My name is Lyn, I'm 24 and here to consume content and I now officially make some of my own! So keep your eyes peeled 😉
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Please if you are under 18, don't read the mature things I post!! Look at the notes + tags, please read at your own risk!
Requests are closed!
At the moment, I only write for UK YouTubers (mostly Will) but I am open to write for others if I am in the fandom. Like I said, I mostly write for Will, but I also write for James and Harry. I've written for George, and I am trying my hand at ArthurTV, but feel free to drop an ask if you have someone in mind! But I will apologise ahead of time if I write them out of character!
If you ask me something, please specify:
the person you'd like me to write for
if you want an x reader or an original character
write as much detail as you'd like on what you'd like to see
Please remember, I can say no to a request if I feel that it makes me uncomfortable, or I feel that I can't write it.
The genres I write are:
Fluff (romantic or platonic)
Angst
Smut (though I'm new to this so I am still learning)
Not to brag, but I think fluff is my forte
If you want to chat in general and not ask a request, feel free to drop an ask. Though at the moment I only check my inbox on the weekend so apologies if I don't get back to you ASAP!
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for Will - a bit of jealousyyyyy 😋 maybe at a hangout you get along with Ieuan quite well and Will gets a bit jealous and gets a bit pissy about it?? but it gets resolved and they confess 😋 hopefully this makes sense
A Call for the Finish Before We Get Old- WillNE
You had to laugh when you heard your favourite sound, the high pitched delightful laugh squeal of William Lenney. You and Will had actually met in school but you weren’t really friends you shared a maths class and he sat in front of you, bothered the hell out of you when you were trying to pay attention but after two years you left, you always left as your family moved around all the time.
You had only settled when you moved to London at the age of twenty two, and six years later you were crossing the road, staring at your phone not paying attention and didn’t notice a guy on a bike hurtling toward you.
“STEP BACK!” You heard a shout, looked up and got back onto the pavement just in time. The accent intrigued you, it was familiar in the way anything about your childhood could have been familiar. The guy got off his bike, he was quite tall and almost all leg; your eyes rode up to his face and he looked a little familiar.
“You reet?” He asked before blinking for a few moments you weren’t coming crazy you must have recognised him because he was acting like he recognised you too.
“I’m okay, sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going,” you apologised still trying to place his face.
“Y/N?” Will asked and gave a small smile. You stared at him for a little longer before it clicked. It was Will.
“Will Lenney?” You asked eyebrows raised as you looked at him, you had left the school before either of you had really hit puberty but he had grown into an attractive man.
The pair of you went for a coffee, he told you about Youtube and you had told him about your job in interior design.
It was nice to connect to Will and things were easy with them, the pair of you had obviously matured somewhat but you got on well. The meet ups became regular which is why you now found yourself in a pub with him laughing at a comment he had made about one of the patrons who had just been kicked out.
“You sure know how to show a woman a good time,” you joked leaning back in the booth, he just winked at you before leaning back himself. There had been a couple of moments like this since the pair of you had got reacquainted over a year ago which made you wonder what if?
When you and Will had re-met he hadn’t long got out of his relationship with Mia and you became a bit of a confidant for him as you didn’t know Mia and didn’t know his relationship you were one of the few people in his life who didn’t make fun out of him for it.
“So how come a girl like you is alone on a Friday night and accepted a last minutes invitation from an old friend?” Will asked, the pub was picking up as was the noise.
“You know I’m a workaholic Will,” you replied smiling. The reality was you just didn’t meet too many people, someone had told you that you had trouble letting people in, you guessed it was because of your upbringing and moving around so much that you didn’t see the point. Plus the last guy you dated was an arsehole and Will hated him too, you clearly weren’t the best judge of character.
“Well if you’re free next weekend. The whole WillNe industries is going out for dinner and then drinks because Orla is a traitor and leaving. You can come along if you don’t have a better offer. The guys would probably like to meet you they keep asking to.” Will told you, you smirked a little.
“Aww you talk about me?” You asked, your voice a little cocky.
You didn’t expect to be nervous but somehow you found yourself changing your outfit twice, and already had to have a glass of wine while you were getting ready to stop yourself from panicking. Will was cool but you were being let into another part of his life now. You smoothed down your denim pinafore dress for the last time, it was turning a little cold so you had a long sleeved black shirt on underneath and finished the look with black boots.
The restaurant was a bus ride away, you toyed with getting an Uber but decided it was too far away to pay day for that and thanked your lucky stars it wasn’t raining. The bus was late, of course it was so when you got to the restaurant the group were already there. Will was already looking out for you and on seeing you he stood up. You gave a nervous smile keeping your eyes on Will as he engulfed you in a hug.
“Everyone this is Y/N don’t be weird.”
“Hi, nice to meet you all.” Your voice went very posh for some reason you didn’t understand, you didn’t know what your accent was anyway after years of moving around. Will gestured to the chair next to him so you sat down and looked to the left of you to see a guy with a rock type look smiling at you.
“Hi I’m Ieuan,” he introduced himself.
“Cool name, Welsh?”
“Yeah how did you know?” He asked impressed.
“I lived in Swansea for a year.”
“I thought you met Will in school?” You were impressed he remembered.
“I did, we moved around a lot as a kid,” you explained and Ieuan nodded.
“I was a bit like that too, I lived in America for a bit too.”
“Oh wow that’s cool!” The nerves you had melted away, glad you found someone else to talk to. You glanced to your right at Will who’s expression was unreadable.
Dinner was good, you toasted to Orla, bonded over wine and laughed as Will dropped his dinner on his lap. After dinner it was time for drinks, Will had reserved an area complete with a drinks package. Shots happened quickly, you danced with Mikey teaching him the macarena, gave Orla some tips on her new flat and you spoke to Ieaun. Will didn’t appear to be having a good time.
Every time you looked over at him he had a sour look on his face, arms crossed over his chest.
“Hey, you okay?” You asked him, he gave a noise which you could only describe as a grunt before downing too much beer. Will was known for his moods, but you had never been on the receiving end of it. Too tipsy to argue you decided to ignore it and ignore him.
Soon enough people started to get tired and you all started to talk about leaving. Will was on the sofa, long legs stretched put you went over to him and sat next to him, feeling the body heat radiating from him.
“I think we’re going to call it a night,” you told him looking at his face, his expression unreadable.
“Why?” He asked bluntly, his response shocked you a little.
“Some people are getting tired and let’s be honest here you don’t seem like you’re having a very good time.”
“Surprised you noticed,” Will muttered grabbing his coat and shoving it on.
The night was chilly, you had on long sleeves but no jacket so you walked quickly. The last bus had long gone and the night bus didn’t feel like something you could stomach right now.
“Where are you going?” Will called out.
“I’m going to walk back.”
“Not by yourself you’re not hang on wait up.” Will jogged to try and catch up with you.
“You don’t need to do that,”
“Why, am I not good enough? Did you want me to get someone better like Ieuan? He spat.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” You asked as you started walking again, Will following.
“I’m just saying,” Will said, shrugging. “Since you’ve been glued to each other all night. Thought I’d mention the big fucking fat elephant in the room.”
“Wow. Are you seriously being like this right now?”
“Being like what?” he shot back. “Sorry I didn’t realize I needed to sit back and watch you flirt with my cameraman all night.”
“Flirt? Jesus, Will, we were just talking—”
“You were all over him!”
“I laughed at his jokes! We have stuff in common I’m sorry, is that illegal now?”
“Well it’s not like you have the best taste in men you talk to.”
“He’s your employee Will. Think about that for a second.” You took off again quickening your pace heels clicking and footsteps heavy against the uneven pavement. You were no match for Will’s long legs though so he caught up quickly.
“I’m just saying..”
“Don’t. You’re humiliating me and making a fool out of yourself in public Will. You might be used to public humiliation but I’m not”
“I didn’t humiliate you.”
“Oh, so pointing out how desperate I am for attention from your friends is just, what, banter?”
“That’s not what I said!”
“It’s exactly what you meant!” she shouted, spinning on him. “You’ve been in a mood all night, Will, and I want to know why!” You demanded, Will was really pissing you off now. He paused for a second, his face softening for a split second before returning to a frown.
“You think I liked watching you hang off him?”
“I wasn’t hanging off him! I was just having fun! Is that a crime?”
Will threw his arms up. “Yeah, well, forgive me if watching you giggle at another guy’s jokes isn’t exactly my idea of a great night.”
You stood facing each other under a streetlamp, your breath visible in the summer night air. You thought all about those moments, Will hating every date you had, those little moment you sometimes felt, if you didn’t try it now you never would.
“You don’t get to act like this,” you said, voice trembling now. “You don’t get to act jealous unless—”
“Unless what?” He asked and you hesitated.
“Unless you like me.” There it was, you needed to know you were sick of men screwing you around, you wouldn’t take that from Will. You couldn’t. He mean too much to you.
Will’s heart pounded. The silence was deafening until he broke it.
“What if I do? I said I wasn’t going to say anything but tonight I just… I don’t know. It hurt. ot because he’s Ieuan, you know he’s a top lad but because you looked happy. And for a second I thought, what if she never looks at me like that? What if she never even thinks of me that way?”
“I have thought of you that way.” You bit your lip, Will blinked a few times. “But I didn’t know if you did. And I didn’t want to ruin anything.”
“You couldn’t ruin anything,” he said softly.
“So,” you murmured, tilting your head, “are we going to keep yelling at each other or…?”
Will grinned faintly, heart thudding. “Or…?”
You rolled your eyes and kissed him. He tasted like beer but you didn’t mind as you probably tasted like tequila. When you pulled away his eyes was glistening, like he was in a trance.
“Now you can walk me home,”
“Maybe I should make sure you get to your bedroom properly,” he added cheekily causing you to giggle as you placed your hand in his.
Hello!!! I haven't caught up with all of your new stories, but I know they're amazing and I just wanted to drop in and say that and thank you for writing and sharing.
Hope you're well! 💕
You;re too sweet! Honestly thank you🩷🩷🩷
And I'm alright, been busy with things during work, and general life outside of it. I hope you, anon are well too! And everyone else that's on this little part of the internet!
Summary: Even with things like long distance and an age gap, the reader and Arthur make things work.
Warnings: Age gap(Not sure if I did this well sorry)
Notes: Based on this ask! I experimented a little on this one, I hope you don’t mind! I wrote something else entirely and had to scrap it because I was writing myself into a corner, so I started over, and this was the end result! I hope you like it ☺️And it's really long! I hope people don't mind...
You met Arthur outside a café in Soho, the air thick with drizzle, the sky a dull grey. It wasn’t a romcom cliché, no crashing into each other on the Tube or spilling coffee on his shirt, but it was realistic and gentle. You were both waiting outside a café in Soho, him for a friend who was running late, and you because the place was too crowded, and your anxiety wouldn’t let you squeeze past the tables inside.
You noticed him because he was cute in an unassuming way, tall but slightly slouched, like he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the height. His hoodie was a little too big, the sleeves bunched around his wrists, and his jeans were well-worn, the kind that looked soft from years of use. Every few seconds, he’d glance around, then back at his phone, thumb swiping absently. He was a stranger, but there was something about the way he chewed the inside of his cheek and the way his fingers tapped against his thigh when he thought no one was looking that made you want to keep watching.
He looked up and caught you staring. You opened your mouth to apologise, but he beat you to it.
“Is it usually that busy?” he asked, voice soft but with a twinge of nervous humour.
You blinked, then shrugged. “No idea. I wanted to try something new and chose this at random.” A beat “I’m starting to regret my choice now though.”
He huffed a small laugh, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Same. I, uh. I’m meant to be meeting my mate, but he’s late. Which is very on brand for him, to be fair.”
That should’ve been it. A short conversation that should lead nowhere, just a quick chat to pass the time. But for some reason, you stayed and kept the conversation going. Arthur was quiet at first, in that cautious way some people are around strangers. Polite. Guarded. He glanced down a lot when he spoke, eyes flickering wildly like he was deciding if what he wants to talk about should come out. But something about the way he looked at you between words, half curious, half unsure, made you want to stay a little longer.
Eventually, his friend texted to cancel. He stared at the screen for a moment, then shrugged, trying to act casual. “Guess I’m free now.”
The café had finally cleared out enough to see empty tables. “Want to just grab one together?” you asked.
He looked up, surprised, then ducked his head with a quiet laugh, his cheeks slightly pink. “Yeah, alright. But only if you promise not to judge me for how much sugar I put in my coffee.”
“Deal,” you said, “and don't judge me for pretending to understand the wine lists.”
“Shit, we might have to renegotiate.” He held the door open for you, sleeve slipping over his knuckles again, and you caught the faint scent of his detergent, something clean and subtly sweet, like cotton dried in sunlight.
The café cleared out enough for the both of you to snag a small table near the window. The barista called out for the next customer just as you reached the counter. Arthur nudged you forward with an elbow. “You first. I need time to mentally prepare for your judgement.”
You rolled your eyes but ordered a pistachio latte and a carrot cake you didn't really need but suddenly wanted. When it was his turn, Arthur leaned in and ordered, “Large vanilla latte and a slice of banana bread, please.” Paid, then he grabbed three sugar packets from the counter, and after a guilty glance your way, snatched a fourth.
“Four sugars?” You raised an eyebrow as you moved down the line.
Arthur's ears turned pink as he tapped his phone against the payment reader. “What can I say? I've got a sweet tooth.” The machine beeped, and he quickly shoved it back in his pocket, nearly dropping it.
You carried your tray to the window table, carefully balancing the pistachio latte and oversized slice of carrot cake, Arthur following close behind with his own order. After sitting down, you watched as Arthur dumped all four sugars into his cup, stirred violently, then took a sip with the relieved sigh, “Told you,” he said, grinning.
“Better?” you asked.
He licked a stray drop from his lip. “Perfect.”
You stirred your own drink, watching the steam curl. “So your friend bailed. What were you two supposed to be doing?”
Arthur's fingers drummed against his mug as he considered his words. “We keep saying we should try new things, you know? But then we always end up at the same pub watching the same football matches.” He took a sip, leaving a faint foam moustache he quickly licked away. “Gets a bit stale after a few years.”
Something about that struck a chord. “I get that,” you said. “I just moved here, actually. Still figuring things out.”
His eyes lit up. “Where from?”
You told him, and he leaned in, suddenly more animated. “That’s sick. London’s massive! London's got everything, you just have to know where to—” He cut himself off with a laugh. “Sorry. You don't need a tour guide.”
“I might,” you admitted. “And I was thinking of checking out the history museum next week. Never been.”
Arthur’s face went through several emotions quickly, a flicker of surprise, then something almost guilty. “That's. I go there all the time.” He rubbed at a coffee ring on the table. “Probably too much, honestly. My mates take the piss about it.” He chewed his lip, then met your eyes. “You, uh. You want company? If you don’t mind someone who yaps about the things on display.”
Before you could answer, he barreled on, words tumbling out, “Or we could do anything else, really. There's this great market near Brick Lane, or the Sky Garden if you want views, or—” He cut himself off, cheeks flushing. “Sorry. Got carried away.”
“Arthur.” You waited until he looked up. “I'd love the museum tour. And the market. And whatever else you want to show me.” You tapped your fork against your plate. “Just promise you won't rush me past the exhibit plaques. I read every word.”
Arthur grinned back. “Deal.”
His grin widened just as his phone buzzed. Without glancing at it, he flipped it face-down, nudging it aside like an afterthought. The conversation barely paused for breath after that, Arthur's earlier reserve melting away as he talked with his hands, nearly knocking over the salt shaker twice.
That’s how it started.
You swapped numbers outside the café. The texts came fast after that, random thoughts, stupid observations. Like when he sent you a blurry photo of a pigeon hunched over a stolen croissant with the text, ‘this bastard has better posture than me. send help.’ You snorted loud enough that the woman next to you on the Tube gave you a look.
The first actual date was at the museum you’d both agreed on it on the first day you met. There was finally a time when both your schedules aligned, and he was fifteen minutes early and already sitting outside, nervously tapping his foot. He stood up too fast when he saw you. Tried to hug you and shake your hand at the same time. It was awkward. Adorably awkward.
You thought maybe he wouldn’t talk much. But once he relaxed, he couldn’t stop. He spoke with his hands. He interrupted himself with tangents. He got excited about random things like a chess set in the museum shop or a well known misinterpreted fact on a random topic. You loved it. You loved him, or the version of him that came out when he finally felt safe.
It took a few more dates before either of you admitted it wasn’t casual anymore. You could tell by the way you were both already planning what the both of you could do next before the current date was over.
You found out he made videos for a living. Not just silly ones, though those existed, but thoughtful ones, and sometimes chaotic ones, always made with care. He made people laugh. He made you laugh. Visiting new places, hanging out with his friends. You never felt like he was showing off. You felt like he was showing you something real.
The first time he kissed you, it wasn’t planned. He was walking you home, shoulders brushing, laughing about something stupid. He stopped suddenly under a flickering streetlamp, turned to you, and before you could process it, his mouth was on yours. It was warm, slightly hesitant, and over as soon as it started.
He pulled back just an inch, his breath shaky. “Sorry—” he whispered. His dark brown eyes looked uncertain and vulnerable, they flicked between yours and the space just beyond your shoulder, not quite able to stay still. His brows were drawn together, faint lines forming between them, and his gaze held a raw honesty, like he was bracing for rejection but couldn’t help hoping you’d understand. “I just really wanted to.”
The surprise melted into a slow, warm unfurling in your chest. His lips had been soft, a little chapped from the cold, and faintly sweet, like the vanilla latte he’d had earlier, maybe, or just him. You didn’t move away. Do it again, you almost said, but instead, you smiled. “Don’t be sorry.”
His breath hitched as he hesitated, eyes searching yours in the dim glow of the streetlight. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in again, stopping just short, giving you space to pull away. His question was silent but clear in the way his gaze flickered to your lips and back up. You didn’t make him wait. A small nod, barely more than a tilt of your chin, and his mouth met yours again, just the soft press of lips. His hand settled carefully against your jaw, fingers trembling slightly against your skin.
Then you sighed into him, and everything shifted. The kiss deepened, unhurried but insistent, his bottom lip catching between yours. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, and you could feel the quiet noise he made in the back of his throat. The cold air, the distant hum of traffic, the flickering light above, none of it mattered. There was just the warmth of his mouth moving with yours, the faint taste of coffee still lingering, the way his fingers curled tighter into your coat when you tugged him closer, and the frantic thud of your own pulse.
Things moved slowly. But not because either of you were unsure. It was careful, and sweet, and intentional. He held your hand like it was something precious. He called you just to ask how your day was. He made you playlists with embarrassing titles. You found you could tell him things without dressing them up first. You liked that he didn’t always know what to say, but he always wanted to listen.
He started sleeping over. Making you tea in the mornings, one sugar, a little too much milk. You learnt how he hummed when he was thinking. How he hated certain foods. How he always smelt like clean laundry and the occasional hint of you from cuddling or sleeping over.
You didn’t fall all at once. It was slower. A steady drop into something that caught you softly.
Eventually Arthur’s small, perpetually cluttered flat became yours. Your books were piled onto the shelf next to him, and mismatched mugs crowded the draining board. His camera gear lived semi-permanently on the coffee table, often nudged aside for your late-night study sessions. The air hummed with the quiet energy of two lives weaving together, the whir of his laptop became white noise to your essay writing, and the scent of his vanilla latte mingled with your peppermint tea.
The seven-year gap felt like a distant rumour in those days, dissolved in the comfortable chaos of shared existence. He’d sprawl on the sofa, proofreading your latest essay with surprising insight. He once paused, eyes bright, and said, "This metaphor about the crumbling facade? Bloody brilliant, love." You’d perch on the armrest beside him, offering edits on his latest video with the same casual intimacy.
Arguments were small, domestic things. There were the thermostat wars—he ran perpetually cold and wrapped himself in hoodies even in summer, while you seemed to radiate heat. Then came the eternal debate over the correct way to load the dishwasher, his method somehow both baffling and inefficient. And always, there was the quiet fight for the last Jaffa Cake, usually resolved with a shared, sticky bite.
His friends, a warm, slightly chaotic bunch mostly around his age, welcomed you readily. There was good-natured ribbing, of course. "Robbing the cradle, are we?" Chris would grin, elbowing him during pub nights. Arthur would roll his eyes dramatically, a faint blush creeping up his neck, but his hand would find yours under the table, fingers lacing tightly, a silent reassurance amidst the laughter. "Ignore him, he peaked at sixteen," Arthur would murmur, squeezing your hand. It was teasing, but it underlined the difference. They were talking about stocks while you were navigating the start of your life. Yet, curled beside him, listening to their banter, the gap felt like a harmless background hum, easily tuned out.
The change came quietly, on an unremarkable Tuesday. Rain lashed against the windowpanes of the flat. You were clearing the fridge, tossing out dubious leftovers, when you saw him. He was standing perfectly still, staring at the small, crisp acceptance letter pinned prominently to the fridge door, your offer for a master’s program at the University of Edinburgh. His back was to you, shoulders slightly tense. His thumb traced the embossed university crest, then the edges of the paper, over and over.
You stopped moving, the discarded yoghurt pot forgotten in your hand.
"Arthur?"
He jumped slightly, turning. His smile was quick, too quick, not quite reaching his eyes, which held a complex swirl of pride and something else, a raw, vulnerable apprehension. "Hey. Just admiring the officialness of it." His voice was thick, rougher than usual. He cleared his throat. "Edinburgh. That's, that's massive. Really massive. Proud of you. So bloody proud." He stepped closer, his gaze flicking back to the letter. "Even if it’s," He trailed off, swallowing hard. "far. Really far."
He looked suddenly older than his 28 years, the usual playful light dimmed by the grey London rain and the spectre of separation. You were 21, at the start of an exciting, demanding future, the world beyond London stretching out vast and unknown. He was 28, roots expanding in the city's rhythm, his channel finally gaining serious traction. The comfortable hum of the age gap suddenly felt like a chasm about to open.
You crossed the small space, without a word, you reached up, cupping his face. His stubble was rough under your palm. His dark eyes, wide and uncertain, searched yours. You saw the fear there. Fear of being left behind, fear of the distance, fear of losing this, the easy intimacy you'd built. You leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the faint, worried line etched between his brows.
"I'll be a train ride away, Arthur," you whispered, your voice surprisingly steady, belying the sudden ache in your own chest. "Four hours. We'll make it work." You infused the words with a conviction you desperately needed to feel yourself.
He let out a shaky breath, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against him. He buried his face in your hair, his hold almost bruising. "Four hours," he repeated, his voice muffled. "Right." He didn't sound convinced. Neither were you, not really. But you clung to each other in the rain-streaked gloom of the tiny kitchen, the acceptance letter on the fridge a silent, monumental presence.
Moving day arrived in a blur of cardboard boxes, roll after roll of packing tape, and a low-level hum of anxiety. Arthur morphed into a surprisingly efficient, slightly manic organiser. He folded your sweaters and jumpers with a precision you never knew he possessed, tucking lavender sachets between them. His quiet intensity was both touching and heartbreaking.
As you taped shut the last box labelled ‘Books (Important!)’,you found him sitting on the edge of your shared bed, holding a small, worn notebook. It was the playlist journal he kept, with silly titles and meticulous song lists for every mood. He was carefully tearing out a page. He looked up as you entered, a hesitant smile touching his lips.
"Made you something," he said, his voice rough. He held out the folded page. Scrawled across the top in his familiar, slightly messy handwriting was the title "Don’t forget me (seriously) & other reminders."
You took it, unfolding it. It wasn't just a playlist. Beneath the song titles (a mix of comforting indie, upbeat anthems, and a few embarrassingly soppy ones you loved) were little notes:
Track 3: For when the Scottish rain feels endless. Remember, my umbrella's in your bag's side pocket
Track 7: When you ace that first presentation. Dance like no one's watching (because they probably aren't)
Track 10: For the nights it feels too quiet. Put it on loud. I'll be humming along
Track 16: For the really hard nights
P.S. Seriously. Buy more socks. Edinburgh is cold. And eat something green occasionally. Love, A
Tears pricked your eyes. "Arthur."
"Shut up," he mumbled, standing abruptly, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Just some reminders. Now, where's the tape for this box?"
The Uber arrived too soon. Boxes filled the boot and half the back seat. The drizzle from your first meeting had returned, a fittingly grey London send-off. You stood on the pavement, the final goodbyes choked and inadequate. He pulled you into one last, crushing hug, his face buried in your neck. You could feel the tremor running through him, the desperate press of his fingers against your back.
He smelt like home.
"Call me when you get there," he whispered, his voice thick. "Text me when you're on the train. Let me know the flat's not a dungeon. Send pictures of anything. Everything."
"I will," you promised, your voice cracking. "Every step. I love you."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but fiercely tender. He cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn't felt fall. "I love you more. Go be brilliant. Just come back."
Then he kissed you. Not the quick, desperate press of lips you expected, but something slow and deep, like he was trying to memorise the shape of your mouth. His hands slid into your hair, holding you there, his breath shaky against your cheek. You could taste the coffee he’d had that morning, the faint sweetness of toothpaste, and the salt of tears—his or yours, you weren’t sure. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, moving against yours with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache.
You clutched at the front of his hoodie, fingers twisting into the fabric, pulling him closer. He made a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat and kissed you harder, his nose bumping against yours, his stubble rough against your skin. The drizzle clung to your faces, cold where his fingers weren’t touching, but you barely noticed.
When he finally pulled away, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. His eyelashes were wet—from the rain, maybe, or something else. He swallowed hard, his grip on you tightening for a second before he forced himself to let go.
Then, without another word, he helped you into the car, his hand lingering on the door handle like he might change his mind and pull you back out. But he didn’t. He just shut the door gently, stepped back, and watched as the car pulled away.
The driver pulled away. You twisted in your seat, pressing your hand against the cold glass. Arthur stood on the wet pavement, hands shoved deep into the pockets of those same worn jeans. The drizzle plastered strands of his dark hair to his forehead. He watched the car go, shoulders slumped, looking achingly young in his vulnerability, yet impossibly old in the weight of the moment. He lifted one hand in a small, hesitant wave, a solitary figure shrinking rapidly in the rainy rearview mirror, swallowed by the grey of London.
The four-hour train journey between London and Edinburgh became something the both of you were used to. Text messages replaced shared sunrises inside the flat, and video calls stood in for evenings curled on the worn sofa. The physical absence was a constant, low ache, a space where Arthur’s warmth, his scent, and the comforting weight of his arm around you, should have been.
Arthur (3:47 a.m.): Just woke up
Arthur (3:47 a.m.): Your pillow smells like your shampoo…
Arthur (3:47 a.m.): Miss your snoring
You (8:15 a.m.): I do NOT snore. Also, 3 a.m.? Go to sleep, old man. Are you editing again?
Arthur (8:15 a.m.): *Old man?!
Arthur (8:16 a.m.): I’ll have you know I went to the gym today and sustained no injuries
Arthur (8:16 a.m.): And yes, editing. Wanted to have the video ready ASAP
Arthur (8:16 a.m.): Also…
Arthur (8:16 a.m.): Maybe miss you more than the sleep…
You (8:17 a.m.): Miss you more. Go to bed, idiot 🧡
Arthur (8:18 a.m.): Only if you promise not to drown in projects today. Love you ❤️
You (8:19 a.m.): Love you too ❤️❤️❤️
The rhythm was familiar, comforting in its own way, but it couldn't replicate the ease of presence. The age gap, once a background hum in the shared flat, began to resonate with sharper, more discordant notes.
His career was hitting its stride. Videos gained traction, collaborations with bigger names materialised, and deadlines carried real fweight. His texts sometimes buzzed with frantic energy: "Just landed a meeting with someone big! Nervous as hell." or "Editing marathon. Might actually turn into a vampire. Send coffee thoughts." His successes thrilled you, but they also felt like planets orbiting a different sun.
Your world, meanwhile, was a pressure cooker of academia. Deadlines loomed like thunderclouds, critiques from professors felt personal, and the sheer volume of reading was relentless. You were navigating the turbulent waters of postgraduate life, learning to pay bills meticulously, budget for groceries, and exist independently in a city that still sometimes felt overwhelming.
One particularly brutal week where a presentation went spectacularly wrong. Technical glitches, a stammering delivery, a professor's cutting remark. You left the lecture hall, tears of frustration and humiliation hot on your cheeks. Huddled on a cold bench in a secluded corner of the university gardens, you called him.
It was mid-afternoon. He was likely filming or in a meeting.
He answered on the second ring. "Hey, love! Everything o—" He heard the ragged intake of breath, the suppressed sob. His voice instantly softened, shedding the earlier lightness. "Hey. Hey, what's wrong? Talk to me."
That was all it took.
Words tumbled out in a messy, tangled rush. Half-formed thoughts, sharp-edged frustrations, and the kind of rambling sorrow that had no neat narrative.
You spoke of the presentation that had fallen flat and the way your professor’s polite nod felt like a slap. You spoke of the hours spent poring over readings that never seemed to stick, of dragging yourself through rainy streets, past cheerful strangers who all looked like they belonged here in a way you never quite did. You spoke of the ache in your bones, the hunger you’d ignored for too long, and the dinner left untouched in the fridge. And then there was the bench.
That stupid, freezing bench outside the library where you'd sat for too long, just to be alone in your misery, blinking hard against the tears because crying in public still felt like failure. That moment tipped you over.
You didn't want solutions, not really. You just wanted to be heard, to be held.
Arthur didn’t. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t tell you to breathe or calm down or look on the bright side. He just listened.
There was a deep, attentive silence on his end. Every few seconds, his soft thinking-hum came through the speaker, a low, soothing sound, like a lullaby murmured just under his breath. You could almost feel it vibrating through the phone, grounding you.
You imagined him in his flat, pacing slowly, or maybe sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his head bowed like he always did when he was truly focused. You could picture the furrow in his brow, the way he’d close his eyes sometimes when he listened closely, as if his whole body were tuned to your voice.
Only when your sobs had quieted into hiccuping breaths did he speak.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with tenderness, “you’re not failing. I promise you, you’re not.”
Your lip trembled again at that, not because it was reassurance, but because it felt like truth.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered. “I feel like I’m running just to stay in place.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I hate that I’m not there with you. I really wish I was with you. I'd steal you away right now. Find the biggest, greasiest pizza in Edinburgh and eat it under a duvet fort."
“I miss you,” you breathed, the ache behind your ribs tightening.
His exhale was soft, almost lost in the connection. “I miss you more than I know how to say.”
There was another long pause, but it didn’t feel empty.
“I’ll stay on the line as long as you need,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to say anything else. Just breathe with me.”
So you did. You closed your eyes, the phone a warm weight against your ear. You focused on the sound of his breath, a slow inhale, a steady exhale. You matched yours to it. In. The cool air filling your lungs. Out. The shaky release. In the faint static hum of the line. Out. The lingering dampness on your cheeks.
Minutes passed. Just breathing. The frantic pounding of your heart began to ease, replaced by the simple rhythm shared across the distance. Your shoulders, knotted tight with stress, loosened fractionally. The knot in your chest didn’t vanish, but it softened, edged back by the quiet, persistent sound of him being there.
“Thank you for this.” You say, “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He replies and makes kissing noises. “I’ll be waiting for our next call.”
Three days later, a parcel arrived. Inside, nestled in protective packaging, were expensive noise-cancelling headphones. Taped to them was a note in his messy scrawl: "For focus. Block out the world (especially noisy flatmates)." Beneath them, almost hidden, was a ridiculously soft, green plush dinosaur. Another note: "For hugs. The headphones aren't cuddly. His name is Sir Rockinsford, or Rocky. He's a good listener. Love you. A." You clutched Rocky to your chest, the scent of new fabric mingling with the ghost of Arthur's laundry detergent, and cried again, this time with a heart full of aching gratitude.
The weekends Arthur managed to escape to Edinburgh were lifelines, snatched fragments of their old life. He’d arrive at Waverley Station looking rumpled and slightly wild-eyed after the journey, a large backpack slung over one shoulder, invariably bearing a slightly squashed loaf of sourdough from his favourite London bakery. He always insisted he’d slept fine on the train, despite the dark smudges under his eyes that told a different story.
Your tiny student flat felt impossibly full with him in it. He’d immediately take over the microscopic kitchen, making tea while you tried to focus on reading at the rickety table. His presence was a warm, distracting comfort. He’d hum absentmindedly, the same tuneless hum from the phone call, as he moved about, inevitably knocking an elbow against a cupboard door or stubbing his toe on the bedframe. "Cramped but cosy," he'd declare cheerfully, handing you a steaming mug.
One drizzly Saturday, you dragged him to Edinburgh Castle. As you walked through the ancient stone gatehouse, Arthur’s earlier reserve melted away. The museum nerd you’d first met re-emerged, his eyes lighting up as he pointed out architectural details.
"See that?" he whispered, gesturing to a narrow slit in the thick wall. Tourists jostled past, oblivious. "Everyone calls it an arrow slit, right? Actually, a common misconception. It's primarily for crossbows in this period. The angle and the width." He launched into a detailed explanation, his hands sketching shapes in the damp air, his voice dropping into the enthusiastic, slightly faster cadence he used when talking about things he loved.
You watched him, a fond smile spreading across your face. He caught himself mid-sentence, noticing your expression. He ducked his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Sorry."
You bumped your shoulder against his arm. "Don't stop," you said softly. "I love it. And don't worry," you added, a playful glint in your eye as you nodded towards a nearby information plaque, "I'm still reading every word."
His grin was instantaneous, relieved, and bright. "Good. Wouldn't want you missing these amazing crossbow facts."
Winter in Edinburgh was a beast. The days shrank, swallowed by darkness that arrived mid-afternoon, and the wind sliced through coats like they were paper. The cheerful resilience you’d both mustered during autumn visits faded under the weight of grey skies and the relentless, grinding pressure of your workload. While Arthur’s channel thrived, it brought its own intense demands. Your own deadlines piled into an overwhelming mountain of research papers and presentations.
April arrived, bringing daffodils to Edinburgh's parks and Arthur's 29th birthday. You’d planned a weekend visit to London, a small celebration. Maybe baking his favourite cake, a quiet dinner, or just being together. But an important exam was scheduled for the Monday morning immediately after the weekend, an exam you were perilously underprepared for, thanks to a nasty flu that had wiped you out the entire week prior.
Calling him, your voice still thick with congestion and scratchy with regret, was awful.
"Arthur. I don't think I can make it down this weekend," you rasped, the words scraping your throat. "This exam, it's massive, and I lost so much time being ill. I'm so, so sorry. Happy Birthday." The words felt like ash in your mouth. Pathetic.
A beat of silence stretched on the line, long enough for your heart to plummet. You could vividly picture the careful blankness settling over his face, the way his hand would automatically rub the back of his neck. "Oh," he finally said, his voice unnervingly neutral, devoid of its usual warmth. "Right. The exam. Yeah, no, of course. That. That makes sense. Gotta prioritise." Another pause, heavy with unsaid disappointment. "Don't worry about it, love. Really. We'll celebrate properly next time. Bigger cake." His attempt at lightness fell utterly flat. You heard the disappointment, carefully banked but unmistakable, beneath the forced cheer.
“I’m really sorry Arthur, I promise I’ll make it up to you somehow.”
A few months later, with summer approaching, came your graduation ceremony. After an absolutely brutal year, everything had finally fallen into place. Your family was travelling up, but Arthur was the one you desperately wanted to see you walk across that stage in the ridiculous cap and gown. You’d sent him pictures of the outfit, excited to see him on the day.
A week before the ceremony, everything fell apart for him. His external hard drive—where he’d kept almost all the raw footage for the new series—suddenly stopped working. No warning, just gone. He tried everything he could think of, but nothing was bringing it back. The files weren’t lost forever, but getting them back would take time. Way too much time. He called you late that night. His voice was flat and strained, full of panic and frustration. He sounded like he hadn’t slept, like he’d been holding it together all day and couldn’t anymore.
The disappointment hit like a punch to the ribs. You stood frozen in your tiny room, phone pressed too tight to your ear, the hired graduation gown hanging on the back of the door, its sleeves limp as if sighing at you. The gulf between your worlds, his in London, yours here, his career emergencies, and your academic milestones felt suddenly vast and icy.
Typical, you thought, jaw clenching. Of course work comes first.
“It’s fine,” you said, voice clipped. The words came out sharper than you meant, all your frustration leaking through. You didn’t have the energy to soften it. “We’re adults. Work comes first. I get it.” That word, adults, hung heavy between you. It wasn’t just about this moment. It was about his birthday last month, when exams kept you from London. It was about the way he’d swallowed his own disappointment then, just like you were swallowing yours now.
His breath hitched on the line. “Don’t say it like that,” he murmured, voice cracking. “Please. I want to be there. This just—”
And then you realised.
This was his work. Not some corporate obligation, but his. The videos, the channel, the thing he’d built from scratch, the thing that paid his rent and funded those stupidly expensive headphones he’d sent you when you were drowning. The thing that mattered enough for him to sound this wrecked over missing your graduation.
Your anger flickered, then dimmed.
“I know,” you said, quieter now. You pressed your forehead against the cold windowpane, staring out at the rain as it came down steadily. “I,” you let out a long breath, heavy with disappointment. “I get it. Really. Go fix your disaster. I’ll save you a glass.”
A beat of silence. Then, a soft, disbelieving huff. “You’re angry,” he said, like he was realising it mid-sentence.
“Yeah, well.” You swallowed hard. “So were you on your birthday. But we’re adults, right?”
Another pause. You could almost hear him thinking. When he spoke again, his tone had changed. “Right,” he said. “And we can make it up to each other. With cake. And maybe terrible wine.”
Your mouth twitched. You didn’t want to smile, but you did anyway.
“Deal,” you said. “Now go. I’ll text you the livestream link.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. Really.”
“I know.”
You ended the call and let the phone fall into your lap. You sat there for a while, still annoyed, still tired, still wishing things were different. But it didn’t hurt quite as much anymore. You stood up, wiped your face, and got ready for bed.
The key turned with a final, echoing click. You stood in the doorway of the tiny student flat, now stripped bare. Sunlight streamed through the empty window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air where your desk used to be. The only sound was the faint Edinburgh wind whistling past the building. It felt hollow, resonant with the echoes of late-night study sessions, frantic calls to Arthur, and the triumphant relief of finishing your dissertation. Rocky, the green dinosaur tucked securely under your arm, was the only remnant of your life here besides the suitcase at your feet. You’d sent the boxes of your things a day ago, it’s scheduled to get to his flat a few hours after you get there.
You took a deep breath. You'd fought hard here, learnt fiercely, and loved achingly from afar. You pulled out your phone and snapped a picture of the empty room and attached it to a text.
You (8:15 a.m.): [Image: Empty Edinburgh flat]
You (8:15 a.m.): Ready to be back home, returning the keys soon. See you in a few hours.
Arthur (8:16 a.m.): [Image: A slightly blurry selfie of him grinning, holding up a mug]
Arthur (8:16 a.m.): Counting. Will have tea when you’re back! Safe travels ❤️
You smiled, the familiar warmth of his presence bleeding through the pixels. Shouldering your bag, you gave the empty space one last glance and closed the door behind you.
The familiar rumble and screech of the train pulling into the station sent a jolt through you. This time, the grey London light filtering through the high glass roof didn’t feel oppressive; it felt like a familiar embrace. You hauled your suitcase down the aisle, heart hammering against your ribs in a rhythm that was equal parts nerves and pure, unadulterated anticipation.
You scanned the bustling platform, the sea of faces blurring. And then you saw him.
Arthur wasn't leaning against a pillar or checking his phone. He was moving, weaving through the crowd with that familiar, slightly slouched urgency, his head swivelling, eyes scanning frantically. He looked taller somehow, or maybe it was just the way he held himself, searching for you. He was wearing a dark green hoodie you hadn't seen before and those same soft, worn jeans. His hair was a bit messy, like he’d run a hand through it repeatedly.
His gaze locked onto you. His whole face transformed. The searching intensity vanished, replaced by the grin you were familiar with—wide, relieved, crinkling the corners of his eyes, lighting up his features in a way that made your breath catch. It was the grin from the museum, the one from under the streetlamp, amplified by months of longing. He didn't hesitate. He covered the last few yards quickly, his long legs eating up the distance.
He reached you, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you tightly against the soft cotton of his hoodie, lifting you slightly off your feet in a hug that was fierce, wordless, and spoke volumes of every lonely night, every missed call, and every ache of separation. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smelt like home.
"Missed you," he murmured, his voice thick and muffled against your hair. His arms tightened almost imperceptibly. "So bloody much."
"Missed you more," you whispered back, your voice catching. You clung to him, the platform noise fading to a distant hum.
He held you there for a long moment, suspended, his face buried in your hair. Then, you felt the soft, warm press of his lips against the crown of your head, a firm, lingering kiss that was a silent promise, an anchor in the whirlwind of arrival. It was tender and possessive all at once, breathing you in.
Only then did he finally set you down gently, his hands sliding from your back to cup your face. His dark brown eyes scanned yours, taking you in, the familiar warmth mixed with a profound relief. He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering on your temple where his lips had just been. "Alright?" he asked softly, the question encompassing everything. The move, the degree, the journey, the sheer weight of being back.
You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, but smiling so widely your cheeks ached. "Alright."
He grinned again, a little shakily this time, then bent and grabbed the handle of your suitcase. He slung his free arm around your shoulders, pulling you snugly against his side. The solid warmth of him, the familiar press, was an anchor. "Right then," he said, his voice regaining its usual soft cadence, laced with a happiness that resonated deep in his chest. "Let's get you home."
The Uber ride was a blur of tangled fingers resting on your knee, quiet murmurs about the traffic, and Arthur pointing out a new mural near the old flat. "Chris showed me. It's a bit weird, honestly, but colourful." The familiar streets felt different seen through the lens of permanence.
He fumbled slightly with the keys at the door of his flat, his usual slight awkwardness amplified by the suitcase and his eagerness. He pushed the door open and stood back, watching your face intently, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.
You stepped inside.
It wasn't pristine. A camera lens cap lay forgotten on the coffee table. A half-drunk mug of tea sat beside his laptop. But it was different. Noticeably so. Space had been consciously made. Your bookshelf wasn't just there, it had been expanded, a new matching unit added beside the original, and your books integrated with his, no longer just piled on top. The draining board wasn't overflowing, space had been cleared, and your favourite oversized mug sat prominently on the mug tree, clean and waiting. A small, dedicated corner by the window now held a neat stack of your binders and notebooks, a proper study nook, replacing the precarious pile on the floor.
You walked further in, your fingers trailing over the spines of your books on the new shelf. You saw your old, fuzzy blanket draped over the arm of the sofa.
"Tried," Arthur mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks faintly pink. He hovered near the doorway, suitcase forgotten. "To make it properly ours again. Knew your stuff would need places. Hope it's okay?" He gestured vaguely at the study corner and the bookshelf. "Didn't want you feeling like you were just slotting back into my mess."
You turned to him, emotion swelling in your chest. You appreciated the effort, the visible proof he'd been thinking about your return, about making space for you not just physically, but in the life of the flat. You crossed the few steps back to where he stood, still hovering by the doorway, watching you with that tentative hope in his eyes.
You reached up and cupped his face in your hands. His stubble was rough under your palms, familiar. His breath caught as you leaned in. When your lips met his, it wasn't like the first desperate kisses under the streetlamp or the quick pecks during rushed video calls. This was slow and deliberate. His mouth was warm and slightly chapped, and he sighed into the kiss like he'd been holding his breath for months.
One of his hands came up to cover yours where it rested against his cheek, his fingers pressing gently over yours. The other settled at your waist, pulling you closer until your chests touched. You could feel his heartbeat through his hoodie, steady and strong.
When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes stayed closed for a second longer before opening. They were darker than usual, full of something quiet and awed. He didn't smile, just looked at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles where he still held your hand against his face.
"Welcome home," he murmured, so softly you almost didn't hear it. Then he kissed you again, shorter this time, but no less certain. When he spoke next, his voice was rough. "Meant to say that properly when you walked in. Got a bit distracted."
You laughed, the sound catching in your throat. "It's perfect," you whispered against his lips. "Thank you."
The first few days were a delicate dance of re-establishing rhythms. Arthur had a looming deadline for a video collaboration while you were deep in the trenches of job applications, tailoring CVs and drafting cover letters for positions in London.
One afternoon, you had a video interview scheduled. You’d set up in the study corner, notes arranged, and you were dressed presentably. Just as you were about to hit 'join', the unmistakable sound of Arthur’s enthusiastic voice narrating drifted loudly from your shared room.
You froze. Pre-interview nerves tangled with a spark of frustration. You took a deep breath and walked to Arthur’s room, his door was ajar. Inside, he stood bathed in the glow of his monitor, pacing the limited floor space between his desk and bed. His recording headphones dangled around his neck like a high-tech scarf as he gestured wildly at the timeline on his screen, completely absorbed in his narration.
"Arthur?" you asked.
He spun around, startled. "Yeah? Sorry, love, just this bit—"
"I have my interview starting right now," you said, pointing to your corner. "I really need it quiet for the next hour."
His eyes widened in instant understanding and apology. "Shit! Sorry! Right. Right." He immediately grabbed the expensive noise-cancelling headphones you'd given him for his last birthday and shoved them onto his head, giving you a thumbs-up and a contrite, muffled "Best of luck! You’ll crush it!" before turning back to his screen.
Later, as you finished a successful interview, buzzing with relief, you emerged to find him still deeply focused. You started preparing a simple dinner. He finally surfaced, blinking, stretching the kinks out of his neck. "How'd it go?" he asked, coming into the kitchen, automatically reaching for the kettle to make you tea.
"Really well, I think!" you replied, stirring the pasta.
"Brilliant!" He grinned, then glanced at the simmering pot. "Listen, this video, it's fighting me. Mind if I grab another hour? Can dinner be late? I promise I'll make it up to you with washing-up duty."
You looked at him, the focused intensity still lingering in his eyes, the slight weariness, and the earnest request. You remembered the dead hard drive, the cancelled graduation, and the swallowed disappointment. You understood the pressure. "Go," you said, smiling. "Sort it out. We'll have late pasta."
He leaned over and kissed your temple. "You're a star." He grabbed a banana and headed back, pulling the headphones on again.
Two hours later, after the pasta had been eaten with Arthur making good on his washing-up promise while you dried, you found yourselves on the sofa in that perfect post-dinner haze. The rain pattered softly against the windows as Arthur stretched out along the length of it, pulling you back against his chest with a contented sigh. His arms wrapped around you, warm and solid, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.
"Finally got that video sorted," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. His fingers traced idle patterns on your forearm. "It should be out early tomorrow.”
You hummed in response, relaxing into his embrace. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back was more comforting than any blanket. His hoodie was soft against your cheek, still carrying that faint vanilla-and-laundry scent that was so distinctly him.
"Good," you said, interlacing your fingers with his. "Worth the wait for dinner then."
He huffed a quiet laugh, his chest vibrating against you. "You're too nice to me." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "Thanks for being patient."
You turned your head just enough to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Always."
Arthur tightened his arms around you in response, nuzzling against your hair. The laptop whirred quietly on the coffee table where he'd left it, the video finally rendered and sent off. Outside, London hummed its nighttime song of distant traffic and rain-slick streets. But here, in the warm cocoon of the sofa, with Arthur's steady breathing and the weight of his arms around you, everything felt perfect.
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james ropes everyone into some juvenile party games late one night, all in the interest of pushing you into finally hooking up with will, who he knows you've been crushing on for ages.
for the anon who requested this in... february. (sorry bro) (double sorry because you actually requested 7 minutes in heaven and my intention was to start with spin the bottle and then have it escalate to 7 minutes in heaven but I've been struggling so much to write that I'm just leaving it at this because I want to post something so bad lol)
fluff / very very light steam
--
"right! truth or dare, anyone? spin the rodd's bottle, ehhh?" james offers the room with a waggle of his brows and a stupid grin, looking for a new game to play.
it's late, past 1:00 AM. the party has thinned out substantially but the remaining group of friends isn't ready for the night to end just yet, and they're all just drunk enough to revert back to classic, dumb, teenage behavior (except james, who is sober but still an instigative menace).
"oh my god, I haven't played spin the bottle since I was 14," you laugh. "I'm so up for that." the rest of the group agrees, everyone at their giggliest and cuddliest with one another as they arrange themselves in a circle on the floor. harry and ethan snuggle up together under a blanket, george flings his arm around arthur hill while chris rests his head on arthur frederick's shoulder. you find yourself next to will, stretching your legs across his lap, his warm hand instinctively landing on your bare knee, thumb mindlessly stroking the skin back and forth.
you'd been getting progressively closer and closer to will for ages, subconsciously gravitating to him whenever possible as if by magnetic force. you'd always been into him, and you flirted back and forth constantly, but it had never escalated, and you weren't even sure if he felt the same way or if you'd been mistaking his friendliness for something more all this time.
james, of course, knew the truth: will was absolutely obsessed with you. he liked you so much, and he was just as clueless about your feelings for him as you were about his for you. it drove james up the fucking wall that the two of you wouldn't figure it out — so tonight, he was determined. he was going to force someone's hand.
ethan spun the empty bottle of rodd's first, and he laughed giddily at the opportunity to crawl across the circle and plant a fat kiss on george's pretty lips. they pulled apart, both bright red and giggling from the combination of alcohol and sudden shyness as the rest of room whooped and cheered lewdly.
arthur kissed harry, then james kissed hill, then harry kissed chris, then will kissed james, then george kissed ethan... again. (what are the odds?)
finally, the bottle landed in your hands, and you put on a brave face as you leaned forward to place it down and give it a spin. as it moved, you suddenly couldn't help but hope it landed on anyone but will.
you knew there was no way you'd be able to hide your feelings if you had to kiss him in front of everyone. what if everyone could tell? what if HE could tell? what if he didn't like you ba—?
your mental spiral gets cut short as it fucking lands on will.
the room fills with provocative oohs, and you swear you hear the rumble of evil laughter coming from james' side of the room. you take a deep breath before turning to face will, instinctively chewing on the inside of your lip as nervous energy floods your veins.
his dark blue eyes lock on yours instantly, a smug grin on his face as he raises an eyebrow. "I'm waitin'," he teases, leaning back with both hands on the floor behind him.
with a dramatic eye roll and a sigh, you slide over to him and shift up onto your haunches, placing a light hand on his shoulder for balance. he lifts his chin slightly, glancing at your lips before looking up at you, and with a deep breath, you lean in to him slowly, gently brushing the soft plush of your lips against his before finally closing the gap between you.
as soon as you make contact, he melts. his cocky act evaporates along with the sigh he releases into you, a hand instinctively leaving the rug and sliding up your arm, fingers slipping into your hair and large palm cupping your jaw.
the world around you blurs, your eyes practically rolling closed from the taste of him on your tongue and you forget there are other people in the room. you inhale sharply through your nose as you press into him, unwilling to pull away for a breath, until you hear someone clear their throat loudly.
your eyes shoot open as you drop back down to earth, having no idea how long you'd been lost in will's mouth, and swiftly pull away from him. his eyes are wide, lips wet and cheeks blushed, his hand still on your neck. you both breathe heavily, unable to look away from each other for a moment until the other people in the room start howling and celebrating. you swear you hear a few “finally”s get thrown around.
moving away from will and sitting back down at his side, you feel yourself burning red from everyone watching. you pull your knees to your chest, covering your face to hide your mild giggle-fueled embarrassment. the room gradually fills with voices once again, everyone looking away and gracing you with the privacy of a crowded room.
“y'alright, love?” will mutters quietly — his face nearly as pink as yours but his voice steady, demeanor surprisingly calm.
you bite your kiss-swollen lip, fighting to keep your growing smile at bay. finally locking eyes with him again, you nod softly, as his pinky nudges yours where your hands rest side by side on the carpet. "I'm great," you assured quietly, intertwining your fingers with his. "you?"
a beaming grin spreads across will's face. "I'm grand, pet."
—
a/n: I am actually so frustrated by how long it took me to write this, and it's cute but I really wish I could've managed more. I really hope I can get back into the swing of writing more soon. thank u for bearing w me, friends x
absolutely no worries or rush about the Arthur F, just thought I’d check in!! Thank you so much for letting me know, and absolutely not I know you will do my vision justice so I’ll wait forever if need be!! 🥰
I have written the first line for your ask!!
But I looked at my notes and remembered I had a question, would you like to end it on a happy note, or on angst?
And I think it would be ready by the 1st of August! I hope thats okay!
(and holy hell thank you for putting so much faith in me, I feel like the last few posts I've released have been ass and I hope I don't disappoint you)
Summary: You and Will attend the 2025 Monaco Grand Prix. Fancy cars and fancy people. You have no idea who half of them are, but you’re really loving the cars!
Warnings: None
Notes: Based on this ask! I hope you all like the dynamics I gave the reader with the gang and that you enjoy this!
Something should’ve tipped you off when Will asked if you were free the weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix.
He was casual about it, tossing the question into the middle of a late-night phone call while you were both half-asleep. “Just thinking”, he mumbled, voice low and warm through the speaker, “might be nice for you to come out with us. Got a place sorted and everything.”
You didn’t ask who “us” was.
You just said yes.
Because it was Will, because he sounded soft and hopeful, because you missed him. You’d been together for a while now, long enough that comfort came easily. Long enough that the spaces between conversations were as warm as the ones filled with laughter.
But it sounded like a getaway, something special. Maybe even a little romantic. Just the two of you.
So you said yes, no hesitation.
What you hadn’t realised—until arriving in Nice, winding along the coast in a sunlit car, and stepping into a sprawling villa—was that this wasn’t just a trip for the two of you.
It was an easy drive, pretty straightforwardwith minimal traffic, but as you neared the villa, the first clues started to surface. Loud laughter drifted through the open windows of a neighbouring property, a cluster of scooters parked haphazardly near a driveway, and the faint smell of sunscreen mixed with cigarette smoke lingered in the warm afternoon air.
The villa itself was gorgeous—big open windows, tall ceilings, a shimmering pool that reflected the sky like a mirror, and, damn, the view. It overlooked so much green that it felt like the whole hillside was wrapped in nature’s embrace, a lush contrast to the pastel city below.
Before you’d even stepped through the door, the distant thump of bass from a playlist you didn’t recognise pulsed through the walls. Familiar voices carried over the breeze. The faint clink of glassware hinted at alcohol possibly already cracked open, and somewhere, someone was chanting.
This wasn’t just a weekend away.
It was a boys’ trip.
And you were walking right into the middle of it.
Josh is the first one you see, grinning from ear to ear, arms outstretched like he hasn’t seen you in years. “Oi oi!” he shouts, pulling you into a hug that smells vaguely of sunscreen and just Josh. “You’re actually here,” he says, stepping back to give you a once-over. “Took you long enough.”
You laugh. “Well, I wanted to make a grand entrance.”
Arthur’s right behind him, already barefoot, camera in hand and most likely vlogging and in swim trunks. “You’re here. Thank god. I was starting to lose brain cells listening to these two.” He gave you a look like you were the only other reasonable human in the building. Arthur was practically family and had been for a long time. Not by blood, but by bond.
And then there’s Alfie—leaning against the doorframe, glued to his phone with that classic too-cool-to-care expression plastered on his face. He barely looked up at first, scrolling absently like he hadn’t noticed anything around him.
But then he caught sight of you.
His whole face lit up, the shift so immediate it was almost comical. “Yo!” he said, suddenly all energy, like he’d been hoping you’d show and didn’t want to look too eager about it. He tucked his phone into his pocket and straightened up, beaming in a way that made it impossible not to smile back.
You’d only met him recently, but something about him struck a chord. You’d taken him under your wing without even thinking about it, and in return, he looked up to you with that familiar younger-sibling energy. The buff gym guy exterior, all sarcastic charm and young Brit bravado, seemed to melt around you every time.
Then Will walked in, his hair a little messy from the wind, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and that relaxed smile on his face that you knew so well. He came straight over, wrapping his arms around you with the kind of ease that came from time and comfort. He pressed a kiss to your temple—soft, familiar—and let his chin rest lightly against your head.
“I see you found the chaos,” he said quietly, his voice low near your ear. He gave you another quick kiss on the temple, then nodded toward the hall. “Come on, let’s find what room they left for us.”
He grabbed both your bags without hesitation and headed deeper into the villa. You followed behind, the distant buzz of laughter from the living room echoing through the marble hallways.
Will found your shared room tucked off a quieter hallway and dropped your luggage by the wardrobe. The bedroom was bright, sun filtering through gauzy curtains. He put down the suitcase and crouched by it, pulling out a fresh white linen shirt and tossing it onto the bed, chatting casually about dinner plans and who had dibs on the good rooms.
You sat on the edge, fingers fidgeting against your thighs, the noise from the others still bleeding faintly through the walls.
“Can we talk for a sec?” You asked, your voice hesitant.
Will looked up immediately, a crease forming between his brows. “What’s going on?”
You hesitated. “I didn’t realise this was a lads’ trip.”
He blinked. “It’s not.”
You gave a small, unsure shrug. “It kind of feels like it.”
Will shifted, his full attention on you now.
“Josh, Arthur, Alfie. I love them, I do.” You continued, struggling to keep your voice steady. “It’s the whole boys-on-tour thing. And I’m the only one here that’s not one of the boys. Sabina didn’t come, right?”
Will shook his head slowly. “No, she couldn’t get the time off.”
“Right.” You nodded, lips pressed together. “So it’s just me. I feel like the plus one who wasn’t supposed to come. Like I’m intruding on something I wasn’t really invited to. I just, I don’t want to be that person. If it’s weird for the others, I can find a hostel or something nearby. Seriously—”
Will reached out, his hand wrapping gently around your arm, thumb brushing softly over your wrist.
“Babe”, he said firmly, “stop.”
Before he could say more, the door creaked open without a knock, and Josh leaned in, brows raised. “Did I just hear you say you’d stay at a hostel?” You froze. Josh looked offended, like you’d confessed to eating plain pasta and calling it gourmet. “Are you stupid?” he added, voice rising with mock outrage. You opened your mouth to explain, to walk it back, but he was already stepping into the room like it was his. “You’re not going anywhere,” he declared. “You think we’d let you leave? Nah. You’re part of this.”
Arthur appeared behind him, half a banana in his hand, looking vaguely alarmed. “Wait, what’s going on? Who’s leaving?”
“They’re not”, Josh shot back, “because that would be ridiculous.”
Arthur turned to you, eyes narrowing. “You're not serious, right? You think we don’t want you here?”
You shrugged, trying to keep your voice light. “I just didn’t know if I was overstepping. I mean, it’s all of you, and then me.”
Arthur looked genuinely confused. “You’re basically family. Why would this be weird?”
Alfie’s voice piped up from the hall, he’d clearly been listening in. “Oi, if anyone’s out of place, it’s me. You’ve all known each other for ages. But no one’s booting me to a hostel.” He appeared in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, but his expression was soft, almost puppyish. “You’re literally the only one here who doesn’t make me feel like an outsider. And you genuinely care for us. If you go, who the hell’s going to make sure I remember to wear sunscreen?”
You blinked, touched despite yourself. “Alfie.”
He gave you a lopsided grin. “Nah, you’re stuck with us. I’ve already bonded.”
Josh threw an arm around your shoulders like he was crowning you king of the trip. “There’s no ‘Will plus one’ here. You’re one of the gang. End of.”
Arthur nodded. “Exactly. You balance out the madness.”
“Also”, Josh added with a dramatic flick of his wrist, “the villa’s paid for. So it’d be financially irresponsible to leave.”
Will sat beside you, his hand still resting on your arm, his voice quieter than the others but just as firm. “I invited you because I wanted you here. Not as an afterthought. Not as an add-on. With me. With us.”
You looked around at the chaos of the doorway, three different personalities, all grinning, all clearly on your side, and felt the knot in your chest start to loosen.
“Alright”, you said, trying not to smile. “I’ll stay.”
Alfie whooped. Josh clapped you on the back like you’d just signed a lifetime contract. Arthur tossed the rest of his banana in the bin and walked off muttering, “Finally, some sense.”
Will leaned in, pressing a quiet kiss to your cheek. “Told you”, he whispered, “you belong here.”
The villa quieted down eventually, the energy mellowing into that pre-evening buzz as everyone drifted off to get changed. You lingered a moment in the bedroom after they cleared out, taking a breath now that the noise had settled. The rock in your chest had finally, properly eased. It felt good—safe—to be here.
Will was in the ensuite, shirtless and humming under his breath as he wrestled with his hair in the mirror.
God, he looked good.
The morning light spilling through the open windows caught the line of his shoulders, highlighting the subtle flex of his back and arms as he moved. His hair was still messy from the ride, and there was a light sheen on his skin from the coastal heat—but somehow, that just made him look even more unfairly attractive. Comfortable. Effortless.
You bit the inside of your cheek, letting your eyes linger a little longer than necessary.
“You’re staring,” Will said without turning around, smug and knowing.
“Can’t help it,” you replied, tossing your tote onto the chair. “You’re just standing there being all sun-kissed and shirtless.”
He chuckled, finally glancing at you over his shoulder. “You’re allowed to look. You’re dating me, remember?”
“Still doesn’t feel real sometimes,” you said as you unzipped your bag.
Will crossed the room and leaned down, pressing a soft, unhurried kiss to your lips. “Well,” he said as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, “get used to it.”
While he disappeared back into the ensuite to freshen up, you started getting dressed. The sun was already burning high—definitely a linen day. You pulled on your royal blue short-sleeve button-up and the white wide-leg linen trousers you’d packed specifically for warmer weather. The fabric was light, breezy, and perfect for the heat. Your blue Puma Speedcats were a bold but clean finishing touch.
You grabbed your matching Prada sunglasses—because, of course, you and Will had to match—and tossed them on before slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. Inside it was the last touch before you slung your tote over your shoulder.
Water bottle? Check. Sunscreen? Check. Tissues, portable charger, lip balm, aloe vera after sun—your little survival kit for a full day in the sun was stacked and ready. No one was passing out or burning under your watch.
Will reappeared just as you clipped your sunglasses to your collar. His matching pair of black Prada shades was already perched perfectly on his head. He paused in the doorway, eyes scanning over you with a lazy, appreciative smile. “Alright”, he said, “you trying to outdress Monaco?”
You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “Just trying to blend in.”
“Blend in?” Will pushed off the doorframe and sauntered closer, his eyes still fixed on you. “You’re going to start riots looking like that. Trying to outshine the superyachts and me, all before lunch?” He stopped inches away, his fingers reaching out to lightly trace the line of your collar, sending a shiver down your spine despite the heat. “Monaco doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Oh, please,” you retorted, tapping the exposed skin just above the deep V of his unbuttoned shirt. Your fingertip brushed warm skin. “Like you’re not planning to turn heads yourself, Lover Boy. Saw you preening in the mirror.”
He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and pulling you gently against him. His free hand settled on your waist, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive curve just above your hipbone, sending sparks dancing across your skin even through the linen. “Only preening because I knew I had the best-looking accessory waiting for me.” He dipped his head, his lips brushing your temple. “Seriously though”, he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble, “you look absolutely stunning. Perfection.”
You grinned up at him, squeezing his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But let’s be honest,” you added, giving him a deliberate once-over that mirrored his earlier appraisal, lingering on the defined lines of his shoulders and chest, “we both clean up pretty damn well. Monaco’s not ready for this double act.”
Will chuckled, a warm, rich sound, and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “Double act? Darling, together we’re the main event. “Now come on,” he tugged you towards the door, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “let’s go ruin my reputation by being disgustingly well-dressed and attached at the hip.”
“Lead the way, Lover Boy.”
Downstairs, the lads were already gathered near the front entrance. Josh was in the middle of a dramatic retelling of a TikTok he saw the other day, gesturing wildly with a half-empty bottle of orange Lucozade. Arthur sat on the steps nodding along, completely enrapt, while Alfie was fiddling with his camera, pausing only to give you a little thumbs-up when he saw your outfit.
Josh blinked at you, visibly processing, before saying, “Wait, you and Will have matching sunnies?”
“That’s adorable! You’re both saps.” Arthur added, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Everyone ready then?”
The taxi pulled up not long after, tyres crunching against the gravel drive. Will slid into the backseat first, tugging you in beside him, while the others piled in with varying levels of coordination.
As the car began its descent from the hillside, the view of Monaco opened up ahead—rooftops shining in the sun, narrow streets winding down toward the harbour, and the distant gleam of the grandstands already buzzing with life. The city pulsed with heat and speed, the hum of engines already echoing in the distance like a heartbeat.
Alfie leaned forward from the third row of the van, vlogging camera in hand. “Right, what’re the odds Josh spills a drink on himself before we even make it to the paddock?”
“Oi”, Josh said indignantly. “I’m classy.”
The taxi ride into Monaco was something else entirely.
You’d barely crossed the border before the streets transformed. The buildings got glossier, the people looked richer, and the number of absurdly expensive cars skyrocketed. Lamborghinis purred at stoplights, Ferraris glinted beneath palm trees, and the occasional Rolls-Royce sat casually in front of a bakery like it was no big deal.
“Wait”, Your nose nearly touched the window glass. “Is that a Bugatti? Just parked outside a café like it's some Honda Civic?”
Will glanced over, grinning. “Welcome to Monaco.”
You kept staring as the Bugatti's owner emerged holding espresso cups, casually tossing his keys to a valet. “Do traffic laws even exist here? Or do police just wave when they see a car worth more than their salary?”
Josh twisted around from the front seat. “Mate, if your car costs more than the building next to it, you can do what you want.”
Arthur pointed out the window. “Wait till we get to the harbour. That's where the real money parks.”
The cab wound through the narrow, glitzy streets toward the harbour, where the water shimmered like a movie set and yachts gleamed in every direction. The taxi finally pulled up near the accreditation tent, and the group spilled out into the sunshine. Will led the way toward a cluster of security and event staff beside a sleek white booth.
“Name?” the woman asked, tapping on a tablet.
"Lenney", Will said. The woman nodded, retrieving a stack of laminated passes from a drawer. One by one, she handed out passes on thick lanyards. The lettering was sharp and official.
VIP – YACHT NELA
“A yacht?” You turned the pass over in your hands.
Will adjusted his sunglasses. “Josh knows someone who knows someone. Better than fighting crowds on land.”
The group lingered near the marina entrance, their VIP passes dangling, as they waited in the morning sun. The wooden boards creaked underfoot with each small shift of weight, salt air mixing with the faint diesel smell from Idle tender boats.
Will glanced at his watch, then toward the marina promenade. “They're cutting it close,” he remarked, adjusting his sunglasses.
Josh leaned against a mooring post. “Relax, mate. It's not like the yacht's going to sail without us.”
As if summoned, three figures came rushing down the dock. Becky led the charge in a blue and white ensemble, her lanyard swinging wildly as she waved. Gabs trailed behind, still adjusting the strap of her bag while applying lip balm with her free hand. A third friend—someone you didn't recognise—brought up the rear, struggling to keep up in wedge sandals.
“Don't even start,” Becky commented as she reached the group, pressing a hand to her side. “The driver took some back route, and we had to sprint from the drop-off point.”
Gabs finally snapped her lip balm shut. “Also, security took forever verifying our passes. They made us unpack half our bags.”
The unfamiliar girl waved and said, “Yeah, sorry about the wait.”
Will shook his head, but his lips quirked in amusement. “Right, now that everyone's finally here.” He gestured toward the waiting tender boat, where a crew member stood ready to assist.
A deckhand in a navy polo helped them board one by one, steadying arms offered as each person stepped onto the unstable inflatable platform. The moment the last foot cleared the dock, the engine coughed to life, the sudden diesel smell mixing with salt air.
As the tender pulled away, the harbour unfolded around them—not so much a marina as a floating neighbourhood of obscenely large yachts. They passed stern after stern, each painted name more grandiose than the last, Endeavour in bold serif, Valkyrie in sleek chrome, and something called Phoenix Rising in what could most likely be actual gold leaf.
“Fucking hell,” Becky muttered, gripping the safety rope as they hit a small wake. “These aren't boats. They're small countries.”
The driver pointed ahead, where a particularly massive white yacht sat anchored. “There's your ride,” he said over the engine noise.
You all turned to look—and damn.
The yacht was enormous. Gleaming white, sleek and modern, with curved balconies and multiple decks that looked like they belonged in a luxury travel brochure. The name Nela was painted in sharp lettering across the stern.
“Bloody hell,” Arthur breathed, gripping the tender's railing as he stared upward. “Chip, mate, what exactly does your connection do?”
Josh grinned like he’d been waiting for someone to say it. “I know, right? It’s unreal.”
Alfie was already filming, his camera panning across the yacht's sweeping lines. “I feel like an imposter stepping on this boat.”
“Alright,” Arthur muttered under his breath as the tender slowed to a glide, “Monaco’s taking the piss.”
One by one, the crew helped them board. Josh was eager to get off first, Alfie carefully cradling his camera gear, Arthur looking around in wonder, and Will shaking hands with the first officer like he did this every weekend.
Becky came next, accepting the crew member's outstretched hand with practised ease. “Thank you,” she said with a polite smile as she stepped onto the teak deck. She paused to adjust her sunglasses before adding, “I was beginning to think we'd be circling the harbour all day.”
Gab followed in her form-fitting grey bodycon dress, clutching her phone. “Remind me why we didn't take the helicopter?” She joked, pausing to adjust the strap of her wedges on the swim platform.
The third member of their group nearly dropped her phone while transferring from the bobbing tender. “Note to self”, she muttered, “wear different shoes next time.”
You went last, accepting the crew member's offered hand as you stepped onto the teak platform, its wooden slats perfectly smooth underfoot.
From the waterline, the yacht already looked massive, but standing on it made the scale feel almost surreal. Three full decks stretched upward, white railings gleaming, with staff already lined up to help with bags and offer refreshments. But your attention was immediately drawn to the view—up just one level, past a small spiral stair on the stern.
Will followed your gaze, his fingers naturally intertwining with yours as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I hope you'll love this as much as I do.”
He led the way up the stairs, and the second you reached the rear deck above, the full view opened up. The circuit. Right there. Maybe a hundred metres from the back of the yacht, if that. The track curved along the waterfront, the narrow city street transformed into racing tarmac bordered by fencing and temporary grandstands. You could see a portion of the curve that funnelled past the marina, the road baking in the midday heat, and even from here you could hear the occasional growl of an engine winding up somewhere in the distance.
Will's fingers tensed around yours as he leaned slightly forward against the railing. You could feel the subtle vibration in his grip, the way his pulse jumped under your thumb where it rested against his wrist. His attention locked onto the distant track layout, eyes tracking the familiar curves of the circuit as it wound between Monaco's buildings. “This is.” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We can actually see the track from here.” His voice had that particular pitch you recognised from when he got properly excited about something—slightly higher, words coming faster.
You watched his profile instead of the view—the way his eyebrows lifted slightly, how his lips parted unconsciously as he took in the panorama. When you bumped your shoulder against his, he blinked like someone waking up.
“Adorable”, you said, squeezing his hand. “I didn't know you could get this worked up over pavement.”
He finally tore his gaze away from the circuit layout to look at you, his expression caught between embarrassment and exhilaration. “I'm completely normal about this,” he said, in a tone that suggested the opposite. One hand came up to rub at the back of his neck. “It's just,” He stopped and then tried again. “It's Monaco. The actual Grand Prix. And we're,” He gestured vaguely at the yacht, the harbour, and the whole ridiculous situation. “Here.”
The way he said it. That single word, loaded with years of watching races on TV, of following driver stats, of dreaming about seeing it live, made you understand this wasn't just another trip. This was someone's childhood fantasy playing out in real time, and you got to witness it.
The others trailed behind you in loose conversation, but the noise faded at the edges. It felt like the moment narrowed down to just the two of you and the shimmer of the track in the sun.
Will glanced at his watch, then up at the empty stretch of asphalt just beyond the railing. “Quali starts soon,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. His smile tugged wider. “This is going to be mental.”
He looked excited—really excited in that unfiltered, boyish way you didn’t always get to see from him. You’d seen him passionate before, but this was different. It made your chest tighten, just a little.
You leaned into him, nudging his hip with yours. “So what's the plan if your favourite driver bins it on the first lap?”
Will's response came rapid-fire, as if he'd rehearsed this scenario in his head countless times: “First, I'll refuse to believe it happened. Then I'll yell at the TV. After that, I'll blame the pit wall for their terrible strategy call.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And finally, Ocon.”
You stared at him. “Even if Ocon's not even in the race?”
“Especially if he’s not involved.” Will confirmed, nodding seriously. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were laughing at an inside joke.
You laughed, “That makes no sense.” And he grinned, pleased with himself. But then your eyes drifted lower, toward the water just beyond the yacht’s stern.
As you turned back toward the water, movement caught your eye. Beyond the yacht's polished stern rail, a familiar black tender boat bobbed in the harbour swell. Two figures sat side by side on the centre bench, one scanning the surrounding yachts with precision, the other holding a camera while laughing at something. Even at this distance, their postures were unmistakable.
You leaned forward, squinting against the glare. “Wait. Is that,” you point down to the boat, “is that Batch and George?”
Josh, who’d just reappeared with a fresh drink in one hand and a half-eaten peach in the other, perked up. “Where?”
You pointed toward the boat again. “There. That one. The black one just past the red buoy.”
Josh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before cupping it around his eyes. After a beat, he suddenly straightened. "Oh shit, that is Batch!" Without hesitation, he lurched toward the railing. "BATCH!”
The moment Josh confirmed their identities, the entire group erupted in unison. A chaotic chorus of shouts and whistles burst from the railing as everyone jostled for position, Will's deep bellow mixing with Josh's raspy yell, Alfie's sharp whistle piercing through Becky's Welsh accent while Arthur's dry tone cut underneath. Their combined voices carried across the harbour, loud enough that several nearby yacht crews turned to look.
"BATCH! GEORGE!!"
The overlapping shouts created a wall of sound that finally made the two figures below snap their heads up in perfect synchronisation. From below, Batch turned sharply at the sound of his name, one hand coming up to block the sun as he squinted toward your voices. A beat passed before recognition dawned his free hand shot up in an enthusiastic wave, nearly losing his balance as the tender rocked beneath him.
George twisted around on the bench, camera dangling forgotten from his wrist. His face split into that familiar, lopsided grin as he spotted the group crowded along the railing. He raised both arms dramatically, waving them back and forth like he was flagging down a rescue plane.
They both yelled out an enthusiastic “HELLO”.
“Unreal”, you muttered, still smiling.
The first few laps passed in a blur, just flashes of colour and engine growls echoing off the harbour walls. From the stern deck, the cars appeared and vanished in seconds, so Will, after a while, turned to you with a look of reluctant practicality.
“I need a better view of the times,” he said, already heading toward the salon.
The yacht's lounge offered a welcome escape from the sun. The large-screen TVs mounted along the starboard wall already showed different camera angles from the F1 feed, but as you and Will stepped through the sliding doors, it became clear the prime viewing spots were taken. Arthur was perched on the arm of a couch, Alfie had claimed the spot next to him, and Josh leaned back against the counter, nursing something fizzy and gold. He was pretending to listen to a guy you don’t recognise's animated commentary about tyre strategies.
Will grabbed a drink off the marble counter, some kind of citrus spritz that one of the staff had just set down. Then the both of you drifted toward the edge of the room, standing just behind one of the white leather sofas, close enough to see the TV screens clearly.
Will took another sip of his drink and didn’t even blink as one of the cars tore past outside, just visible through the massive windows behind the TV. You could still hear the engines screaming down the street a hundred metres away, but now Will’s eyes were glued to the leaderboard on screen.
His voice was low. “Alright. Here we go.”
You glanced sideways at him. He was standing straight but not still, rocking faintly on the balls of his feet, one hand loose by his side, the other clutching his glass like it grounded him. His expression was intense but boyish. You’d seen him excited before, but this wasn’t just hype. It was something deeper.
The screen flashed with sector times, and one by one, names shuffled up and down.
The engine sounds from the track still rumbled faintly through the back, but most people inside weren’t paying much attention. Someone was loudly telling a story about someone getting kicked off the boat for being too drunk. Near the bar, a man and two women were arguing about whether it was tacky to wear heels on a yacht.
But Will, he was locked in.
Q1 ticked down, and his eyes never left the screen. He stood with his arms crossed tight across his chest, bouncing slightly on his heels like the energy had to go somewhere. His jaw tensed every time someone missed an apex or ran wide. He stared with furrowed brows and muttered things under his breath.
You passed him some water, which he accepted without looking away. “Cheers,” he said absently, then muttered, “Jesus, that overtake was awful.”
Bella, along with other people in a small group, stood by with a similar intensity, all quiet focus and narrowed eyes. You caught one of them mutter, “My money’s on Verstappen,” to another, who nodded solemnly.
Will didn’t say much through Q1 or Q2, just the occasional quiet curse or sharp inhale. His glass kept draining without him noticing, so you took it once or twice to swap it for fresh ones. He drank automatically. You could feel him slowly winding tighter.
By Q3, the room shifted slightly. A few more people were tuning in now, curiosity piqued by the rising volume of the commentary. There were some proper reactions when drivers put in good laps, claps, whistles, groans, but plenty of background chatter still buzzed, completely unrelated to what was happening on track.
Then Lando went out again.
Will leaned forward just a bit, fingers curled around the drink in his hand. His shoulders had tensed up, and his gaze locked in like he could will the McLaren forward with sheer intensity.
“Come on,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Let’s go. One clean lap. Hold that. Hold it.”
Then, from the TV, “Lando Norris goes P1!” The commentators’ voices jumped in pitch, and so did the noise in the room. Will grabbed your shoulders and shook you with a laugh, like he physically couldn’t hold the excitement in.
“HE DID IT,” he half-yelled, half-laughed. “OH MY GOD, HE DID IT!” He turned to you, that grin still locked in place like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “He actually did it! That’s. That's unreal.”
You reached over and gave Will’s hand a squeeze. “You proud of your boy?”
“I’m so proud of my boy,” he said sincerely, still staring at the screen. “He’s definitely getting a Rodd’s feature. Either named after him or a flavour that he likes.”
You snorted, folding your arms as Will leaned a hand on the bar behind him, still facing the screen. The room hadn’t quite settled, everyone was buzzing, but Will looked like he could float. A mix of disbelief and joy lit up every feature of his face.
You stepped a little closer and bumped his hip with yours. “You alright?”
He finally looked at you properly. “I am now.”
And for a second, it wasn’t about the race or the cars or the screens—it was just him, grinning like a kid, and you, standing beside him, the only place you wanted to be.
The sun was starting its slow dip behind the hills, casting golden light over the Monaco coastline. The boat had docked, and while the boys, Becky and (other girl name) were deep in a discussion of some sort, you slipped away, drawn by something shinier.
Literally.
The street was lined with an obscene number of exotic cars. Ferraris. Bugattis. Even an old Aston Martin, just casually parallel parked like it didn’t cost more than a house. But it was the silver glint down the side alley that stopped you in your tracks.
A Mercedes-AMG One.
You took a breath like you’d just walked into a gallery and spotted a lost da Vinci.
You whispered under your breath, “No. Way.”
It looked like it had been sculpted from a different century—sleek and futuristic, the kind of thing you'd expect Batman to own if the film was sponsored by Mercedes. The bodywork caught the light in a way that made you gape in awe. You drifted closer, practically vibrating with excitement, eyes roving over every aggressive line and vent like you were studying it for a final exam.
You were so mesmerised that you didn’t even notice someone approach until a voice broke through the air, warm and amused.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
You turned your head to see a blonde woman in a linen jumpsuit and mirrored sunglasses smiling at you.
You nodded, beaming at her, then like a magnet, your gaze was drawn back to the car. “It’s art. The engineering, the balance. It’s elegant. Whoever owns this has great taste.”
A deep chuckle sounded behind you.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
You turned to find a tall brunette man in a perfectly crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, standing just behind her. Both of them looked like they’d walked straight out of a Forbes feature about power couples.
Your eyes lit up as you practically bounced toward the machine, fingers twitching with barely contained excitement. “Oh, tell me she drives as insane as she looks,” you said, voice low with awe. “When you hit the throttle”, you mimed slamming your foot down, “does it feel like your soul is trying to exit through your teeth? Or is she too pretty to really let loose on the streets?”
You grinned, half-manic with admiration, shifting on the balls of your feet like you could barely contain the thrill of just standing near it. “Because this thing looks like it could outrun a bad decision and still make it to brunch on time. Please tell me you actually let her breathe every now and then.”
The woman laughed, clearly amused. “Oh, she drives.”
The man tilted his head, studying you with a faint smile. “Are you into cars?”
You turned to him, eyes wide with sincerity. “God, yeah. Like—really into them. I’m not a professional or anything, but it’s been a long-time hobby. I work on vintage supercars whenever I can get my hands on them. Nothing too flashy. Mostly restoration, with bits of tuning work. I’ve rebuilt a '73 Dino, an old Countach, and even an F40 once. I still have grease under my nails half the time.” You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I don’t get near anything this new, though. Machines like this?” You nodded toward the AMG One, reverent. “They’re on a whole different plane. The closest I get is watching people open them up on YouTube.”
The man exchanged a glance with the woman, clearly entertained. “You are very passionate,” she said with a grin.
You let out a laugh, a little breathless. “It’s obsession, really. But like, the good kind. Cars like this they’re moving art. You don’t just drive them, you feel them. Every sound, every vibration, it’s all telling you a story if you’re paying attention.”
The man smiled, clearly impressed. “You speak like someone who belongs behind the wheel.”
You blinked. “I mean, if you’re offering—”
The woman raised an eyebrow, amused. “Careful. He might take you up on that.”
You laughed, but the way she said it made you pause, like maybe this wasn't a normal couple admiring a car on the street. Still, you brushed it off, too giddy about the machine to overthink it.
You fished your phone out of your bag. “Would it be okay if I took a photo? I mean, now that I’ve met the owner, it feels less weird.” you asked, looking between them.
The man chuckled and gestured toward the car. “Be my guest.” Then he added, “Actually,” he reached into his trouser pocket, “want to hear her purr?”
You froze. “Are you serious?”
He tossed you the keys.
“Go on. Give her a little rev.”
The metal was warm against your palm, the Mercedes emblem pressing into your skin as you clenched your fist too tight. Your inner child screamed. You squeaked something like a thank you and practically ran to the driver's side, then caught yourself at the last second—don't scuff the paint, don't scuff the paint—before grabbing the door handle with reverent care. The door opened with a perfect thunk, heavier than any car door you'd ever touched.
The second you slid into the seat, you burst into uncontrollable giggles. “Holy shit. Holy SHIT.” The racing buckets hugged your hips like a glove, the steering wheel thick and purposeful under your death grip. Your knees bumped the trim, but you didn't care—you were in it.
You whipped your head toward the couple, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “This is the best day of my life,” you announced, voice cracking.
The man leaned down with a big smile, bracing one hand on the roof. “Rev when ready.”
You took a shaky breath, planted your foot firmly on the brake, and pressed the ignition. The dash lit up like a fighter jet's cockpit—a dozen screens flashing to life. Then you touched the accelerator.
The engine exploded to life with a vicious snarl, the entire car trembling beneath you. You yelped, then immediately laughed, giddy. “YES!” The sound wasn't just loud, it punched through your chest, rattling your ribs. You gave it another stab, and the revs shot up with zero delay—an instantaneous, ear-splitting scream that echoed off the buildings.
You were cackling now, the smile on your face would surely crack your face in half. “THIS IS INSANE! The throttle response is—” Another jab at the pedal. The engine roared again. “IT'S LIKE A SWITCH! NO LAG! JUST—BRAAAAAP!” Your mind couldn’t form coherent sentences any more, your excitement fully taking over.
The woman was full-on laughing at you now. “Someone's enjoying themselves.”, She held up her phone, and you could only assume that she was taking a video of you. You remind yourself to ask her to send it to you after this.
“I REALLY AM! THANK YOU!” You did one last rev, holding it just long enough to hear the exhaust crackle on the overrun. Then, with enormous reluctance, you killed the ignition. The sudden silence felt wrong.
You practically fell out of the car in your haste to thank them, bouncing on your toes. “That was—that was—” Words failed. You settled for miming an explosion next to your head, complete with sound effects. “Mind blown! Gone!”
The man took his keys back, clearly amused. “Glad you liked it.”
“Liked it?!” You were still vibrating with excitement, pointing wildly at the AMG One. “That's not a car, that's a spaceship! The way it instantly ” you snapped your fingers, “! And the sound! And the—the—” You made a series of gestures at the car. “Everything! Thank you! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”
You backed away to let the lovely couple step into their car. “I'm going to remember this forever! Best strangers ever!”
The couple exchanged an amused glance at your star-struck reaction. The man moved first, circling to the passenger side to open the door for the woman with quiet courtesy before returning to the driver's side. You caught her giving him a small, private smile as she settled into her seat, clearly accustomed to this routine.
You were still buzzing with adrenaline when Will's voice cut through your daze. “Love? There you a— OH MY GOD.” He skidded to a stop beside you, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he gaped at the Mercedes. His head whipped toward you, then back to the car, then to the driver's side window just as it began rolling down.
The man gave a polite nod. “Enjoy the race weekend.”
Will's mouth fell open. “Toto! Susie! I—we're—huge fans of everything you've done with—” His voice cracked slightly as the woman waved from the passenger seat.
But you were still stuck three minutes in the past. “Will”, you interrupted, grabbing his arm, “I can’t believe he let me rev his car! That beauty.”
Will gaped at you. “Do you realise who that was?”
You blinked. “The nice people with the beautiful car?”
“Toto and Susie Wolff!” Will shook your shoulders gently. “Mercedes F1!”
You paused, processing this for exactly two seconds before: “Okay, but DID YOU HEAR THE CRACKLES?”
Will facepalmed as you kept babbling, “And the brake pedal had zero squish!” You finally registered Will's expression and shrugged. “What? They were cool, but that car. ” You turned to stare down the street where it had disappeared, sighing dreamily.
It wasn't until hours later, in bed, back at the villa, that you suddenly sat bolt upright. “The video!” you groaned, smacking your forehead. “She had her phone out the whole time! I was right there, and I completely forgot to ask!” Will just shook his head, chuckling as you lamented your lost footage.
Will turned his head on the pillow, the moonlight catching his amused smirk. “You were a bit distracted,” he teased, his voice slightly slurring due to the drinks. His fingers brushed your arm as you flopped back dramatically onto the mattress.
You stared at the ceiling, replaying the moment in agonising detail. “She definitely got that perfect shot when I first revved it.” You lifted your arm to cover your face. “Now it's lost, forever.” You state dramatically.
Will's quiet laughter rumbled through the mattress as you rolled onto your stomach, groaning into your pillow. “I had one job,” you mumbled, voice muffled. “One job! Be cool around a hypercar, get the video evidence, and don't embarrass myself in front of—” You lifted your head and asked teasingly. “Wait, who were they again?”
The pillow hit you square in the face with perfect aim. Before you could retaliate, Will's arms hooked around your waist, and in one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, his full weight settling comfortably atop you like a human weighted blanket.
“Uff—okay, point taken,” you wheezed dramatically, wriggling halfheartedly beneath him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His laughter vibrated against your collarbone.
Will shifted just enough to press a sleepy kiss to your jaw. “You're ridiculous,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “And we're sleeping now.” His arms tightened possessively, pinning you in place as he nuzzled into the pillows.
You smiled into the dark, giving up all pretences of escape as Will's breathing gradually deepened against you. The day’s events play back in your memory, but here, warm and anchored beneath the comfortable weight of your favourite person, you finally let it lull you to sleep, video evidence be damned.
The villa sat in that peaceful mid-morning lull where even the air seemed to move slower. You'd been up since eight, relishing the quiet as you arranged breakfast on the outdoor table. Scrambled eggs still steaming in their dishes, a basket of crusty baguettes, bowls of ripe strawberries and sliced melon, and a pot of coffee so strong the scent alone could wake the dead.
Josh emerged first, shuffling across the terrace tiles in socked feet. His zipped hoodie hung off one shoulder, revealing a wrinkled t-shirt beneath, and his usual carefully styled hair stuck up in three different directions. He squinted against the sunlight like it had personally offended him.
“You” he pointed an accusing finger at you, voice gravelly, “are disturbingly alert for this hour.” He collapsed into the chair across from you with enough force to make the silverware rattle.
You pushed a full coffee cup toward him. “I went to bed at a reasonable time and drank water like a responsible adult.”
Josh took a tentative sip, winced, then drank deeper. “That's disgusting behaviour,” he muttered into his cup. “We're in Monaco. You're supposed to be hungover or rich. Preferably both.”
“Disappointing you is my greatest joy.” You nudged the fruit bowl closer just as Alfie appeared, muttering something under his breath about the time, and slumped across the table with a quiet groan. Then, Arthur appeared in the doorway, his sunglasses so dark they looked opaque. He moved with the careful precision of someone trying not to spill their own brain.
“Tell me there's bacon,” he said by way of greeting.
“On the sideboard,” you answered. “And aspirin in the kitchen.”
Arthur made a noise that might have been gratitude before disappearing inside again. You took a satisfied bite of your croissant, watching as Josh slowly came back to life sip by sip. The breeze carried the scent of blooming jasmine from the garden below, mixing with the rich aroma of coffee. Somewhere down the hillside, an engine whined to life out on the roads. Arthur came back out a minute later, sunglasses on, holding a glass of water in one hand and a banana in the other like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Josh finally set down his empty cup with a decisive clink. “Okay. Maybe being boring has its perks.” He reached for the eggs with renewed purpose just as Alfie stumbled out, looking like he'd slept in his clothes and possibly someone else's.
You smiled, pouring another coffee. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Will was last to arrive, looking rumpled but human. He'd clearly showered, his damp hair curled at the nape of his neck, and he carried the sharp citrus scent of shampoo. He drained half a water bottle in one go before dropping a kiss on your temple. “You're a saint for this,” he murmured, reaching past you to pile eggs onto a plate.
Josh pointed a buttery knife at Will. “How are you vertical? You drank more than any of us.”
Will smirked, cracking pepper over his eggs. “Because I've got someone who actually cares about me.” He nudged your foot under the table. “This one kept shoving water at me all night. 'Drink this, take these electrolytes, swallow these hangover pills before bed.'” Will pitched his voice to match yours, mimicking some of the things you’d told him the day before. “Annoying as hell at the time, but.” He raised his coffee cup in your direction with a grateful nod.
You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile. “Someone had to play babysitter. I wasn't about to spend today listening to all of you moan like wounded animals.”
Josh groaned and let his forehead thunk against the table. “I need to get myself one of those…What are they called again?”
“Responsible adults?” you suggested, lobbing a grape that bounced off his temple.
From his face down position on the table, Alfie managed a muffled protest: “If you could not talk so loud, that'd be great.”
You reached over to ruffle Alfie's disastrous hair, earning him a pained whimper. “Drink your water, kid. We've got the actual race in three hours.”
You leaned back in your chair, stretching your legs out under the table as the early sun warmed your skin. The rest of the table were in varying stages of recovery—groggy, silent, and deeply focused on the act of consuming calories.
No one was talking. Just the sound of forks on plates and the occasional shuffling of feet.
Arthur sat slumped over his coffee like it owed him something, his shoulders hunched defensively against the morning sunlight. The others weren't faring much better - Josh was methodically dissecting a croissant crumb by crumb, while Alfie had his forehead pressed against the cool marble tabletop.
Will, mercifully unaffected by last night's excesses, leaned back in his chair with his second espresso, watching his suffering friends with amused detachment. He caught your eye and raised his cup in a silent salute, the corner of his mouth twitching as Arthur groaned something unintelligible into his coffee mug.
“Someone's chipper this morning,” you murmured, nudging Will's foot under the table. The morning sun caught the laugh lines around his eyes as he turned toward you, his espresso forgotten.
Will stretched his arms behind his head, the movement making his t-shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin at his waist. “Woke up next to you in Nice,” he said, like that explained everything. He plucked a plump strawberry from the fruit bowl and popped it in his mouth, grinning as he chewed. “Then I come outside to find my disaster friends looking like extras from The Walking Dead, while you’re out here being all,” He gestured at you with the strawberry stem, “not to mention the rest of the day. Best morning ever.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn't fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You're ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously happy,” Will corrected, drinking from his coffee. Across the table, Alfie groaned something unintelligible into his eggs, making Will's shoulders shake with silent laughter.
It had been at least fifteen minutes of this slow-motion breakfast before anything broke the lull.
Josh, who’d been mostly scrolling on his phone and chewing dry toast, suddenly made a sharp sound—half gasp, half laugh. He sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Mate. No. No way. You’re going to lose your mind.”
You looked up. “What’s happened?”
He turned his phone around and held it out toward you. “Mercedes just posted this.”
It was a video. Of you. Sitting in the AMG One. Grinning. Laughing. Overexcited as you revved the engine with giddy disbelief.
You blinked.
Josh gave you his phone, and you read the caption:
“One lucky fan got to experience what happens when the AMG One takes a breath. Can someone help us find this mystery enthusiast? We’d love to get in touch. 🎥: Susie Wolff”
The comments were a chaotic mix of F1 fans, car nerds, and curious strangers:
@petrolhead69: whoever this is, give them a hot lap at Silverstone
@carwidow: imagine being this about a car i love them
@ mercedesamgf1 (✔️): seriously, anyone know who this is? slide into our DMs pls 🙏
@theburntchip(✔️): I know who it is…👀@yourUserName
Your fingers froze mid-scroll. “No way.”
Josh nodded. “Way. Mercedes' actual social team just asked about you. That's their verified account.”
Will read the phone over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear. “Christ. The official page?”
“Yep,” Josh popped the 'p', grinning like he'd orchestrated the whole thing.
Arthur leaned in too, chewing slowly. “You're in their feed, mate. That’s serious.”
The video played on loop. Your unrestrained reaction when the AMG One's engine first roared to life, your hands flying to cover your mouth, and the way you'd whipped around to stare at Susie and Toto with wide-eyed disbelief. The camera had caught every frame of your genuine, unfiltered excitement.
“She actually posted it,” you murmured, tracing the edge of your phone case.
Josh tapped the most damning comment. “And now one of the biggest teams in F1 is actively trying to track you down. Literally.”
You kept looking at it and then finally just said, “That’s insane.”
Will leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Kind of makes last night feel like a setup.”
You looked at him. “You’re not weirded out?”
“Nah,” he said. “You earned it. You lit up like a kid in a candy store. They probably loved that.”
Across the table, Alfie didn't look up from his camera. “If they offer you paddock passes, I’m your mandatory plus one. Professional videographer and all that.”
Will's fork clinked against his plate. “Not happening.”
You sat back, the reality settling in. “So I just wait for Mercedes to send me a message?”
Josh grinned. “Pretty much.”
Will nudged your foot under the table. “Try not to let it inflate your ego too much.”
You smirked, tapping out a quick reply to Chip's comment. “Way past that point.” The table erupted into laughter as you popped a piece of Will’s breakfast in your mouth.
song rec: Too Sweet by Hozier, too sweet (but from the girl's pov) by Brielle Anderson
It can’t be said I’m an early bird / I know you said I’m an early bird
It’s ten o’clock before I say a word / It’s twelve o’clock before you say a word
Baby, I can never tell / Baby, I just can’t relate
How do you sleep so well? / How do you sleep so late?
I’d rather take my whiskey neat / I think I’ll keep my conscience clean
My coffee black and my bed at three / Ignore your murmurs as we hit the sheets
You’re too sweet for me / Saying “you’re too sweet for me”
summary: he swears that it’s not you, it’s him. it’s a fighting battle between two people who are determined to change each other.
contains: angst, established relationship, drinking + alcohol, suggestive scenes and jokes, breakup
notes: another fic based on a song, yk how it goes here. suggestive scene ahead, no actual explicit smut proceed with caution. hope yall enjoy, any feedback is appreciated
word count: 2.7k+
When you first met Will, your similarities and common interests were what drew you in. It was like love at first sight, he was easily enamored by whatever common grounds you both had. You moved quickly, and it seemed as if you were a perfect match for each other.
Pretty soon, you both realized that you were almost total opposites, completely different from each other. But it didn’t stop you both from staying together. They say opposites attract, and maybe you could balance each other out.
You had public social media accounts, but you were mainly out of the public eye as you had a traditional 9 to 5 job, contrasting to Will’s entire career of being on YouTube and having a public platform. You’d make occasional appearances– Instagram stories, five seconds of being in frame of a video, a mention in a video or a podcast, tags and comments under your boyfriend’s posts.
You and Will framed your opposing lifestyles as an “opposites attract” type deal– that you were a fresh breath of air from Will’s all-consuming online presence and grounded him, while he added a new perspective to your life with entertainment and stories from his videos. He’d travel for videos and worked late into the night on projects, while you kept a consistent routine that you hardly strayed from. You’d work your usual 9 to 5 with an hour break for lunch, where you’d go on your phone to check in on Will. You’d come home with the 50/50 chance that you’d find Will ordering takeout for dinner or the flat empty and having to cook yourself dinner.
Truthfully, you rarely got to see each other outside of work. Will had more flexible hours, but he was hardly a morning person. His job required him to travel a lot, work was constantly on his mind. You were stuck working 40 hours a week, only having the weekends off. The little time you got to spend together was unplanned, often taken up by business meetings, influencer trips, or Will spending extra time on projects.
He’d always tell you that you were too sweet for him, and perhaps that was closer to the truth. You were like caramel– soft-spoken, laid-back, as opposed to his sharp-tongued sarcastic humor and serious demeanor– he reminded you of black coffee, bitter and strong.
It seemed that both of you were always in denial about how different you were from each other, and how your differences were affecting your relationship.
Because then came the long nights you’d stay up until Will got home, only for you to go to bed right as he opened the door. You’d wake up early as he’s still asleep in bed. He’d wake up with an empty space to his left.
Despite everything, a part of you yearned to stay with him. In your mind you pictured an idealized future with him– something closer to fantasy– your relationship was magically perfect. You dreamed of days when he’d be there when you’d come home, cooking dinner together and cuddling on the couch as you’d commentate on some shitty reality TV. To you, this perfected relationship with Will was entirely possible, you could have the domestic dream with him. All you had to do was stay.
You’d always try to tell him off when he’d stay up too late. Or distract him from stressing over a new main channel upload. It was like reeling him back into reality. You’d beg him to fall asleep with you, to finally get a good night’s rest.
“Will, it’s almost 1 a.m.” You peeked your head outside your bedroom door to see Will sitting on the living room sofa, typing away at the laptop in his lap. “C’mon, go to sleep,” you urged him.
It was like you were almost invisible, an afterthought that lingered in the air. He sighed. “I’m just checking on some main channel stats. I don’t need to be in the office until noon.”
“But you shouldn’t stay up so late.” You tiptoed over to him, hovering behind the couch. “I want you beside me in bed.” You reached one hand down to his shoulder, “If you go to bed now we could wake up together, spend the morning together, you could get a proper breakfast before going to the office tomorrow.”
He stopped typing for a second and touched your hand, gently squeezing it before brushing it off. “I want to wake up with you, I swear. I’m just not a morning person.”
“And you always wonder why you’re so tired all the time, why you can’t get up in the morning.” That was always his answer, you knew to expect it. But that didn’t stop the wave of disappointment that hit you. You swore to yourself that one of these nights Will would actually listen to you and you could get ready for bed together.
He didn’t say anything. Hiding your reluctance to go to bed alone, you leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “Goodnight, love.”
He turned his body towards you, reaching to grab your hand. “Goodnight, darling.” He brought your hand closer, kissing the back of it. It felt like an apology.
It was the little acts of affection from him that made you feel like it was worth it– or that you could justify that it was worth it. Worth staying, worth nagging, worth begging, worth working.
You laid in your shared bed, staring at the ceiling with your thoughts before turning onto your side and closed your eyes, ignoring the painful absence to your right.
The next morning you awoke to your alarm at 7:30 a.m. You hit the snooze button on it. You rubbed your eyes awake and glanced to your right to see Will sound asleep. The usual.
Routine was always a comfort to you. Every day was the same order and same song. You were always structured, and it always showed in your relationship with Will. He was always flexible hours and spontaneous trips, expenses, ideas. You always kept a low profile, not needing to draw attention to yourself. Your tendency to stay out of the limelight drew people in to you, however. Everyone always talked about yours and Will’s relationship, how different you were and how unlike him and everyone he was friends with, you didn’t crave the attention or fame. And that made people online yearn for your presence.
They searched for crumbs of your existence, basically begged for you to show yourself online, say something, do anything. It was overwhelming at first, but you got used to it. People were quick to flock to your public Instagram anytime you posted a cute photo dump– the idealized version of your life. You showed the adorable moments you shared with Will, hiding the boring and bland parts of your relationship. You slowly started showing up in videos, stories, TikToks, though it was not frequent.
You sat in your cubicle, ready to work another day away.
During your lunch break you opened your phone to check your notifications. You looked for any messages from Will. It was one text from him, “Filming videos for second channel. James says hi.”
Viewers begged for Will to have you in a video properly, the same way James usually is. Your work schedule didn’t allow for you to visit the office whenever filming would usually happen, and Will didn’t like filming in the evening.
Though, an exception was made for one time. It was one video, all about alcohol, that of course James couldn’t both be in, so you were the next best option. Will was dressed up in a nice white button down shirt and black slacks, matching your work clothes as you had just finished work. The timing of filming made drinking a little more appropriate, and you honestly needed a drink after a long day at work.
“Right, hello my friends! Welcome back to another video. Here with me today is my wonderful girlfriend!”
The conversations between you and Will felt casual, natural, but it wasn’t anything crazy that made it obvious you both were dating. Other than the occasional pet names, inside jokes, forbidden nicknames, and lighthearted banter, the atmosphere and environment made you look nothing more than coworkers.
“Dude, they should make a show called Love or Host Island,” you giggled in your seat, the alcohol getting to you.
“Lass, the fuck are you on about?”
“It’s like Love Island– but it works like Love or Host.” You took a sip. “The participants can choose Love: they get to go on a private date on the island with the contestant, or Host: they get to have the island all to themselves for the week and the contestant has to go home.” You look at the camera with a wink, “AustinShow hit me up if you like my idea.”
Will continued to mix up the next drink as you rambled, looking focused as opposed to your relaxed and giggly demeanor.
“Mate, you look so locked in,” Ieuan teased from behind the camera. “Your girlfriend is happily yapping away and you’re focused on not spilling!”
It was a funny image– you beaming a bright smile without a care in the world while Will was slightly hunched over, eyebrows scrunched and hands gripping the drink mixer.
You glanced over at him, your eyes landing on his hands. “How about you grip my throat like that tonight?” you joked, earning some reactions from everyone in the room, including Will.
“God, you’re so drunk off your arse right now,” Will muttered, sounding more annoyed than amused.
“Oh, come on,” you slurred. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, that’s enough.” Will looked up at the production team behind the cameras. “No one here needs to know about our sex lives and we’re gonna need to cut all of that.”
You only giggled to yourself and kept drinking.
You were definitely more of a lightweight compared to Will, evident by your inability to walk in a straight line as you came home. You had one arm around Will for support as he guided you to your shared bedroom, helping you take off your shoes.
“You definitely should’ve eaten dinner or something before filming. You’re such a lightweight.”
“Oh, but you love that you don’t have to buy as many drinks for me to have a good time.” You sat on the edge of the bed, shooting him a euphoric smile.
He sighed, but his face softened as he looked you in the eyes. “Yeah, yeah, pet.”
Your smile never faltered, and your hands gripped the front of his shirt, as you were naturally clingy when intoxicated. You kept reaching towards him, pulling him closer to you into a hug with your arms wrapped around his middle and head pressed into his chest. He settled on gently wrapping his arms around your shoulders, his hands softly caressing your head.
“I’ll order us something for dinner,” Will pulls away slightly to look at you. “You want anything specific?”
“Mmm I can think of something specific I want for dinner,” you said suggestively, eyeing him up and down with a flirty smirk.
Will rolls his eyes playfully, patting your shoulders. “Alright, lass. I’ll just order us something simple.” He presses a quick kiss on the top of your head and begins to walk away but you grab his arm to pull him back.
“Willllll,” you drag.
“Love,” he says cautiously, like a warning.
You don’t let go of him, instead bringing him closer again. You drag your hands up his arms and to his chest, gripping the front of his shirt. You reattached your lips onto his, growing more desperate.
Will pulls away slightly, leaving a small amount of space between you two. “Darling,” Will tries again. “I need to order food for us. You haven’t eaten dinner yet.” His hands rested on your shoulders.
“I want you,” you say boldly, the alcohol in your system giving you sudden confidence. “Need you.” You say a little softer, staring up at him. “Now.”
“You sure, pet?” Will asks gently. His hands found their way down to your thighs, resting gingerly.
You pulled him in again, reconnecting your lips onto his. Your hands trailed upwards, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your fingers played with the back of his mullet, tangling themselves in his hair.
He melted at this, hands now on the sides of your waist to push you closer to him. “Fuck, who am I to deny you?” he spoke softly, moving down to your neck. You let out little soft noises, knowing their effect on Will.
He pushed you back slightly against the bed, his knee on the bed and between your thighs. His lips never left your body as his hands fumbled with the buttons of your shirt. With your upper chest now exposed, his lips moved down to your collarbones while your fingers stayed in his hair and legs wrapped around him to pull him closer.
“You’re too sweet for me, darling,” he murmurs into your skin. He says it like he’s undeserving of you, like he can’t believe you’re really here with him. He sighs when he feels your hands trailing down his body, stopping at the now obvious bulge in his pants. You shift to buck your hips up into him, rubbing yourself on his thigh that’s between your legs.
He manages to get your shirt off while you fiddle with his belt and undo the button of his pants. You’re about to pull the zipper down when he suddenly grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.
“Want you to feel good, first,” he whispers softly. You don’t protest. He’s got you half-naked on the bed, his hands now on your thighs. You invite him to keep going. You let him take charge.
He tastes you, and he says it again. “You’re too sweet for me.”
You lay in bed in his arms, spent and satisfied. His hand traces little circles on your back. You’re still catching your breath when he presses a kiss to your temple, “You’re too sweet for me.”
It becomes apparent to you how Will sees you. He’s too stubborn to change, and you’re too stubborn to leave. He wants you, but you’re not what he needs. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
You let the moment sink in, your eyes feeling heavy and eventually falling asleep.
You wake up the next morning with Will’s side of the bed empty. It’s the same routine every time, but this time it doesn’t reignite something inside you the way it has before. You feel a change in the air of your shared bedroom, the realization of last night settling in. This time, you feel a sort of heaviness on your shoulders. A weight is now left in your stomach.
It’s a feeling you can’t quite shake off.
The next time you see Will you’re aware of how he lingers, but you can’t seem to really feel him. He’s like a ghost, he’s just hovering. You don’t really feel him there.
Your bodies don’t ever touch while you’re in bed. You face away from each other, an invisible wall separating your sides of the bed. Sometimes an arm or a foot will cross that invisible wall, a small and silent invitation for some physical touch. But neither of you ever give in.
And Will continues to stay up late, working. Every night ends the same, you kiss him goodnight and go to bed without him. He becomes less present in your life, and the distance between the two of you increases each day.
You don’t ever talk about it, but you’re both aware that it’s there.
There’s one last night of intimacy, another chance at reigniting something within you.
But you return back to the same old routine, and the distance is louder than ever. It screams at you, that you’ve been ignoring the obvious.
So then comes the conversation with Will, it’s mutual. The wall between you is torn down, and you’re both transparent. You’re honest, but you’re tired.
It was never going to change, and you’re both frustratingly stubborn.
He helped you pack your things away in boxes, never really saying a word to you. You don’t break the silence either. You let it settle.
The frustrating fight between two people who were determined to change each other is now over. Before you leave, Will says one last thing to you.
a/n: very distantly inspired by normal people! oh also. first ukyt fic BE NICE. also thank you @csenke for beta reading as always 🤍 i know u dont give a f abt this man so it means a lot
His fingers automatically scroll through his messages app, acting on muscle memory as the pad of his pointer lands on the person he needs the most right now. His judgement is a bit hazy and his eye-sight is a bit blurry, an additional effect of the spinning head caused by the amount of shots and pints he’s consumed in the pub behind him, and the idea of his soft, warm bed is the only thing he can think about right now.
Will vaguely remembers Callum telling him he is the driver tonight– something about needing to leave early tomorrow morning, the exact reason, he wasn’t really arsed to engrave into his memory– and so he sends him a short text (that he hopes doesn’t have as many typos in it due to his alcohol levels). He has to close one eye and manually focus the other one to even see anything on his screen– and that’s when he really realizes just how wasted he managed to get. He presses the little “send” symbol in the corner of his screen, waiting for a reply.
The text read a simple “can you get me home”. Will is aware asking him face-to-face would be the best, but the air inside of the pub was too thick for him to breathe in without wanting to throw all his insides up on the bar, right there in front of everyone, and he didn’t see his friend in the initial 3-minute search he managed to organize for him in his mind before he gave up, so texting him was the best next option he had.
Taking in the chilly air, glad the screaming of his friend group and the strong smell of alcohol is now all behind him, locked in the pub and only as a painful echo of the night, he decides the curb is the best place to rest his limbs before somebody comes to him for rescue. Before he has a chance to even crouch, though, his phone starts buzzing in his hand, surprising him. Without even checking who it is, he accepts the call and presses the phone to his ear, awaiting the (slightly annoying, as he would call it in his drunken state) voice of one of the Fellas.
“Will?”
His heart stops. The single syllable of his name coming out of your mouth is enough to have countless memories flood into his brain and then make a chemical, visceral reaction in his chest. Suddenly, he thinks he might throw up after all. Why are you calling him in the middle of the night?
“Y-yeah?” he manages to choke out, voice a little higher than usual, unsure if he managed to make himself sound normal.
“Are you okay?”
Now, that’s a loaded question, Will thinks. Anyone who saw him get drunk like a fool tonight might disagree– hell, he even heard the whispers concerned about his mental well-being circulating in his friend group, he did notice the worried glances some of them threw his way at every self-depricating joke– but to you, he must appear completely fine. Wonderful, even.
“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s the only word he knows.
“Well, I was just asking, ‘cause of the text,” he hears you mumble, your voice still having a hint of uncertainty behind it, a hint of tiptoeing around something neither of you want to name or talk about.
“What text?” he asks, a little dumbly.
“You just said to get you home…?”
Oh.
Will wants to both face palm and run under the closest car all at once. Of course you’re not calling him because you want to talk to him– or just because, like his yearning heart selfishly, delusionally thought. That could perhaps be the stupidest thought Will has ever conjured– because realistically, of course you’d want nothing to do with him.
“Oh, that was-” he clears his throat, nervously scratching the back of his neck, “that was a mistake. I meant to send that message to Cal…”
There’s silence on the other side of the line, stretching out anxiously to the point where he thinks you might just end the call and leave him standing there with a growing hole in his chest. Before he has a chance to check his phone to see if the connection is still on, though, he hears your voice again, stopping him in his tracks.
“Are you drunk, Will?” the question doesn’t sound at all mad, or disappointed– to which he is kind of glad. Your voice is coated with something completely else, though, something that is a little too close to worry for Will to not react to with irritation. Because he’s fine. He’s unaffected.
“A little, yeah,” he admits.
This is where the call ends, isn’t it? You got the misunderstanding sorted out, so there’s no other reason for you to talk now. Especially after the month of silence– not that Will’s counting, of course.
He’s wrong, though. And he’s not sure if he should be glad about it.
Because you keep talking to him, and word by word, he feels something inside of him breaking– something he tried to build the whole month you spent apart, even though it was infunctional and everyone saw through the facade. Every single word you say to him is like a step back from his progress, unravelling him and kicking down the bricks he built around himself– quite ironic to the reason why you two ended up in this position in the first place.
Because his walls were always the problem, weren’t they?
“Another Fellas’ party?” you hum, chuckling. You heard all about them– hell, even attended some with Will in the months you spent together, side by side.
“You know it,” he nods, an airy laugh coming out of his mouth.
“And how have you ended up the drunkest?”
“That’s a wild accusation, love,” the pet name slips out between his lips before he has a chance to stop it, regret immediately sucker-punching him in the gut, “Chip and Arthur are present, after all.”
“I bet they’re not the ones accidentally texting another person, though,” you tease, making Will feel a bit lighter– but only for a minute, before he realizes he scrolled down to your name in his texts on pure instinct, as if it was habitual. As if his unconsciousness wanted to talk to you after all, and he just never had the balls to do it after you ended things with each other.
“Well, I’m not the one throwing up into a pint glass,” he jokes, referencing Chip from just a few minutes ago, a hint of disgust coating his words as he tells you the news (which are not really that new, after all. You’ve seen it happen before).
“Not again…”
“Mhm,” Will hums, getting momentarily lost in the ease of the conversation.
That’s how it always was with you. Strangely easy. He could talk to you about everything and anything– starting from his worries all the way to funny stories from recordings or his trips abroad. Hanging out with you has always been his favorite time of the week. Whether it was spent with you two just launching on the sofa, mindlessly watching some TV show on Netflix, or going to get coffee together and brainstorm some new flavors for Rodd’s. You were both his anchor and his own personal rollercoaster– exciting him, bringing him joy and some sort of eagerness back into his life.
But one day, all that was lost, and Will could no longer just call you up like this and talk your ear off about anything that came to his mind.
Worst thing? He knew it was entirely his fault.
For not getting serious with you– even though in his heart, it was the most serious, most committed he’s been in his life. But it wasn’t enough and you deserved more, and Will could never, ever blame you for leaving.
“I don’t miss that sight, you know,” you chirp, the mental image of you shaking your head in disbelief, like you always do, materializing behind Will’s eyelids.
“Yeah, I know,” he hums, thoughts swirling in undecipherable strings and mixes, words coming out of his mouth before he can even stop them, “but, y’know… if ya wanted to come and hang with the rest, you’d be welcome to.”
“Will–”
“It wouldn’t be fair of me to like, y’know, keep you away from the lads and stuff, so really, I could even fuck off and stay home when you come around and stuff…” he mumbles, slowly walking down the street, his footsteps resonating in the silent night.
You found friends in his group– Will knows that. You could talk about your nerdy interests with Arthur for hours. Will never really had anything intellectual to add, so he just listened, but it was enough for him to know you fit in with his circle. You and George always had your own funny banter going on and you always tried to keep up with his and Harry’s drinking, which resulted in Will taking you home more often than not when you inevitably failed. You fit right in, like a missing puzzle piece, and Will feels bad for being the reason you’re missed.
“It’s okay, Will,” you say, making him stop in his tracks. “They’re your friends, after all,” you reply, and it feels like a slap to his face.
“They’re your friends too,” Will argues, furrowing his brows in confusion. “Everyone keeps asking about you, y’know.”
“Well, that’s nice,” you say, a hint of something unreadable behind your words. “And what do you tell them?”
Will thinks back to all the conversations he’s had for the last month. He thinks back to the night you told him you two should end ‘whatever this is’ (because he was always too scared to put any label on it), to the moment you left his flat and he manically paced around the living room before he went out on a run. He thinks back to the moment he came back, late at night, and called James, holding back tears. He thinks back to the moment he first came to the pub without you, and Chris and George teased him about getting dumped– to which he didn’t offer a snarky remark, showing too much of his true emotion and reality of the claims, making both of them shut up and avoid the topic for the rest of the night. He thinks back to Chip and Arthur asking about you, confused when he had to tell them he hasn’t spoken to you in a while. He thinks back to telling Harry in a moment of weakness, holding on to his pint glass like a lifeline.
It hasn’t been an easy month.
“The truth,” he replies, eyes pressed to the starless sky.
He hears you hum on the other side of the line, the conversation lolling into its inevitable end. It makes Will’s hands shake and breathing hitch, the idea of not hearing your voice again for a while sending a wave of panic into his chest, almost sobering him up.
“Well, it was nice talking to you, Will.”
“Why did we– why didn’t it work out with us?” he asks, the desperate question dragging from his lips like a prayer, surprising even himself. The line goes silent for a moment and he thinks he lost you, thinks you declined the call and just went to sleep– like you should’ve when you received the text message in the first place. And he wouldn’t blame you if you did any of these things– because deep inside, he knows you deserved more.
But he also selfishly thinks it was worth trying one more time. He thinks you two had something you could figure out together, had you had more patience. He thinks he was worthy of the mess.
“You know what, forget it–”
“Ultimately, Will, I think you weren’t willing to let me fully in,” he hears you explain, slowly, like you’re rethinking your words. “I think you weren’t giving me all that I needed. Which is fine, because I know it was hard on you as well, but it just… didn’t feel fair for me to keep waiting for the impossible,” you chuckle, a hint of bitterness behind your words.
And Will would love it if he didn’t know what you meant.
But he did.
You meant the way he claimed you as his in your bed and outside of it, but never truly sticking a label on it. Never truly committing. Every time he thought he was ready to take the next step, there was an annoying voice inside of him telling him that it’s too scary and it’s doomed to fail one way or another, when you realize he’s not worth it– and why would you two even need a label, when all of it was so easy, so close to a relationship anyway? He was never leaving you in this intermediate state because he was letting himself have some sort of back door, some sort of other options in mind.
Will knows you meant the way he could never put you as his priority. Too focused on work, chasing his dreams. Being a perfectionist, getting lost in editing, forgetting to text you back, not able to work around your schedule. You meant the way his mind was always somewhere else, the way he was too lost in his plans one day to remember you were supposed to meet.
He knows he was never around enough to make him worth the wait. Once again, he could never blame you for the decision you made– you protected your heart and peace. Had some self-worth, as Becky once told Will off-handedly, after learning all about the situation from 3 different people.
“I don’t think it was impossible,” he says, “I think I just needed a bit more time,” he says, and even he feels that what he’s saying is pathetic. Because who knows how much more time it would’ve been, had you never opened his eyes to the reality by leaving?
He never knew how much he needed you before you were gone, moving on to better things. He never knew how much he wanted you there before you left, never knew how desperately he’d do anything you’d ask him to, had it meant you’d come back.
Because the truth is, the feelings he had for you were never the problem. Will just wasn’t really good at articulating them. He’s always been bad at loving people back.
There was always a you-shaped hole in his chest that ached at every mention of your name in passing, yearning for your presence. He thought of you the majority of his day, selfishly thinking of a way to fix things– maybe in another universe, maybe if you met at the right time…
“Truthfully, I don’t think I mattered that much,” you laugh, but Will knows it’s faked. It’s the type of laugh you’d force at Isaac’s bad jokes or when you were uncomfortable when someone hit on you in the bar– to which Will always came to your rescue.
And the words sting. It’s like the worst thing he was ever accused of.
How could you think you didn’t matter? He took you out on Valentine’s day. He introduced you to all his friends, happy just how easily you fit in. He texted you every single day and came to pick you up from work regularly. He remembered all the small things– like how you take your coffee and what your favorite The 1975 album was. He had a mental list of all your wishes and worked hard on making every dream on that list– no matter how small or big– completed. Like taking you to the London eye when you moved here, even though he’s been there countless times and doesn’t find London at all that attractive anymore. Or like getting you a ticket to Glastonbury, to which you went together and you cried about on the way home.
You were everything.
“You’re ridiculous,” he shakes his head, bitter, the alcohol speaking for him on the next part. “I loved you, y’know. Still do, I mean, for what it’s worth.”
He dropped the bomb neither of you dared to say in all the months of your undefined relationship, as if to selfishly prove you wrong about him. He said the words both of you tiptoed around for ages, thinking that maybe now that he said them out loud, they would stop haunting him late at night, not giving him sleep.
You’re silent on the other side of the line. Of course you are, Will thinks.
He doesn’t expect to hear you say them back. He didn’t expect to say them himself, surprised at how easy it was to confess them.
“You’re drunk, Will,” you say instead, calm and composed.
“That doesn’t change anything, Y/N. I-”
Before either of you have a chance to finish the conversation, the door to the pub opens behind him and a loud voice startles him away from the quiet moment of sincerity with you.
“Here you are!” Callum hollers, waving at Will. “I was looking for you everywhere, mate!”
Will nods in acknowledgement, not really wanting to end the conversation with you. You take it upon yourself to do so anyway, though.
“You should go, Will.”
It seems that it’s now your turn to build walls around your heart.
“Can I… can I talk to you later?” he asks, hopeful.
“Come on, Will, we’re leaving!” the rest of the group materializes in front of the pub, waving him down.
You ignore his question.
“Get home safe, Will,” you reply, before the line goes silent.
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willne x fem! reader. very brief george clarke x fem! reader. unrequited love. angst. 2.1k. warnings: mentions of alcohol.
a/n: I just can't stop writing about will and yearning I'm so sorry. I'm not usually an angst girlie so if any of yall have any requests send them my way :p any feedback is appreciated!! also thank u belovedest @dorims for reading and hyping me into posting this. forcing people read fics abt a man they dont care about one friend at a time!
Will watches as you dramatically wipe your forehead off imaginary sweat, shaking your head in disbelief and grin at him in apology. “Now, that was a whole work out and a half. Thanks for the help,” you say, leading the man towards your living room, where a glass of ice cold coke is already waiting at the coffee table, untouched.
“It’s alright,” he waves you off, following you into the small, but homely space. Will can’t even count the times he’s been at your place anymore, having seen the modern, yet cozy interior countless of times, falling into the familiarity of it all. Tonight, though, he’s here for a whole other mission– one he wishes he didn’t have to take on, but did so anyway, for you.
“I told Chris to watch him, but he didn’t really keep up to his promise,” you snicker, offering Will the glass of coke and sitting down tiredly at the sofa.
“Having Chris promise you something is like knowingly walking into betrayal,” Will quirks, having you laugh out loud at the banter.
“Well, I’ll remember that the next time,” you nod.
The living room falls into comfortable silence, one that Will has grown used to over the years of knowing you. His figure situates itself next to you on the small couch, resulting in your knees bumping into each other, a contact he just can’t bring himself to break, no matter how hard he’d try to. It’s like you cursed him– even after all this time, he can’t make himself stop the feelings blooming in his chest.
It almost makes him curse to himself– when he realizes the effect you still have on him. He spent years trying to hide from the feelings, months getting up the courage to confess them, and now, he’s spent countless weeks trying to hide them, because there’s no use to say the words to someone that doesn’t want to hear them.
It wouldn’t be fair of him to confess to you now. Not when you’re in the middle of growing something with someone else.
“How are… how are things going with George?” he asks, suddenly in the mood to torture himself.
You light up like a fucking Christmas tree, a punch to his gut. Why did he even ask? “Very good, actually. Well, when he doesn’t get drunk to the point of not being able to walk, that is,” you snicker, pointing back to the situation that took place just a few moments ago, which led to Will helping you get your new boyfriend home.
“That’s good to hear, then,” he says, forcing a smile. Will feels like he should add something along the lines of ‘I’m really happy for you,’ but he doesn’t, simply because it would be a lie.
And he’s never been a good liar. Not in front of you, at least.
The only thing he ever managed to hide from you, his best friend, was his true feelings. Which is quite ironic, he thinks. Only if you caught on sooner– maybe Will wouldn’t have to pretend he enjoys seeing you in love with someone else now.
Or maybe you knew all along– you just didn’t feel the same, so you never called him out on it to not make things difficult. He’ll never know, though, because he’ll never ask.
Because if you knew and never said anything, that means Will never had any chance with you in the first place– and that’s information that would completely break him, he thinks. It’s simply better not to know.
“Well, I owe it all to you, so…” you sheepishly smile, another knife twisted in the poor man’s chest.
Because you’re right, and Will now hates himself for it.
He hates himself for introducing you to his friends. What was an innocent action fueled by the want, the need to have you with him at all times– even when he’s out in the pub with his colleagues turned friends– turned into one of them taking peculiar interest in you. And Will noticed right away, of course he did.
When George asked him if it was okay to make a move on you, Will froze. He panicked. But at the end of the day, he said yes. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t wanna try anything if you’re planning to–”
“No, it’s all good, it’s fine, go ahead!” Will said back then, acid on his tongue.
He thinks that must’ve been the worst decision he ever made in his whole entire life.
“Saw you needed some help in the love department,” Will tries to joke through the suffering, “it was only natural for me to do the charity work and introduce you to someone,” he says, earning himself a lighthearted punch to his shoulder. The smile on your face makes him mirror it, momentarily forgetting about the ache in his chest.
“No, but seriously,” you turn soft, tender, “thank you. George is… it’s good, very good. He’s patient and lovely, all I ever dreamt of, to be honest with you.”
Of course he is. Will would sort it out with his own two hands if he wasn’t– but he knows it’s the truth. George Clarke is an epitome of every woman’s dream, which doesn’t really help Will’s own self insecurities in the long run. He knew he was never really good enough for you, but comparing himself to his friend only makes the whole situation worse.
Will can’t blame you for your choice. George is simply everything Will’s not.
Broad shoulders, great teeth. The same fucking hairstyle, just a bit more stylish on George. He has the ability to grow a full beard, something Will hasn’t grown into even at his age, and is respectful and over-all sweet to everyone around him. Not too much of a cocky attitude. His jokes always land and everyone gravitates towards his presence, even in a room full of people. He’s the main star, the heartthrob of the internet. Invited to every single Sidemen shoot– something that happens to Will rarely, despite his years-long friendship with them.
How could you not love him?
He’s all you ever dreamt of. Will could never compare.
“You sound like every other fangirl in his comments,” he jabs at you, watching as you roll your eyes at him in annoyance.
“I mean, at least he has someone to say the Tiktok comments to his face,” you shrug.
“Ouch, okay,” Will grunts. Usually, he wouldn’t be affected by the teasing– but this situation is different. It’s different when it’s you laughing at him for being single– especially when you’re the only one he’d let fix that issue.
“No, but seriously, is there no one in your horizons? I see you less and less these days, I don’t even know what’s going on with you,” you say, only twisting the knife in Will’s heart further.
He thought you didn’t notice– the space he’s been trying to create between the two of you. He wasn’t trying to unfriend you, not at all– he just wanted to wait out the worst bits first. He just wanted the sharp pain to turn into a dull ache somewhere in his ribcage, one that he could push down and ignore instead of it being all he’s focused on whenever you’re around.
But he also realizes it’s been easier for him to do, because he’s no longer the top of your priority list. It’s easier to avoid someone that has less and less time to see him.
And it’s natural, but it hurts. Because you were his friend first.
You were his first.
“No one on the horizon,” he hums, “Hinge’s shite as always.”
“Should I try talking to one of my friends?” you ask, and Will hates the way he knows you’re being serious.
“Nah,” he snickers, avoiding eye contact, “I’m okay. Not really what I’m into right now.”
“Live a little, would ya?” you shake your head at him, “all that working is gonna drive you mad. Are you even interested in women anymore?”
“No,” Will grunts, “switched to men, actually, now that I have James and all–”
“Come on!” you sigh, not appreciative of his poor attempt of a joke. “You know you can tell me, right? I won’t tell a soul. Unless there’s a way I can help you get with her, or something.”
Will thinks he is going to chew up the empty glass in his hand and swallow it dry. He isn’t at all ready for interrogation of this kind. “Y/N, just because I introduced you to George, it doesn’t mean you have to repay the favor, or something, if that’s what we’re doing here…”
“No,” you sternly enunciate, eyebrows furrowing together. “I just want you happy, you muppet. You’re my best friend!”
Best friend. To Will, it’s been a blessing and a curse.
A bitter laugh drags itself out of his throat. “I think that ship sailed already, love.”
“What do you mean? Has she died, or something?” you joke. It seems to Will that you won’t stop pressing him. You have him backed up against a corner, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold the secret down before it drags itself out of his chest, leaving claw marks on its way up.
Not when you look at him like that– with eyes reflecting the yellow light of the lamp in the corner, hair a little messy framing your tired face. There’s lip gloss making your mouth twinkle with every word you say to him, the softness of your bare thigh colliding with the flesh of his knee. There’s a picture of you and him together still framed on your desk in the bedroom, where George’s sleeping, and Will selfishly wonders if it ever haunts the man when he holds you close at night. And even though he shouldn’t, Will can’t stop himself from wondering how life would be if he was the one that gets to kiss you, if he was the one that gets to stare at the picture frame from the right side of your bed.
Your scent infiltrates his heart with a yearning that hurts, with yearning that makes him regret ever nodding to George's inquiry back when he first introduced you two together. He hates himself for never getting the balls to confess to you instead.
And maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped you wouldn’t be into George as much. He hoped you would find that he just wasn’t the one for you, and Will could hush out the three simple words one evening when he’s sat on your rug again, eating the take away he bought for the two of you on his way back from a shoot.
What an incredibly stupid thought that was.
“Worse,” he hears himself say, eyes involuntarily pressing into yours as he mutters the next few words. “Was in love with my mate, and then she went and started dating my friend,” he huffs, like it’s funny– but the truth is out now, indirect, yet still vulnerable– he’s too busy being yours to fall for somebody new.
There’s a moment of silence that’s no longer as comfortable that hugs you two like a weighed blanket. It makes Will feel slightly claustrophobic, his palms turning sweaty as your smile freezes and slowly disappears off your face. There’s still something anchoring him back to reality, though– it being the fact that none of it matters anymore.
He was too late, and he is the only one to blame.
“Will… who- who are you talking about?” you ask– but you don’t have to. Because you know all his friends, and you’re not stupid.
“Ah,” Will nervously gets out, already standing up from the couch and dragging his jacket with him, “you wouldn’t know her. Anyways, I should get going, if you’re sorted out and stuff.”
You watch him from the sofa, big eyes like a well of water bearing into his with intensity he didn’t know from you before. It makes him crumble, the fake smile he’s put onto his face breaking for just a second before he glues it back together, the realization that even though his confession meant nothing, it could’ve still ruined everything, making him falter in his movements.
For a moment, neither of you say anything. Will takes that as his cue to leave.
In a moment of pure selfishness, he reaches to you, giving you a hug that feels too loose, too insincere, but fixed by a short peck to your hairline. “Don’t worry about it, yeah?” he laughs, whispering into your ear, trying to lighten the situation. “Night, Y/N.”
And just like that, he silently tip toes out of your flat, closing the door behind him the way he wishes he could close the door on you, wishes he could close the door on the invisible string that’s tied from around his heart right to your fingertips and finally snap it in half.
But he could never do that. Not unless you tell him to leave, not unless you force him to walk out– and hell, he wishes desperately he didn’t nudge you to that very choice tonight.
Because he can’t lie to you– you always see right through him.
Girl I actually ADORE your fics 😍 I’m getting more into ukyt recently and was wondering if you had any recommendations for series to read as I’m pretty new to the fanbase :)
so honoured to be asked ! some of these are 18+ so if you're a minor, please do not interact ! if i have missed you, please don't take it personally and just let me know ! other authors who do one shots you can find here !!
⇒ i have a feeling you got everything you wanted (george clarke) @mia-maybank ✩ incomplete
a/n : this is a bit shit and a cop-out at my attempt of writing smut,, please bear with 💖
a (aftercare) - what is he like after sex?
will is an angel when the moments died down. after what has been a probably long and rough night - he will pour a bath, make you tea, and put some shit on the telly. he will hold you until you fall asleep, his arm curled round your waist.
b (body part) - your favourite and his favourite
on him - definitely his arms, he adores the fact that whenever he flexes them, you're just absolutely drooling, and let's not forget his hands.
on you - he is a thigh type of guy (especially being between them) but he will hold onto them 25/8 as long as he's near them.
c (cum) - anything to do with cum basically
this man does not care about making a mess. he's a fuckin' freak and you love it. he will finish anywhere - from your tits to your ass. will is also quite possessive, and loves nothing more than coming inside.
d (dirty secret) - what it says on the tin, dirty secret of his?
i feel like a dirty secret of will's would be definitely to do with like restraints (not on him obviously), but the idea of seeing you, maybe with your hands to the bedframe or him pinning them above your head just drives him wild.
in comparison, i feel like he'd go feral for letting you be dominant over him every once in a while. just the idea of you having control over him makes him weak at the knees.
e (experience) - does he know what he's doing?
will knows what he's doing. he is confident in his ability to please himself, but mainly you but also loves learning and trying new things. basically he's experienced but not so much so that you're wondering if he has another career or girlfriend.
f (favourite position) - again, quite self explanatory - his favourite position?
butterfly and doggy, but especially the latter.
butterfly - the idea of you, beneath him, and him being able to see you in your entirety. nothing is more beautiful than that. (also he fuckin' loves you wrapping your legs around him). probably the go-to for a more intimate moment
doggy - his favourite ever. definitely if you're both feeling more rough and ready. him seeing you from behind, him gripping your hips so tight that it leaves bruises drives him CRAZY. the pure feeling of you squeezing him like a vice. oh my word. he's also able to grab your hair a bit more - which you fuckin' LOVE.
g (goofy) - how is he in the moment? - cracking up or serious?
depending on what happened prior, he will either be very giggly, cracking jokes during foreplay and making you laugh or completely serious. especially if you've done something to wind him up - say tease him out in public. the only smile you'll be drawing out of him is when you're overestimated and begging for more. normally though, it's quite light - he believes sex should be fun and enjoyable!
h (hair) - how well groomed is he?
honestly, he's quite neat and tidy, just for his own preference and hygiene. he doesn't mind about you either, as long as he can eat you out with your fingers running through his mullet.
i (intimacy) - is he romantic in the moment?
he is a romantic through and through. even if you're blowing off some steam from a hard week, he will break character to say 'i love you' or remind you how perfect you are.
j (jack off) - masturbation headcannon
he wanks regularly, and often times it so you can walk in and help him out. he's always down for a mutual masturbation sesh - him watching you get off makes his head spin. he will wank to anything of you. a picture of you in his hoodie? the polaroid of you with cum covering your chest? some flirty, all-knowing texts you sent when he was with jim or a mainchannel video? everything about you gets him going.
k (kinks) - what's he in to?
will is very much into the degrading praise aspect of sex. just how you react to it - tears brimming the corners of your eyes as he calls you a 'slut' as you take him, and you fuckin' love it. additionally, i feel like he likes it rough, but when it's just soft and intimate, he loves to praise you, and he really treats you like a princess - holding your hand while he fucks into you.
l (location) - where does he like it best?
nothings better than your own bedroom, he loves bending you over the side of the bed, but he will have sex in most places. bending you over the kitchen top, holding you by your hands in the shower, a quickie in a shitty bar loo, pulling over and fucking you in the backseat of his car? if its doable, he will try and 99% of the time - you end up doing it sometime again!
m (motivation) - what gets him going?
not much doesn't get him going. but something umatched is when you've been apart for a few days. you both would've send some risqué messages, maybe a couple of pictures - and you'd always pick him up from the airport and he'd struggle to keep his hands off you. additionally, you dressing up to go out - to him, you're bloody irresistible and he's insatiable. knowing you love to dress up and make yourself look fancy warms his heart. just to see you, stood in a dress, heels on in all your glory - he can't get enough.
n (no) - what turns him off?
anything painful beyond a bit of choking (never forcefully), hair pulling, or a light bit o' spanking. basically, if you're in pain beyond desire, he will stop immediately. if you're in pain during sex, then he doesn't want it.
o (oral) - is he a munch or does he love receiving?
honestly its a very 50-50 relationship and most of the time you and will probably end up 69'ing before one of you combusts but he loves nothing more than eating you out, hands gripping your thighs as they suffocate him. he lives for the whimpers and moans he can draw out of you - and loves nothing more than you being blissed out on his tongue. however, he loves when his cock's down your throat, mascara dripping down your cheeks as you gag around him.
p (pace) - hard n fast or slow n sensual?
again, it depends. sometimes if he's feeling more romantic, he will take it slow - just going at a pace which means you both have breathing time and can really relish the comforting touch of the other. however, when the switch is flipped, will goes feral. the sound of skin slapping against skin and your moans bouncing off the walls really turns him on.
q (quickies) - opinions on quickies
always down for a quickie. if its a quick hand job while he's driving, him dropping to his knees between zoom calls, or him fucking you against a bathroom door of your friends' house - he is always has an excuse to 'nip out' for a short time, but just long enough for you to return dazed.
r (risky) - is he willing to go out of his comfort zone?
yes. i am pretty sure that as your relationship progresses, then he takes every opportunity to be a bit risky, especially 'round your friends' house - with his fingers hovering over your clothed core.
s (stamina) - how many rounds is he going?
foreplay plays a huge role, so probably that and one full-energy round, before you shower (and normally neither of you can resist yourselves and end up goin' in for round two)
t (toys) - does he own/use any?
he prefers using them on you. normally, he'd actually sit back and watch you get yourself off with one of your vibes. on a separate note, he would definitely have a remote control one too, for in public situations. he loves watching you fall apart infront of his eyes.
u (unfair) - basically, is he a tease?
will is a massive tease and especially with foreplay, he will be dragging it out as much as he possibly can, but if you tease him - it's game over. he will say filthy things in your ear, as he tries to draw out your orgasm as long as possible, as a result of you teasing him. additionally, he dabbles in overstimulation - hearing you whine at just the sensation of his fingers. oh my god.
v (volume) - loud nd proud or quiet nd reserved?
will is loud. he will be either praising you or saying filthy things to you most of the time. you also draw out the most beautiful noises from him. safe to say the neighbours have complained.
w (wild card) - random headcannon for him?
he loves nothing more than riding. watching you get off by grinding on his thigh drives him mental. additionally, he's big into mirror sex - he loves watching you take him, especially if he's fucking into you from behind. finally, he has filmed you riding him and sucking him off. they're only for his and your eyes, and that's why he likes them.
x (xray) - (im imagining guess by charli xcx in my head),, what's going on under them clothes?
he's packin' a hefty cock. it's above average length, but not particuarly girthy but he fills you up proper.
y (yearning) - how high is his drive?
will has a pretty high sex appeal, but with his peaks come his troughs, and that works for you as well. he never turns down an offer though.
z (zzz) -how quickly is he falling asleep after?
will wouldn't fall asleep immediately after sex, just out of habit of waiting until you're completely zonked until dozing off. probably a couple hours after - he has a shite sleep-wake schedule.
willne x fem! reader. established relationship au (who is she!). toothrotting fluff!! 1.4k. no warnings, just will being a simp <3
a/n: I never write established relationship fics idk what possessed me (it was the pics)
Will’s eyes are glued to his laptop screen, a useless Excel sheet opened and staring back at him with a bluntness that bites, makes him annoyed and defeated at the same time. Because yes, he has a whole team behind him now helping him with every step of the journey, which makes it all a whole lot easier, but it also makes him feel twice as responsible for everything if it doesn’t go as planned. Him and his producers have spent the last few hours trying to figure out how to plan out their next video– how to take care of everything that needed to be sorted out, the time scheduling, the permissions to film for various places– all while having a set budget they weren’t trying to overshoot. And the thing is, Will usually enjoys this part of the process– he’d even argue it’s his most favorite– but today, it just was not his day.
Maybe he just woke up to an unlucky day. He spilled coffee all over himself in the morning, meaning that he had to change, which made him miss the tube. The latest video he put up didn’t get as much attention as he wanted it to, another brand pulled out of a deal, meaning their funds were now running shorter than they needed to execute the video they wanted to its fullest potential, and everything irritated him simply because he had to exist today.
When Mikey took a sneaky picture of his sulky face from across the table at one point of the early afternoon, Will had to collect his composure and count to 10 to calm himself, or else he’d reach over and smash the device against the nearest wall.
Suddenly, the door opens. Will looks up from the screen curiously, not really knowing who to expect, since the whole team was already in the office– maybe Chris, maybe one of the Fellas– but much to his surprise, you are standing in the door, a shy smile plastered onto your face.
And suddenly, Will forgets all about his gloomy mood.
You take a few hesitant steps towards him, something hid behind your back. That peaks Will’s curiosity– he doesn’t push it, though, knowing he’d find out soon enough.
“Hi!” he exclaims, physically beaming just at your presence.
“Hello,” you chirp, smiling not only at him, but also at the rest of the crew. Everyone gives you a warm welcome, acknowledging your presence with soft smiles and greetings. “I don’t want to get in your way, ‘cause I heard you’ve all got a lot on your plate today,” you say, to which Will furrows his brows in question– how would you know that?
A devilish chuckle lands into his ears. Oh, of course. The picture Mikey took– he should’ve known it wouldn’t just be left in his gallery.
You and Will haven’t been dating for long– it’s only been two to three months– but you’ve already been acquainted with everyone in both his friendgroup and his workspace. Everyone adored you– as expected, Will thinks– and he was happy you were comfortable with tagging along to some of his shoots, or meeting his friends with him out for a pint. However, there is one, just one disadvantage to the whole thing– that being your growing accompliceship with his annoying editor.
“I just came to drop this off on my way home,” you peep, finally showing Will what you’ve brought along with you. Will wants to acknowledge the fact that his office is not at all on the way to your apartment, meaning you had to make the effort to add additional 30 minutes there and back just to get home from work– which is a normal person job with real responsibilities, not recording silly videos on social media– but before he has a chance to say anything, his words die on his tongue the moment his eyes land on the gift you’ve brought him.
There, in front of him, is a bouquet of flowers. Nothing fancy, just something you probably bought at Tesco self-checkout along with your groceries, but still– it’s flowers, wrapped in cellophane, beautiful and delicate.
Will furrows his brows, growing sheepish as he takes the stems into his hand. He’s filled with a bit of confusion, never having been given flowers before, yet he instinctively brings them closer to his nose to smell them. “What is this?”
“Flowers,” you deadpan, making the rest of the crew laugh out– mostly at Will’s shaken composure. He is currently acting like a deer in the headlights, stiff and frozen, not knowing what to do with himself. What he doesn’t know or realize is the fact that he is also growing a bit red, subconscious at being watched by everyone in the strangely intimate act, but also the fact that his eyes are glimmering, watching you like you’ve just brought him a winning scratch ticket instead.
“I know it’s flowers, love, I have eyes,” he ironically grunts, shaking his head at your antics, “I’m just sayin– isn’t this supposed to be the other way around? Why are you giving me flowers?”
“Didn’t know you were so patriarchal, Will,” you joke, watching as Will fully rotates his office chair so he’s facing you, body language inviting you in. “You can get me some next time, though, if you want to act like a gentleman.”
“Nah,” he retorts, “not in my blood. That’d be doing too much.”
You roll eyes at his jokes, knowing he’s not serious at all with his claims. If anything, Will has been mostly a gentleman– opening doors for you, carrying your bag, doing the sidewalk rule, even though you doubt he would be able to explain the concept of “the sidewalk rule” if you asked him about it.
“Right,” you nod, sighing. “But yeah, no, I just saw them… thought they were pretty, thought of you, got them,” you shrug.
“Are those correlated? So you think I’m pretty?” Will asks, unknowingly walking into his own trap. He forgot everyone was listening to your conversation.
“God, no.”
“Right.”
You squint your eyes at him, playfully, before you decide it’s your time to go. “Don’t forget to put them in a vase with water so they last, okay?”
“Bold of you to assume we have vases around here, love.”
“A water bottle will do, Will,” you grunt, shaking your head.
“Ay ay, captain!” he nods, saluting.
“Okay, I’ll get going then, pretty boy. I’m cooking pasta for dinner today, so you can come over after, if you want?” you throw Will a sweet look, followed by a quick side-hug and a wet kiss to his cheek, making him even redder at the affection. It’s not like he hates PDA, of course not– he enjoys pulling you close in public, an arm draped around your shoulders, a kiss to your temple whenever he feels like it– it’s just him being the one on the receiving end of it rather than initiating it is what makes him shy away from prying eyes.
Because there is nothing casual or nonchalant about the way he handles it– butterflies buzzing in his stomach, a wide smile settling on his lips, making his cheeks hurt. He can’t be caught like this– it’s embarrassing.
God, he hates you.
“Mhm,” he shyly hums in agreement, eyes following your every move as you let go and walk towards the door.
“Bye everyone! Good luck with the video,” you smile, receiving waves and goodbyes by the crew.
Only a few seconds go by as you close the door behind you and disappear from the corridor before Will physically feels everyone’s eyes on him, Ieuan’s suppressed laugh landing into his ears and making him want to crawl out of his own skin.
“I would appreciate it if we didn’t talk about what just happened,” Will nervously comments, eyes pressed into the laptop screen.
“Okay, pretty–”
Will kicks the man into his shin under the table, only resulting in the whole office erupting in laughter. Knowing that he can’t escape it, he stands up from the table and reaches for an empty Rodd’s bottle he meant to throw into the trash a few minutes ago, walking towards the bathroom in order to clean it out and put the bouquet into it.
“You’re whipped.”
And you know what?
Maybe he is.
But after coming back to the office, fueled with not only caffeine and sleep deprivation anymore, but also something else– something better this time, Will is able to come up with new ideas and figure out the old problems with more ease. It’s like his whole day did a 180, and if your sheer presence is what helped the whole thing,
he doesn’t think that being whipped for you is such a bad thing.
• Summary: Will and reader collaborate on a video together after James began touring, play dress up, and feelings blossom.
• Pairing: Youtuber!Reader x friend!Will Lenney
• Fluff
• Warnings: Swearing
• Word count: 4,425 words
♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥
“Right! Hello my friends, today we’re gonna go through even more lost Amazon parcels!” Will bellows to the main camera. “You might be wondering where James is today and, well, he’s botherin’ other people while on his tour. So we have the much less annoying, very lovely y/n joining me, to see if we’ve made profit!” Y/n sits smiling and waving at the camera, feeling slightly shy at being called lovely by Will. Deep down she can’t believe she’s there, next to the WillNE, considering she’s not a large creator herself.
It came about after one of her videos, a brutally honest Temu haul, gained traction and ended up being on a lot of people’s recommended. This wound up on Will’s radar and he figured he should have her come by his studio to film some form of haul together. They messaged back and forth through instagram, then they had a Discord video call to discuss the Amazon idea, where they realised they shared great banter and just clicked. Things just blossomed from there. This brings y/n to today; meeting Will face to face for the first time, to judge other people’s parcels.
After some delays with travel, she’d turned up slightly later than expected. The crew were polite, but had to usher her and Will to share only quick hugs and hellos before getting in position to start filming. This worked out in y/n’s favour however, as she’d developed quite a ‘YouTuber crush’ on Will since he’d reached out to her, and the hurry made for a good distraction. Will promised to spend time with her properly after filming, to make up for the rush.
With the video introduction out the way, the pair dive straight in the with parcels. Will has a larger more padded package which he assumes is clothing, whereas y/n has a smaller box and guesses it to be a headset. Will’s was a pair of hot and cold taps for a bathroom sink wrapped in a ton of bubble wrap, whereas y/n’s was a knock-off PS5 controller - so not too far off. While Will fiddles with the taps, twisting the nozzles, y/n double checks the price: £12.99.
“This is over £10 so it goes in the good bin, right Will?” She asks with enthusiasm.
“Yeah, uh-” he stops himself mid sentence and grins. “Yeah! You’re already better than James at this, I had to explain this to him like a million times.” He chirps, leading to y/n and the crew laughing. She shyly looks at the controller information on the box, trying to hide the heat on her cheeks from the way he looked into her eyes and beamed so genuinely.
The next two parcels look similar in size and shape. Will opens his to find a pack of solar powered fairy lights, which he naturally drapes over his shoulders like a scarf, while he leans over and watches y/n gently open hers. “You can just tear it.” He whispers gently over her shoulder, his breath tickling her ear.
“I don’t want to damage it,” she chuckles awkwardly. Will takes the box off her, his long fingers grazing over hers and they exchange a brief glance. Will’s seemingly unbothered, unlike y/n, who plasters a calm smile on her face to cover the electricity she felt.
“Oh don’t mind that.” He then grins before tearing the box open, a cascade of false press-on nail packs spew across the table. After regathering them together in a pile, the pair study each packet. They all contain different lengths and patterns of fake nails. Will holds up a pack of pink leopard print ones, first to the camera and then to y/n. “Please put these on me y/n.” He states, more of a command than a request, his intense stare into her eyes causing her throat to dry up.
“Right now? They might break if you keep ravaging the boxes.” She quips.
Will frowns for a moment. “Hm, maybe you’re right, put them on us when we’re finished.” He holds the pack in front of y/n, as she reaches to take it, he claps it in her hand with both of his. As her gaze darts to his eyes, he keeps his hands there. “Make me fabulous.” He adds on, almost as if he only said that to keep the contact for a couple of seconds longer. He chuckles before turning forward again. “The rest can go in the bad bin, they’re all cheap as fuck.” He shoves the other packets of nails to his left into the red bin, most missing completely, then yanks off his fairy lights and whips them in too.
They dig through a few more parcels, finding only mundane things like hose pipes, extension cords, gloves, all of which go in the bad bin. Y/n gets passed a large but soft package, whereas Will’s only given something small. He rips through his first only to find a dog collar. He lets out a small laugh before pulling a fake offended face. “Oi, did you lot know this was a collar?” He glances from crew member to crew member as a smirk creeps on his face, y/n presses her hands to her mouth in shock.
“Oh no!” She muffles, her eyes wide as they dart from the collar to Will’s face.
“I’m only jokin’ it’s all good, I’m over all that!” He shrugs with a low chuckle as he fiddles with the collar, glancing over at y/n’s package before meeting her gaze. “I’m well over it.” He repeats quietly before his attention returns to the parcel. The reassurance, for only her to hear, and his gentle tone makes her heart skip a beat. And the way he looked at her in those mere seconds, like he wanted her to know he’s single and open. But she doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, maybe he just didn’t want her to feel bad for him.
Y/n’s package reveals a beach towel with built in sleeves, a front pocket and a hood. “This is really cute!” She beams as she holds it outwards toward the camera. Will grins as he places his hand on her shoulder.
“Try it on, try it on!” He chants, slapping the table. She chuckles as she pulls it on over her head, poking her arms through. It’s huge on her. “Don’t forget the hood-” He giggles as he yanks it over her head, the sheer size enveloping her entire face, causing him to burst out in his high pitched laughter. She sits still for a moment in silence for comedic effect before turning to face him slightly, still not uttering a word. It spurs him on even more, his laughs now emitting no sound at all. She just shakes her head at him, the crew also sharing a laugh. As he calms down, he gently moves the hood back to reveal her face. “Sorry love.” He utters cheekily, his hand moving down her back and out of view of the cameras. He gives her a gentle pat before placing his hands on his lap. She’s lucky she’s wearing a bad attempt at a pout, with a smirk sneaking in, otherwise her face would’ve given away her reaction to his gentle touches.
Will throws the collar to his left without looking. “My shitty collar can go in the bad bin, but this,” he grabs the sleeve of the towel hoodie, his knuckles lighting a small fire against y/n’s arm. “Can go in the good bin at £18.” He continues.
A couple of more expensive parcels get opened, including a Nerf gun, which Will uses to terrorise the camera men, and some fairly decent AirPod copycats. They also find more funny cheap items for the bad bin; socks with weird phrases on and a book on how to get lucky with women. Will holds the book up with a smirk. “I don’t need shite like this, I got y/n here on my natural charm alone.” He gestures towards her as she exaggerates a swoon. She wonders if he knows she means it deep down, watching his eyes and nose crinkle as he laughs with her.
The next two packages are definitely fun. Y/n opens to find a policeman costume, opting to put just the hat on while still wearing the towel-top, and tapping the plastic baton into her palm. Will salutes her and calls her ‘Officer Towelson’ before ripping his parcel open, to find a lacy black bra. “Ooh la la,” he murmurs as he holds it up to his chest.
“It’s your size!” Y/n jokingly gasps, Will giggles before getting an idea.
“Right.” He chucks the bra on the desk before whipping his black jumper off, the swift motion taking y/n by surprise, but she thinks fast.
“I can arrest you for indecent exposure ma’am.” She jabs in an authoritative tone. Will shakes his head with a big grin as he loops his arms through the bra, pressing the cups to his chest.
“Can ya help us with the back?” He asks, looking into her eyes with a slight hesitance, as if he didn’t think the question through. She obliges however, leaving the chair and standing behind him.
“Black’s really your colour.” She jokes to lighten the more… intimate mood, as Will frowns to the camera with confusion. Feeling the heat from Will’s skin, she struggles with the intricate hook design on the clasp. “What’s with this?” She mumbles out loud as she leans closer, still fumbling. Her breath caresses his shoulder blades, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand, and she notices. Will dips his head down, maybe thinking it’ll help her in some way, or maybe to hide any redness on his face from view.
“There.” She sighs with a relieved smile as she sits back down next Will. He looks down at his new lingerie and feels his chest again.
“I look like a cheap hooker.” Will states, “But the bra was 25 quid so it should go in the good bin.” There’s a long pause while y/n and the crew wait for Will to remove it, or try to.
Noticing the silence, Will looks around and realises. “Oh, I still want to wear it.” He grins, before leaning over to y/n. “It’s my colour after all.” He whispers with a wink. Thinking fast again, she gently taps him with her baton.
“Calm down missy, prostitution is a crime.” She sniggers.
Will pauses for a moment. “What has this video become?” He asks the camera, feigning disappointment while suppressing a smile.
After a few more parcels, Will declares it’s ‘fucking freezing’ and puts his jumper back on, over the bra. Y/n is still dressed as Officer Towelson, but with the new box Will opens, they both now occupy a fake moustache each from a party pack. Will’s is bushy, whereas y/n has a small handlebar moustache. The crew giggle at their looks as the pair turn to face each other. “Oh wow!” Y/n bellows and they both burst out laughing. As they calm down and shove the torn cardboard pieces onto the floor, Will shakes his head and sighs.
“You still look fit, mind.” He murmurs and her eyes widen. Still? She wonders. She shyly spins her baton in place on the table as they wait for their final parcels.
Hers is a small package, whereas Will’s is only slightly larger. They tear into them at the same time, y/n having lost her gentle touch from the before. They open a pack of fake piercings and a collection of multicoloured clip-in hair extensions. “Oh my god y/n, put ‘em all on me please.” He begs excitedly and almost aggressively. She giggles as she adjusts her moustache and gets behind Will again, attaching different strands to his mullet and draping them over his shoulders so they’re all in view. She hears him audibly sigh a shaken breath as her hands brush against the sides of his neck.
When she sits back beside him, she notices his bushy moustache is gone and he’s wearing a fake septum ring in its place, alongside two fake lip rings. “Can you put these on my ears?” He asks with a cheeky grin, handing over some clip-on dangly earrings and another fake hoop ring. She lets out a small laugh and shakes her head.
“Yes, Will.”
He turns more to face her directly as she easily clips the first earring to his lobe while he sits still with his eyes closed. He then turns his head so his other ear is more in reach, coincidentally shielding his face from the camera. She clips the other dangly earring with ease before looking from ear to ear. “Where do you want the last ring?” She asks.
“On the side here.” He replies softly, tapping the edge of his ear, just above where the lobe meets cartilage, with his head still turned away from the crew. As she leans closer to ensure she doesn’t nip him or pinch him, she notices his gaze flicker down to her lips and back up to her eyes. She’s sure of it. They feel their breaths mix just as y/n’s certain the ring’s on comfortably and leans back slowly.
“Perfect.” She smirks, “You’re the prettiest hooker I’ve ever arrested.” Will laughs in response before gasping.
“Oh!” He exclaims before carefully removing his jumper again. The crew sniggering at the pair. Y/n, wearing a beach towel/hoodie, a police hat and a handlebar moustache; beside her is Will in a lacy bra, with fake piercings and kids’ rainbow extensions in his hair. “D’ya still have the nails?” He then asks.
“Oh yeah…” She reaches into her towel pocket and pulls them out, smirking at the camera. “This may take a while as we need to find which ones fit each nail.” She advises the camera and by extension, the crew. Will decides to dismiss them for a short break, even though they’re so close to finishing the recording. Everyone leaves the room except for the producer Olga who sips her iced coffee and scrolls through her phone. Still, the moment feels intimate.
“How’ve you found it so far.” Will asks quietly as he glances up at y/n’s face, double taking at the moustache and chuckling through his nose.
“So fun,” she beams in response as she empties the fake nails onto the desk, preparing to check each size.
“Yeah?” Will whispers, looking deeply at how her eyes wrinkle as she smiles.
“Absolutely, honestly I thought you’d be a grump with me like you are with James, so I was surprised.” She giggles. She holds a nail up to Will’s hand as he edges it closer to her.
“Well, we’ve been mates for a while, more like brothers.” He shrugs, watching her hands as they gently continue measuring. “It’s ya first time on the channel so I thought I’d better not be too mean to you.”
She raises her eyebrows, pausing to meet his gaze. “So you went easy on me, huh?” She smirks. His eyes dart down to her lips, licking his own instinctively as she continues comparing sizes.
“You could say that, yeah.” His pitch and volume low, noticing Olga leave the room out the corner of his eye, leaving the two alone.
“I don’t think you’re mean Will, I think you’re sweet.” She states bravely, also noticing it’s just the two of them. “I just need to apply these glue strips…” Will feels his face heat up at her compliment, pressing his hands firm to the table nervously as she applies the clear strips to each nail.
“And you’re just as entertaining and comforting as you come across online.” Will says, taking a small breath as she takes his hand, holding it in her own as she begins pressing on the nails. They’re soft and warm, contrasting the cooler air and rough lace against his chest.
“Comforting?” She questions, still holding his hand.
“Yeah. You’re like really comfortable to be around, I felt like I could be meself around you from the call alone.” He explains. She shoots him a sweet smile.
“Same to you actually.” She replies, with the final nail pressed on. She holds the plastic against his pinky fingernail as a silence falls over them. After looking at how nice Will’s hands are, her eyes flick up at his only to see he’s already looking at her. His gaze trails down to her lips as she watches his Adam’s apple bounce in his throat. She’s certain she can see him slowly lean forward but before she can confirm,
“How’s it getting on?” Olga asks as she reenters the room. Luckily she was looking down at her phone, so she didn’t notice the two’s faces being only inches apart. The pair sit back straight in their chairs as if nothing happened.
“Just got the last nail on now.” Y/n chuckles awkwardly as Will holds his hands out, admiring her work. The crew join them to film the outro.
“Thanks for watchin’ friends!” Will starts, gesturing his hands to ensure his new manicure will be noticeable to the viewers. “A massive thank you to y/n for making this fun and even more so for my new look!” He gestures towards his towel clad police friend.
“You look beautiful Will.” She grins, Will swishes a couple of the coloured extensions over his shoulder.
“Hey I like her!” He chirps to Olga, gesturing towards y/n with his thumb. “She’s far better than James. Let’s bar ‘im from the channel!”
———
“Nice work again guys, I’ll let you close up Will.” Olga calls to Will and y/n as she leaves the studio room with the other crew members, “See you later!”
“Bye, nice to meet you all!” Y/n calls out as she waves.
“Bye you lot!” Will chimes in. Now it’s just the two of them again, he turns to look at his fellow creator, shyness creeping over him. “So, that was definitely fun.”
“It really was, definitely the best first collab I’ve ever done!” She giggles, Will’s eyes widen as they both tidy up some more.
“What?! This is ya first collab?” He asks, his voice up an octave. She nods with an embarrassed smile.
“You’re a natural darlin’!” He squeaks, eliciting a laugh from her as she avoids his gaze. They put the last of the cardboard away. “Hey, you still wanna do something while the sun’s still out?” He asks sweetly.
“Of course, it’s so beautiful outside.” She replies, grabbing her bag.
———
The London breeze strokes their cheeks as they step onto the pavement side by side. The one good thing about rushing to record? There’s plenty of the day left to spend time together. Real time, in person, not hours of texting or chatting rubbish or planning meet ups over Discord. “You’re even better in person.” Will blurts out, realising how weird he sounds almost immediately, “I mean like, your personality and all that.” He clears his throat while she lets out a shy giggle. “Fuck, I just mean… I mean it’s nice to know it’s not all put on for YouTube. You’re genuine y/n.”
She chuckles some more, staring at the ground to avoid any eye contact. “Thanks Will, the same goes to you honestly.”
“Oh god, be honest now, what did ya really think I’d be like?” He dreads to ask.
“A miserable sod.” She quips back, a little too fast, eliciting a quiet but high pitched laugh from him.
“You cheeky bitch.” He shakes his head, keeping his hand in his pocket as he elbows her playfully. “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with me to say stuff like that.”
They reach a small indie cafe, the smell of coffee beckoning them in. “Might as well,” Will shrugs, “didn’t get a chance to get a drink before recordin’.”
The pair order their typical go-to drinks and opt for a table by the window, it’s a little more secluded, and they get to people-watch passers by. Will begins telling her a funny anecdote about one of his earliest collabs with James, while y/n tries her best to focus 100% of herself on his words. It’s difficult though, her eyes keep wondering to his lips and chiselled jaw while he smirks, or the way his eyes squint shut when he laughs unapologetically, or his big hands when he gestures. “Have I lost ya?” He asks with a snigger.
She blinks and lightly shakes her head, realising she’d been staring. “No-no, you said he was being all smug. Carry on.” She’s right. Luckily she was still listening slightly, just a little captivated at the same time. It doesn’t stop her cheeks from burning up though.
“Right… ‘Cause for a minute there, I thought you were eyein’ me up.” He smirks, folding his elbows on the table and shooting her a confident yet almost challenging look. She’s so taken aback she nearly crushes the coffee cup in her grip.
“W-what?” She squeaks. Taking a sip to try and get away with saying nothing more.
“Yeah you were like, proper staring at me.” He mirrors her, also taking a drink. She pinches her lips between her teeth, watching his hand to avoid eye contact. “It’s alright if you were love.” He licks his lips as his eyes scan her up and down, his grin growing wider.
“I, um…” Her gaze meets his and she feels her hands clam up. “I guess… I’m sorry.” Is all she can let out.
“Don’t apologise, I’m flattered. It’s nice to know it’s not just me.” His eyes stay on hers as he reassures her, leaning more forward in his chair as he waves his hand nonchalantly.
“Not just you?” She questions, wiping her sweaty hands on her thighs.
“Exactly that, I’ve been checkin’ you out all day.” He chuckles shyly, looking down at his cup and saucer. “No point in hidin’ it, I’m only human. Look at ya.” He looks back up at her and gestures towards her beautiful flushed face. “Anyway where was I? Oh yeah James, the smug bastard…”
———
By the time the pair finished their drinks, an orange hue began cascading over the streets. Will can sure tell a story, but it kept y/n interested, even with the awkward intermission in the middle. Will waits for the barista to look their way before mouthing a polite request for their bill. She comes over and naturally places it in front of Will, alongside a couple of complimentary chocolate mints. He pays by card pretty quick and the barista takes away their cups, along with plates from the pastries the pair ended up having.
Y/n takes out her phone. “How much was my stuff again?” She asks, opening her banking app. Will reaches over the table, placing his hand over her phone, his fingers enveloping hers.
“Don’t be daft, it’s on me.” He smiles. His hand lingers on hers, and she wonders if the barista can sense the tension from across the cafe. After a little back and forth, y/n allows him to cover the whole cost and they leave.
“I can’t believe it’s still warm, the sun’ll be completely set soon.” Y/n chirps as they take a leisurely stroll.
“Maybe you’re just warm from sizin’ me up earlier.” Will shrugs, his head tilting slightly as he watches her reaction out the side of his eye.
“Stop it, you.” She laughs, her hand covering her shy smile.
“Ah just admit it y/n, you fancy me a bit.” He chirps as he wraps his arm over her shoulder, pulling her into him and causing her to stumble as they walk. She steadies herself as she giggles, her hand instinctively resting against his belly. They stop walking and share a gaze. One that’s a little more unreadable. His face becomes more serious as he looks down at her. The near daily texts and voice notes, the silly selfies and memes shared, the Discord call that lasted seemingly forever - it all led up to now.
“Since our first call, I’ve not stopped thinking about meeting you properly.” He confesses, his voice low and soft. He notices the way the sunset reflects in her eyes, making them glow, as if the universe is telling him that she’s the one.
“I felt a connection just from text, but the video call was on another level.” He continues, his eyes wide as he gestures his hands even wider, almost in disbelief at his own words. “I knew I was in trouble already, and now...” He peers down at her again, a smile daring to tug at his lips, as he almost forgets how to speak.
Her eyes shimmer pinks and oranges as she hangs on to every word. Facing him fully and stood out the way of other pedestrians so their moment remains uninterrupted. “And now?” She repeats, her gaze glued to his lips.
Testing the waters, his fingers brush against her upper arm. She doesn’t step away or grimace, in fact she leans into his touch. “And now… like I said, even better in person.” He answers, his voice barely above a whisper. They stand in a peaceful silence as their eyes lock, a connection stronger than friends now established in an unspoken agreement. Will smirks. “So, do you fancy us?”
It’s brave but it feels like the right thing, she tugs at his jumper and pulls him down, connecting their lips as Will exhales a small squeak. The kiss lasts no longer than two seconds, a gentle peck as to not rock the boat. Will stands straight again, his lips still forming a slight pout as he registers what just happened.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He then quips, beaming as he watches y/n laugh. He reaches a hand out to cup her cheek, whispering a “C’mere you” as he leans down to plant a softer kiss to her lips. It’s gentle and affectionate, until things kick up a gear.
Her arms hug around his waist as his other arm wraps over her shoulder, pulling her flush against him as he tilts his head to deepen their kiss. He exhales a low hum against her lips as his thumb rubs gentle circles on her cheek. A passer by wolf whistles them, snapping them out of their makeout session. They pull apart and each catch their breaths as they start giggling.
Will’s smile only grows as he tugs her towards him once more, leaning down and pressing his forehead to hers. His hands slide down her arms and he weaves his fingers between hers. He sighs contently before asking: “D’you want to come back to mine tonight?”
♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥
Part 2?
A/n: Idk why I never noticed how yummy he is before...
- Gabby xo
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Summary: Will and the reader have to deal with flying for the first time with their children. It goes better than expected.
Warnings: None!
Notes: Part three of Super Trouper, based on this ask! I hope its what you were wanting and sorry this took so long! I think this is the end of the Airport Dad trope, I fear I have run this to the ground...
The kitchen hummed with a frantic, pre-dawn energy that felt at odds with the deep indigo pressing against the windows. 4:00 AM. Outside, the world was still asleep. Inside, the chaos of the preparation to leave for the airport was in full swing.
Worktops were buried under an avalanche of last-minute necessities. Lotion bottles, plasters, scrunchies, bibs, spare nappies, barf bags, and the ominous sprawl of multiple, heavily annotated packing lists. Will stood amidst it, cross-referencing them, a pen clenched between his teeth, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. The soft thump-thump-thump of the suitcase scale punctuated the quiet. He’d weighed them before bed. He’d weighed them after packing the toiletries. He was weighing them again.
"Did we pack the kids' Calpol?" His voice was tight, the question snapping out without him looking up from the digital display. "The tablets? Not the liquid. It would be easier, but we–"
He kept talking—half to you, half to himself—but your attention drifted. Noah had appeared silently at your side, his little body pressing into your leg like a barnacle. His wide eyes blinked up at you, lip wobbling, pyjamas rumpled from sleep. Pre-travel nerves had him wrapped tight. "I don’t want to fly, Mummy."
You sank to your knees and gathered him in, your arms forming a warm cocoon. His fingers clutched at your hoodie as you rocked gently, cheek resting against his soft, sleep-warmed hair. You whispered whatever came to mind, "I thought you were excited to go on a holiday? Think of it as just a big adventure, sweetheart," you murmured. "Like pirates in the sky. Maybe with snacks. Maybe a movie."
Behind you, Lily came clattering into the kitchen, already dressed and determined. At five, she’d made it her life’s work to imitate her father, and this morning was no different. "Mummy!" she declared urgently. "Trix needs his travel scarf! The silky blue one! He gets plane ears otherwise!" Trix, her well-loved rabbit, dangled from her grip by one ear, the poor thing already showing signs of long service.
You smoothed a hand down Noah’s back and looked over your shoulder at her. "It’s on your dresser, love. Remember? Daddy made sure it was ready for you last night."
She gasped as if remembering a crucial mission and took off again, little socked feet thudding down the hall.
Your eyes flicked to Will. Deep lines of concentration marked his face. His jaw was tight. He stared intensely at the suitcase. He was a portrait of quiet tension, the kind only you knew how to read.
Still rocking Noah, you stretched one arm across the cluttered kitchen counter, fingers finding the familiar shape of Will’s travel vest. The many-pocketed monstrosity had started as a joke when Lily was born, jokingly saying he is officially an Airport Dad. You hadn’t expected him to actually wear it. But he had. Every trip since. And every time, you smiled.
You’d packed it the night before in a rare moment of quiet, a wordless offering. Cereal bars sorted by type in zip-locks, a travel pack of wipes in the side, and most importantly, everyone’s passports tucked safe inside the inner pocket. You knew he’d check for them compulsively, every time his hand wasn’t busy with something else.
You slid the vest across the counter toward him. "Vests ready," you said simply. "Calpol’s in the side pocket. Blue box. EU-approved. I double-checked."
That cut through. Will looked up at last, eyes leaving the suitcase. He glanced at the vest, then at you. And in that small shift, the tight line of his shoulders eased just enough to breathe again. He picked it up and shrugged it on without a word, the weight of responsibility pressing back into his chest in a way that seemed to settle him.
He crossed the kitchen with purpose, still clinging to every step, but something in his face had shifted, the tightness around his eyes eased, and the weight of the morning was just a touch lighter. He leaned in close, and for a moment, everything else fell away. His hand found the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as he kissed you, not rushed or distracted, but slow, warm, and grateful. A small pause in the chaos. His forehead lingered against yours for half a breath before he pulled back, brushing a kiss over your temple for good measure.
"Thank you, love," he murmured, voice low with something heavier than routine.
Then he turned to Noah, crouching so they were face-to-face. He gently ruffled the boy’s soft hair, fingers lingering just long enough to reassure. "Alright, little man," he said, quieter now, "will you let Mummy get you dressed? Maybe some toast too, if you’re up for it. Bit of jam?"
Noah gave a small, sleepy nod, voice barely more than a whisper. "Yes, Daddy. That sounds good."
You scooped Noah into your arms, his small hands knotting in the fabric of your jumper as he rested his cheek against your shoulder. His skin was warm and soft with sleep, breath slow and even now that his world felt steadier. Will opened the hallway door for you, brushing his hand lightly against the curve of your back as you passed, and you carried your son upstairs, whispering quiet encouragements as you went.
It didn’t take long.
Noah was pliant in your hands, docile as you guided his limbs through the soft cotton of his travel clothes. He grumbled only once when you tugged a sock too snug, but let it go the moment you kissed his temple. You smoothed his hair back, pressed one last gentle kiss to his crown, and took his hand as you returned to the kitchen.
The scent of toasting bread and freshly brewed tea already filled the kitchen, a comforting, familiar embrace. Will was at the counter, a quiet hum on his lips as he expertly stacked slices of golden-brown bread into the toaster, each one popping up with satisfying precision. The kettle rumbled softly behind him, a gentle prelude to the day. A pair of brightly coloured plates, adorned with cartoon characters, was already waiting on the small, round table, a pat of butter softening patiently in its dish beside them. He looked up, a faint smile playing on his lips, as you stepped into the room, Noah nestled comfortably on your hip.
"The little man all set for the day?" Will asked, his eyes immediately dropping to Noah, a fond warmth in his gaze as he reached for a knife to spread the butter.
"Top to toe," you replied with a laugh, carefully settling Noah into his booster seat at the table. "He’s even got matching socks. The apocalypse must be close."
Will snorted quietly, a low, amused sound that vibrated through the cosy kitchen. "That’s definitely your doing, not mine." He winked, then gestured to the toaster. "Toast’s almost ready. Just in time."
Just then, THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD, the thunder of a pair of little feet hit the stairs.
The silence was obliterated by the sudden, unmistakable thunder of small feet hitting the wooden stairs at a gallop. "Mummyyy!" Lily’s voice, impossibly bright and chipper for the pre-dawn greyness clinging to the windows, echoed down the hall, cutting through the kettle's rumble. A heartbeat later, she exploded into the kitchen doorway.
She was dressed. Her favourite purple leggings firmly in place, topped by the slightly too-big rainbow shirt she adored. The clothes were on and on correctly, you’re taking that win. But the state of her hair told another story. Her riot of brunette waves exploded around her face like a dandelion caught in a gale, each strand stubbornly resisting the half-hearted swipes she’d attempted with her brush. Tucked securely under her arm, gripped with the fierce devotion only a child can muster, was Trix, who wore their own miniature blue scarf knotted under its chin.
"I’m hungry," she declared, bee-lining for the table, scrambled onto her bright green booster seat with practised ease, and immediately began swinging her legs with rhythmic, purposeful thumps against the chair legs.
You raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter, arms folded. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."
"Morning!" she beamed back, utterly unbothered. Her bright blue eyes zeroed in on the activity at the toaster. "Is that toast?" The question was thick with hopeful anticipation.
"Fresh from the toaster," Will confirmed, the corner of his mouth twitching as he deftly caught the popping slices. He slid one onto the plate waiting beside Noah. The second slice landed on a clean plate, which Will placed with a soft clink in front of Lily. "Jam or no jam?"
You pushed off the counter, the brief moment of leaning over. Noah was already eyeing his untouched slice, tiny fingers flexing with anticipation. "Let's make that manageable for you, little man," you murmured, picking up the knife Will had used earlier. With quick, practiced motions, you cut the warm toast into small, bite-sized squares. Small enough for pudgy fingers to grasp safely. The buttery, toasted scent bloomed stronger as you worked. You nudged the plate closer to Noah’s highchair tray. "There you go, sweet pea. Careful, it’s warm."
Noah's eyes lit up. A chubby fist closed around a toast square, sending a few others tumbling. He brought it to his mouth with a determined, "Mmm!" Crumbs immediately dusted his chin as he gummed it enthusiastically, his little legs kicking beneath the highchair tray in a rhythm of pure contentment.
Lily leaned forward, practically vibrating with the importance of the decision. "Jam," she announced decisively. "Lots. The red one. Please." She tacked the politeness on like an afterthought, remembering just in time.
Will nodded with exaggerated solemnity, as if receiving vital instructions. He unscrewed the jar of vibrant strawberry jam, its sweet, fruity scent briefly overpowering the toast. He then spread a generous, glistening layer across the warm bread, ensuring it reached every corner. He then set the plate in front of her. "Red jam. Applied liberally. As commanded."
Lily snatched the plate, her face alight with triumph. "Fank you, Daddy!" she mumbled, already taking a huge, jam-smeared bite. The quiet kitchen was now officially a hive of activity. The rhythmic crunch of toast, Noah’s happy "Mmm!"s punctuated by the soft thud of dropped squares hitting his tray, the sticky sounds of Lily’s chewing, and the persistent thump-thump-thump of her swinging legs against the chair.
"Right," Will said, blowing out a breath that was half amusement, half fatigue. He deftly slid two more slices into the toaster and cranked the dial. "Our turn." He reached for the coffee pot and poured steaming amber liquid into two waiting mugs.
"Perfect, thank you," you said, already reaching for the butter dish and the knife.
Will placed your mug beside you on the counter just as the toaster ejected the next batch with a decisive clack. You grabbed the hot slices. First, you focused on Will's a quick, smooth layer of butter melting instantly into golden pools across the warm surface. You slid the buttered slice onto his plate and nudged it towards him. Then, you turned to your own toast. Butter first, melting just as eagerly, was followed by a modest swirl of the vibrant strawberry jam from the open jar.
Will picked up his plate, leaning back against the counter beside you. But instead of taking a bite, he simply held it, his gaze resting on you expectantly, a faint, patient smile touching his lips. Steam curled from his coffee mug as he took a slow sip, waiting.
Understanding the unspoken ritual, you picked up your jam-topped toast. The warmth seeped into your fingers. You took the first bite of sweet jam, rich butter, and the satisfying crunch filling your senses. A soft hum escaped you.
Only then, seeing you begin to eat, did Will raise his plain toast to his mouth. He took a large, appreciative bite, the simple crunch echoing yours. He gave a small, contented nod, his eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of his mug.
The last crumbs vanished, and the kitchen snapped into action. You stacked sticky plates under the warm stream of the tap, the scent of soap and toast-moistened porcelain rising as you scrubbed. Across the room, Will scooped Noah from his high chair, settling the baby against his shoulder with a practised heft.
“Teeth”, you called over the rush of water, nodding towards the hallway.
Will’s grin flashed, quick and bright. “Teeth”, he confirmed, already moving with Noah bouncing gently on his hip. “Operation Minty Fresh, recruit!” he declared to your drowsy boy.
After washing the dishes, you walked to the bathroom. Lily sat balanced on the edge of the counter, holding her small pink toothbrush tightly in her fist. She hummed a continuous, off-key sound while swinging her legs back and forth. Her bare heels bumped against the cupboard door below the sink with each swing. The tap dripped steadily behind her, each drop hitting the basin with a distinct sound that repeated at regular intervals.
“My turn, Mummy!” she announced, thrusting the brush towards you. You squeezed a tiny blue star of paste onto the bristles. Next to you, Will braced Noah against his chest, one large hand cradling the baby’s chin, the other wielding Noah’s tiny silicone brush with surprising delicacy. He worked in slow, patient circles over Noah’s few pearly teeth, murmuring low encouragement against the soft down of his hair. “Open wide, good lad. This will be quick.”
The air filled with the clean, sharp tang of mint, the clatter of running water as Lily enthusiastically rinsed, and the constant stream of her observations. “Noah’s paste is blue like Trixie’s scarf! Did you see the bird? My tooth is wiggly!”
Finally, damp faces glistened, more or less toothpaste-free. Will lowered Noah’s toothbrush. “All yours,” he said, his voice warm with the quiet satisfaction of a task completed. He shifted Noah’s weight, turning the baby towards you. You reached out, your hands meeting under Noah’s arms as Will smoothly transferred him from his chest to yours. Noah settled against you with a soft, doughy sigh, immediately tucking his face into the curve of your neck.
Now free, Will set Noah’s little toothbrush down on the edge of the sink with a decisive clink. You caught Lily’s chin with your free hand, the other securely around Noah, gently wiping a stubborn blue smudge from her cheek with a towel. “Smile,” you asked. She beamed at you and then hopped down. “Sparkling.”
Noah, now that he was settled against you, sighed contentedly again, his warm breath puffing against your skin. Will took a breath, shoulders squaring. The momentary calm of the minty bathroom evaporated, replaced by the focused energy of departure.
You moved first, shifting Noah’s warm, dozing weight against your shoulder. “Alright, Captain,” you said to Lily, nudging her gently towards the hallway. “Shoes on. Quick march!”
Lily scampered ahead, her humming dissolving into a focused scuffle with her tiny trainers near the doormat. “I can do the sparkly ones myself!”
Will moved instantly. He disappeared into the bedrooms and came back into the hallway seconds later, carrying multiple bags. The bulky diaper bag hung from one shoulder. He gripped Lily's small wheeled suitcase tightly. The large shared suitcase packed for you, him, and Noah dominated his effort. He gripped its handle with his other hand, tilting it back onto its wheels as he manoeuvred it through the doorway. His keys jingled in his pocket as he hurried past you towards the front door, his breathing already quick and shallow from the effort. "Car’s open!" he called out, the words sounding rushed and slightly breathless.
You followed, guiding Lily ("Heel down, sweetpea") while balancing Noah against your hip. Feeling the cool draught from the front door already, you knew shoes couldn't wait. "Shoe stop, little man," you murmured, lowering Noah carefully onto the hallway floorboards near the pile of tiny sneakers.
Noah swayed slightly on his feet, blinking sleepily. Instinctively, his chubby hands came up, gripping your shoulders for balance as you knelt before him. His weight settled trustingly into your hands. You quickly snagged his little blue sneakers. He didn't fuss, didn't squirm – just leaned into you, his eyelids heavy, his breathing soft and even as he watched your movements with drowsy curiosity. His socked foot was warm and pliant in your hand. You guided one foot, then the other, into the soft shoes, securing the Velcro straps snugly across the top with efficient rrrippp sounds.
"Good lad," you whispered, giving his knee a gentle pat. He offered a sigh, more puff than protest, as you scooped him back up, settling him securely on your hip once more. The cool morning air hit your faces as Will yanked the front door wide. Outside, the car waited, trunk lid gaping open.
Will efficiently began the Tetris game of luggage. Thump. Clunk. Slide. You heard the satisfying click of the suitcase handle retracting. Your focus was the back seat. You popped the rear door open.
“In you hop, Lily-bear,” you instructed, helping her clamber over the sill into her booster seat. Tiny fingers fumbled with the buckle’s clasp. “Mummy can help.” you murmured, leaning in, one hand still braced against Noah’s back. The familiar click-snick of the five-point harness securing her was a small victory.
Noah was next. You lifted his sleeping body. Getting him settled into the rear-facing car seat required careful steering in the confined space. You bent down, lowering him slowly into the padded seat, making sure his head didn't touch the frame. His eyes opened slightly, looking around with a dazed expression in the car's dim interior light. “Shhh, nearly there, little man.” you said quietly. You quickly pulled the harness straps over his shoulders, fastened the buckle across his waist, and pressed down firmly until the central buckle clicked loudly, matching the sound from Lily’s seat. You tightened the straps just enough, checking the fit with two fingers pressed flat against his collarbone. Pacifier? You found it and tucked it securely beside him.
Closing the rear door, you turned just as Will shut the trunk with a solid, final thump. He wiped his hands down his jeans, a quick and efficient gesture. His eyes scanned the car. He saw Lily swinging her legs, already chattering to Noah. He saw Noah, his pacifier bobbing slightly, his eyes drifting shut again. And he saw you, leaning against the side of the car, catching your breath.
He met your gaze across the roof of the car. A silent nod passed between you. All clear. All loaded. The calm before the actual journey began.
“Right,” Will said, the single word carrying the weight of miles to come. He yanked open the driver’s door. “Everyone buckled? Lily? Noah?”
“YES, DADDY!” Lily chirped.
Noah offered a sleepy sigh around his pacifier.
Will slid into the driver’s seat. You circled the car, the familiar scent of upholstery and stale crisps greeting you as you opened the passenger door. As you buckled your own seatbelt, the engine rumbled to life. Will adjusted the mirror, his gaze catching yours briefly in the reflection.
"Okay," he said, his voice steadier now, taking charge of the next phase. "Next stop, check-in." He pulled out of the garage, leaving the silent, dark house behind.
The roads were nearly empty, just the occasional set of headlights passing in the opposite direction. Streetlights blurred by in measured intervals. Will kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The radio was tuned to a random news channel, low enough not to disturb, soft background noise for the drive. Nobody spoke much. Lily eventually dozed off, her head tipped sideways. Noah stayed awake but quiet, watching the lights flick past with that glassy-eyed focus of a child still shaking off sleep.
By 5:14 AM, they reached the long-stay car park. Will took the familiar turns without needing to think—right past the terminal, second exit off the roundabout, then into the multi-level structure.
The machine spat out the ticket, which he grabbed without pausing, slipping it into the dash tray. “Blue level, Section D,” he muttered, squinting at the signage overhead. He slowed down, eyes flicking between painted arrows and numbered rows.
He pulled into a bay, straightened the car with a single neat adjustment, and turned off the ignition. The engine stilled. The quiet that followed was dense—not peaceful exactly, but purposeful. Outside, you could hear the distant echo of trolleys rolling and the thump of other boots on concrete.
Will rubbed a hand down his face, then turned to you.
“Okay”, he said. “Let’s get them out. We’re right on time.”
Will was out of the driver’s seat before the handbrake had even finished clicking. “Right. Operation Unload,” he said, already circling to the boot. The car beeped as he unlocked it, the sound sharp in the cold concrete stillness. The overhead lights buzzed quietly, casting everything in a pale, industrial glow.
He moved quickly, hauling out the largest suitcase first and setting it down with care. Then Lily’s smaller one, then the bulky, overpacked diaper bag. Everything went into a neat row at his feet like pieces on a game board. His hand went instinctively to his chest, tapping the front of his travel vest—checking, as always, that the passports were still tucked safe in the inside pocket. They were.
You heard Noah start to fuss before you even opened your door.
Inside the car, he’d squirmed out of his blanket again, eyes heavy but still resisting. His head tipped sideways against the seatbelt strap, mouth pouty and determined. You knew that look well, not quite awake, not ready to sleep, and entirely overwhelmed.
“Mummy,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes furiously. “I don’t want to walk.”
“I know, sweetheart,” you said gently, unbuckling yourself. “We’re almost there. Just let me get you out.”
You stepped into the cold air, breath clouding faintly in front of you. On the other side of the car, Lily had already started to stir, half-asleep and clutching Trix to her chest.
“Are we getting on the plane now?” She asked through a yawn, her hair sticking out in every direction.
“Not yet, love. Just bags for now,” you said, opening her door. She reached for you automatically, and you helped her down, steadying her as she landed.
“Hold on to Trix,” you reminded her.
You rounded the car to Noah’s side. He didn’t resist when you unbuckled him, but his limbs were heavy with exhaustion. “Mummy,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m tired.”
“I know, baby.” You lifted him gently, and he immediately curled into your chest, small arms clinging tightly. “You can stay with me for now.”
Behind you, Will returned with a trolley, one wheel already squeaking in protest. He pulled it up beside the car, crouched briefly to adjust the strap, and began loading the luggage, big suitcase first, then Lily’s, then the diaper bag stacked on top. He clipped the itinerary card to the handle like it was a boarding pass itself.
“Trolley’s sorted,” he called softly. “How’s Noah?”
“Awake”, you said with a sigh. “But not really.”
“Right, we can get a move on then,” he said, checking the time on his watch. “Lift’s this way. Should give us twenty-three minutes to get to check-in before the queues get thick. We’re doing well.”
You adjusted Noah against your hip, his little body warm and slack with exhaustion. Will looked over and caught sight of you juggling both children and their accessories. His mouth quirked into the smallest smile, tight but warm.
“Alright”, he said, nodding once, “Everyone with me.”
The four of you made your way across the car park, the sound of the trolley’s rattling wheels echoing against the concrete. Lily walked close beside you, holding Trix in one hand. Will led the way, checking the signage above for directions to the terminal entrance.
A short covered walkway connected the parking structure to the main building. As you approached the sliding glass doors, the early morning cold gave way to warm, recycled air and soft overhead music. The lift to Departures was just ahead. Will pressed the button, then checked his watch. Still on schedule.
When the doors opened with a mechanical shudder, Will pushed the trolley in first, checking the weight as the wheels bumped over the threshold. You followed close behind with Lily at your side and Noah still resting against your shoulder, his grip around your neck now slack but steady.
Inside, the lift was filled with the soft sounds of Lily humming to herself and the quiet creak of the trolley wheels as Will adjusted his stance. He pressed the button for departures and checked his watch again. A low beep marked the floor change, and when the doors opened, the terminal loomed bright and buzzing beyond the glass.
It was just after 5:20 AM. The check-in queues were beginning to build, mostly other families and a few lone travellers clutching coffees and boarding passes.
“Let’s stick close,” Will said, already scanning the signage above. “Zone C, right-hand side.” His voice had that clipped edge it always got in airports—efficient, alert, already two steps ahead.
This was his version of care.
He led the way with the trolley, weaving around slower groups, occasionally glancing back to make sure you were behind him. Lily clutched your hand, skipping every few steps despite her sleepy eyes. Noah had grown heavier on your hip, but you kept moving.
At check-in, Will had the documents out before the desk agent could even ask. He handed over passports, booking references, and a plastic wallet containing printouts of every relevant confirmation.
“All checked in online, but we’ve got hold luggage,” he said, voice polite but efficient.
The woman behind the desk smiled, clearly familiar with this type of traveller. She processed the bags and handed back the passports in a neat stack.
“You’re all set. Boarding gate will be announced at 6:15.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” Will slipped the documents back into his vest pocket, then turned to you and the kids. “Security next. Is everyone still holding together?”
You nodded. Noah hadn’t stirred much. Lily gave a soft “Mmhm”, still gripping Trix.
Will steered them toward security with purpose, slowing only once to guide Lily ahead of a meandering group of students.
“Shoes off, liquids out, tech in the trays,” Will murmured, scanning the area ahead. His eyes moved between lanes, looking for the one with the least traffic. “Far left looks quiet. Let’s take that one.”
You followed him to the end of the checkpoint, Lily close behind, holding Trix by the arm. Will reached into his travel vest, pulled out the boarding passes, and handed them over to the staff member with a quick nod. After a brief check, the scanner cleared all four of you.
He turned to Lily and crouched down.
“Alright, remember what we do here? Shoes and jacket in the tray, and Trix goes through the machine. She’ll be right there waiting for you.” Lily nodded seriously. She kissed Trix on the head, then carefully placed her in the tray, followed by her shoes and jacket.
You crouched slightly to speak to Noah, who was clinging to your neck. “Sweetheart, we’re nearly done. Just a quick step through, and then we can rest.”
Will moved beside you and set down the changing bag. He unzipped the bag, pulled out the laptop, and placed it in a separate tray. Then came the liquids pouch, followed by his phone, keys, and wallet. He took off his belt and vest, folded them neatly, and added them to the tray. He made sure everything was visible and correctly spaced, then pushed the trays forward along the rollers.
“Alright,” he said, straightening up. “Give him to me.” You shifted Noah into his arms. He adjusted his hold automatically, settling the boy on his hip. Noah tucked his face into Will’s shoulder, silent but awake. “You go through first,” Will said, nodding to the scanner. “I’ll follow with him once you’re clear.”
You stepped through without issue. On the other side, you waited while Lily came through next. She walked slowly, sock-footed and careful, eyes fixed on the tray holding her toy. Once through, you helped her get her shoes back on and slipped her arms into her jacket. Trix reappeared on the conveyor, and Lily collected her immediately, checking she was still warm and intact.
You looked up as Will walked forward, still holding Noah. The security officer gave him a brief look and gestured for him to proceed. He stepped through the scanner without pause, one hand steady under Noah’s legs.
On the other side, he set Noah gently on the bench and turned back to retrieve the trays. He moved quickly, placing each item back where it belonged. He passed you the changing bag and double-checked that nothing had been left behind. Then he looked at you, eyes alert but calm.
“Everything’s here. We’re good.”
Lily held tight to your hand, Trix tucked securely under her arm. Noah leaned into Will’s leg, eyes fluttering. You adjusted the strap on your bag.
He shifted Noah higher on his hip, the little boy's head resting heavily against his shoulder. Passing you the changing bag, his free hand double-checking the area with a quick sweep. Then he looked at you, eyes alert but calm over Noah's sleepy head.
“Good job, team,” he said, glancing back at you. “You handled security like pros. Now we just need to find a bench,” Will said.
You nodded, and the four of you walked away from the checkpoint, the sound of rolling trolleys and security announcements rising behind you.
The seating area beyond security was quieter than expected, with pockets of travellers scattered across benches and near charging stations. A few early shops had opened their shutters, their displays flickering to life in the artificial morning.
Will spotted a quieter corner by the far windows, half-shielded by a structural column. “There,” he said, steering toward it without needing to discuss. You followed, grateful for the pause.
He set the changing bag down at the foot of the bench and eased Noah onto the seat beside him, propping him up gently. The boy blinked slowly, thumb finding its way to his mouth as he slumped sideways against Will’s arm.
You helped Lily wriggle out of her jacket. She settled next to you, swinging her legs while holding Trix tight. Her shoes were still slightly crooked, but you let it be.
Will glanced at the nearby screens. “Gate info in twenty. We’ve got time to regroup.”
You nodded, already pulling out a small packet of wipes to clean Lily’s hands. She held them out obediently, fingers splayed.
“Do we get snacks now?” she asked, eyes drifting toward a nearby vending machine glowing faintly in the early light. Her voice was soft but hopeful, the way it always was when she suspected the answer might not go her way.
“We had breakfast,” Will said gently, but not unkindly. “We’ll get something on the plane if we need it. This is just a rest stop.”
Lily’s shoulders dipped just slightly. “Okay,” she sighed, hugging Trix tight into her chest. The toy’s soft ears stuck out awkwardly under her chin. She didn’t argue, just leaned her head against your arm with the quiet resignation of a child trying to be good.
You smoothed a hand down her hair. “You did great at security, by the way. Trix didn’t even mind the tray, did she?”
“She was brave,” Lily said, perking up a little. “She said the machine tickled.”
Will smiled faintly at that. He was kneeling in front of the bench, re-fastening Noah’s little shoes, the velcro barely holding with how limp the boy had gone again. “I’m sure it did,” he said, glancing up at Lily. “Tell her thanks for getting through so quickly. She helped keep us ahead of schedule.”
Lily gave a serious nod. “She likes being helpful.”
You reached for your water bottle and offered it to Noah. He took a small sip without lifting his head and then handed it back wordlessly. You capped it and returned it to the side pocket of the bag.
For a few minutes, none of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just quiet, a collective exhale after the early push.
Will leaned back slightly, scanning the space. “Once we’ve got the gate, we’ll head straight there. No detours.”
You nodded. “Do you want me to take Lily and stretch legs?”
He considered, then shook his head. “Let’s just stay here. Everyone’s calmer when we move together.”
You looked at him then—his posture alert but not tense, his hand resting absently on Noah’s back. His vest was zipped again, documents back in order, watch synced with the flight time. Always watching the clock, always running the plan.
“Thanks for getting us through,” you said softly.
Will glanced over, the corners of his mouth twitching into something close to a smile. “You’re the one juggling our children, a bear, and me,” he said. “I just followed procedure.”
You huffed a small laugh. “Still.”
He didn’t answer right away, just looked at you for a moment longer, the kind of look that wasn’t loud or dramatic but landed anyway—grateful, worn in, knowing.
“Alright,” he said finally, voice low. “But if this goes sideways at the gate, I’m cashing in that compliment.”
“Deal.”
He sat back a little, adjusting Noah’s weight as the boy stirred and shifted against his chest. One hand came up to shield Noah’s head from the bright overhead lights, a small, unconscious gesture. The rest of the terminal buzzed with quiet motion—early travellers rustling bags, distant announcements barely audible—but for a moment, it felt like just the four of you.
You let yourself lean back against the bench, hand resting on Lily’s knee, and let the terminal buzz move around you. For now, you were still.