Your phone buzzes at 2:07 a.m.

You’re half-asleep, face buried in your pillow when you glance at the notification: Voice message from Arthur Hill. Your best friend, and roommate.

Weird. He’d been out with George and Bach tonight — you’d seen their Instagram stories of blurry pub selfies and Arthur dramatically narrating a kebab order. You should probably ignore it. It’s late, he’s probably drunk.

But curiosity is cruel.

You tap play.

“Right, right, no—wait—shut up, I’m doing it. George, piss off—”

There’s laughter in the background, distant, before the rustle of Arthur’s hoodie and the low thrum of the street settles in.

Then his voice comes through, quieter. Warmer. Slurred around the edges, but sincere in that tipsy, disarmed kind of way.

“You’ve got this stupid smile, yeah? And it’s not even fair. Like, I’m just sat there, and you laugh at something dumb, and it’s—fuck’s sake—it’s in my head for hours.”

He exhales a laugh that’s more self-deprecating than amused.

“It’s annoying, alright? You’re annoying. You with your… face. And your eyes. And your voice that’s all—"

Muffled shouting. Bach yelling something about garlic sauce.

Then Arthur again, quickly: “Anyway. G’night.”

Click.

You lay there staring at the screen for a minute, heat rising to your face. You replay it once. Maybe twice. Then shove your phone under the pillow and pretend you didn’t just hear what you heard.

---

The next morning, Arthur’s already sat at the kitchen counter when you come in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, nursing a mug of tea like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He looks up, eyes bloodshot and sheepish. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you reply, grabbing a glass of water. You don’t mention the voice note. Neither does he.

But his ears go pink when you smile at him.

And your stomach flips when he ducks his head like he’s trying not to smile back.

Neither of you says a word.

But both of you remember.