Summary: Arthur doesn’t mean to soft-launch your relationship. He just wants to be close to you — and the world happens to notice.
Warnings: pure fluff, gentle clinginess, cuddling, comfort, brain-fog friendly, kissing, accidental soft launch
Word count: 2.1k ✨ (long one today babies)
The day ends the way a lot of days have recently, quietly.
No rush. No expectations. Just you and Arthur, tucked away from the world in his bedroom while the sky outside fades from grey to deep blue. The curtains are half drawn, streetlights glowing softly through the gap, and the room smells faintly of clean laundry and the candle Arthur lit earlier because “it makes it feel calmer, doesn’t it?”
You’re curled on your side, facing him, legs tangled together under the duvet. Arthur’s on his back, one arm draped loosely around your shoulders, the other hand lazily intertwined with yours.
Your fingers fit together like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
Neither of you is really talking. The TV plays something you’ve both seen before, a comfort show, but neither of you is paying attention. Arthur’s thumb strokes absentminded circles over the back of your hand, slow and steady, grounding.
You sigh softly, not unhappy. Just… tired.
Arthur feels it immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Come here.”
You’re already here, but he gently tugs your hand anyway, coaxing you closer until your forehead presses into his chest. He adjusts the blanket with one hand, tucking it around you both with careful precision, like he’s afraid of letting any cold air touch you.
His chin rests lightly on the top of your head.
There’s something about the way he holds you on days like this, not tight, not desperate. Just there. Solid. Present.
“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says quietly. “Just so you know.”
You hum in response, fingers tightening around his for half a second. He notices, of course, and squeezes back.
Arthur’s phone buzzes on the bedside table.
Arthur exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Probably George sending me something cursed.”
You shift slightly, peeking up at him. “You gonna check it?”
He shrugs. “In a minute.”
But then your hands move, unconsciously, still intertwined as you adjust, the duvet slipping down just enough that Arthur can see the way your fingers are laced together against the white sheets.
Something in his chest warms.
Without really thinking, Arthur reaches for his phone with his free hand.
You don’t even notice at first. You’re too busy tracing a faint pattern on his wrist with your thumb, grounding yourself in the rhythm of it.
The room looks soft through the lens, low light, messy bed, the glow of the TV reflected faintly on the wall. But what catches his attention is your hands.
Your fingers, tangled with his.
The way his thumb is still moving over your knuckles.
The way it looks… domestic. Intimate. Real.
Before he can overthink it, Arthur snaps the photo.
No faces. Just hands. Bed. Blanket.
He smiles at it for half a second, heart doing something stupid in his chest, and opens his Instagram story.
You feel his thumb pause.
“Nothing,” he says easily, already typing.
He adds no caption. No text. Just posts it.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Wait,” you say, lifting your head slightly. “What did you just post?”
Arthur blinks down at you.
He hesitates for half a second, just enough to be suspicious, then shrugs. “A photo.”
He glances at the bedside table, then back at you, ears starting to pink. “Our hands.”
Your brain fog clears just enough for the realisation to land.
He winces. “I didn’t tag you.”
“That’s not the point,” you say, though there’s no real bite behind it.
He watches your face carefully, thumb resuming its gentle movement like he’s soothing a skittish animal. “I can take it down. If you want. I didn’t really think.”
You search his expression.
He doesn’t look panicked. Or defensive. Just… honest.
“I just liked it,” he adds quietly. “Us. Like this.”
You drop your head back onto his chest, muffling a small smile. “You realise the internet is going to lose its mind.”
Arthur snorts. “They already do over less.”
Almost on cue, his phone buzzes again.
He groans. “Okay, yeah. They’re losing it.”
You laugh softly, the sound vibrating against him. Arthur smiles instantly, like that alone made it worth it.
He reaches over, grabs his phone, and opens his notifications.
“‘Hard launch??’” he reads aloud. “‘Arthur blink twice if you’re in love.’”
You groan into his chest. “Oh my god.”
Arthur laughs, warm and quiet. “They’re saying it’s cute.”
He scrolls a little more, then locks the phone again and sets it face-down.
His attention returns fully to you.
“That okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, fingers tightening around his again. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
Relief washes over his face so visibly it makes your heart ache.
He kisses the top of your head, lingering. “Good.”
Outside, a car passes. Inside, Arthur’s thumb keeps tracing that same slow pattern. You match it, rubbing gentle circles into his palm.
Then Arthur speaks again, barely above a whisper.
You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m literally on you.”
So you shift again, somehow managing to curl even more into him, your leg thrown over his, your cheek pressed fully to his chest. He wraps his arm more securely around you, hand resting between your shoulder blades.
Arthur stares at the ceiling, heart full in a way he still isn’t used to. He thinks about how easy this feels. How right. How posting that photo didn’t scare him the way he thought it might.
Because this, you, here, like this, doesn’t feel like something he wants to hide.
Arthur feels it through his chest and smiles. “Sleepy?”
“Mmm,” you hum. “Just… comfy.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “You deserve comfy.”
You’re quiet for a moment, then: “You’re really clingy tonight.”
Arthur doesn’t even deny it. “Yeah.”
You tilt your head up slightly. “Why?”
He thinks about it for half a second. Then decides not to overcomplicate it.
“Because you’re here,” he says simply.
Your fingers lace more firmly with his.
The TV continues playing. The notifications keep buzzing, ignored. The world can wait.
Arthur presses another gentle kiss to your hair and whispers, more to himself than anything else—
Not because his alarm goes off, he turned that off the moment he remembered he didn’t actually have to be anywhere first thing, but because his phone will not stop buzzing.
It’s face-down on the bedside table, vibrating every few seconds like it’s possessed.
He groans quietly and buries his face into the pillow.
Beside him, you shift, letting out a soft little noise as you tuck yourself closer into his side. Your hand, warm and familiar, slides automatically into his.
Arthur freezes for half a second.
The photo. The hands. The soft launch that maybe wasn’t supposed to be a launch but definitely wasn’t nothing either.
Arthur exhales, slow and fond, and tightens his fingers around yours. You squeeze back in your sleep, thumb brushing gently over his knuckles like muscle memory.
But the buzzing keeps going, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Arthur sighs, reaches over with his free hand, and grabs his phone.
The screen lights up immediately.
Arthur squints at it, then winces.
You hum quietly, eyes still closed. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says instinctively, then pauses. “Okay, not nothing.”
You crack one eye open, looking at him blearily. “Is the internet still… internet-ing?”
Screenshots of his story everywhere. Tweets. Edits already. Comment sections full of hearts and “WE WON” and “ARTHUR TV SOFT LAUNCH CONFIRMED.”
Someone’s zoomed in enough to clock the edge of your sleeve.
Someone else has captioned it ‘the thumb placement says everything’.
Arthur groans and drops his phone onto his chest.
“I think I broke the internet.”
You smile, soft and sleepy. “You posted a hand.”
“That’s still just hands.”
“They know,” he says weakly.
You push yourself up slightly on one elbow, hair messy, face still half-asleep and ridiculously beautiful. “Are you stressed?”
Arthur looks at you for a moment.
Then shakes his head. “No. Just… overwhelmed.”
You nod, understanding, and curl back into him, cheek pressing to his shoulder. Your hand finds his again instantly.
Arthur exhales, tension melting.
“Good,” you murmur. “Because I’m not apologising for being cute.”
He snorts. “You are aggressively cute.”
Arthur groans. “I have to film with Bach in an hour.”
“Oh,” you say, amused now. “He’s absolutely going to bring it up.”
Arthur closes his eyes. “He’s going to never let me live this down.”
The studio feels different that morning.
Not in any obvious way, same setup, same lights, same familiar chaos, but Arthur feels like he’s walking in with a secret written across his forehead.
You’re there too, of course, perched on a chair just behind the camera with a coffee in your hands, chatting quietly with the others as things get set up.
Arthur’s eyes flick to you without thinking.
Bach notices immediately.
“Mate,” Bach says casually, adjusting his mic. “Why do you look like you’re about to confess something to a priest?”
Arthur chokes on air. “What?”
Bach smirks. “Relax. I’m joking. Mostly.”
Arthur clears his throat and fiddles with his mic wire. “Can we just— film?”
“Oh we will,” Bach says brightly. “But first—”
Arthur knows it’s coming.
Bach turns slightly, glancing behind the camera.
“So,” Bach says. “You wanna explain why I woke up to fifty messages asking if I’m ‘happy for you’?”
Arthur’s ears go bright red.
Behind the camera, you bite your lip to stop smiling.
“I don’t—” Arthur starts, then stops. “It was just a photo.”
Bach raises an eyebrow. “Of intertwined hands.”
Arthur groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Why are you like this?”
“Because it’s funny,” Bach replies instantly. “And because you’re doing that thing where you pretend this isn’t a big deal when it clearly is.”
Arthur risks another glance at you.
You’re watching him now, expression soft, reassuring. When your eyes meet, you give him the tiniest nod.
“…yeah,” he admits quietly. “Okay. Maybe it is.”
Bach grins. “That’s all I needed.”
Arthur tries to focus. He really does.
But every so often, his eyes flick back to you, sitting there comfortably, listening, smiling at the right moments. Every time he looks, your gaze is already on him, steady and warm.
At one point, Bach says something particularly ridiculous and Arthur laughs, turning instinctively toward you like he always does when something’s funny.
Bach clocks it instantly.
“Oh,” Bach says. “Oh I see.”
“That,” Bach says, pointing vaguely. “That look.”
Arthur’s face heats up again. “Stop analysing me.”
“I’m just saying,” Bach continues, smug, “you’ve never looked at me like that.”
“Thank god,” Arthur mutters.
You laugh quietly behind the camera.
And just like that, his nerves ease.
The rest of the recording passes in a blur, jokes, banter, the usual rhythm, but underneath it all is something new. Something steady.
When they wrap up, Bach stands and stretches. “Right. I’m off to let the internet continue losing its mind.”
Arthur exhales. “Please don’t feed them.”
“No promises,” Bach says cheerfully. Then, more softly, as he passes Arthur: “You look happy, mate.”
“…yeah,” he says. “I am.”
Once everyone clears out, Arthur stands and immediately crosses the room to you.
“Come here,” he says, automatically.
You stand, smiling, and step straight into him. His hands find your waist, familiar and sure, and he rests his forehead against yours.
He nods. “Yeah. Better with you.”
You lace your fingers with his again, just like last night.
Arthur glances down at them, then back up at you, smiling in that soft, private way that doesn’t need an audience.
“Think we should post another one?” you tease.
He laughs, ducking his head. “Let’s not push our luck.”
But he doesn’t let go of your hand.
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