You should’ve known the Grotto would be mental before you even stepped foot inside. It was exactly how Alfie described it—"barely a house, more of a shoebox with delusions of being fucking fancy”—but it had a kind of charm. Posters half-hung on the wall with tape, LED strips peeling off the ceiling, and an actual loaf of bread sat proudly on the microwave like it lived there rent-free.

He met you at the door with a camera already filming, turning it toward you with an obnoxiously smug grin. “And here we have today’s victim,” he narrated. “Attempting to film in the Grotto—bold choice.”

“Hi,” you said flatly into the lens, stepping past him. “Can confirm, it smells like if toast had anxiety.”

“Oi,” he snorted, slapping the door shut behind you. “It’s a fucking comforting smell.”

You set your bag down and got to work pulling out your mic, webcam, and battered laptop. He flopped to the floor beside you, helping untangle cables with surprising care for someone who looked like he hadn’t known a full night’s sleep since 2019.

“I should be editing right now,” he muttered, lifting a USB lead like it was a cursed artefact. “Instead, I’m playing Tech Support. This is love, you know.”

You snorted. “You’d do anything to procrastinate. Last time I saw you, you were doing the washing up to avoid replying to an email.”

“Washing up was vital. I needed a fork.”

It took a while to get everything balanced—the lighting was shite, the table was wobbly, and his cat had decided to lie directly where your camera needed to go. You shifted her gently. She blinked, offended, then jumped onto Alfie’s chest where he lay on the floor.

“Perfect,” he grinned. “She’s my moral support. If your video’s bad, it’s on her.”

You eventually hit record and started on your voiceover, while AB lay nearby, filming bits of a vlog between pretending to be dead. Every time you stumbled or flubbed a line, you’d hear a quiet rustle behind you—followed by something landing on your desk. A biscuit. A packet of crisps. At one point, a full cereal bar.

“Gremlin,” you muttered.

He grinned, not looking up from his phone. “Productivity snacks. I’m just keeping you alive.”

By the time you finished your webcam takes and shut your laptop, the Grotto had gone still. You turned, stretching—and saw him passed out on the sofa, your cat curled on his chest, purring like a jet engine. One of your spare clip mics dangled limply from his fingers.