The Argument - Alfie Buttle Imagine
It starts small.
You’re out with people. He’s in one of those moods sarcastic, performative, pushing jokes a little too far.
He makes one about you.
Everyone laughs.
You don’t.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. That edge. Like he’s trying to look cool instead of being kind.
You wait until you’re alone.
“Why do you do that?” you ask.
“Do what?” he replies immediately, already defensive.
“You know what.”
He exhales. “It’s a joke.”
“It’s not funny to me.”
And instead of just saying okay, he doubles down.
“You’re being sensitive.”
You go quiet. Not dramatic. Just… done.
“Right.”
And that calmness unsettles him more than if you’d shouted.
You don’t text him that night.
He waits for you to.
You don’t.
He tells himself you’re overreacting. But he replays the moment in his head anyway.
The look on your face.
That hits him harder than anything.
By the next day, he feels it. That weird hollow feeling. Like something’s off.
He hates that feeling.
“Talk to me properly,” he says.
You fold your arms. “I did. You told me I was sensitive.”
He swallows. Pride fighting with guilt.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you said it.”
Because he realises you weren’t trying to control him.
You were trying to feel safe with him.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself.
“I don’t ever want to embarrass you,” he says finally. No jokes this time. “I thought you knew I was messing.”
“I don’t want to be messed with,” you reply softly. “I want to feel backed.”
He steps closer.
“You are,” he says quietly. “Always.”
“I’m used to taking the piss out of everything,” he admits. “Didn’t realise I was doing it to you.”
You sigh.
“I don’t want to argue with you.”
“I don’t want to lose you over being stupid,” he says immediately.
He reaches for your hands this time — not casual, not teasing.
“I’m sorry.”
“I just need you to have my back,” you tell him.
“I do,” he says. “I will.”
“You’re not sensitive. I was being a prick.”
You almost laugh.
He pulls you in properly then.
He doesn’t let go for a while.