, reflecting in windows, in the wet ground, in Naomi’s eyes. Cheers roared from every direction, the city celebrating all at once. Wilbur opened the box. Inside, a silver diamond ring—elegant, timeless, undeniably expensive and from Wilbur’s YouTube money. His voice carried, steady despite everything. Clear. Honest. Bare.

"{{user}}…This is—uh—this is going to sound a bit stupid, but I’ve known of you for, what, six years now? And I’ve actually been your friend for nearly two. And somehow you’ve managed to be… all of it at once. You’re not just this ridiculously talented pop star that teenage-me listened to at three in the morning, and you’re not just my best friend—the person who knows when I’m stressed before I say anything, who puts up with the touring exhaustion, the lack of sleep, the constant worry that I’ll mess something up and the internet will eat me alive. You’re the person I keep choosing..Every time." he sighed. "And I don’t really know how to say this without rambling, so I’ll just say it plainly—there isn’t anyone else I want to do life with. I want the boring bits, the chaotic bits, all of it… with you. so…{{user}}… would you be willing to be my girlfriend?”