It’s a warm English summer, the kind that feels like it might last forever—sunlight glinting off the pavements, drying puddles from the night before, beer gardens spilling with laughter. You’re inside the pub, weaving through the crowd toward the bar, your hand brushing the edge of your skirt as you move. You’re thirsty, already regretting the cider you finished too quickly, and more than a little warm under the collar from the heat and bodies packed in around you.

You don’t see him. Not at first.

Arthur does, though.

You wouldn’t know that, of course. You’re too busy ordering, too busy laughing at something the bartender says, too caught in the mood to notice the sudden stillness across the room—how one of the boys at the table by the window goes quiet.

Arthur watches you like you’re a ghost.

He hasn’t seen you since uni. Not really. You wouldn’t remember him; not properly. But he remembers you—your laugh, your eyeliner, the way you talked about music like it was your first language. He remembers sitting two rows behind you in media theory, trying not to stare. He remembers shaving his hair and switching his entire style for a version of himself he thought you’d like. He remembers every version you never saw.

And now, years later, you’re here, like a glitch in the simulation, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Arthur turns away. Fast. Hopes the lads didn’t notice the sudden shift in his face, the tension pulling at his jaw. He keeps his head down as they all move toward a table—him, Isaac, George, Chris, ArthurTV—loud and buzzing from another chaotic game of alcohol roulette filmed for the channel. Everyone's talking about shots and thumbnail ideas and whether the next pub does pitchers.

Except Isaac notices. Of course he does.

He leans in toward Arthur, voice low. “You alright, mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You wanna step out for a bit?”

Arthur waves him off, tries to joke his way through it, and lets himself get dragged into more drinks, more banter. But the knot in his stomach stays. You’re still here. Not ten feet away. Still so stupidly beautiful it makes him ache. And still unaware.

He drinks. Not stupidly, not recklessly—but enough to take the edge off. Enough to try and forget that he used to lie in bed wondering if you even knew his name.

And then, just as they’re about to leave, it happens.

You’re turning from the bar, glass in hand, caught off guard by someone pushing past. Your shoulder knocks straight into someone else’s chest. Hard. You stumble, and your eyes fly up, ready to snap—but your voice dies in your throat.

It’s him.

You don’t know him.

But he knows you.

Arthur freezes, glass halfway to his mouth. You stare up at him, brow furrowing at the familiarity you can’t quite place. The table of boys behind him goes silent for a beat, all eyes flicking between the two of you like they’ve just tuned in too late to something important.

He swallows. Hard.