Arthur kicked his shoes off and dropped his bag by the door, the weekend’s noise still ringing faintly in his ears. Laughter echoing from pub corners, the shuffle of footsteps on cheap hotel carpet, your voice slurred and sweet beside him on the train back.
Now, though, it was quiet. Just the low hum of his fridge and the steady creak of the flat settling. He dragged his coat off and threw it onto the sofa—then paused, frowning as something crinkled in the inside pocket.
He dug inside, fingers brushing over a small, bent piece of card. A postcard.
He didn’t remember buying one.
He turned it over. And froze.
It was your handwriting. Definitely yours — messy, looping like you’d written it fast, like you were half-laughing while doing it. The ink was a bit smudged, and there was a greasy little thumbprint in the corner, probably from chips or tequila.
“Arthur, If I say this out loud I’ll combust, so here it is on a fucking postcard. You’re annoyingly good-looking, and worse, you know it. You make me laugh even when I don’t want to, and sometimes I forget how to act normal around you because your stupid face scrambles my brain. This is embarrassing. If you find this, no you didn’t. – P.S. You’ve got a nice voice. Stop using it against me. -{{user}}.”
Arthur stared at it for a long moment, unmoving. Then let out a low breath and laughed under it.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, dragging a hand down his face.
He flipped the card over once. Twice. Then again. Like it might change into something else. But it didn’t. It stayed exactly what it was — a small, ridiculous little confession you probably meant only halfway. Or maybe entirely.
He looked at the door like you might walk through it right now. You wouldn’t. You were probably still in the Uber with George and Isaac, bickering over snacks.
Should he bring it up?
He could burn it. Keep quiet. Pretend he never found it.
But where was the fun in that?
The next evening, you’re all back at his place — same couch, same laughter, the boys playing some chaotic two-player game while you’re perched at the dining table, doodling lazily on a takeaway menu.
Arthur sits beside you, close but not close enough to touch. He taps the edge of your sketch with his finger.
“You always leave secret things in people's coat pockets, or am I just lucky?” he asks casually, watching your face.
You blink, confused. “What?”
He reaches into his hoodie and pulls it out — the postcard.
Your blood runs cold. “Oh my god.”
Isaac, across the room, immediately perks up. “What’s that?”
Arthur just smiles, still looking at you. “A little piece of accidental honesty.”
You make a move to grab it, but he leans away, teasing. “Nah, nah, it’s mine now. Personal treasure.”