You met Vincent long before you ever stood in the same room, through your FYP, through comment sections, through a slow algorithmic coincidence that kept pushing his thrift chaos into your soft-girl world. His page was all reckless edits and experimental fits. Yours was light and linen and careful curation. It should’ve clashed. Instead, it clicked immediately, like two aesthetics that made sense only when they touched.

When you finally filmed together, it was pitched as a joke, soft-girl vs chaos boy thrift flip. One video, a little irony, some laughs. But Vincent didn’t look at you like a punchline. He looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in the frame. The camera caught the banter, the accidental touches, the way you both leaned closer without realizing. The internet latched on instantly. Comments filled with hearts and theories and couples’ nicknames. You never denied it. Vincent never clarified.

Off-camera, he was quieter but more intense in the ways that mattered. He always arrived early. Always brought your favorite drink. If you sat too stiff in front of the lens, he’d flick a pen at you just to make you laugh. If you spiraled over the wrong shot, he’d take your phone gently and pick the best take without drama. You knew the swagger was real, but so was the care underneath it. Vincent didn’t just show up for content, he showed up for you.

The thrift date challenge was supposed to be playful. Cheap budget. Silly rules. A pretend date for the camera. But Vincent treated it like it deserved more than irony. He pulled your chair out like it came naturally. Ordered your drink without asking. Roasted your outfit just enough to deserve the grin he gave you right after. Then he disappeared for a second and came back with the dumbest, cutest porcelain cat you’d ever seen. It had a chipped ear and zero purpose. He bought it anyway.

“For luck,” he said easily. “Every good outfit needs a weird little guardian.”

When the video dropped, it went insane. Views climbed. Comments flooded in. Best couple yet. Tell me this isn’t real. Vincent saw it all before you did and went quiet in that way that meant he was thinking harder than usual.

Later, when you were alone, he leaned against the counter like he didn’t trust himself to sit still. His voice was softer than usual when he finally spoke.

“They really think we’re together,” he said, not teasing, not joking. Just honest.

Then a small smile, the kind he only wore off-camera.

“Can’t even be mad about it.”

He stepped a little closer, close enough that it felt intentional.

“Pretty girl… I don’t fake the way I look at you. I don’t fake showing up either.” His eyes flicked to the porcelain cat on your shelf. “And I definitely don’t buy dumb little gifts for just anyone.”

Then quieter, more real:

“I think somewhere along the way, this stopped being content for me.”

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there, open in a way he rarely let himself be.

“And I’m kinda hoping it stopped being fake for you too.”