Maddie

this wasn’t the first time art block had hit you, and sure wouldn’t be the last. yet, this was the worst possible time for it; at the peak of your year when it felt like everyone was ordering prints or paintings, you couldn't even steady your thoughts enough to draw a stick figure. 

with a frustrated huff, you pushed your chair away from the desk, the wheels squeaking faintly against the hardwood floor. the clock on the wall glared back at you — 10:00 a.m. — a reminder that yet another morning had slipped away with nothing to show for it. your inspiration, the thing that once came so effortlessly, now felt miles out of reach. you needed to find it again, and fast.

pacing toward the kitchen, your gaze landed on a brightly colored flier lying carelessly on the table. it was creased at the corners, the bold london zoo logo smiling up at you. you’d picked it up on your last visit. though for the life of you, you couldn’t remember when that even was. still, something about it tugged at you. maybe the animals in their simplicity, their wonder, could pull you out of this creative fog.

and that’s how you ended up here: sitting on a bench in front of the aquarium, sketchbook sprawled open on your lap, a pencil dangling loosely between your fingers. the gentle hum of the water filters filled the otherwise quiet space, and the faint scent of salt clung to the air.

it was noon on a random wednesday. the zoo practically deserted, leaving you alone with the gentle dance of color before you. schools of fish drifted through the glass, their fins glimmering like ribbons as they twisted and turned in lazy, elegant motions. you watched, captivated, tracing soft lines and half-formed doodles of the creatures that swam close to the edge, studying the way their bodies caught the light.

so lost in your observation, you didn’t notice the man standing at the far end of the aquarium. his reflection shifted among the drifting blues and greens, his eyes flicking toward you every few moments. he hesitated, caught somewhere between curiosity and nerves, silently rehearsing a greeting he hadn’t yet found the courage to say aloud.

you hummed a soft tune under your breath, it wasn't anything special just the last song you were listening to on the commute over here. the gentle rhythm mixed with the bubbling sound of the water filters and the faint echo of children’s laughter somewhere down the hall. the aquarium’s soft blue light painted your skin in cool tones, reflecting little ripples across your face like you were part of the ocean scene in front of you.

arthur had been standing a few meters away, pretending to read a plaque about coral bleaching for the past five minutes. he’d come here to film some quiet b-roll for an upcoming insta dump; something cozy and aesthetic to break up his usual travel content on instagram. but the moment he saw you, sitting cross-legged with your sketchbook open and your head tilted in concentration, brows furrowed, the rest of the aquarium seemed to fade into background noise.

he wasn’t even sure what it was about you that drew him in. the small frown of focus as your pencil moved, the way you occasionally tilted your head to study the fish before scribbling again, or maybe the faint hum that kept slipping past your lips, soft and melodic. whatever it was, it made him want to capture the moment, but not through his lens this time.

“alright, mate, it’s now or never,” he muttered to himself, shifting himself slightly and taking a quiet breath before stepping closer.

you didn’t notice him at first, not until a faint cough. the kind people make when they’re trying to announce their presence without actually interrupting, pulled you out of your trance. you blinked, looking up.

he was taller than you expected, framed by the soft blue glow of the tanks. his hair was a little messy from the wind, his hands tucked into his pockets. for a moment, he looked almost sheepish, caught between wanting to say something and not wanting to intrude.

“sorry,” he said, the word tumbling out with an awkward chuckle. “didn’t mean to, uh, startle you. i just—” he gestured toward your sketchbook. “you’re really good. i’ve been standing over there pretending to be fascinated by fish for about ten minutes, but really, i was just watching you draw.”

you blinked again, a small, surprised laugh leaving your lips. “that’s… honestly kind of creepy when you say it like that,” you teased, though there was a warmth behind your tone, not accusation.

he groaned softly, running a hand over his face. “yeah, fair. not my best introduction, is it?” his accent softened the self-deprecation, his grin appearing shy but genuine. “i swear i’m not a total weirdo. i’m arthur.”

you tilted your head, smiling. “arthur,” you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. “well, arthur, i’m y/n. and you’ve officially ruined my fish-studying concentration.”

he laughed, the sound light and genuine, and it echoed softly against the glass. “sorry about that. i owe you a new muse, then. maybe…” he glanced at the tank. “maybe the clownfish? he seems like a nice guy."

you raised an eyebrow. “you calling me a clown, arthur?”

“only if you’re the pretty kind,” he said before he could stop himself; and when your eyes met his, he immediately looked away, cheeks dusted pink under the blue glow.

there was a beat of silence, the air between you a quiet dance of bubbles and distant waves of filtered light.

you closed your sketchbook and shifted on the bench, motioning to the empty space beside you. “alright then, not-weirdo arthur. sit. you can tell me why you’ve decided to stalk people at the aquariums today.”

he laughed again. a little breathless this time, and took the seat beside you. close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

“deal,” he said. “but only if you promise not to judge me too much while i ramble.”

“no promises,” you said, smirking as your pencil danced across the page once more.

for the next few minutes, you both sat there — two strangers watching the fish drift lazily in the glass world before you, the air humming with unspoken curiosity and something softer beneath it.

and as arthur started to talk about his life, filming, traveling, and how london always seemed dull until you started looking closer. you found yourself smiling more than sketching. maybe, just maybe, your inspiration hadn’t been lost after all.

the conversation lingered long after the fish drifted away.

arthur’s voice had that kind of calm warmth that made time feel slower. like waves against the glass. you found yourself listening more than talking, your sketchbook forgotten on your lap as he spoke about the little corners of london he loved, the hidden cafés and rainy streets, the way he chased light like it was something alive.

he wasn’t boastful, not even close. if anything, he seemed a little shy about it. shrugging off his own talent, brushing over achievements like they were footnotes. every now and then, he’d laugh softly at himself, and you’d feel your own lips curve in response before you realized it.

when he finally turned the question back to you, asking about your art, your process, what made you tick, you hesitated. caught off guard by how earnestly he was listening. not nodding absently or waiting for his turn to talk, but really listening.

you told him about the commissions, the burnout, the panic that came with blank pages. how art had always been your anchor, a hobby that helped you escape and how lately it had started to feel more like a weight dragging you down.

arthur didn’t try to fix it. he didn’t throw out the usual clichés or pep talks; just looked at you thoughtfully for a moment before saying, “you know, i think the worst thing you can do to creativity is chase it. sometimes it just… needs to find you again.”

you smiled faintly. “and where exactly is it supposed to find me? tesco?”

he grinned. “maybe. or maybe here, surrounded by fish and bad lighting.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re impossible.”

“persistent,” he corrected gently, eyes glinting with quiet humor.

for a while after that, you simply sat together. the silence comfortable, filled with the soft hum of the aquarium and the rhythm of passing water. you sketched a little more, just outlines and fragments, but your hand felt lighter this time.

when you finally glanced at your phone, you realized how long you’d been sitting there. the afternoon light had shifted, and so had something else; subtle, unspoken.

arthur walked you out, his steps slow like he wasn’t quite ready for the moment to end.

at the exit, he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck again. that same endearing nervous tic. “it was nice… meeting you,” he said. “i mean, properly. not just… watching you draw like some sort of weirdo.”

you smiled. “it was nice meeting you too, not-weirdo arthur.”

he opened his mouth like he might say something else, then thought better of it and just smiled instead. small, genuine, and a little shy.

you parted ways at the edge of the car park, a soft breeze carrying the faint scent of rain. as you took the bus home, your mind felt strangely quiet. no static, no pressure, just… stillness.

and when you sat down at your desk that evening, you picked up your pencil again. the lines came easier this time. softer. freer. maybe, just maybe, your inspiration hadn’t been lost after all.

you couldn't say you expected to hear from him again. not really. people had fleeting connections in places like aquariums. quiet, temporary little moments that dissolved as quickly as bubbles in water. but two days later, when your phone buzzed and an unknown number popped up with a simple:

 arthur: it’s not technically stalking if i’m just checking if the artist from the aquarium survived her creative crisis, right?

…you found yourself grinning before you could even stop it.

 you : only mildly creepy. so i’ll allow it.

arthur : mildly? that’s improvement. i’ll take it.

 you: and yeah, i’m surviving. fish sketches everywhere. you’ve created a monster.

 arthur: my legacy lives on 🐠

from there, the texts just… didn’t stop.

he’d send you little snippets from wherever he was — sometimes a photo of a coffee cup balanced on a park bench, other times a screenshot of an editing timeline that had clearly gone on too long. you’d reply with your own: messy sketches, half-baked rants about clients, a new book you'd picked up or stories from your day.

he was funny in this dry, understated way. always slipping between self-deprecating humour and genuine kindness. and beneath it all, there was this warmth to him, like every message was sent with a quiet smile.

arthur: you ever just stare at your screen for so long you start to question every life decision that led you there?

you: every. single. day.

arthur: great. thought it was just me. glad to know my existential dread has company.

he’d been filming for a new series — travel, small local spots, the “hidden corners of the world” kind of thing. you’d joke that he was just looking for an excuse to eat pastries on camera.

you: be honest, you just want people to watch you drink beer in different postcodes.

arthur: don’t expose me like this. i’m building 'artistic credibility.'

you: you’re building a beer review channel.

arthur: tomato, tomahto.

it went on like that for weeks. easy, unforced, like finding a rhythm you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

and then, one evening, while you were binge watching a new series on your couch and he was (supposedly) editing, another message came through:

arthur: hypothetically… if one wanted to ask a very talented aquarium artist on a date, what would be the least awkward way to do that?

you: hypothetically, that depends on how bad your current attempt is.

arthur: so far, catastrophic.

you: then you’re doing great.

you paused for a moment before typing again.

you: i’d say yes, by the way.

arthur: oh. then hypothetically, friday night?

it was almost disarming, how normal it felt.

the restaurant he picked wasn’t fancy. but a cozy little corner spot tucked away on a quiet street in camden. dim lighting, soft chatter, the kind of place that smelled faintly of rosemary and baked bread.

he was already there when you arrived, fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper, no confidence in sight. just arthur; a little rumpled, a little nervous, and entirely too endearing for his own good.

“hey,” he said, standing up as soon as he saw you. his grin faltered halfway, like he wasn’t sure if it was too much. “you actually came.”

you laughed. “you say that like i’m in the habit of standing people up.”

he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you’d noticed he did when he was flustered. “no, no, i just— i don’t know. you’re… cooler in real life. makes it more intimidating.”

you raised an eyebrow as you sat down. “you’ve met me before, arthur.”

“yes, but that time you were distracted by clownfish. i had the advantage.”

the night went on in an easy rhythm, laughter and small pauses that didn’t feel awkward. he asked about your art, and you asked about his travels. every so often, he’d fumble slightly, knocking his fork against his glass or pausing mid-sentence to find the right word. but it wasn’t the kind of awkward that made you uncomfortable, it was endearing.

he told stories about filming in tiny seaside towns with his friends that weren't exactly friends, about losing a drone in scotland (“it’s probably living a better life than me now”), and about how his editing software once deleted an entire week’s worth of footage. about his life outside of work, his family he loved so much, hobbies he'd picked up, or those that put him down. you laughed until your stomach hurt.

when the server came by to ask about dessert, he glanced at you and smirked. “only if you promise not to judge my choice.”

“depends. what are you ordering?”

“sticky toffee pudding. every time.”

you grinned. “a man of taste.”

he leaned forward, chin resting on his hand, eyes soft. “you’d be surprised how few people agree with that.”

“then they’re wrong.”

for a moment, he just looked at you. that same quiet fascination from the aquarium, but warmer now, steadier.

by the time you left, the streets were draped in that hazy glow; streetlights and puddles reflecting golden hues. you walked side by side, your shoulders brushing occasionally.

at the corner, where you’d have to part ways, he hesitated. “i, uh…” he laughed under his breath. “i’m terrible at endings. always have been.”

“then don’t make it one,” you said softly.

he smiled. that small, crooked one that reached his eyes. “deal.”

and as you turned to go, he called out after you:

“hey, y/n?”

you looked back.

“next time,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “i’ll take you somewhere new.”

your smile widened. “we’ll see, arthur.”

he laughed; that quiet, genuine sound you’d grown to love and for a fleeting second, you could already feel the beginnings of something real. something that didn’t need a specialist to capture it.

for arthur, it started small. little things that crept into arthur’s days. messages that came before his first coffee, random tiktoks you’d send when you couldn’t sleep, the way your name lighting up his phone seemed to make everything else a bit less grey.

his friends noticed before he did.

“mate,” bach said one afternoon during a group call, smirking at the screen, “you’ve gone quiet again. let me guess, texting your mysterious girl?”

arthur rolled his eyes, pretending to adjust his mic. “i’m editing.”

“editing my arse,” chris cut in. “you’ve been grinning at your phone like a teenager for a week straight. you even missed the pub last friday.”

arthur tried to suppress his laugh. “it’s called having a life, thank you.”

“oh, we know,” george teased. “you just prefer it in text form.”

they didn’t let him live it down. but arthur didn’t mind. not really. because between filming trips and deadlines, those messages; those quiet, unassuming little exchanges had become his favourite part of the day.

you started seeing each other more after that first date. coffee in tucked-away cafés, walks through busy markets where you’d linger at every stall, secret late-night takeout runs when both of you had too much work but still wanted to see each other.

there was something about keeping it just between you two that made it sweeter. not hidden, exactly; just yours.

he’d sneak glances at you when you weren’t looking. the way your hair caught the light, the small lines that appeared near your eyes when you laughed. you’d tease him for zoning out mid-conversation, but he couldn’t help it. you had a way of drawing his focus like nothing else.

“you’re staring again,” you’d murmur once, eyes still on your sketchbook.

“i’m… appreciating the the scenery,” he said, deadpan.

“uh-huh. sure, mr. smooth talker. you start taking lessons to sound suave?”

and then there were the quiet moments — the ones that never made it into photos or clips. like when he’d bring you tea while you were working, or when you’d sit side by side editing and pretending to read (you'd just stare at him) in silence, the hum of the city outside filling the gaps.

it was a sunday afternoon when you both ended up at the natural history museum.

the sky was overcast, pale light filtering through the massive glass roof as the two of you wandered between exhibits. you were in your element. small notebook in hand, occasionally stopping to scribble a doodle or jot something down.

arthur trailed a few steps behind, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes flicking between you and the towering skeletons above. he was quiet — quieter than usual.

you stopped in front of a fossil display, squinting thoughtfully before saying,

“so technically, this guy’s been dead longer than britain’s had rain. that’s… impressive, really.”

arthur blinked, then huffed a laugh that came out more like a breath. “that’s the worst comparison i’ve ever heard.”

you shot him a grin. “and yet, you laughed.”

he did, softly. but his hands were fidgeting again, thumb brushing the edge of his sleeve. his heart had been hammering in his chest since you walked in. he’d planned it, rehearsed it even, but now, standing next to you surrounded by bones and echoes of history, the words seemed impossible.

you tilted your head. “arthur? you alright?”

he looked at you, really looked, and felt that familiar, grounding pull in his chest.

you were still smiling, still unknowingly disarming him like you always did. and suddenly, keeping it unspoken didn’t make sense anymore.

“yeah,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “actually, no — not really.”

your brows furrowed. “what’s wrong?”

he exhaled, words tumbling out in that slightly rushed, soft-spoken way of his.

“i’ve been… trying to ask you something for ages, but every time i think i’ve got the timing right, you make some ridiculous joke about fossils, and i lose my nerve.”

you blinked, trying not to smile. “is this your way of saying my humour’s bad?”

“god, no,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “it’s… part of why i like you so much. which— that’s actually—” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “that’s the thing i’ve been trying to say.”

you took a step closer, warmth creeping up your cheeks. “arthur…”

he met your eyes; hesitant, hopeful, every bit as nervous as he sounded.

“would you—” he let out a shaky laugh. “would you want to, i don’t know, be my girlfriend? properly?”

for a moment, you just looked at him. this tall-ish, awkward, sweet man who was still fidgeting with his sleeve like he could hide behind it.

and then, you smiled.

“arthur, i thought you’d never ask.”

his breath hitched just before you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. he hesitated only a second before holding you back. arms wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid to let go.

you leaned back just enough to look up at him, grinning. “and for the record, the fossil jokes stay.”

“tragic,” he murmured with a smile, and before he could say anything else, you leaned up and pressed a quick, light kiss to his lips.

he froze for a heartbeat, then melted. the feelings was even better than he could've imagined when you pulled away, he was smiling like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes soft with disbelief.

“wow,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper. “guess i’m dating the funniest pretend paleontologist in london.”

you laughed, looping your arm through his as you started walking again. “i’m an artist, arthur.”

“sure,” he said, grinning. “artist. amateur dinosaur expert. my girlfriend.”

Tonight is one of those nights. 

The familiar frat house pulses with music so deafening it almost drowns out your thoughts. Bad decisions and regret linger in every room, and most people are too drunk to navigate through the crush of bodies.

Glitter eyeliner glimmers in the strobe lights whenever you move just right, pushing through the throng of party-goers.

Your nose scrunches as the smell of cheap vodka and even cheaper perfume drifts through the air, filling your lungs in that familiar way you love, yet the feeling of your skirt clinging to your thighs, skin sticky with spilt beer and something you don't even want to name, makes you shudder.

Your boyfriend had dragged you here tonight, yet had been doing everything but giving you attention as he drapes his arm around another girl, pulling her closer when he thinks you're not looking.

He's in the corner of the room, talking to his frat brothers like he has all the time in the world, like you don't exist. You're almost used to this by now. It's not like you care, though. Not with the way eyes follow you.

They always do.

Bodies blur together, and your main goal is to make it to the bathroom before it's too late. You're almost there when all of a sudden a splash of liquid smacks across your chest. Stale, warm, and sudden.

You stumble back, eyes snapping up, expression already curling into a scowl as the splash of the liquid against your body sobers you up almost instantly. "What the fuck—" The words are out fast, cut off before you can even register who it is.

And you know who it is.

Everyone does.

You don't remember ever talking to him, only the stories shared by your friends, the ones that always seem to escape when it's too late and they've had far too much to drink. 

Something in your gut says it's more than that, though. You recognise those eyes. That smirk.

And then it clicks.

His brother, Matt Sturniolo, sits behind you in one of your classes. He's sweet, calm, and barely gets into any trouble. 

You can't say the same about Chris though, and sure enough, he proves it himself. 

"Oh shit- Sorry, pretty, didn't see you there." The charm drips off his words like the beer running down your shirt. His tone matches the smirk pulling at his lips as his eyes drift over your body, watching as the beer seeps into your clothes.

That alone sharpens your irritation. 

"Maybe open your eyes next time, prick." Your words are biting and bitter, eyes narrowed as your eyeliner shimmers under the strobe lights, glossed lips ready to fire an insult when given the chance. 

And that's all Chris can focus on.

The way you look at him.

The way your shirt sticks to your skin. He knows he's seen you around campus, standing out between lectures and boring assignments. And he's sure of it, because a guy like him doesn't forget eyes like yours.

It takes him a moment to snap out of it, shrugging as if baptising you in stale beer wasn't enough, "Maybe I will, wouldn't want to miss that beautiful face, now would I?" His chuckle somehow cuts through the pulsing of the music, almost like it was for only you.

You freeze, wondering where he got the audacity.

Chris stands there, unfazed, looking like he's winning something more than this little argument—if you could even call it that. And for a moment, you swear you're lost in his eyes.

 But you're not falling for it that quickly. 

Words form on the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back as you catch your boyfriend's eye, dark and intimidating, the look that means trouble.

Your stomach dips before your pride can stop it. He was always the jealous type. Ironic, sure, since he's been talking to every girl that listens without even thinking of you.

Usually, you wouldn't care, but tonight, you can't deal with another fight, and the heat that crawls up your neck confirms that.

So you just scoff, shaking your head as if his words had insulted instead of complimented. Before either of you can say anything else, you shove past him, shoulder knocking his with more force than necessary. 

He's almost shocked and definitely disappointed as you walk past him, not even sparing another glance his way.

Chris is used to girls blushing at every word, ogling at him from across the room. But not this. He's not used to girls just walking away. 

But his smirk doesn't falter; instead, it deepens.

His head turns to watch you leave, too intrigued for it to be anything innocent.

His eyes linger on the way your hips sway with every step, how your heels click against the floor like a countdown to trouble as you merge into the crowd.

And God, he's in trouble. 

Because that boy is hooked.

© 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐨

[ 💌 ] ahh first chapter oh em gee. Let me know what you guys think !! I was SO nervous to post this 💔

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