Top Posts Tagged with #abvlogs

— 5+1

───── .𖥔 ݁ ˖ a.buttle

summary: five times alfie pretended he didn't care, and one time he finally did content: nothing much, couple not couple "breaking up" (they just don't talk for a bit) and getting back together, reader being petty, ab being petty, unlabelled relationship, reader is also in the yt scene a/n: lmk what you think. just wrote first part and its 1.5 k, meaning we are probably going to be spending 6-8k words together😀. (it was 6.2k words in the end). (first ab fic, and first fic with my new theme) finished this at 1:08am on Christmas Day, merry Christmas to all those who celebrate

— 1. The Public Moment

The studio lights felt warmer than usual for Alfie.

They hum faintly above him, casting a soft glow over the table and the tangled wires beneath it. The Fellas decorations sit bold on the walls, and there's the familiar, low-level buzz in the room — laughter waiting to happen, jokes half-formed before anyone even speaks.

Alfie settles back into his chair like he belongs there. One arm draped over the side, ankle resting casually over his knee. He looks relaxed, easy. The version of him people recognise.

Chip leans forward first, elbows on his knees, a grin tugging at his mouth. "So," he says, glancing briefly as the camera before looking back at Alfie, "you've been busy lately. Proper busy."

Cal hums in agreement. "Everywhere we look, it's Alfie this, Alfie that."

Alfie chuckles, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Can't complain."

Chip's eyes flicker with interest. "Busy with work, though? Or... other stuff?"

There it is.

Alfie doesn't answer straight away. Not long enough for it to be obvious — just a beat. Long enough for his foot to start tapping against the floor in front of him.

"Just work," he says finally. "That's the focus."

Cal tilts his head. "No distractions at all?"

Alfie scoffs, light and dismissive. "Nah."

Chip laughs. "That's mad. No one ever believes that answer."

"Because people like to make things up," Alfie replies, shrugging. "Gives them something to talk about."

Cal smirks. "Funny you say that, because I've definitely heard a few things. And I think the viewers at home have seen a couple things." He emphasised a particular word.

Alfie's smile sharpens, automatic. Defensive, if anyone were paying close enough attention.

"Yeah?" he says. "Like what? From who?"

Cal lifts his hands. "I'm not naming sources."

The room laughs. Alfie joins in, leaning back further, spreading his shoulders like the topic barely registers.

"Look," he says, glancing between them, "I don't do labels. Im, like, twenty-two, got my whole life to live. Too much stress for nothing when you start throwing labels into the mix."

Chip gasps dramatically. "So you're saying you're single."

"I'm saying," Alfie replies, eyes flicking to the camera, "I'm not tied down."

Cal nods approvingly. "Man of freedom."

"Exactly," Alfie says, pointing to him. "Someone gets it."

The conversation moves on quickly after that. Like it always does when the boys clickbait Alfie's relationship status. Night out debates. A story from Cal that goes on too long. Chip interrupting with a joke that makes everyone laugh again.

Alfie plays his part perfectly — nodding, laughing at the right moments, adding comments that get clipped for TikTok later. He looks comfortable. Confident. Unbothered.

No one notices the way his phone sits face down beside him. No one notices how he checks it the second there's a pause in conversation — just a glance, quick and subtle.

Nothing.

When the episode finally drops, the clip spreads fast.

"Not tied down."

"He doesn't care."

"Cold."

You see it too.

You watch the way he smiles when they joke about it. The way he doesn't correct them. Doesn't soften it. Doesn't even hesitate long enough for anyone to wonder if there's more to the story. If anything, he lead it on.

So you don't text him.

And Alfie doesn't realise how quiet his phone is until the studio lights are off, the jokes are over, and the room feels too empty for his laughter to echo back.

You see the clip by accident.

It's halfway down your feed, sandwiched between something funny and something you don't care about, and you almost scroll past it. Alfie's name catches your eye first. Then his voice.

"I'm not tied down."

You watch it once.

Then again, even though you already know you shouldn't.

He looks relaxed. Leaned back, smiling like the question barely matters. Like there isn't anyone sitting anywhere else, replaying his words over and over, wondering which part of them stings the most.

You lock your phone and toss it onto the bed beside you.

For a moment, you tell yourself it doesn't mean anything. Podcasts are jokes. Clips are edited. People exaggerate.

The comments definitely didn't help.

You wonder if he reads them. If he laughs at them the way he laughed in the studio.

Your phone feels like a brick in your hand.

Usually, after something like this, you'd be the one to text first. Something light. A joke. An excuse to keep the peace.

This time, you don't.

You see that he's reposted it. You reply with a question mark, leaving the next decision to him.

Hours pass. Evening slips into night. The quiet starts to feel deliberate, like a decision instead of an accident.

You go out with friends. You laugh when you're meant to. You let yourself be present, even when the conversation drifts an you catch yourself checking your phone without meaning to.

Nothing.

Back home, you sit on the edge of your bed and finally let yourself think it through.

You think about all the almost-conversations. The moments where it felt like he was about to say something real, only to turn it into a joke instead. About how confident he is everywhere else — just not with you.

You don't want to be something he pretends doesn't exist.

So you leave your phone face down on the desk and turn off the light.

The silence lasts longer than expected.

Long enough that it stops feeling dramatic and starts feeling real.

You're about to fall asleep then your phone buzzes against the oak.

Alfie: u busy?

No apology.

No explanation.

Just him, testing the water like he hasn't already said too much to a room full of people.

You stare at the message longer than you should.

Then—

You:depends.

Typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears agin.

Alfie:can I see you?

You hesitate.

This is the part that always gets you—the way he shows up only once the distance feels permanent. The way you want to say no just to prove you can.

Instead you send him your location.

He's there quicker than you expect.

Alfie doesn't joke when he sees you. Doesn't lean in the doorway or pretend this is casual. He just stands there for a second, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense like he's bracing himself.

"You didnt text," he says finally.

"You didn't give me much to reply to."

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. "It was a podcast."

"And I was... what?" You ask, immediately on the defence. "A distraction? A rumour?"

That lands.

Alfie looks away, then back at you, eyes darker than usual. "I didn't mean it like that."

"But you had no problem saying it like that."

Silence stretches between you. Both of your anger rising.

"I don't like people knowing my stuff," he admits, tone filled with annoyance. "I don't like giving them something they can twist."

"So you twist it first?" you argue. "You pretend like I don't exist so no one can use it against you?"

He doesn't answer straight away, hand rubbing between his eyebrows like he's trying to hold himself together.

"You don't get it," Alfie says finally. "A clip. A joke. I say one thing wrong and it's everywhere."

You let out a sharp laugh. "You already said the wrong thing."

His head snaps up. "I didn't say I didn't care about you."

"You didn't have to," you shoot back. "You let everyone else say it for you."

The words hang heavy between you.

"You think this is easy for me?" he asks, voice raised. "You think I like looking like the bad guy?"

"I think you like not having to explain yourself," you say. "I think you like being able to walk away and pretend it doesn't matter."

"That is not fair."

"Neither is being something you only acknowledge when it's convenient."

Alfie steps closer, frustration written all over his face. "I came here, didn't I?"

"After I stopped chasing," you reply. "That's the problem."

That stops him.

For a second, neither of you speak.

The air feels unbearable, thick with everything you've thrown at each other and everything you haven't said. Your eyes lock, neither of you willing to look away, both of you breathing too fast like you've already lost control.

Then it breaks.

Alfie moves first — not gently, not carefully. He steps forward, forcing you back until the door is behind him, shutting it with a sharp sound that cuts through the silence. The kiss comes immediately, sudden and desperate, like he's afraid that if he waits another second you'll disappear.

It's all frustration and feeling, no space to think. Your hands twist into his hair, grounding yourself, clinging just as much as pushing back. His grip tightens at your waist, steady nut urgent, like this is the only way he knows how to say what he couldn't out loud.

It's not soft.

It's not calm.

It's two people who are angry and hurt, and still choosing each other anyway.

— 2. The Jealousy Moment

The Sidemen shoot runs longer than planned.

It always does.

By the time the camera finally stops rolling, everyone's restless —laughing louder, talking over each other, already half-thinking about where the night's heading next. Someone suggests the pub. Someone else agrees before anyone can object. It becomes a plan without really becoming one.

Alfie's leaning against a table when it happens.

He's tired in that loose, end-of-day way, hoodie pushed up his arms, attention drifting in and out of conversations. That's when she steps closer—someone from the wider group, confident, comfortable, clearly not worried where she stands.

She laugh at something he says. Touches his arm when she does.

It's harmless. Mostly.

But she stays close. Too close. Leaning in when she talks, brushing past him like it's accidental even when it isn't.

Alfie doesn't shut it down.

He doesn't encourage it either— not really— but he lets it happen. Lets the attention sit there, easy and flattering. Lets himself smile a little wider than necessary.

He doesn't see you at first.

You're on the edge of the room, talking to someone you came with, drink untouched in your hand. You notice it imediately— the way she stands angled toward him, the way his body doesn't move away.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter.

You're not exclusive. Not officially. Not something he's ever been brave enough to define.

Still, something twists in your chest.

When the group moves to the pub, the feeling follows you there.

The place is loud and warm, packed with people who all seem to know each other somehow. Everyone spills inside together, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. Alfie ends up at the bar, and so does she.

You watch as she leans in again, saying something you can't hear. Alfie laughs, head tipping back briefly, and that's when your jaw tightens.

You look away.

That's when someone else fills the space beside you.

He's easy to talk to. Funny. Clearly interested. He asks what you're drinking, and you let him. Let the conversation stretch longer than it needs to. Let yourself lean in, mirror his smile.

Across the pub, Alfie sees it.

he doesn't mean to stare, but he does. Notices the way you tilt your head when you laugh, the way your attention is fully on someone who isn't hum. Something sharp flares in his chest, sudden and unwelcome.

He turns back to the bar, downs his drink too quickly.

The girl beside him keeps talking. He nods, distracted noe, eyes drifting back to you even when he tries to stop them. Every time he looks, you're still there—still engaged, still smiling.

So he leans closer to her.

Let his hand rest on the bar near hers. Lets the space between then close just a little more.

You see it.

You smile wider at the guy you laugh louder, let your hand brush his arm when you respond. You know exactly what you’re doing.

So does Alfie.

The night turns into a quiet standoff.

You don’t talk to each other.

You don’t need to.

Every glance is a challenge. Every laugh feels pointed. You both carry on like you’re proving something — to the room, to yourselves, to each other.

And underneath it all is the same unspoken truth: No matter how this looks, you both know how it ends.

By the time you step outside for air, the tension feels unbearable.

The noise from inside muffles behind the door, replaced by cool night air and the distant hum of traffic. You barely make it two steps before you hear him.

“Really?” Alfie says.

You turn. He’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“Really what?” you reply.

He lets out a short laugh. “You know exactly what.”

“Do I?” You cross your arms. “Because you seemed pretty busy yourself.”

“That didn’t mean anything.”

“Neither did mine.”

The words come fast now.

“You were flirting,” he says.

“So were you.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you cut in. “And you made sure I saw it.”

He takes a step closer. “You didn’t have to do that back.”

“And you didn’t have to let her hang all over you.”

Silence snaps between you, thick and heavy.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” Alfie says finally. “Not when you won’t even say what we are.”

You laugh, sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“You’re the one who started talking to someone else.”

“You’re the one who acts like I don’t exist when it suits you.”

His expression shifts then — frustration giving way to something closer to hurt.

“I knew you’d end up with me anyway,” he says quietly. “You always do.”

The words sting.

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t act like I’m predictable just because I don’t want to walk away.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

You step closer now, anger buzzing just under your skin. “You think you can flirt with whoever you want, and I’ll still be here at the end of the night?”

Alfie exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I think we both knew where this was going.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you didn’t stop either.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat from him, to hear the edge in his breathing.

“Say it,” you challenge quietly.

“Say what?”

“That you care.”

He hesitates. Just for a second.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is sudden — angry and familiar, like a release neither of you managed to stop. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s everything the argument couldn’t settle.

— 3. The Rumour Moment

Alfie doesn't hear it from you.

He hears it mid-stream.

It's one of those relaxed ones—nothing planned, chat moving fast, jokes flying, the mood easy. He's leaning back in his chair, half-reading messages, half-listening to Chip and George on call.

Then someone in chat says it.

At first he ignores it. Just another comment flying past too quickly to matter. But it pops up again. And again.

Seen her new vlog?

Who was the guy in the background

Alfie leans forward slightly, scanning now.

"What guy?" he asks, distracted, like he doesn't really care.

Chip reads it outlaid before he can scroll past it.

"People are saying there was a bloke in her vlog. Walked past a door or something."

The words hit sharper than he expects.

He laughs, quick and dismissive. "You lot see one shadow and start writing fan fiction."

Chat explodes.

Didn't look like nothing

Door was wide open

man was deffo there

"Relax," Alfie says, still smiling, calm on the surface. "She can vlog with whoever she wants."

George hums like he's unconvinced.

"Could be her new thing," He smirks to himself, having his camera off and hidden from Alfie and his stream.

Alfie's smile tightens.

He doesn't ask for the clip.

Doesn't pause the stream to check.

Doesn't say anything else about it.

He carries on like normal —jokes, laughter, easy confidence— but something in him shifts. Settles somewhere uncomfortable.

Because he doesn't know it was him.

He doesn't know that earlier that week, he'd walked past your slight;y open bedroom door without thinking twice. Hoodie on, phone in hand, halfway through a white monster and a conversation. He doesn't know the camera caught the briefest glimpse— barely more than a blur.

All he knows is that people saw someone.

And for once, he lets them.

By the time you text him later that night, his replies are already different.

Shorter.

Slower.

Polite in a way that feels unfamiliar.

You notice it immediately.

You tell yourself not to jump to conclusions, but the space between messages grows anyway. When you ask what he's up to, he keeps it vague, then he doesn't respond at all.

The next time you see him is days after.

You're standing outside a cafe, vlogging, when he spots you. He hesitates—just enough to sting — before walking over.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you reply, turning the camera off, watching him carefully.

Something's off. Not angry. Not cold.

Just...distant.

You walk together without really deciding to. Side by side, quiet. Him occasionally stealing sips out of your sugary drink. The silent stretches long than usual.

"So," you say eventually, "you gonna tell me what I've done, or should I guess?"

Alfie exhales through his nose. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like you don't know."

You stop walking. He turns back to face you.

"I genuinely don't," you say. "That's the problem."

He studies your face, like he trying to find something there. "Your vlog."

"What about it?"

"The one where a guy walks past your door."

Your expression shifts instantly— confusion first, then understanding. You should've known he would've wanted that part cut, you should've just rerecorded what you were saying if it was that important.

"That?" you ask. "That's what this is about?" You're bout to say you can cut that part out if it bothered him so much, until. he started running his mouth...again.

"So there was a guy," he says irritation creeping into hi voice.

You could've laughed at how stupid the misunderstanding was.

"Yes," you reply. "You."

He blinks.

"What?"

"You," you repeat. "Alfie. You walked past my room. You were literally on the phone, drinking monster. Who else that comes over drinks white monster?"

Silence.

He processes it slowly, jaw tightening—not with relief, but embarrassment.

"I didn't see the clip," he admits.

"You didn't ask either."

He looks away. "People said—"

"I don't care what people said," you cut in. "I care that you believed it."

"I didn't believe it," he argues.

"You acted like you did."

That lands.

"You went quiet," you continue. "You pulled back. All because you heard something and decided not to check."

He runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't want to make it a thing."

"So you made it worse."

He sighs. “You don’t get how it looks.”

“And you don’t get how it feels,” you reply. “Being treated like I owe you an explanation when you won’t even talk to me.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“Then what were you doing?” you ask. “Because from where I’m standing, you heard a rumour and punished me for it.”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t punishing you.”

“Then why does it feel like you were?”

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The street noise fills the gap — cars passing, people talking, life going on around you while the tension sits heavy between you.

“I didn’t like the idea of someone else being there,” he admits finally.

You let out a short laugh. “So you got jealous.”

“I got annoyed.”

“Same thing.”

He looks at you then, properly. “You could’ve told me.”

“You could’ve asked.”

Another pause.

“You always assume the worst,” you say quietly.

“And you always assume I’ll be fine,” he shoots back.

The words hang there, messy and unresolved.

You step closer, frustration buzzing under your skin. “I don’t want to do this every time someone says something.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then stop letting everyone else into it.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. “You don’t make it easy.”

“You don’t either.”

You’re standing too close now. Close enough to feel the tension shift, soften into something familiar and dangerous. He tucks a string of hair behind your ear, his hand then cupping your cheek.

“You annoyed me,” he says.

“You annoyed me more,” you reply.

He huffs a laugh despite himself.

And then, without really deciding to, he leans in.

The kiss is sharp and annoyed and unmistakably you two — not gentle, not soft, but not breaking anything either. Just enough to say this still matters, even if neither of you wants to admit how much.

When you pull back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

“This doesn’t mean you were right,” you say.

“I know,” he replies.

“And next time,” you add, “ask.”

He nods. “Next time.”

You don’t know if you believe him.

But you let him stay anyway.

— 4. The Almost-Confession

The elevator ride up feels longer than it should.

Alfie leans against the wall, jacket half-unzipped, hair messy, a faint scent of cologne mixed with the lingering beer from the night. He looks exhausted, like every laugh and joke earlier had taken more out of him than anyone knew.

"Want to crash at mine?" you offer casually as you reach your floor, fumbling for your keys. The words come out easier than they probably should, soft, almost careless, but his face stiffens slightly.

"I mean...if that's cool," he says after a pause, trying to sound nonchalant. He's clearly thinking it over, and you can see it in the way he avoids meeting your eyes.

You shrug, unlocking the door. "Of course. Wouldn't be the first time." You try to make it sound light, casual, but the way he shifts, half-smile, half-distracted, tells you he's not really thinking about sleeping.

Inside, the apartment is quiet. Lights low. The remanding energy of being out lingers. It's peaceful, too peaceful after the chaos outside, and it almost hurts that Alfie is here. Not because he shouldn’t be, but because being this close feels dangerous.

You follow him into your bedroom, him immediately stripping to his joggers and tucks himself in. You follow behind, clad in your own pyjamas.

You lay on his arm, seeing him up close now. He's biting his lips are eyes are darting across the room.

"Seriously, you okay?" you ask eventually. "You've been...off since we left."

He hums, not meeting your eyes. "Yeah. Just...tired, I guess."

You readjust yourself so you're looking up at him. "Really? Because you've been quiet the entire cab ride, half the night...and now?"

His eyes flick down briefly, and the back to the ceiling— which off topic made the bent arm underneath himself look absolutely gorgeous. "I said i'm fine."

"Mm-hm," you murmur, and don't argue. You wait. You're patient in the way you always are, because you know him better than anyone else. Better than even he knows himself sometimes.

A long silence stretches. The quiet between you isn't uncomfortable. Not yet. It's the kind that sits on the edge of saying something, waiting for someone to tip over.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters suddenly, almost to himself.

“Shouldn’t?” You frown. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t want… I don’t want this to be weird tomorrow,” he admits, voice low. His hands twist in his lap.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you let the quiet do the work, letting him realise that it’s already weird in all the best ways.

"It never has been before, what changed." You say, gently raking your nails against his naked chest.

“You know,” he starts again, hesitant, “I… I don’t… I mean…”

And then he stops. His words hang there, broken and unfinished.

You shift slightly, leaning forward, trying not to fill the silence for him. “I’m listening,” you say softly.

His head drops slightly, eyes flicking toward you, then away. “I… I don’t… I don’t do this with anyone else.”

You feel your chest tighten. That’s it. That’s everything he’s not saying. That almost-confession that has been hovering between you for weeks, maybe months.

“I’m… not sure what that means,” you murmur, voice quieter than you’d expected.

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “It means… I don’t… I don’t just… care about people like I care about you.”

Your stomach flips, a mix of relief and frustration. Because he’s so close, so nearly there, and yet he can’t quite finish.

“I… thought you might say it,” you whisper, though you’re not sure if you’re upset, hopeful, or a little bit of both.

“I can’t,” he says, voice tight. “Not like… like it matters. Not now.”

You let that settle. You know exactly what he’s saying without him saying it. That he cares, that he wants to say it, that he’s just scared — of being wrong, of being vulnerable, of what comes next.

“You don’t make it easy,” you reply softly.

“I know,” he murmurs. His eyes finally meet yours, and there’s that spark — the one that makes everything else fade out of focus. That one look that reminds you why you can’t just walk away.

You can feel the tension coil tighter between you, the weight of all the unspoken words and the nights spent wondering who will admit what first.

“Then say something,” you whisper, almost teasing, almost daring.

“I…” His voice catches, faltering. He looks down at his hands. “…I just… I don’t know how.”

“Try me,” you breathe.

He swallows, closes his eyes briefly, then leans forward.

The kiss is sudden. Sharp. Clumsy in the best way, full of frustration and longing and restraint you've both been holding in. It's not gentle. It's not soft. It's messy—the kind of messy that only comes after nights like this, after misunderstandings and silence, after almost-confessions and stupid pride. That what makes the kiss feel different to the others you've shared. He's saying everything and nothing with one simple action.

When it ends, you're both on your sides, gazing at each other. Both of you breathing a little too fast. Neither of you speaking.

“This doesn’t mean we’re… I mean…” you murmur.

He shakes his head slightly. “I know.”

Silence again. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… heavy, full of everything neither of you has said but both of you understand.

"We should probably... sleep," he mutters finally, voice low, almost like a plea.

"Yeah," you whisper, a small smile on your features.

Neither of you moves immediately. The moment lingers, both aware that it's only a small step—that this night, the kiss, the kisses before, the previous arguments, the almost confession, doesn't fix everything. It doesn't make it official. t doesn't solve all the misunderstandings, the pride, the rumours, the mistakes.

But it does mean something.

And for now, that's enough.

— 5. The Breaking Point

The party is loud in the way that feels intentional.

Music low enough to talk over, drinks constantly being topped up, everyone packed into the flat like they're all meant to be there. Alfie's been at your side the entire night—not kissing, only touches lasting longer than what was considered friendly.

He passes you drinks without asking.

Leans in when you talk.

Laughs at your jokes, even the bad ones.

You move like a unit without even naming it.

Someone comments on it eventually. They always do.

You're standing in the kitchen with a few people when someone laughs and says, "You two are actually inseperable."

You smile politely. Alfie does too.

Another voice joins in. "Seriously, though— are you guys finally a thing?"

The question was light. teasing. Harmless.

The room goes quiet anyway.

Not silent—the music's still playing—but attentive. Curious.

You don't look at Alfie straight away. You already know what you'll see if you do.

He freezes.

It's subtle, but it's there. His smile falters just enough, His shoulders stiffen. Like he's been caught off guard by something he should've seen coming.

"Well—" someone starts, laughing. "I mean, come on."

Alfie exhales sharply. "Why does it matter?"

The tone is wrong. Defensive.

The energy shifts.

"It doesn't," the person says quickly. "Just asking."

He shakes his head, jaw tight. "People always need to label stuff. It's mad weird."

You finally look at him.

He's annoyed now. Not angry—frustrated. Like the question itself offended him.

No denial.

No confirmation.

Just avoidance.

You don't say anything.

You don't laugh it off.

You don't fill the silence.

You just let it sit there.

Someone changes the subject. The party moves on. It always does.

But something in you settles—heavy and final.

You leave not long after, making an excuse about being tired. Alfie follows you without asking, like it's expected. Like it's normal.

The walk back to your apartment is quiet.

Not awkward. Not angry.

Just...hollow.

He talks about nothing. A story from earlier. Someone he ran into. You respond when necessary, but you don’t offer anything more.

At your apartment, he kicks his shoes off and makes a bee line for your bed, collapsing like he's done it a hundred times—because he has. You follow not long after, getting yourself a bottle of water.

Neither of you says goodnight. Both just drifting to sleep, huddled up together—which could mean absolutely nothing...

Morning comes slowly.

Light spills through the kitchen window as you stand at the counter, hair tied back, wearing one of the t-shirts Alfie had left in your washing basket. A pan warms the hob. The room smelling faintly of coffee and eggs.

You hear footsteps behind you.

Alfie appears in the hallway, grey joggers hanging low on his hips, hair a mess, eyes half-closed. He watches you for a second like he's trying to figure out what mood you're in.

"Morning," he says.

You don't turn around. Your stirring slowing to a stop.

"You didn't say anything."

The words are quiet. Flat.

He stiffens.

"What?"

"Last night," you continue, still focused on the pan. "You didn't say anything."

There it is.

He runs a hand over his face. “I didn’t think—”

“You never do,” you interrupt softly. Not angry. Just tired.

That’s when he snaps.

“You think I don’t care?” he says, voice rising suddenly. “You think that’s what that was?”

You finally turn to face him. “I think you had a chance to choose me, and you didn’t.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you ask. “Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty clear.”

He paces once, hands in his hair. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“It already is a thing.”

“To everyone else,” he says sharply. “That’s the problem.”

You cross your arms. “So you’d rather keep me as a question mark?”

“No,” he snaps. “I’d rather not ruin it.”

You laugh, breathless. “By what? Acknowledging it?”

He stops pacing, looks at you fully now. “By messing it up. By saying the wrong thing and losing you.”

“You’re losing me anyway.”

That hits him harder than anything else you’ve said.

He steps closer. “I adore you,” he says suddenly, voice rough. “I think about you constantly. I care about you more than I ever planned to.”

You don’t react. You don’t soften.

“Then why is it so hard to say?” you ask.

“Because once I do,” he says, frustrated, “it’s real. And real means it can break. If we keep it like this—”

“Almost,” you finish for him.

He nods. “Then there’s less damage.”

You shake your head slowly. “Not for me.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and unavoidable.

“I can’t keep being the almost,” you say quietly. “I deserve to be chosen without hesitation.”

Your eyes slightly water. He looks at you like that thought never fully landed before. "I'm not just going to sit here anymore waiting for something better to come along and turn you in the other direction. I'm done sat here waiting for something that I know won't come. I'm—"

"I love you," he says, interrupting. The words rush out now, unguarded. "I'm in love with you. And I know it must sound like I'm trying to save my own back, but I really do." He looks to the window, seeing a bird fly past. "I just didn't know how to say it without ruining everything."

You stare at him.

"You don't get to confess and expect that to fix it," you say firmly. "You hurt me. Multiple times."

"I know," he says immediately. "I know and I'm sorry. But I don't want halfway any more either. I just needed to stop being scared."

You take a breath.

"I'm not agreeing to this unless it's clear," you say, turning the hob off to walk toward Alfie with a finger pointed directly at him. "No hiding. No freezing. No getting annoyed when someone asks."

He nods, eyes locked on yours. "I won't."

“And if you do?”

“I’ll deserve it,” he says. “But I don’t plan to.”

You study him for a long moment. The boy who’s been everywhere and nowhere at once. The one who almost lost you because almost was easier.

“Okay,” you say finally.

His breath catches.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Okay,” you confirm. “But we do this properly. Or we don’t do it at all.”

Relief floods his face — not loud, not dramatic. Just real.

He steps closer, careful this time. “Can I—?”

You nod once.

The kiss is steady. Certain. Not rushed. Not angry.

Not almost.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours, smiling softly.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” you reply.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like you’re waiting for him to choose.

He already has.

— +1

Alfie's vlog doesn't start any differently than usual.

Same handheld camera. Same casual greeting. Same slight;y crooked angle as he walks through the door, talking mid-sentence like the audience has just picked the conversation up where it left off.

"Right,"

he says, flipping the camera around. “Busy day today.”

It’s only later that people notice what’s different.

You’re there. Constantly.

Not in a forced way. Not staged. Just… present.

You’re in the background of the first clip, sitting at the kitchen counter while he makes coffee, half listening, half scrolling on your phone. He doesn’t introduce you. Doesn’t need to. When you comment on something he says, he responds without even looking for you on camera.

The next cut is in the car. Your voice comes from the passenger seat, correcting him when he gets a detail wrong. He laughs, glances sideways, and says, “Alright, alright,” like this is normal. Like it’s always been this way.

Later, you’re walking together through the city. He films ahead, then absentmindedly reaches out with his free hand — and you take it without hesitation. It barely makes the frame, just fingers interlacing at the edge of the shot.

No comment.

No pause.

No explanation.

The comments start clocking it immediately.

WAIT.

Did anyone else see that?

That hand hold???

The vlog keeps going.

You’re there when he’s shopping. When he’s meeting friends. When he’s sat on the sofa, editing clips while you lie beside him, head just out of frame, occasionally chiming in with an opinion he listens to every time.

At one point, you pass him a drink off-camera. He thanks you without thinking.

Later, when the vlog ends, people realise something else.

There was barely anything without you in it.

Around the same time, your own vlog goes up.

It’s quieter. Less chaotic. Shot mostly in your apartment. Alfie’s there too — not as the focus, not announced — just moving in and out of frame like he belongs.

He’s in the reflection of a mirror when you’re getting ready. In the background of a clip where you’re talking to the camera, sat at the table with his laptop. Laughing when you mess up a sentence.

At one point, he walks past and drops a kiss on the top of your head without realising you’re filming.

You pause.

Look at the camera.

Smile.

You don’t cut it out.

The comments explode.

So we’re just not talking about this??

They’re literally domestic.

This has been going on forever hasn’t it.

Neither of you address it.

You don’t need to.

By the end of the week, it’s not really a question anymore.