minnie 𝜗𝜚

The bass of the music thumps through your chest as you stand by the kitchen counter, nursing a drink that's mostly melted ice now. You watch Alfie across the room, surrounded by his usual entourage, Cal, Chip, and a few other YouTubers you vaguely recognize from his videos. His broad shoulders strain against the black t-shirt he's wearing, the fabric hugging his frame in a way that makes your stomach tighten despite your best efforts to remain indifferent.

His curly brunette hair is slightly damp from sweat, falling across his forehead as he throws his fanged teeth grin laughing at something Chris just said. The small moustache and slight beard he's been growing frame his jawline perfectly, and even from across the room, you can see the way his green eyes light up when he's truly amused.

You've been in this situationship with Alfie for six months now, long enough to know the rules he's set. In public, especially around his friends, you're just another girl in the room. He barely acknowledges your existence unless absolutely necessary, often flirting with other girls right in front of you while maintaining a great effort of denial about it when you mention it.

But when you're alone… that's when the Alfie you fell for emerges. The one who traces patterns on your back until you fall asleep, who remembers exactly how you take your tea, who looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

"Oi, darlin'! Another round over here!" Alfie's voice cuts through your thoughts. He's not even looking at you, just shouting toward the kitchen in general. You watch as one of the other girls at the party, blonde, tan, wearing a crop top that barely contains her, bounces over to grab more drinks from the fridge.

Your chest tightens as you watch Alfie's eyes follow her, a smirk playing on his lips. He says something to his friends that makes them all laugh, and the blonde girl giggles as she returns with their drinks, making sure to brush against Alfie's arm as she hands him his bottle.

You can't take it anymore. You set your glass down on the counter with more force than necessary, the clatter drawing a few looks. Without another glance at Alfie, you turn and head for the balcony, needing the cool night air to clear your head.

The door slides shut behind you, muffling the party noise. You lean against the railing, looking out at the city lights below. You don't know how long you stand there before you hear the balcony door slide open again.

"You alright?" Alfie's voice is softer now, stripped of the loud, performative quality he uses with his friends.

You don't turn around. "Fine."

He comes to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You seem pissed."

"Do I?" You finally turn to look at him, and your breath catches slightly at the genuine concern in his eyes. "Why would I be pissed, Alfie? Having a great time watching you flirt with every girl in the room."

He runs a hand through his curly hair, a nervous habit you've come to recognize. "It's not like that. We're just having a laugh."

"Right. Just a laugh." You turn back to the city view. "You know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother coming to these things."

"Because I asked you to," he says quietly, his voice dropping to that intimate tone he reserves for when you're alone. He reaches out, his fingers gently tracing your arm. "I wanted you here."

You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him so badly. But you've been through this too many times before.

"Then why do you act like I don't exist when we're around your friends?" Your voice cracks slightly, betraying the hurt you're trying to hide. "Why do you flirt with other girls right in front of me?"

He sighs, his muscular shoulders slumping slightly. "It's complicated, alright? I can't just—"

"Can't just what? Acknowledge me? Treat me like I matter to you?" You pull away from his touch. "I'm so tired of this, Alfie. I'm tired of being your secret."

"You're not my secret," he insists, stepping closer again. "You know you're not."

"Then prove it," you challenge, turning to face him fully. "Come inside with me right now. Hold my hand. Introduce me as someone who matters to you."

He hesitates, and that's all the answer you need. The disappointment washes over you, cold and sharp.

"I can't," he says finally. "Not yet."

"Right. Not yet." You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "You know what? I'm done waiting for 'not yet' to become 'now'."

You turn to leave, but he grabs your arm, his grip firm but not painful.

"Wait. Don't go like this." His green eyes are pleading now, all traces of his usual cocky demeanor gone. "Stay. We can talk after everyone leaves."

"Why? So you can be the loving, attentive Alfie when no one's watching to contradict your public persona?" You pull your arm free. "I'm tired of the double life, Alfie. I'm tired of being two different people depending on who's around."

"That's not fair," he says, his voice rising slightly. "You know how I feel about you."

"Do I?" You challenge, stepping closer until you're nearly chest to chest. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like I'm convenient when you want me to be and invisible when you don't."

"That's bullshit and you know it," he retorts, his accent becoming more pronounced when he's angry. "I spend more time with you than anyone. I've told you things I've never told another person."

"Then why hide me?" Your voice rises with frustration. "Why act ashamed of being with me?"

"I'm not ashamed!" He runs both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm just… trying to figure out how to do this without everything blowing up. You know how people are online, they'll—"

"So Chip and Sabina, George and Yas, they all don't count? Fans are fine with them!" You shake your head in disbelief. "I can't believe I was stupid enough to think this meant something to you."

"Of course it means something!" He grabs your shoulders, his muscular frame towering over you. "You mean everything to me. Why can't you see that? My fanbase are all teenage boys, not like— reader, please!"

"Because your actions don't match your words!" You push against his chest, but he doesn't budge. "You act like fucking Mr. Brightside when you're with all your friends, but I know what you're like when the party ends."

His expression softens at your words, the anger in his eyes replaced with something more vulnerable. "That's different," he says quietly. "When it's just us… that's real. This," he gestures vaguely toward the party inside, "is just… shit."

"Then make it real," you plead, your anger deflating into sadness. "Please, Alfie. I can't do this anymore."

He looks at you for a long moment, his green eyes searching yours. You can see the internal war playing out on his face, the desire to give you what you want versus the fear of what that might mean for his carefully constructed public image.

"I'm trying," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I swear I'm trying to figure out how to make this work."

You shake your head, tears now stinging your eyes. "Trying isn't enough anymore. I need more."

You turn and walk away, not looking back even as you hear him call your name. The party noise washes over you as you re-enter the apartment, but it all sounds distant now, muffled by the sound of your heart breaking.

You grab your jacket from the bedroom where you'd left it earlier, ignoring the couple making out on the bed. As you pass the living room, you catch a glimpse of Alfie standing on the balcony, his muscular frame silhouetted against the city lights. He's watching you leave, and for a moment, you consider going back to him.

But then you remember all the times he's made you feel small, invisible, unimportant. And you keep walking.

The cool night air hits you as you step outside, and you pull your jacket tighter around yourself. You don't know where you're going, but you know one thing for certain, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep being Alfie Buttle's secret.

As you walk down the street, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You consider ignoring it, but something makes you pull it out. It's a text from Alfie.

"Please don't leave like this. Let me explain."

You stare at the message, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of you wants to respond, to give him one more chance. But the stronger part of you knows that you've given him enough chances already.

You type out a response: "I think we both know there's nothing left to explain."

You hit send before you can change your mind, then put your phone on silent and slip it back into your pocket. The tears you've been holding back finally fall, hot and fast down your cheeks. You wipe them away angrily, frustrated with yourself for still caring so much.

Day Three

On Tuesday morning, you’d woken up earlier than usual but accepted your fate in not going back to sleep any time soon. You’d grabbed your schedule from the clipboard hanging by your cabin door, intending to review the day’s plan over coffee. 

That’s when you saw it.

9:00 AM- Supply inventory (Mess Hall storage) – Co-lead with Arthur F

11:30 AM – Activity prep: Archery range set up – Co-lead with Arthur F

2:00 PM – Meal planning meeting – Attend with Arthur F 

You stared at the paper. Then you flipped to Wednesday’s schedule. 

8:00 AM – Morning trail check – Co-lead with Arthur F

1:00 PM – craft supplies organisation – Co-lead with Arthur F 

6:00 PM – Campfire planning session – Co-lead with Arthur F

“What the hell,” you muttered. 

“Morning!” Flo chirped, appearing beside you with two mugs of coffee. She handed you one, her smile just a touch too innocent. “Sleep well?”

You held up the schedule. ‘Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

“This. My entire week is double-booked with Arthur.”

Flo’s eyes widened in what you were pretty sure was fake surprise. “Really? That’s… wow. That’s a lot of overlap.”

“Flo.”

“I mean, you’re both senior counsellors,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Makes sense you’d be coordinating on stuff.”

“Every single day?”

“Camp’s busy.” She shrugged, but you could see the corner of her mouth twitching. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence,” you repeated flatly.

“Yep. Total coincidence.” She patted your shoulder. “Better get to that supply inventory. Wouldn’t want to keep Arthur waiting.”

She disappeared before you could interrogate her further.

Arthur was already in the mess hall storage room when you arrived, clipboard in hand, looking like he’d been awake for hours. Knowing him, he probably had been.

“Morning,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes. 

“Morning.” You stepped into the cramped space, immediately aware of how small it was. Shelves lined every wall, stacked with canned goods, dry pasta, and industrial-sized containers of peanut butter. There was maybe three feet of floor space between you. ‘So. Supply inventory.”

“Yeah.” He glances at his clipboard, then at the shelves, then back at his clipboard. “I, uh. I noticed we’re scheduled together a lot this week.”

“You noticed that too?”

“Kind of hard not to.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. “I tried to swap out of a few things, but apparently, there’s always I can’t. Bach needs to supervise the younger campers. George is leading the ropes course. Arthurs got the music workshop.”

‘How convenient.”

“Very convenient.” His jaw tightened. “They’re not subtle, are they?”

“Not even a little bit.”

You stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between you. The storage room smelled like cardboard and dried herbs, and the single lightbulb overhead cast everything in a slightly yellow glow. Arthur shifted his weight, and his shoulder brushed against a shelf. He was close enough that you could see the faint freckles across his nose, and the way his t-shirt had a small tear near the collar. 

“Well,” you said finally. “We’re here. Might as well actually do the inventory.”

“Right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, consulting his clipboard. “Okay, so we need to count everything, check expiration dates, note anything that’s running low. I’ve got a system-”

“Of course you do.”

Arthur ignored you, “-where we go shelf by shelf, top to bottom, left to right. That way we don’t miss anything.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to suggest just eyeballing it or doing it in whatever order felt natural. But the thing was, his system actually made sense. And you were stuck in a tiny room with him for the next hour, so picking a fight seemed counterproductive.

“Fine,” you said. “Top to bottom, left to right. Let’s do it.”

If Arthur was surprised by your lack of argument, he didn’t show it. He just nodded and turned to the first shelf. 

You worked in silence for a while, calling out items and quantities while Arthur marked them down. It was almost peaceful, in a weird wat. Methodical. The kind of task that didn’t require much thought, just attention to detail. 

“Twelve cans of diced tomatoes,” you said. 

“Got it”

“Eight boxes of pasta.”

“Noted.”

“One absolutely massive jar of pickles that I’m pretty sure has been here since the camp opened.”

Arthur actually smiled at that – small, but real. “I think that jar’s older than we are.”

“Should we… do something about it?”

“Probably, but I’m not brave enough to open it.”

“Fair.”

You reached for a box on the top shelf, stretching up on your toes. Your fingers just barely brushed the edge. Arthur noticed, stepped closer without thinking, and reached over your shoulder to grab it.

For a second, you were very aware of how close he was. The warmth of him at your back, the smell of his soap - something clean and woodsy. His arm extended past yours, and you could see the lean muscle of his forearm, the wat his fingers wrapped around the box with easy confidence.

He handed it to you and stepped back quickly, like he’d just realised what he’d done. 

“Thanks,” you said, your voice coming out higher than intended.”

“No problem.”

You cleared your throat and checked the label to avoid looking at him any longer. “Uh. Granola bars. Looks like… twenty.

“Twenty. Got it.”

The rest of the inventory passed in a blur of canned goods and awkward shuffling around each other, trying to avoid anymore almost-touches. By the time you finished, you were both eager to get out of the cramped space. 

“See you later?” Arthur asked, almost sounding hopeful as you stepped back into the mess hall. “For the archery set-up?”

“Sure.”

He nodded, already turning away. But then he paused, glancing back at you. “For what it’s worth… you were right. About the pickles. We should probably do something about that jar.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. “I’ll add it to the list.”

Day Four

By Wednesday evening, you’d spent more time with Arthur in three days than you had in the previous four summers combined. And the worst part? It wasn’t entirely terrible.

The archery range setup has been surprisingly smooth. Arthur had a plan, you’d suggested a few modifications, and somehow, you’d ended up with a system that actually worked better than either of your original ideas. The meal planning meeting had been less successful – you’d argued about whether to have a themed dinner night (you were pro, Arthur was con), but you’d eventually settled on a “camp classic” menu that made everyone happy.

Now you were sitting in the campfire circle with Arthur, a notebook between you, trying to plan Friday’s campfire program. 

“We should have a solid plan,” Arthur said, tapping his pen against the notebook. “A clear order of events. Maybe start with a welcome song, then some games, then the main activity, then close with another song.”

“That sounds boring.”

“It’s not boring. It’s organised.”

“It’s predictable.” You leaned back on your hands, looking up at the darkening sky. “Campfires should be spontaneous. Fun. We should have a loose idea and then just… see where the night takes us.”

Arthur looked pained. “That’s not a plan. That’s just hoping things work out.”

“Things usually do work out.”

“Usually isn’t good enough when you’ve got forty kids sitting around a fire.”

You sighed. This was going nowhere. You’d been going in circles for twenty minutes, and you were no closer to an actual plan than when you’d started.

“Okay,” you said finally. “What if we compromise?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You want to compromise?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I’m capable of compromise.”

“I’ve never seen evidence of that.”

“Well, you’re about to.” You sat up, pulling the notebook toward you. “What if we have a structure, but we build in flexibility? Like… we have a set opening and closing, but the middle is looser. We prepare a few different activities and games, and then we read the room and pick what feels right in the moment.”

Arthur was quiet for a moment, considering. You could practically see the cogs working in his head, weighing the pros and cons. 

“That… could work,” he said slowly. “We’d need to prep everything in advance, though. So we’re ready for everything.”

“Obviously.”

“And we’d need to agree on the opening and closing songs.”

“I can live with that.”

He picked up the pen and started writing. “Okay. Opening song: ’40 years on an iceberg?’ Classic, everyone knows it, easy to get the kids engaged.”

“Perfect. And for closing… ‘Taps’? Or is that too serious?”

“Too serious. What about ‘The Campfire’s burning’?”

You nodded. “Yeah, that works.”

For the next hour, you actually worked together. Arthur suggested a structured game, you suggested a storytelling circle. Arthur wanted to prepare three backup activities, but you convinced him that two were enough. You wanted to include a silly song with hand motions. Arthur found one that wasn’t too chaotic. 

By the time the sun had fully set, and the first stars were appearing overhead, you had a plan. A real plan. One you both contributed to, one that felt good.

“This is going to be great,” you said, looking at the final list. “The kids are going to love it.”

Arthur smiled – not the polite one he usually gave you. “Yeah. I think they will.”

You caught yourself smiling back. Caught yourself noticing the way the firelight danced across his face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Then you remembered who you were smiling at, and you looked away quickly. 

“We should probably head back,” you said, standing up and brushing dirt off your shorts. “It’s getting late.”

“Right. Yeah.” Arthur stood too, gathering the notebook and pens. “See you tomorrow? For the supply run?”

“Yeah, of course.”

As you walked back toward the cabins, you were very aware of him beside you. The comfortable silence between you. The way your footsteps fell into sync without either of you trying.

This was getting dangerous.

Day Five

The camp truck was old, temperamental, and smelled faintly of gasoline and pine needles. You climbed into the passenger seat while Arthur took the driver’s side, and for a moment you both just sat there, staring at the dashboard. 

“So,” you said finally. “Town?”

“Town.” Arthur agreed. 

He turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed and then roared to life. Arthur put it in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, and just like that, you were alone with him. Really alone. No campers, no other counsellors, no convenient excuses to cut the conversation short. 

The first ten minutes passed in silence. You watched the trees blur past the window, tried not to think about how aware you were of Arthur’s hands on the steering wheel, the way he drove with easy confidence, one hand at ten o’clock and the other resting on the gear shift. 

“So,” Arthur said eventually. “This is weird.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. “Yeah. This is definitely weird.”

“I mean, we’ve been working together all week, but this is…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Different.”

“No audience.”

“Exactly.” He glances at you, then back at the road. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re terrible at your job.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I just-” He shifted in his seat, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I know we don’t agree on a lot of things. And I know I can be… rigid. About rules and structure and all that. But you’re good with the kids. They love you. And that matters more than whether or not you follow my schedules.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Arthur Frederick, king of organisation and plans, was admitting that maybe rules weren’t everything?

“Thanks,” you said finally. “That’s... actually really nice of you to say.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m just…” You paused, trying to find the right words. “I guess I didn’t think you noticed. That I’m good with the kids, I mean.”

“Of course I noticed.” He said it like it was obvious. Like he’d always noticed. “You make them feel safe. Like they can be themselves. That’s not nothing.”

Your chest felt tight. You looked out the window again, trying to process this. Trying to figure out when Arthur had stopped being just your rival and started being… something else. 

“You’re good with them too,” you said quietly. “They trust you. They know you’ll look after them, that you’ll be fair. That matters just as much.”

Arthur didn’t respond, but you saw his grip on the steering wheel tighten slightly. Saw the way his jaw worked, like he was trying to figure out what to say.

The rest of the drive passed in a more comfortable silence. When you reached town, Arthur parked in front of the general store, and you both climbed out, grabbing the shopping list from the glove compartment.

The store was busy – summer tourists stocking up on supplies, locals doing their weekly shopping. You and Arthur navigated the aisles together, checking items off the list. Marshmallows. Graham crackers. Chocolate bars. Industrial-sized containers of bug spray. They all went into the shopping cart that Arthur pushed along behind you. 

“Oh my god,” you said suddenly, stopping in front of a display. “Do you remember these?”

You held up a package of the colourful, overly sugary sweets you’d both loved as campers. The ones that turned your tongue blue and gave you a sugar high that lasted for hours.

Arthur’s face lit up. “I haven’t seen those in years.”

“We should get some. For the kids.”

“The kids, or for us?”

“Both?”

He laughed, and it made something warm bloom in your chest. You grabbed three packets and tossed them in the cart, and Arthur didn’t even protest.

You were in the checkout line when Arthur’s phone buzzed. The cashier was scanning your items, and you were both standing there, waiting. He pulled it out, frowning at the screen.

“Everything okay?” you asked. 

“Yeah, just-” He showed you the text. It was from Bach: Have you two killed each other yet?

You rolled your eyes. “So dramatic.”

Arthur hummed in agreement and typed back a response, you caught a glimpse of it over his shoulder: Still alive. Barely.

You snorted, and Arthur glanced at you, a smile tugging at his lips. And then you were both laughing, standing in the middle of the general store, laughing at your friends’ terrible scheming.

The cashier looked at you like you were insane. 

On the drive back, something had changed. You weren’t sure what, exactly, but the silence felt different now. Less awkward, easier. Like you’d crossed some invisible line and couldn’t quite figure out how to get back.

“Can I ask you something?” Arthur said as the camp came into view.

“Sure.”

“Why do you hate me?”

The question caught you off guard. You’d been expecting something lighter, something easier to answer.

“I don’t-” you started, then stopped. Because that wasn’t true, was it? Or at least, it hadn’t been true for a while now. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t anymore.”

Arthur pulled into the car park and put the truck in park. But he didn’t get out. He just sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

“I don’t hate you either,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I ever really did.”

Your heart was beating too fast. This felt like dangerous territory, like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t take back.

“Then why-”

Before you could finish, George appeared beside the truck, knocking on the window with a grin. 

“Supply run successful?” he called.

The moment shattered. Arthur cleared his throat and opened the door. “Yeah. All good.”

You climbed out too, helping to unload the supplies, and tried not to think about the conversation that had been about to happen.

Day Six

You were in the middle of leading an art activity when Liv came running up, her face pale. 

“We need you,” she said. “Both of you. Now.”

You and Arthur exchanged a glance, then immediately followed her to the nurse’s station. One of the younger campers – a girl named Sophie from Hill’s cabin – was sitting on the cot, looking miserable. Her face was flushed, and she was shivering despite the warm afternoon. 

“Fever,” the camp nurse said grimly. Pretty high. I’ve caller her parents, but they’re three hours away. We need to keep her comfortable and monitored until they get here.”

“What do you need?” Arthur asked, already moving into problem-solving mode.

“Cold compresses. Water. Someone to sit with her. And we need to check the other campers – if this is something contagious, we need to catch it early.”

You and Arthur moved in sync. You grabbed the cold compresses and water while Arthur started organising the other counsellors to check their campers for symptoms. No discussion, no argument. Just smooth, efficient teamwork. 

For the next three hours, you took turns sitting with Sophie, keeping her comfortable, monitoring her temperature. When Sophie’s fever spiked, and she started crying for her mum, you held her hand and told her stories until she calmed down. When the nurse needed someone to run to town for medication, Arthur volunteered immediately.

By the time Sophie’s parents arrived and took her home, you were exhausted. You and Arthur stood outside the nurse’s station, watching the car disappear down the road.

“That was...” Arthur started. 

“Yeah.”

You’d worked together with no bickering, no competing. Just two people who knew what needed to be done and did it.

“We’re good at this,” Arthur said finally. “Working together, I mean.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “We are.”

He looked at you then, and you saw something in his eyes that made your breath catch. Something that looked like he was seeing you clearly for the first time.

“We should-”

But then Hill appeared, breaking the moment. “Hey, you two okay? That was intense.”

“Fine,” you said quickly, stepping back and looking away from Arthur’s face.

Arthur nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. All good.”

But as you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you. And you knew – you both knew – that something had changed. 

“They’re not fighting anymore,” Flo said, leaning against the mess hall table.

The friend group had gathered after lights out, ‘planning the next day’s activities, when in reality they were debriefing on Operation Get Arthur And You Together.

“They’re not even bickering,” Liv added. “Like, at all. Did you see them today? They were completely in sync.”

“And the supply run,” George said. “Bach, you saw Arthur’s face when he got back. He looked like a changed man.”

Bach nodded. “Like he wasn’t sure what had changed.”

Arthur added. “Same with Reader. Flo, you said she was smiling at her phone yesterday?”

“Smiling at a text from Arthur,” Flo confirmed. “I saw his name on the screen.”

“So, Phase Two worked,” Liv said. “They’re not enemies anymore. But they’re not together either.

“They’re stuck,” Bach said. “They know something’s changed, but they don’t know what to do about it.”

“So, what’s Phase Three?” George asked. 

Bach grinned. “We push them over the edge.”