random musings of a lovesick girl

You let your feet guide you into his embrace like it was muscle memory. What once felt warm and safe suddenly felt suffocating. 

You didn’t want to be here anymore. 

Not on the Inside. 

Not in this living room. 

Not with Milli. Not with Cinna. 

But especially, not with him. 

“How was your shift?” George asked softly, and your heart broke. You only hummed in response. 

You didn’t return the hug, but you didn’t pull away. Pretend it’s fine. The cameras were still rolling, and you’d rather be caught dead than let anyone see the mess unravelling in you. If George noticed (and you’re certain he did), he didn’t say. 

He just kept holding you, chin resting lightly on the top of your head, rocking you gently like that could make everything okay. And in the past, it did. But now there was a fire spreading throughout your chest, and he can’t extinguish what he started.  

When his lips brushed the side of your head for a quick, secret kiss; it was scorching. You almost flinched. 

“Oh, you’re back!” PK shuffled in, eyes heavy with sleep, with Mya and Whitney in tow. Their arrival gave you the perfect excuse. Sure, they had their suspicions about you two (hell, everyone did); but they didn’t know. 

So, you took a step back. 

And finally, you can breathe. 

“Yeah, the challenge is finally over.” You took another step back, careful to avoid George’s eyes, even though you could feel his gaze locked in on you. The group celebrated, although half-heartedly. Everyone was just so tired. You even caught yourself yawning. “I think I’m just going to crash. I’m exhausted.” 

But PK, however, wasn’t done. Of course, he wasn’t. 

“What was your temptation? Did you take it?” Since the start of tonight alone, he’s been tempted twice. Right now, he needed to know someone else cracked–unbeknowest to you, he accepted his own and now praying that someone else did too, to ease his guilt. 

George couldn’t know that you knew. At least, not yet. 

Not while the cameras were still rolling. 

You’ve already given the show enough vulnerability and drama. Your argument with Whitney was messy enough, and it certainly didn’t reflect in anything in your real life–nothing important, nothing you want to preserve. Your relationship with George? 

That was different. That was important. 

That was dangerous. 

So you lied. Just like PK did. 

Just like George did. 

“Yeah,” You said smoothly, “But I didn’t take it.” Becky once told you, drunk off her ass during a Two Truths and a Lie video, the best way to lie is to lace it with truth. 

PK squinted closely at you, “But what was it?” 

You stalled, trying to think of what to say. “I was so tired, and all I wanted to do was sleep, but, like, the temptation was like…” Hesitation. What do you want right now?  “A phone call to anyone of my choice.” 

“But you didn’t take it?” Mya reiterated, asking the only question that actually impacts everyone in the house. You nodded, now eyeing the hallway, planning your escape route. 

Milli smirked,  “Because the only person you’d want to talk to is here, right?” She nudged her head, motioning towards George, and the pit in your stomach only grew deeper. You looked at him, and he stared at you like he knew. Of course, he knew. He could read you like a book he’s read over and over, underlined and highlighted, annotated and memorised. 

So, what else can you do but remove yourself from the situation? 

“Listen, I’m so tired, I could barely stay awake in there.” You inched towards the hallway, “I think they’re going to turn the lights off soon, so I’m going to bed before they randomly call me for a confessional or something.” 

When George reached out for one last hug for quiet and subtle goodnight, you dodged him instead–slipping out of his grasp and disappearing down the hall before he could say anything. 

Behind you, once you were out of earshot, George’s voice dropped as he turned to Milli. “That was weird, right?” 

Milli nodded, still processing how you barely looked her way. 

On the other side of Inside, you entered the bedroom and your eyes immediately lingered on your combined beds. Fuck. Luckily for you, you could excuse your decision to move it as a conclusion of last night’s challenge. 

DDG was stretching beside his bed, mid-conversation with Farah, when you turned to them. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but could you help me out? I think George wants to yap a bit more, and I’m about to pass out so I’d really appreciate my own bed.” 

The idea of you falling asleep easily tonight was a lie; you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep well tonight, not with George’s words and what they mean hanging around. 

DDG snorted as he moved over to help, Farah following. “Stockholm Syndrome worn off?” 

You forced a laugh, sharp and tired. “Tell me about it.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He froze in the doorway, like he’d walked into the wrong room. 

You didn’t have to look at him to know he paused at the doorway, staring; silent, stunned, and stuttering at the sight of your beds now pulled apart. 

And of course, you didn’t look. You couldn’t. 

You kept your back to him, pretending not to notice, even as if the air turned tense–thick and smothering. 

Then he moved, nudged forward by PK. 

George didn’t say a word, not like usually does. Instead, he climbed into his bed, went under the covers, and quietly surrendered to sleeping alone. 

Meanwhile, you kept talking to Farah about your roommates’ evening rituals, acting like everything was fine. 

And when the lights finally turned off, you could barely shut your eyes…even after how exhausted you felt almost an hour ago. You stared at the ceiling, ignoring the way George’s gaze burned into the side of your face from across the room.

Was he trying to put on this show for entertainment value? Romance does sell. 

Sure, you discussed everything off camera…but what was he saying in his confessionals? 

Surely not, that’s not him. Unless…the producers put him up to it. 

But of course, what if they twisted everything? Took everything completely out of context? 

So many of your shared friends would turn to you to ask about George–where he was, what he was up to that day, what he’d like as a gift–always insisting that you knew him best. 

And for the longest time, you thought you did. Hell, you prided yourself on it. But now? You’re not so sure. 

Anger came first, hot and burning, followed by betrayal–sharp, lingering, and personal.

Not just from George, but also from Milli. From Cinna. Hell, even the Sidemen. 

From the (admittedly limited) information you have now, George lied to you. Maybe it was all just a strategy to get ahead in the game. Maybe you were a fool. 

You used to swear by his character, vouch for him blindly. You’d defend him against the world. But now, you don’t know if anything he ever said to you was real…or just part of an act. Sure, he agreed to keep you two low-key. But what if that wasn’t about privacy? 

What if, instead, it was about building that slow-burn storyline? Maybe every glance, every touch, every smile was just a moment designed to be clipped, caption, and set to music–perfectly planned to later live in fan edits. 

And the Sidemen. 

You couldn’t stop the bitterness extending onto them too. Logically, you knew it was probably the producers who aired that temptation. But emotionally? You were pissed. Why didn’t they protect you? You know you would’ve done anything to protect them. 

And the anger bled onto Milli and Cinna, too. 

Cinna, sure, you weren’t that close. But Milli? She was there. She knew. Yet, she hyped you up; encouraged you; wanted this to happen, and she said nothing. No warnings, no heads up–nothing. 

Was everything a lie? 

The spiral hit hard and fast, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until you felt like you were sinking into the bed–drowning in blankets, pillows, and betrayal; suffocating under the camera’s watchful eye. 

It’s funny how you lived so much of your life in front of the lens, and now it’s the one thing killing you. 

The air felt thinner; your thoughts now clawing at your chest, frantic; you lungs tightening, tighter and tighter…

Then, the lights turned on. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything felt wrong in a way no one seemed to notice. 

Cameras were rolling, the mics were live, and everyone else was carrying on like nothing had changed. To them, the most important thing right now is what new products are available at the shop, and the greatest tragedy was the bland breakfast headed your way. 

But you? 

Something inside of you snapped. Like some invisible thread inside of you had pulled too tight, fraying thread by thread and just about to snap. 

Voices overlapped like static. You swear you could hear them, but it all came in muffled–as if someone was covering your ears. 

There was no doubt that you were there. You were walking, talking, following the others, breathing and existing–but you fell out of step. Out of sync, autopiloting your way through your new routine despite the world crumbling from below you. 

No one noticed, of course. Well no one except for him. But he was also the one who caused all of…this. 

You could tell he knew. The way his eyes latched onto you the second he thought you weren’t looking, and the way he hovered consistently closeby. 

It was as if he was waiting…just waiting for you to say something, to hug him again, for you to even look at him. For some kind of permission to approach. 

Your eyes stayed forward, locked onto whatever Farah was saying. You didn’t even know what the topic was anymore. You nodded along, smiling at the right moments, humming when you needed to, and faked it well enough that no one would bother to press. 

At this point, all you want to do is leave the show and go home. Fuck the money; you’ve earned enough from the Sidemen from winning their other challenges. 

“Hey!” PK’s voice cut through the fog, pulling you back just as the group crowded into the tiny shop. “I think George and you may need this.”

He pointed at the newest store item: lube. 

The room spun as the group collectively laughed. Your face flushed and your stomach twisted. 

“He can use it on himself.” You scoffed, hardly audible under your breath. 

That comment seemed to egg George on. “Can we get it?” he asked, tone casual, eyes not on you—but somehow entirely about you.

You ignored it, deciding to lean in and look into the menu. Fuck it. Maybe you should go all out. The chocolate was very tempting at the moment. 

“Hey, you may have a kid of your own without the protection here.” DDG jokes, nudging George as you can feel his eyes bore into the back of your head–you still pretending to be ignorant. DDG smirks, remembering your late night conversations about his kid and your thoughts on children. 

George is trying to get your attention. You’re sure of it. 

You refused to give it. 

He moved towards the camera angling at the shop, and spoke. “Can we get one lube please?” 

The boys laughed, Milli rolled her eyes. “You want to fondle yourself, you sad prick! Just because you have a mullet doesn’t mean you have to act like a guy with a mullet.” 

“Nah, nah, he’s not fondling himself.” PK grinned cheekily, nudging him hard, “He has a spec-” 

“He’ll be using it on himself, promise.” You snapped, voice sharp enough to cut air.

Then you left, without waiting for the punchline and refusing to turn back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I can’t believe they gave you…that.” 

To be honest, you can believe it. You know the Sidemen’s antics better than most, and this is right up their alley. Still, you weren’t Farah, squatting in the shower, smashing an ice block containing a bottle of tea against the tiled floor. 

Not knowing where you stand with Milli has left you parked next to the toilet,  making passing comments to Farah while she tries to free her drink. You’re certain you could sense Milli’s confusion the moment you walked past her, the two of you now used to spending a majority of the free time together. 

Luckily, George got the hint: you needed space. He didn’t understand why, but he’s distracted enough by his lube to leave you alone. Last time you checked, he was dumping it all over the ping pong table and sliding water bottles across it. 

Hey, if this show ends with you leaving early, at least he had his two real loves: ping pong and lube.

“I just want my tea,” Farah groans, now pouring hot water onto the ice. You chuckle, staring at your hands. You don’t know how to help her, so you do what you can—be emotional support.

God, you could use some yourself.

Farah mutters to herself, switching between pouring hot water and slamming the ice on the ground. She doesn’t seem to need more from you, which is a relief; it gives you space to think. 

Last night…that ‘reveal’, for a lack of a better word…the Sidemen would never drop that on you like that. Harry, Simon, Tobi, Ethan, JJ, Vik, Josh–they would’ve pulled you aside and told you privately, letting you process with their support. Hell, if it was for the show, they’d at least warn you. Tell you to play into it.

Did they have any say in what happened? 

Or, maybe…you didn’t know them that well after all. 

Before last night, the worst thing about being on the Inside was having to use up your annual leave, not going on your daily walks, and not seeing your roommate and other friends. You don’t mind not being on your phone…well, until now. 

Right now you’d give anything to text the boys. Ask if they know. See if they’ve heard. Maybe, if given five minutes, you’d text your roommate too–get her thoughts, advice…just you needed to confide in someone that wasn’t George. 

But you can’t. So you sit on the bathroom floor instead, feeling alone and embarrassed to be streamed on Netflix.

A loud announcement rattles through the house. Farah bolts for the living room, and you followed behind…although, much slower.

The moment you step inside, George’s eyes find you. Searching. Hoping you’ll say something. A smile flickers across his face, and disappeared as soon as you look away.

“Everyone here?” A production assistant asked, gathering everyone together and framing you all to be visible all in one shot. 

Ah yes, the scripted part of reality television. A refreshing reminder. 

Once they were satisfied with the shot, the announcement spoke up once more and the television flashed blue.

“George, please come to the temptation room.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What felt like hours was, in reality, only five minutes. 

So far, from what you’ve noticed, the moment someone steps into a temptation room–it feels like hours pass before they step out…well, except for Whitney. She was in and out within a blink of an eye. 

“What could tempt George?” Cinna muses out loud, before swiveling towards you. 

The others follow her gaze, and suddenly everyone's eyes are on you, waiting for an insider answer. Your jaw tightens. 

You had your answers. It’d be more cash to support his sister, a guarantee to play in the Sidemen Charity match (which, the boys wouldn’t do considering they will be inviting him soon–they asked you to help plan the surprise announcement), it’d be immunity. George was strong; he wouldn’t fold for just anything. 

“C’mon, you know him best,” Jason says, breaking the silence. “What would he fall for?

But you won’t give Cinna the satisfaction. You won’t let her see how much you care—not when George made it sound like you were just another fool.

“No idea.” You shrug, leaning back into your chair. “But I doubt he’ll take it.”

Whitney slaps the table. “George is strong. If he’s not back yet, it means he hasn’t accepted anything.”

DDG chimes in, remembering his own temptation. “No, but he could also be doing the temptation inside the room.” 

You want to defend George. Despite all the hurt he’s recently caused, George was your closest confidant for a while now. You know he’d be okay there. 

Milli rests a hand on your knee, as if you hadn’t iced her out this morning. “Hey, he’ll be fine.” You don’t realise your knee is bouncing until she says, “Don’t worry about him.”

Despite the anger, despite the uncertainty, she does calm you. But the thought still lingers: why did she not tell you? Why did she let you look like a fool? 

“I’m not worried,” you say, flat and cold, pushing to your feet. “I’m going to the toilet.”

You slip from the living room, strolling instead of rushing. You don’t actually need to pee; you just need to breathe, splash some water on your face, and reset.

But before you can round the corner, a producer steps into your path. 

“Hey, when you’re done, can we have you in the Temptation Room?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you step into the Temptation Room, barely ten minutes after George was called in, the first thing you see is him curled on the floor; arms wrapped tight around his knees, face buried. 

“George?” The sight of him looking so small made your stomach twist. Shoving the annoying voice replaying the clip from last night to the back of your mind, you crossed the room before you could even think about stopping yourself. 

He looks up, forces a small smile, and puts on a silly voice. “Hey, you’re here!”  

You slow, wary. “What’s going on?” 

Part of you worries that the temptation is time together. God, you hope not. The last thing you want is to unpack everything while the cameras are rolling. 

“Hey,” Vik’s voice crackles through the speakers, "George isn’t taking his temptation. We called you in to help him make the right choice.” 

George snorts, dropping his head again. “First, he was brought in to convince me, now you.” 

You crouch in front of him, resting a hand on his knee. “What’s the temptation?”

“Immunity.”

He looked up, catching your eyes for the first time today. You’d been careful to avoid them, because you knew that one look, and all the anger you felt would seep away. It was impossible not to remember the way his eyes felt like home. 

“I’m not taking it.” He announced, breaking you away from the trance. 

You want to shout at him to take it. Sure, you were upset with him…but beyond that comment, George was a good guy. He deserved the cash prize. And, he’s been playing the game well. 

Vik spoke up too, giving another reason. “He hasn’t spent much at all in this game. Plus, no one needs to know.” 

George groans. “He’s said that, like, four times now.” He looked at you again, and this time, you had no excuse to look away. You melted upon impact. 

You huff out a small laugh, and instinctively, your hand went to the side of his head–brushing his curls to be neatly tucked behind his ear. He leans into your touch like it’s muscle memory.

“I just don’t want to lie,” he says quietly.

Vik coughs, provocatively. “Might want to check the card above the screen.”

“I might not want to read it anyway,” He retorted sassily back to the camera, before turning back to you; his voice dropping. “Can you read it for me?” 

You nodded, and went to grab the card. 

Fuck. 

You didn’t realise how many people didn’t want him in the game anymore.  Perfectly summarised in one sentence: “George is too smart. We need to get rid of him” 

“Do I want to read it?” 

You shook your head. 

He looks at the camera, staring right past you. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. If I’m meant to be here, I’ll be here. If they want me gone, then fine.”

“George—” you cut in. “You deserve to be here. This isn’t just votes. It’s challenges, too. Tis is only to support you. Give you a leg up. .”

He shakes his head. “Would I rather win knowing I lied to people I like… or lose knowing I was honest?

You bite back a laugh. Honest. Sure. But you’ll let him have it for now.

But, you give him the benefit of the doubt…at least until you can talk with thousands of people watching. And, you pushed your current anger aside. 

“George, think of Emily.” He came to support her wedding. “And think of not just being friends, but strategy. That’s what happened to Dylan–he thought too much of strategy, and too little of people.” 

His jaw tightens at Dylan’s name, but you miss it.

“You’re being weird today,” he mutters after a beat. “Are we okay?”

You give him a tight smile. “We will be. But right now, do what’s best for you.”

“I don’t want to lie.”

“You don’t have to. Just… leave some things out.”

He exhales, stubborn. “If they want me here, they’ll keep me here.”

You grit the words through your teeth. “You’re smart. You’re fun. You’re the biggest threat in this house. Of course they want you out. So be the threat.”

Minutes later, the two of you were let out together. Walking side by side down the hallway and back into the living room felt heavier than it should’ve.

His fingers kept grazing yours — not by accident. He was searching for reassurance, for the tiniest sign that you still believed in him. That you’d say he did the right thing.

You kept your hands to yourself. You’d been avoiding his eyes all day for a reason — one glance and you’d soften, and right now, you couldn’t afford to.

“I didn’t take it,” George announced to the awaiting Insiders. A few people’s eyebrows shot up, clearly puzzled by the fact that you’d come out of the temptation room together.

PK smirked. “I see what the temptation was.” He wiggled his eyebrows, suggestive, as if the offer in that room had been you.

You shook your head immediately, sharp and unamused. “Nope.”

George cut in quickly, “No, I was offered immunity. She was in there to help me think it through.”

Jason tilted his head, suspicious. “So… the question is if George is lying.” His eyes flicked to you.

You didn’t look at George when you answered. “All I can say is I support his decision.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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George and Jason were up first, and you trust them completely. So while you’re confident they’ll nail any challenge and resist temptation, you can’t help but wonder what they’re actually up to out there.

“I so need an energy drink right now,” PK groans for what feels like the hundredth time.

Eventually, everyone caves and tells him to just get one. Of course, half the group tags along for their own fix — so you can only pray the prize fund doesn’t drop as badly as it did yesterday.

That leaves you and Milli sprawled on the hallway loveseat, while Cinna and DDG keep themselves awake with endless table tennis in the living room.

Milli pokes your arm, her legs draped across your lap. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

You yawn. “Probably the Charity Match.”

She glances around dramatically—almost conspiratorially—then scoots closer. She’s clearly been dying to bring this up. “So. You two seem… cosy.”

You try, weakly, to change the subject. “Do you reckon it’s too late to—”

“Nope,” Milli cuts in, eyes gleaming. “You’re not dodging this. Spill.”

Mental note: tell George you told Milli. But honestly, you know it’s fine. He was the first to tell her everything anyway. 

So you spill. Everything—from sneaking onto the rooftop to crawling back into bed. By the end, Milli squeals and nearly falls off the loveseat.

“That’s why you’ve been so lovey-dovey!” She whacks you with a throw pillow in delight.

“Shh! Is it that obvious?” you hiss, face burning. “Can we not—”

She just shakes her head, grinning like the devil she is. “Not obvious. Just… different. I don’t think anyone else notices. But we are not changing the topic. This is gold.”

You groan and tip your head back.

“You two are so cute.” She pokes your shoulder. Her voice softens. “But… are you okay? How do you feel about all this?”

You fiddle with the squiggly pink stress ball in your lap. “I don’t know. We want to try. But we’re trying to keep it private with, well—” You wave a hand at the cameras. “All this. It’s not exactly the place for normal… or to give it a fair shot.”

Milli hums thoughtfully, then pulls you into a tight hug. “You two will be fine. He’s been obsessed with you since way before you two fucked.”

You freeze. “Don’t say it like that,” you mumble, burying your face into a cushion. 

She cackles. “What else should I call it? You did!”

Now you’re mortified, but giggling, too. “Can you not—at least call it something else? It sounds so—”

Milli lifts an eyebrow, fighting a grin. “You two… canoodled.”

Your dramatic groan of “I hate you” only makes her laugh harder as she hugs you tighter. “You love me. But you love him more. And he loves you most.”

Before you can even argue—because love is a big word and now you’re not even sure you can say it to him anymore (even after all your careless, platonic ‘I love you’s over the years)—two voices holler from the challenge room, charging down the hallway in search of the next unlucky pair.

“Whitney! Mya!” 

Jason and George blur past you, their shouts instantly sending Whitney and Mya sprinting off, even though you have no idea where they were hiding before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sorry, I’m stealing her today,” Milli practically sang, refusing to move her legs from your lap as George approached the loveseat.

“That’s fine by me.” George shrugged, his grin unfading as he perched on the armrest just behind you. He probably guessed that Milli knew everything by now, but you were still caught off guard when he pressed an unmistakably obvious kiss to the top of your head.

Milli’s grin turned downright wicked when your cheeks slowly flushed—and even wider when George leaned in for a quick peck on your lips as you turned to face him.

“Hi, darling,” George winked, voice dripping with cockiness. But before you could answer, Jason, Cinna, DDG, and PK tumbled in, loudly dissecting what had just gone down in the challenge room.

So instead, you shot George a playful glare and instinctively rested the back of your head against his thigh. His arm slipped around your shoulders, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on your skin—grounding you, comforting you amidst the chaos. You caught Milli smirking beside you.

“What did you two get up to?” Cinna asked, tilting her chin towards George and Jason, as she pried about what being on Night Shift actually entails. 

Jason replied, trying to sound serious, “We didn’t have a temptation. We just talked about women. Name a hundred women in four minutes.”

You flicked your eyebrows up at George, who brushed off Jason’s comment with a joke. “Just blokes being blokes, talking about girls.”

“Did you mention any of us?” Cinna pressed, her grin sharp.

Jason pointed straight at you. “First name out of George’s mouth was hers.” He nodded toward you—and as his eyes flicked over you two curled up together, it all dawned on him. It didn’t hurt that he’d half-interrogated George during the task, anyway. 

At the confession, George went pink.

“Sweet,” you teased, although you lifted your head from George’s lap to dodge any more suspicious looks—and to steer the spotlight away from you both. “I wonder what the next challenges will be like.”

PK snorted. “Oh, they’ll be evil. Bet on it.”

Cinna elbowed him. “It’s only evil because you’d fall for anything.”

PK groaned dramatically, collapsing onto the other loveseat facing you and Milli. “Well, right now, I’m just tempted by sleep.”

Jason dropped onto an empty beanbag, eyeing PK like he was a ticking time bomb. “So we all agree we’re losing money the second PK’s on shift?”

A chorus of mocking agreement and laughter rippled through the hallway as Cinna flopped down beside Jason. PK muttered, “No faith, no faith.” 

Cinna clapped her hands, getting everyone’s attention. “Nobody lies down! The second you do, you’re out—and then we all pay for it.”

PK scowled but grudgingly sat up straight. “Yes, Mum.”

Jason flicked PK’s foot. “Drink your Coke and hush.”

Cinna squinted at you and George, eyes narrowing mischievously. “You two look suspiciously cosy. One of you will knock out first. Guaranteed.”

You didn’t hesitate. You jabbed a finger at George. “Him. Absolute deadweight once he’s lying down.”

George raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “Me? Never.”

Jason perked up, eyes glinting with mischief. Permission granted to doodle on the first sleeper?”

You leaned back against George’s leg again, smirking up at him. “Just hope the marker sticks through the puddle of drool.”

The group roared with laughter as George slapped a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Oi! I’m a very elegant sleeper, thank you very much.”

You pressed against his knee with your hand. “You drooled on my arm last night, elegant my arse.” (He hadn’t—but his jokingly offended face made the lie worth it.)

Milli shrieked, laughing, “Expose him!”

George bent down, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper—but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Careful, or I’ll tell them what you do when you sleep.”

Your eyes widened in horror, leaning into the bit. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Jason perked up, intrigued and gossip hungry. “Wait, wait, wait, what’s her sleep habit?”

George’s smirk was diabolical. “She—”

You slapped your hand over his mouth, half laughing, half dying inside, unsure what George would come up with. “Nope! Lies! Unnecessary! Moving on.”

He mumbled something into your palm, chuckling and then licked your palm. You squealed as PK deadpanned, “Swear to God, whatever this tension is, it’s keeping the whole house awake. Just shag and be done with it.”

Milli hurled a pillow at PK’s head—and for that, you silently vowed to owe her for life.

“Shut up!” she barked. “Focus—we’re playing a game so nobody here falls asleep.” 

Cinna shot her hand up like an eager schoolkid. “I nominate Twenty Questions!”

Everyone groaned and grumbled at the ‘childish’ game, but agreed. George’s voice is sickeningly sweet, “Ladies first, lov— mate.” He caught himself at the last second. “On a scale of one to ten, how annoying am I?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, a ten. No question. I absolutely despise you.”

He squeezed your shoulder, smug and unbothered, and winked. “No, you don’t. You just haven’t had enough of me yet.”

And, truth be told—you really hadn’t.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since George returned from his first shift, you’ve been stuck to him like glue. 

The group game dissolved the moment PK was called for his shift; everyone scattering and rotating in and out, some pacing the halls to kill time, some sneaking over priced snacks from the shop, some slipping away to nap and pray they don’t get caught. But George didn’t stray from you. He never has. He clings to you as if once he goes, the fragile little bubble you created will pop. 

Now, five shifts in, two things have already drained your prize money. One: PK’s solo shift. Although he insists that he didn’t cave into the barbershop temptation, you can’t fully believe him–even though you desperately want to. He hasn’t earned that trust yet. The second was Whitney and Mya missing the shift change notification altogether, leaving Cinna and Milli scrambling to their positions, officially bringing the timer to zero for the first time. 

Since then, you and George have somehow migrated to an allegedly noncompetitive game of table tennis.

“To eleven?” You clarify, as George bounces in celebration of his tenth point.

George’s grin is downright wicked as he gets ready to serve the ball. Within seconds, the sharp smack of the paddle launching the ball towards you bounced off the walls. It skims past you before you can even blink. 

Sure, the other games you guys were playing in the group were much fairer–especially since George has skilled up in table tennis since being here, having challenged everyone into one-on-one matches by now. But nothing made you happier than seeing George light up like this, with his smug little smile and little victory dance that always makes you giggle, no matter how many times you see it. 

“You know,” you say, scooping up the ball from where it bounced under the table–your official defeat, sealed. “You’re very lucky Jason fell asleep first.”

“Mmm?” George hums, sauntering over. Your back bumps the table edge and your breath catches as he cages you in, hands resting on either side. “Why’s that?”

“I would’ve drawn all over you,” you tease, voice unsteady with how close he suddenly feels. It feels foolish with how easy he makes you feel flustered.  

“Oh, really?” He raises an eyebrow, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What would you have drawn, huh?”

You both know what’s coming—he sees it in the guilty little twist of your lips, the gleam in your eye when you’re about to say something ridiculous.

“A cock,” you deadpan—in perfect sync with him. The moment hangs for a heartbeat before you both crack up. You fold forward, laughter muffled into his shoulder.

He wraps you up instantly. And you feel foolish with how fast you sink into it. Right now, he’s not shy about being soft with you. Everyone’s scattered, and the only people who might catch you are Milli and Cinna, who already know about it all and he’s assuming they’re too busy chatting to monitor the security camera. 

“I would’ve given you a moustache,” he murmurs against your temple, then plants a dramatic, smacking kiss on the side of your head.

The hum of the cameras and murmurs fade into a distant buzz, leaving only the steady rhythm of your breaths in sync. For a moment, it’s just you and him; no producers, no cameras, no audience. Just the bubble you built and how easy it feels to hide here with him.

Since knowing him, he’s always been your refuge. At first just your best friend—the one who brought you medicine when you were sick, stayed up when you couldn’t sleep, sent you memes just to make you smile. 

For so long, that was enough. But now, he’s still that safe place… and something so much more. And for the first time since you admitted it to each other, you’ve let yourself fully believe he wants this just as much as you do—even if some part of you thinks this is too good to be true. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Mya and DDG came bursting out of the challenge room, hollering your names with guilty looks plastered across their faces, you were about eighty percent sure they’d taken their temptation. Their lateness and those too-wide grins gave it away. But you didn’t dwell on it—there was no use in getting distracted now.

It was your first shift, and you couldn’t risk being late. Not after all the hits to the prize fund already, now including Jason failing his solo challenge, and now their obvious slip.

So, you and George shot up from the beanbags you’d been sitting with Farah, Milli, and Cinna, and sprinted towards the challenge rooms. You silently thanked George for insisting you sit close by, predicting that you’d probably be shifted soon. (And of course, he was right.)

George punched in the code just before the timer hit zero while  you pulled on one of the security vests. You sank into the chair, scanning the wall of monitors: every corner of Inside laid bare on cheap CCTV feeds. It was basically a fact of the show that the cameras were always there, the microphones were always recording–after all, it’s what you signed up for. But seeing everything all at once in front you felt exposing, almost violating. 

For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the monitors.

“So, just us, huh?” George smirked, sliding his hands behind your chair. He gripped the armrests, tugging you closer until your knees were slotted between his. His blue eyes flicked to your mouth, lingering like he couldn’t help it. “No cameras, no eyes…”

You glanced around all the security footage on the screen: capturing Mya and Whitney at the shops, Jason napping, Milli and Cinna gossiping. It was a brazen reminder of the fact you were getting filmed, in every room, even here. 

“We’re definitely being watched,” you snorted softly, motioning towards the cameras aimed at you to film the challenge. 

He waved it off. “We’ll ask the lads to edit it out later.” 

Maybe George himself was your real temptation. 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned in and kissed him—just a soft, fleeting press. His hand found your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek like he was memorizing it, and the kiss deepened without warning—hungry, warm, reckless for just a breath longer than it should have been.

When you pulled away, his eyes were right there–sharp blue, locked on you with a soft smile playing at his mouth. You smiled back, and had to fight back the desire to lean in once more–to get one more taste, to let yourself fall completely. 

You almost did. But your gaze flicked to the blinking monitors—red lights, a thousand eyes—and the moment shrank back into your chest, tucked away for later. If everything goes well, you’ll have the outside—maybe the rest of your lives—for that.

Suddenly, the monitor beeped to life, tearing you both back to reality. A shelf popped open simultaneously. 

“Blindfolded Obstacles,” George read aloud, voice low but amused. “You two have been close friends for years now,”  He side-eyed you, a teasing glint in his blue eyes. He paused for an effect, leaning closer so only you could hear: “Bit of an understatement, yeah?” 

You tried not to smile, but failed. 

“It’s time to put your communication to the test,” He continued reading. You both exchanged a glance—recently, communication hadn’t been your strongest suit. “One of you will be blindfolded, and the other must guide them through the obstacle course using only verbal directions. You can’t leave the room until you grab the key from the other side, and the timer won’t continue until you do the challenge.”

You swallowed, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves mixed with anticipation. The challenge felt personal, almost like a test of everything simmering between you two. And you can’t get out of this room until you do this challenge. 

“Do you want to be blindfolded or me?” George asked softly, taking the blindfold from the shelf that popped open. Written on the black fabric was Inside, and the instruction to put it on before you leave the security room.

Wordlessly, you reached out for it–knowing you weren’t the best talker. He chuckled, “So, you trust me, yeah?” 

You nodded. You might doubt a lot of things in this house, but him? You’d trust with the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After barely completing the task (with more laughter and bickering than actual strategy), you caught PK’s name flickering on the monitor just in time. The two of you sprinted out the room, calling for him and trying to find where on the Inside he could be located.  

The second PK stood up from the beanbag he’d been dozing on to relieve you from your shift, you and George turned to look at each other and both let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding. Neither of you spoke, just exchanged a look that said: thank god that’s over. 

Silently, you decided to slip away from the buzz of the living room, saying goodbye to Whitney and Mya who sat near the sleeping PK. Instead, you moved to the bedroom area–the one space everyone was avoiding so they wouldn’t accidentally fall into deep sleep and cost the group more money. 

Here, the muffled chatter and laughter faded behind closed doors. All you could hear was the hum of the air conditioner and your own heartbeat slowing back to normal. 

George dropped down onto the bed you two unofficially shared, excusing the fact you haven’t separated your beds yet to being ‘too lazy’. He leaned back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, and tugged you down beside him without a word. 

You melted into his side instantly, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as he pulled you closer until your head settled on his collarbone. He felt warm, as he always had. You breathed him in: leftover cologne, a fruity body soap, and sweet shampoo from the quick shower he’d taken earlier in the day. 

And it struck you. The two of you have been in similar positions hundreds of times, but friend’s don’t do this. Maybe you two had never really ever been just friends at all. 

“I’m knackered,” George murmured, voice rasped. He laced his fingers through yours where your hand rested on your thigh, his thumb tracing soothing circles into your palm. 

You chuckled, nudging his ankle with your foot. “Big words from the man who spent half that challenge looking unbearably smug.”

He turned to face you, his lips moving against the side of your face, revealing a small grin. “Funny—coming from someone who couldn’t even see my face.”

“George. I know every version of that face by now.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound vibrating in his chest where your cheek now rested. “I can’t wait to get out of here,” he whispered, voice suddenly softer. “Just… back to normal. Or, well, whatever our new version of normal is gonna be. Watching shitty movies on your couch, our monthly pub nights, stealing your food, winding the lads up, a drive-through run at three in the morning. No cameras. No alarms. Just us. Can’t wait to have you to myself out there, to have you be mine, and to be just us.” 

Your heart flipped at how easy he made it sound. Just us. Like it was always meant to be. 

“That sounds perfect,” you breathed, eyes half-closed, sleep feeling so tempting right now. 

He chuckled, brushing his lips against your temple. “Though, I’ll kinda miss the excuse to ignore my phone for days.”

A small laugh escaped you. “We can make it a thing. A date. Once a month—no phones, no distractions.” The word date still tasted new on your tongue, like it didn’t quite fit you two yet—but George’s grin told you he didn’t mind at all.

“Deal.” He pressed a kiss to your hair, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Silence settled over you both then. Not heavy or suffocating, but the kind that comes when you’re so close and so sure of someone.

His hand found yours again, your fingers instinctively interlocking. You could feel sleep tugging at you, warmth pooling in your chest at how easy it felt to rest like this—like it had always been this simple.

And you wished— fiercely, foolishly, maybe even hopelessly—that life would never dare make it more complicated than this

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When PK called only you into the challenge, you thought that the solo night shift might actually be a break–a chance to breathe, to decompress, to finally gather all your thoughts. 

But it’s harder than you expected. Not because you’re tired, but because of the silence.

No George. No banter. No one to keep you from spiraling. Just you, the hum of the monitors, and your voice echoing into the quiet—narrating bite-sized thoughts for whatever poor soul ends up watching this later on Netflix.

And the waiting. God, the waiting.

PK and Jason’s solo shift sounded like they were thrown into a challenge almost immediately. Yours, however, has so far been a long, slow wait. Almost as if production forgot about you. Or worse, like they’re stalling. Debating whether to give you a task. Testing how long they can let your thoughts unravel before stepping in.

So, you sat there, spinning in your chair–watching the scattered corners of Insider across the various CCTV feeds, trying to desperately fight off sleep. 

You catch a glimpse of PK and Whitney sneaking off to the shop for sweets. But your gaze lingers on one feed: George, still exactly where you left him. He’s sitting with Milli, Cinna, Jason, and Farah—his arm resting loosely over the empty space where you were. His posture is tired, soft, like how he always is when it’s just the two of you. You felt a pang in your chest as you wished you could just go to him and curl up next to him, with no audience. 

And it hits you.

You’re in a relationship with George.

Like… an actual relationship. How’s it all going to change? 

It doesn’t feel official, not really—not with all the cameras and challenges and prize money hanging over your heads. You haven’t had the chance to settle into it. To just be together. But still, it’s real. And it makes your chest tighten in a way that’s both sweet and painful.

You watch him rise, smile easy and familiar, tugging Milli toward the table tennis table. He’s obsessed with that thing. You can’t help but smile too, the grin on his face being infectious even through the shitty CCTV. 

A loud buzz soon shatters the silence. 

Your name flashes across the monitor in bold, urgent letters.

TEMPTATION

The screen glitches—static crackling through the speakers—before cutting to footage you’ve never seen. Not from tonight. Earlier, maybe. The vanity room. George. Milli. Cinna.

George slumped forward, voice heavy and low. Tired.  “I messed up.” 

Your heart sank. What was he talking about? 

“So, you regret it?” Cinna’s voice was serious, probing. 

You stare at the screen, frozen. This has to be edited. Spliced. Manipulated. Maybe the producers cut it to look worse than it was—standard reality TV drama. But… this is Sidemen. They wouldn’t do that to you and George. Right?

“It wasn’t worth it.” George admitted quietly, his voice barely audible on the microphone. “Maybe we made a massive mistake. And it’s so frustrating how she always just…runs away. You know what, if I could go back in time, I'd undo that night.”  Milli shifts beside him. Her voice breaks. “George–,” 

The screen goes black.

Your breath catches. Your whole body stills.

You know how reality TV works. You know how easy it is to twist things, to stitch together sentences out of context. But knowing doesn’t stop the words from sinking like stone.

It wasn’t worth it. He said. He’d undo that night. 

You try to breathe. To find something to anchor to. But it’s always been George, or well, at least it felt like it.  

George has always been the thing that steadied you. The one constant.

You can’t even remember what you did before you knew him. How your life was like before he came into your life.

So your chest aches, your head spins, and you try to deny that George didn’t say those words. 

But it was. You could see him clearly on the screen. Caught in 4k. Or well, shitty CCTV. 

Did you trust him blindly? How could you have let yourself fall so foolishly?  

Not after everything.

Was that real? Or was this? Maybe he changed his mind. 

The screen flashes again, merciless.

TEMPTATION — HEAR THE FULL CONVERSATION FOR 30K

Your throat tightens. You could listen. You could get the whole story. 

But what if the rest hurts more than this already does?

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you do always run. Maybe that’s the only way to protect yourself from getting crushed like this again.

You stare at the screen a second longer, then shut your eyes.

You don’t need to hear more.

You’ve already heard too much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Maybe because you’d actually slept instead of lying awake, chewing on all your thoughts until the early hours of the morning. 

Or maybe because you weren’t cold for once. There was an arm around you, heavy and warm, stealing all the chill from the thin blankets and the freezing set.

But if you were honest — and right now, tucked away in George’s chest, you could afford to be honest—it was because you felt safe. Truly, stupidly safe. Not the kind of safe you’d always felt with him as a friend—this was different. Deeper. The kind of safe that scares you, because it makes it too easy to let your guard all the way down—especially when you know you can trust it completely.

Enveloped in his embrace, his heartbeat a slow and steady drum beneath your ear, you could almost pretend nothing else in this moment mattered; as if you had your own little bubble, away from all the cameras, contestants, chaos, and challenges. For a fleeting moment, you’d carved out a tiny sanctuary amongst the chaos. 

But of course, the Inside wasn’t about to let you keep it. Around you, blankets were rustling and drawers squeaked open as the other Insiders peeled themselves out of bed to get ready for the day. 

Last night, you and George had promised each other: this would stay private—at least until you figured everything out. Not a dirty secret, but not something to flaunt, either. You both said it was real, but you knew that in moments like this with every warm breath against your neck. Neither of you wanted to hand it over for the producers to twist into ratings, views, and some juicy storyline to feed the hungry audience.

He pressed a sleepy kiss into your shoulder, the scrape of his stubble making you bite back a smile. He was awake.

You shifted just enough so you could see him. His eyes captivated you; so painfully blue, puffy with sleep, but crinkled at the corners from a smile he hadn’t bothered to hide. 

“Good morning,” He whispered, so softly that you almost forgot there were microphone packs capturing your every word. 

“Good morning.” 

It would be so easy to stay in this moment. To get lost in him and your little bubble. To let the cameras catch it all, consequences be damned. That was Outside You’s problem. 

But you couldn’t. Not yet. 

You forced your gaze away, pressed a kiss to the back of his hand instead, and then gently lifted his arm and slipped out of his embrace before anyone else could see too much…although, you couldn’t get far with your ankles still tied together. 

“I have, like, no sense of time here.” Farah groaned from across the room, “Waking up to KSI’s voice like that is actually so mentally deteriorating.” 

You slowly sat up, “Tell me about it.” 

George remained lying down, although he now faced the ceiling. His hands shot up to his face as he tried to adjust to the bright harsh light. “I think…it’s Tuesday?” He mumbled. 

Cinna jumped in to join the conversation,  “We came in on Saturday, it’s been four days, so definitely Tuesday.” 

“Thanks,” Farah replied, her voice soft with that same gentleness she has reserved for George since day one. You hated that it made something in your chest tighten, even now, after everything. You forced yourself not to think about it. Not right now.

He gave her a lazy thumb-up, without lifting his head from the pillow. 

You looked back at him again, smiling before you even realised you were. He looked so at peace—his brown curls fluffy and messy against the white pillow, his blue eyes squinting at the light, his arms loose against the mattress. This is what you would have woken up to, if you hadn’t run that night… and back then, there wouldn’t have been any cameras waiting to ruin it.

Turning quickly, you didn’t want anyone to catch that stupid grin spreading across your face. 

“How was it sleeping in a banana costume?” You asked Milli, whose bright yellow suit was almost blinding from across the room. “Hopefully it was at least somewhat comfortable.” 

Milli groaned theatrically, falling back onto the mattress. “I had nightmares about being peeled.” 

Everyone snorted, including you. She turned the question back to you with a cheeky, teasing smile, motioning toward you and George sharing a bed. As you chatted, you quickly changed the subject—but George’s hand slipped under the blanket, searching for yours. When he found it, he laced your fingers together, and your chest aches in that annoyingly soft way.

He wasn’t going to stop touching you now. Not when you were officially his. Then again, he never really stopped himself before — not at group game nights, not during movies at his place, not on those 2am McDonald’s runs.

“I had the worst dream,” PK muttered from beside you, his face buried in his pillow. “Mandi just kept calling me ‘snake’ over and over again. It wouldn’t stop.” 

Jason snorted. “That wasn’t a dream, that’s just a memory.” 

PK threw a pillow across the room, missing you by inches. Just then, the production assistant stepped in, clipboard in hand.

“Milli, please come to Room 19 to remove your costume.” At the words she’d been waiting for all night, Milli bolted upright, nearly tripping over the blanket.

The assistant then turned to you and George. “Once she’s done, you two, please come in next.” With that, she left, and the room slowly stirred—everyone following the cue to actually get ready.

George finally sat up, his hand still warm and holding yours beneath the blanket. His body shifted behind you, chest brushing your back as he leaned in close.

“Honestly,” he murmured against your ear, voice low, “we could just ask them to leave it on.”

You elbowed him gently, laughter bubbling under your breath. “I want to shower, you clingy little prick.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that made your heart lift, before pressing another light kiss to your shoulder.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Mandi and Dylan’s beds—neat, clean, untouched. The reminder of their eliminations twisted like a knife in your stomach. That could’ve been you and George yesterday, if things had gone even a little differently.

Sure, last night you’d admitted you wouldn’t have minded being eliminated—just to escape the cameras and keep things private. But George wanted to win. He wanted to support his sister. And now, a part of you felt guilty for even thinking about leaving.

You didn’t notice Cinna watching, smirking as she caught how close George leaned into you—how he softened in your space. Nor were you aware of Whitney, eyes narrowing as she tracked the electric energy between you two.

You were in your bubble. But not as hidden as you thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been four days, but you still can’t predict when the challenges will hit… or what fresh hell the Sidemen have cooked up this time. All you know is it’ll probably come later in the day, and will likely leave you wondering why you accepted Simon’s offer to be on the show in the first place.

However, the waiting has become your favourite part of the day. The eleven of you, sprawling in a loose circle around the couch, talking absolute shit about life on the outside and bonding over the trauma on the Inside. It’s moments like these that make you love the experience—like a long trip with friends, no phones allowed. 

That said, you know very little of this will actually make it to air. Sure, the Sidemen have their names on the production, but it’s Netflix that holds the real power—and drama is what sells. You just hope the boys get to review the footage and keep the show theirs. (And maybe, quietly beg them to cut down on the shots of you and George.)

“Wait, are your ankle ties still on?” Whitney asked, her laugh bubbling with surprise. “You two are still quite awfully close.” 

There were plenty of bean bags scattered around, but George had tugged you down next to him—well, basically on top of him—right as you reached for your own. He’d done it so casually, like he always used to... but now, it felt different. 

George shrugged, already armed with a lie. “We got used to it,” he said, his hand creeping up to pat the top of your head. “Stockholm Syndrome, you know?”

You laughed at his excuse. “Trauma bonding, I guess.” He smiled down at you, ruffled your hair again, then slid his arm back around you like it belonged there—which, annoyingly, it did.

While Whitney moved on, you caught Farah and Mya still watching—suspicion bubbling under polite curiosity. But you missed Milli and Cinna’s quiet exchange on the couch: smirks, stifled giggles, and a shared knowing look. 

Milli, the savior, piped up to redirect the conversation from further speculating on you two. “After this show, all of us will be trauma bonded.” Her grin was innocent enough to fool the room, but not you. You shot her a grateful smile; she winked back.

You were also thankful for Jason—blissfully oblivious or simply uninterested in your drama. “Can’t believe you two bonded over that,” he muttered. “DDG and I didn’t shit all day yesterday. What the fuck was that?”

George snorted. “First thing I did this morning was run to the toilet.” Which was a lie—because the first thing he did was follow you out of Room 19, cling to you while you grabbed clean clothes, and joked about joining you in the shower.

“How romantic,” you mumbled just for him, and his grin widened. 

Milli snickered, more than happy to help make fun of George. “You should’ve seen him bolt. Didn’t even notice I was there.” 

“I had to go!” George protested, throwing his arms in the air. “That was twelve hours of forced constipation. I didn’t want to die on this show that way.”

PK let out a loud laugh, sprawled across three beanbags like he owned the place. “You say that like today won’t kill us anyway. I’ve accepted it. I’m dying on this show—murdered by a Sidemen.” 

You laughed at the mental image of your friends annoying everyone to death.

Uncle P raised a brow, “Or Mandi.” 

PK immediately paled at the mention of the name. 

“You two are so dramatic,” Cinna groaned, practically melted into her Inside hoodie. “Breakfast wasn’t even bad today.”

George lifted a finger, wagging it like some smug professor. Slipping into the accent of one of his more obnoxious skit characters, he corrected her: “Thanks to my sauce tip.”

Uncle P shrugged. “Could be a trap. Classic tactic—sugar us up before another elimination.” 

“God, I hope it’s not another scary one.” Whitney groaned, dropping her head against the pillow, likely remembering her first challenge with spiders. 

Mya scoffed, still not quite over being put into a box with snakes. “I will actually kill them if it is.” Honestly, if you were her, you would still be furious too. 

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be humiliating.” 

“Whatever it is, it’s gonna be humiliating.” Uncle P’s deadpan earned a round of grim agreement. Between pies to the face, secrets spilled, and dares no one should be proud of... humiliation was basically the point of the show.

“I still feel whipped cream in my ears,” Farah moaned, flopping back onto the sofa like she’d been mortally wounded.

George nudged you slightly, voice low enough just for you. “For the record, if there’s whipped cream again, I’ll be using you as a shield this time.” 

You elbowed him, trying (and failing) not to grin. “Dream on.” 

Across the room, Cinna watched. Her gaze flicked between the two of you. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. A smile tugged at her lips—soft, knowing. She could see it.

Before you could catch the look in her eyes, the TV in the corner clicked on.

Dead silence.

Then,like a horror movie jump scare:

“All the girls to Room 19!”

Your stomach dropped.

Just like that, the bubble burst.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The challenges so far had been bad…but this one was hell. 

You’d never hated a challenge more, and Harry could probably tell. 

Seated at the far end of the lineup, closest to where Harry and Josh stood orchestrating today’s chaos, you slumped deeper into the chair. While the production crew scrambled to fix a mic issue, Harry wandered over and leaned lightly against the back of your chair. His hand landed on your shoulder, trying to comfort you…but failing spectacularly. 

Tilting your head back, you mouthed, “This is so fucked.” 

He pursed his lips, agreeing wordlessly. 

Your knee bounced uncontrollably, the pint in your stomach widening with every second of silence. 

The challenge was called Lights Out, a twisted social deduction game (more like nightmare) where each round, one person gets called to vote someone out. If someone voted for you, your only hope was guessing who did it. 

Like Mafia, but crueler. It wasn’t just for fun or laughs. Instead, hundreds of thousands of pounds were at stake. The production was forcing you to stab each other in the back, and still eat breakfast together the next morning. 

Now Farah and Mya sat under a harsh red light a few metres away, likely getting eliminated. After all, it was their consequence for guessing wrong.

That could’ve been you, three rounds ago, if you hadn’t guessed Whitney.

Fuck. 

It echoed in your head, steady and relentless.

If they wanted two people gone before the voting stopped, were they really taking out two people today? Your mind spun. That would make it four people out in less than 48 hours. Then, you started to wonder: are the boys going through the same thing? And if so, did that mean four people would be gone before dinner?

Your chest tightened at the thought. George. Was he okay? Could someone have betrayed him?

Your eyes drifted back to Milli, who had been a punching bag throughout all the challenges. From being labelled the most fake to most likely to backstab in previous challenges, she’s now being guessed as the person eliminated round after round. She shrunk slowly into herself, fingers picking at her nails and chewing at her lips. 

If she hadn’t been three seats away, you’d have grabbed her hand and squeezed it until your fingers hurt. Instead, you caught her eye and mimed a clumsy heart. She could only crack half a smile back at you. 

“All right,” Josh called, mic feedback snapping you back. “This next round: you’ll vote between Mya and Farah. One goes home today.”

The air froze solid. No one breathed. It felt like if you stayed motionless long enough, maybe they’d laugh and say it was a prank.

God, you hope George was okay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air in the dressing room felt thick, heavy with everything that no one could even fathom the right words for. 

No one said much at first as everyone shuffled around the room, taking a seat. Suddenly, the quiet hum of cameras and every sigh seemed to echo way too loud. 

Farah cracked first. “It’s just…” Her voice broke around the edges as tears welled into her eyes. She immediately hid her face into her hands, breath hitching. “I know it’s a game, but friends…they’re really hard for me, okay? They always have been. I feel like people never really…get me. My whole life, I’ve been so misunderstood.” 

No one jumped to respond. There wasn’t much to say at this moment. It felt wrong to give her a hug, not when Mya was the one voted out. 

The tension was suffocating. 

Cinna leaned against the vanity, arms tight across her chest. “We were forced to pick each other apart. It was shit. It all felt shit.” 

You nodded, “It was literally pitting us against each other.” 

At the end of the counter, Mya let out a sharp laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That Van Cleef comment? It really offended me. I get that you could be using a joke or logic or whatever you could to make you feel better, but like…we can’t pretend this game isn’t about money.” 

You wanted to explain, but it wasn’t the time. In the end, it was money. Farah had always been honest about how much it would help her. You didn’t know Mya’s whole life, but you had to pick. It was a shit choice, and you needed a reason

“I’m sorry,” you said instead. You meant it. “We were just thinking as logically as we could. It wasn’t personal—but it definitely sounded like it. You would’ve done the same.”

Cinna was quick to join. “I know that Van Cleef's comment was unfair. I’m sorry.” 

Mya met your gaze, arms folded tight across her chest like armor. She gave the faintest nod. “Yeah. Okay. Just… next time, maybe don’t decide what people can afford to lose.”

Silence settled again, restless and prickly.

Then Whitney clapped her hands once, loud enough to break the tension.

“Alright! That’s enough self-pity. Anyone else got something to say? Dirty secrets? Crushes? A reason to swing a punch? No? Good. Clean slate time.” She pointed right at you. “We good?”

You nodded. And one by one, everyone else did too. 

Whitney’s grin softened. “Right. Group hug. Mya, front and center.”

A few half-hearted protests, but everyone shuffled in anyway. Mya laughed — strained but real — and for one small moment, the room didn’t feel so stifling.

For a moment, it felt okay again.

Then the door slammed open—and the boys barreled in. 

George. Your eyes darted through the group as they filed in — PK first, then Jason, then DDG, and then… him.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were even holding. 

PK spoke first, making the announcement for the group. “Uncle P got voted out.” 

The girls froze. A chorus of shocked gasps broke out. Uncle P was the anchor; the calm when tempers ran too hot.

“I’m out too,” Mya said quietly, slipping free of the hug to cross straight to Uncle P. She wrapped him up, burying her face in his shoulder.

You hung back a second, watching them cling to each other: Uncle P patting her back, saying something fatherly and nonsense enough to make her hiccup a watery laugh.

“The father and daughter, both gone” He said it loud enough to draw a few wet chuckles from the group.

George was moving through the room too, hugging each of the girls—Farah, then Milli, then Cinna—murmuring little check-ins as he went. “You alright?” “That was rough, huh?” “You okay?”

He reached you last—of course he did—and his arms slipped around your waist before you could even think. He ducked his head, voice low by your ear. “You okay?” 

You hummed, honest and a little lost. “I don’t know yet. You?”

He nodded slowly, then paused, forehead brushing yours. “Do I have a poker face?” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. He read the confusion on your face instantly—like he always did.

“One of the lads said I did.”

A laugh bubbled up, faint but warm despite the lump in your throat. “Not even a little.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As most people followed Uncle P and Mya into the bedroom to pack up their stuff, Cinna pulled away from the group. Her dabbing her eyes with a tissue caught your attention… and a few others.

“I feel so bad,” she whispered. “I hurt her feelings. I just… I don’t know. I’m not cut out for this.”

Whitney went over first, wrapping Cinna in a firm hug. “It’s inevitable,” she murmured into her hair. “You’re not a bad person. You were just playing the game. It’s not that deep.”

Cinna nodded, still looking shaken.

You joined immediately, pulling both of them into a three-way hug. “We know you didn’t mean it like that. No one here thinks you're mean, Cinna. You’re one of the kindest people—if not the kindest person—here. We love you.”

Milli barreled in too, wrapping the three of you tight. “We got each other. Even if the Sidemen put us in shitty situations, we’ve got each other’s backs whenever we can.”

Part of you did want to leave yesterday. But moments like this remind you: the competition can be brutal, but the love is real.

Which is exactly why, ten minutes later, saying goodbye to Uncle P and Mya shattered your heart. Inside is going to feel miles different without them here, just like when Dylan and Mandi left. It’s like a puzzle missing pieces in the middle.

“Thank you, Uncle,” you sighed, giving him your final hug before he and Mya walked down the hallway. “Thank you for always being so honest, and so strong, and so cool.”

He chuckled at the compliment before he smiled down at you, not having much time to linger with goodbyes. “Keep in touch, okay?”

You nodded immediately—no hesitation needed. As he moved on to hug everyone else, you found Mya.

Whispering another quiet apology, you gave her the tightest hug you could muster, even though you felt weak. You thanked her for the bright light and buzzing energy she brought to the house… and then, just like that, they were gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The living room felt hollow after they left. It was much quieter now, everyone still reeling from the double elimination ...and from the fact that four people had disappeared in just forty-eight hours. Add to that the disappointed that came from Jason accepting his temptation and locking in his slot at the Charity Match. 

No one dared to say it out loud, but everyone was thinking the same thing: who’s next?

The final day was creeping closer and closer, and paranoia was thick in the air. 

George’s arm anchored around your shoulders, your fingers absently playing with his pinky while he and Jason talked about the Charity Match. You had started the conversation, hyping up Jason’s decision as you’d been to every game since it begun. But your mind had drifted off, trying to predict tomorrow. 

Then, the intercom crackled to life. “George, please come to Room 19.” 

He froze, eyes wide as if he’d just heard a ghost. “Oh, phallus.”

Jason burst out laughing. “Who says that? That’s so polite. So British.”

George shot him a deadpan look, before turning to you and…hesitated. It was as if he was debating leaning down and kissing you goodbye. Reading his mind, you squinted and slightly shook your head, just enough for him to read: not now. Not when he just got called and the cameras are looking at him and only him.  

He huffed a tiny laugh instead. “See you guys in a bit, yeah?” His eyes lingered on you a moment longer than they should have.

You just nodded, watching him walk away. The space beside you went cold so fast it hurt. Instinctively, you tugged your sleeves over your hands, trying to trap the warmth he left behind.

Jason’s voice broke your daze. “It wasn’t the wrong decision, right?” He needed reassurance. Especially after how disappointed Cinna had been with him after she vouched for him wholeheartedly. At this point, there was no undoing it, so you offered him whatever comfort you could.

Soon enough, George came back, looking dazed and unsettled He dropped down beside you, thigh pressed against yours, body radiating tension.

“You oka—?” you started.

Your name crackled over the speaker.

Well then

“I guess that’s me.” You slowly jumped to your feet, seeing the production assistant tasked with guiding you to the room impatiently waiting for you. You stretched, purposefully turning to face George and check if he was okay. However, he didn’t respond with words; just a slight nod to follow. 

Walking down the hallway, your footsteps sounded way too loud against the polished floor. Until you were greeted by Room 19. 

The fluffy white couch. The blue walls. The soft lighting. If this wasn’t a glorified confession booth, it would’ve been a great relaxation room. 

“Please sit.” 

You obeyed, sinking into the cushions, palms clammy against your sweatpants. A camera stared straight through you, waiting for your soul to crack open.

One of the people behind the camera spoke up. “Please use the two paddles to vote on who should return: Patrice or Mya. Only one of them will get to stay in the game.” 

Fuck. 

Your brain short-circuited. Uncle P or Mya?

The camera was already rolling—catching every flicker of panic across your face.

Uncle P, as much as you loved him, was the most well-off. He could go without these funds. Although, you wanted nothing but for him to stay; for him to calm everyone down, give reality checks, and to tell his stories. But you owed it to Mya. After all, you did vote her out. 

You found yourself mumbling out your reasoning, your mind fighting itself out loud. Finally, you shut your eyes, let the silence stretch just long enough to drown out the noise in your head — and lifted the paddle.

“Mya.”  

So that’s why George had looked like that.

You looked the same when you shuffled back to the living room, eyes blank and limbs heavy. Jason was up next–they were likely calling people out by the groups they sat themselves with, probably to stop you from from discussing it with each other, to deliberate, to give the heads-up. 

You slumped next to George. “This is getting too much.”

He brushed a soft kiss to your forehead, grateful that you two were finally alone…at least for a bit. “We’re so close to the end. Just a few more days. Hold on.”

An hour later, once every name had been called, Mya walked back in.

You weren’t surprised.

But you couldn’t pretend you weren’t a tiny bit disappointed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, you, Jason, Cinna, and George were the first to retreat to the bedroom. The four of you couldn’t deny how exhausted you were, even while the others lingered in the living room, still chatting away. All you wanted was for production to finally kill the lights—this was about the time they usually did anyway. 

Today had been yet another emotional rollercoaster. A challenge that pit everyone against each other, a double elimination, a surprise save, Jason folding for the Charity Match temptation… and on top of all that, you and George. 

It was too much…way too much. 

“Bro, can they dim the lights or something?” Cinna called into the void, voice frustrated and fatigued. 

“I just want to sleep!” You mumbled into your mattress, face planting straight onto the bed. Your bed hadn’t budged by even an inch from George’s.  

Too tired. That would be your official excuse. 

George laughed somewhere above you. “Oh my God, you know what would be really fun right now?” He flopped down beside you, pulled the blanket over you both, and pressed himself close. “Sleep.”

All four of you cracked up at once. It felt good to complain about something so simple—a tiny pocket of relief on a day that hadn’t given you much to smile about.

KSI’s voice cut through the moment, static and smug over the intercom. “Well, well, well. Why haven’t you two moved your beds yet?”

You didn’t even lift your head. “I just want to sleep,” you groaned at the ceiling, hoping the Sidemen could hear every ounce of your exhaustion.

Cinna wheezed out a laugh. “Why do we sound like we’re fifty years old?”

You and George lost it, burying giggles into the pillows. Your forehead pressed into his shoulder as your legs tangled together under the blanket.

Jason moaned from his corner, “Swear they usually dim the lights by now. This is actual torture.”

George scoffed. “Why would they dim the lights when they’re about to shove a Sideman’s face in ours to tell us how much we hate each other?”

Cinna snorted. “Not gonna lie, seeing any of them right now would piss me off.”

You rolled onto your back, eyes shut tight. “I’m disliking every single video once we’re out. Don’t care if they donate to a thousand charities, or if I’m in the thumbnail. It’ll be a thumbs down on principle.”

“Smear campaign,” Jason declared. “We’ll run it together.”

You snorted, burying your face deeper into George’s shoulder, desperate for sleep even with the lights still blazing overhead. George did the same, hiding his face in your hair.

You forced your mind to drift, your breathing to slow…

…until the challenge alarm shrieked through the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No one noticed his sudden silence though. Not with Mandi spiralling over PK’s potential betrayal. Jason, of course, was fuelling the fire, instigating her further. “He could be manipulating you. One minute you're safe, and the next—poof—you’re gone. He could vote you out just like that.”

The others joined in, analysing PK’s trustworthiness (or, well, lack thereof) and guessing who Uncle P thought was dragging the team down. You, on the other hand, just wanted to know so you could either get out or go to bed. 

Whether you were on that chopping block or not, there’s nothing you can do to defend your spot. You can’t run into Room 19 and convince them to let you stay.

Still tied at the ankles, you and George had given up on the stiff dining stools and settled close on the couch, your head hovering on the sofa just above his shoulder. “Hey,” He whispered, loud enough for only you (and of course, the microphone). “Be careful going forward, okay?” 

You frowned, “Why? What happened?” 

He sighed, “You’re safe today, I hope, but when I was at the gym with PK this morning, he said he and Jason wanted to vote a girl out.” 

You wanted to scoff, of course, they see it as girls versus boys right now. Regardless, you leaned closer, trying to hear better as the noise at the table doubled, with Mandi now declaring that it’ll be her. 

“He was talking about how the girls are in little teams, like you and Milli.” 

Admittedly, they weren’t wrong. There were no strong bonds between the boys yet, while Whitney, Mandi, and Mya were practically inseparable. You and Milli were another pair, while Cinna and Farah floated between. 

“So, how do you know I’m safe?” PK is close to the trio, so the odds were that he wouldn’t touch them. Then again, you have been among the best savers, so it’d be detrimental if they got rid of you. That, and you and Uncle P were relatively close. 

George hesitated, a blush creeping on his cheeks. “He told me he wouldn’t vote you out.”

[Later, while watching the episode back, you’d realise that PK promised George, “I won’t mess with your girl, don’t worry”, and George had just…dabbed him up. Thanked him. No corrections, no clarifications.]

“And, he’s worried that the trio is going to turn on him.” George added, before you could question his hesitation. 

“Do you think they will?” You turned around to face him, not realising how close you two actually were–his breath hitting your face, his eyes glancing down to your lips. 

He shook his head, turning to face the wall in front of you now. “Doesn’t matter. You can’t really trust anyone here, can you?” 

Removing yourself from facing him so directly, you drop your head back to where it was, nodding. You let yourself process the new information. 

There is no doubt that it’ll be a girl tonight. If you could give immunity to anyone, it’d be Milli or Cinna. Although, you knew you were biased–they were smart, loyal, and played the game with a conscience. 

“I’m so tired of all this,” You huffed, dropping your hands into your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. “Maybe I should just get voted out, and spend the rest of the week at home.” 

George paused before deciding to test the waters. Slowly, he took one of your nervous hands into his, and let your intertwined hands rest on his lap. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

“Well, I want you to win. For your sister.” Your voice was barely a whisper. 

You decided to stop yourself from confessing that you wanted to be out so you could process your feelings for him, so you can avoid him a little longer. But even worse, you wished that both of you were eliminated, so the two of you can talk without all these cameras. “I just want us to talk…really talk.” 

“We don’t have to be voted out to talk,” He murmured, nudging you with his shoulder. 

You lifted your head, but made sure to keep your distance from his face this time. “You want to talk about it with all these cameras on us?” 

Despite the distance you created, he brought his empty hand to your face, brushing your hair behind your ear. Something he’s done a million times. But this time, it felt…charged. 

“I know a spot without cameras,” He said, “Just say the word.” 

Before you could answer, Whitney’s voice cut through the room. “What are you two whispering about, huh? Plotting something?” 

You pulled away from George and turned to face her. “There’s nothing we can do now. No point stressing.” 

“Oh, sorry for interrupting your little make-out session,” Whitney scoffed. “Some of us are actually trying to win.”

Rolling your eyes, you spoke without thinking–too tired and done to filter your words. “At least I’m trying to save money for someone to win.” 

“What was that?” Whitney shot back. You two have surely butt heads more than anyone else so far. “Just ‘cause Mandi said you’re the most boring one here doesn’t mean you can start acting sassy.”

George scoffed. “Okay, that’s not fair, Whitney. What the hell was that?” 

“It’s fine,” you whispered just to him. “This isn’t worth a fight.” 

You’d met girls like Whitney before. Sweet, but they can be immovable when they are convinced they are in the right. Turning around, you raised your hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired. Just trying to nap.”

Cinna jumped in, trying to help you de-escalate. “Yeah, she’s been trying to nap all day, Whitney.”

That calmed her, luckily. It also gave you cover for the slip-up. 

Luckily, your distraction—or maybe your doom—arrived. PK and Uncle P walked in, looking sheepish and exhausted.

“Why are you smiling so much, man?” Mandi called out, eyeing PK’s suspiciously wide grin.

“I’m smiling ‘cause I’m nervous,” he said, his teeth nearly chattering.

Uncle P clapped his shoulder. “You wanna say it, or should I?”

“Together,” PK said.

You instinctively leaned into George again, feeling comfort despite all the things unsaid. He was always your lifeline, your comfort space. While your safety on the Inside may be up to debate, you knew you were safe with him. 

“We just wanted to make the game a level playing field,” they said, like a rehearsed breakup. “And that’s why the person we chose to eliminate is…”

You braced yourself. 

Whitney, maybe, due to her spending habits and temper. Farah could be an option, as she hasn’t gotten along much with PK or Uncle P until earlier today. 

“Mandi.” 

Your jaw dropped. 

The silence was deafening—until Whitney gasped, “Oh my god.”

“Snakes!” Mandi was on her feet, storming toward PK. “You are a snake! A two-faced, lying—”

You jumped up, joining the rest of the girls who were quick give her a hug once she slowed down. George, unfortunately, got swept into the hug too.

“You okay?” you asked, joining the rest of the girls (and George) around her.

While Mandi and you have had one or two minor disagreements, you actually enjoyed her company. She was honest (for the most part) about her spending, she was funny, and she brought people together. You were going to miss her. 

She sighed. “It’s alright. I know it is. But just... don’t trust anyone, okay?”

As she and most of the girls disappeared to pack, George asked to stay back. And you agreed, wanting to check in on the most tempered person on the Inside. 

George turned to Uncle P. “Hey, you alright?”

Uncle P sighed. “It’s tough, sending someone home. We really were just trying to balance the teams. And yeah… she was a big spender.”

George nodded. “No, I completely understand the thought process.” 

That’s when you noticed George still wearing his ridiculous party hat. You reached up and toyed with the string under his chin.

“Don’t think it’s the right vibe anymore, Clarkey,” you teased.

He laughed, pulling it off fast. “Yeah… this feels wrong now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone was sitting around the TV, dreading the inevitable gut-punch moment when the screen told you exactly how much money had been spent. 

“I think…” Uncle P clapped his hands together, scanning the room solemnly. Since Mandi’s elimination, the atmosphere on the Inside has changed. Even though the living room was still decked in birthday decorations, no one was celebrating…sitting in silence, hushed conversations, and a clear upset from what happened an hour earlier. 

Further exasperated as the production crew slowly brought everyone into Room 19 to relive what just happened so everyone can say their own opinions on it. 

“Let’s have a moment of silence for Mandi.” Uncle P suggested finally now that everyone has returned from their confessionals. 

“Nuh-uh,” Whitney cut in, shrugging him off as if she was offended. “We’re not doing that! What are you even suggesting?” 

PK looked like he’d seen a ghost, visibly shrinking into the couch, clearly still haunted by Mandi screaming at him earlier. He’s being smart enough to stay out of saying anything else incriminating. 

Thankfully, the argument hit pause as the number on the screen dropped.

673k. 

“No fucking way,” you muttered. Nearly a 90k drop. 

Whitney, of course, didn’t even blink. “We’re not doing a moment of silence—that’s a piss take,” she declared, brushing off the prize fund like it meant nothing. Maybe because at least 30k of that money was spent on her five-minute decision. “And Mandi? She’s a good vibe. We’re not gonna act like Mandi is a Dylan.”

You froze.

You were so fucking tired of the Dylan jokes.

Apparently, George was too.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” he asked sharply, sitting forward. “That’s mean.”

Your heart kicked up a beat. George was someone who liked to stay out of confrontation, but he wasn’t scared to call someone out when they’re doing something wrong. It’s one thing, among many, you admired about him; his strong moral code. And that is exactly how you knew Whitney had genuinely fucked up, and it wasn’t just you being close to Dylan. 

“We’ve been taking the piss out of Dylan all day, but why? What’s he actually done to any of you?”

Whitney scoffed, “It’s not a mean thing to say. Let’s clear this mean girl narrative the two of you are trying to spin.” 

“We’re not spinning anything,” George snapped, his voice becoming sharper. “But what the fuck is that language?”

She just shrugged, indifferent as ever. “Mandi added to the vibe. Dylan didn’t. It’s not personal.”

“It is personal,” George spoke fast and deliberately. “I know jokes happen, I’m not dumb—I’ve made a few myself. But you could’ve said literally anything else. Instead you chose ‘Mandi’s not a Dylan’? That’s just unnecessary.”

Whitney raised a brow, and smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry—didn’t realise you were going to defend the guy who asked your girlfriend out. Didn’t realise you were into being a cuck.”

You stood to your feet now. 

That was it.

George didn’t deserve this. 

“No. Whitney, no. I know we’ve had our disagreements, but that? That’s not it.” Your voice shook with frustration. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re sweet. And yeah, you’re fiery. And I admire that, but fire doesn’t give you the right to burn people down.”

The room was dead silent now, not quite expecting this full-on outburst from you. 

The only thing stopping you from being face-to-face to her was George remaining seated, keeping the two of you planted in your corner. 

“George has been nothing but kind to you, even when you didn’t deserve it. Dylan? He’s done nothing but support this group. Hell, he even earned us back 10k. You don’t have to like everyone here, but we have to work together and respect each other.”

No one moved. It felt like the whole room was holding its breath.

Whitney didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. The look on her face was enough…something you’d describe as a mix of a bruised ego and something that was akin to guilt. 

Then, from the corner of the couch, Uncle P exhaled loudly and stood up.

“Aight, enough.” he said. “Look. We all got our friends, and we all got people we don’t click with. Not everyone’s gonna mesh—and that’s cool. But especially here? With cameras, competition, money, pressure? It turns people inside out. I’ve seen some of my kindest teammates say and do shit they’d never dream of because of the heat of the game.”

He looked straight at Whitney. “But just remember: there’s a line between banter and disrespect. And once you cross it, no amount of jokes can walk it back. And that doesn’t just make you look bad, it hurts people who don’t deserve it.”

He let that sit.

“You don’t gotta be besties with everyone,” he added. “But treating people like they’re disposable? That’s not fire. That’s just cold.”

The room was dead silent. Then Uncle P gave a quick nod towards the dining table. “Anyway. I’m going to get some more cake. Anyone want to join?” 

“I wasn’t trying to throw him under the bus,” she muttered, eyes trained somewhere between the wall and her nails, as people started to disperse around the room. “It’s not that deep.”

“It is that deep,” You didn’t miss a beat. “You just didn’t think anyone would call you on it.” And especially George. But, you also know him. He’s someone who wouldn’t let shit pass. 

Whitney didn’t respond to that. But she didn’t argue again, either.

Instead, she sank back into the couch, quieter than usual. 

While guilt overcome you about saying the wrong thing or potentially overreacting, the later support from George, Milli, Cinna, Farah, Jason, Uncle P,  and DDG was enough to remind you that you did the right thing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The note taunted you from the nightstand, scrawled in JJ’s unmistakable handwriting:

“We combined your beds to make sleeping easier for you two while you were tied up…sleep well xoxox. 

P.S. There’s a condom in the top drawer, if you need it.’ 

And yet, as you two laid in the dark–your ankle tied to George’s, his hand barely brushing yours, and the freezing cold chill throughout the room–that stupid note was the least of our problems.

You were hyper aware of everything…the rise and the fall of his chest, the warmth radiating off his skin, and the weight of all the words you hadn’t said. 

The room was quiet now…finally. After the emotional circus of the day, everyone had finally passed out. 

Even Whitney, who had muttered a rushed and vague apology to you and George before lights out. 

(It was as if she was tired herself, and just registered what she said. You didn’t bite back, and instead, you thanked her. You know she was close to Mandi, she was likely reeling from the news. But that still didn’t excuse the disrespect on Dylan.)

You turned slightly, careful not to wake the others, to face George. His curly mullet fell back onto the pillow, messy as if he’s ran his hand through it a dozen times. 

“George?” You whispered, checking if he was awake.

A low hum. He was awake.

“Two people went home today.” It could’ve been him. 

He hummed again. You weren’t sure if he was half-asleep or just waiting for you to say more. 

You rolled back onto your back. The rope tugged gently at your ankle, a quiet reminder that you couldn’t escape this, even if you wanted to. And to be honest, you didn’t. You’re tired of swallowing all these words down. 

“I don’t want you to go home,” you whispered. 

While you were willing to go home, you wanted George to come back with that prize fund. To support his sister. That’s what he came for, and you know he deserves nothing less. Yes, you came to win too, but you’ve won enough of the Sidemen’s challenges this last year.  

He turned toward you, his blue eyes staring into the side of your face. “I don’t want you to go home either. I don’t want to be here without you.”

Something in your chest burst. Testing the waters, you reached out and carefully threaded your fingers through his. He didn’t move away.

“Are we okay?” you asked, trying to stop your voice from cracking–although it failed. 

George didn’t answer right away. Just a shrug, subtle but intentional. “You tell me.”

You sat up slowly, glancing around the room—everyone else was out cold. He followed your lead, but his eyes remained trained on you. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned. “What’s going on?”

You tucked your hair behind your ears, suddenly shy under the weight of everything between you. “Would you be ready for a chat now?”

A pause.

Then, without a word, George nodded.

You both quietly stood, making your way toward the door, the ankle rope tugging gently between you. You whispered a request to a production assistant monitoring the set, asking if you could get some air on the roof, at the spot everyone who vapes goes during the shoot—just for a few minutes.

They nodded, eyes tired, already pulling a walkie to confirm with security. 

For safety as you go up the stairs, they untied your ankles and removed your mic packs.

And just like that, for the first time since the challenge, you and George were free to move.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night air bit at your skin, but it felt easier to breathe up here than there. Away from the cameras, away from the drama, and away from everyone else’s noise. 

Right now, it was just you and him and the silence between you, thick with everything you hadn’t said. 

George sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, watching you like you might run…again. You leaned against a giant plant pot, arms crossed tight over your chest, trying to hold yourself together. 

The silence wasn’t peaceful, but heavy. Unforgiving. And you knew, he wouldn’t be the one to break it. It had to be you. 

You exhaled, “I’ve been pretending it didn’t happen. “Like everything’s fine. Like that night was just…a blip. But I still remember the way you looked at me, and…” 

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt, even as you trailed off into silence. He was going to let you speak. Grounding himself, his hands curled tighter around the edge of the bench.  

“It’s not fine. I can’t keep pretending. I’ve tried to act like nothing’s changed…but it has, hasn’t it?” You were scared to look him in the eye, to see his answer, so your eyes remained on the ground. “I can’t go back to being your friend and pretending not to hurt every time you look at me like that.” 

Silence.

He didn’t look away.

And it made everything ache worse.

Facing your fears, you looked down at him; his blue eyes that you used to be able to read so well were suddenly unreadable. 

“I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, George, longer than I even admitted to myself.” You confessed, voice cracking. “But by the time I thought I should say something…it was too late. Chris was talking about your Hinge profile and these girls you’d bring home from the pub, and…I thought I missed my chance.” 

He let out a dry laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying to hide something deeper. 

You panicked. He didn’t feel the same. Is that why he was laughing? Maybe that night was a mistake for him. He’s laughing because I’m being ridiculous. Within the millisecond, a thousand of your worst fears seemed to come to life in your mind. 

“If I’d known you liked me, I wouldn’t have touched that app. Jesus.” He finally looked up at you, eyes burning. And warmth spread throughout you, the butterflies in your stomach erupted. “I went on them because I thought I didn’t stand a chance with you.”

You took a step closer, voice trembling, and decided to tell-all. “I thought you didn’t want me. And I didn’t want to risk us. You were–hell–you are my safe place. I can’t stand the idea of losing that.”

“But you already pulled away,” he said, standing now, voice raw. “I called. I texted. And you ignored me. Were you really going to leave in the dark for a week?”

You laughed nervously, wanting to shrink into yourself. Out of guilt, out of shame, out of regret. “I thought we both said we were on off-the-grid family trips, remember?” He didn’t look quite impressed by your answer. “Honestly, I wanted to buy myself a week to figure this out…alone. I haven’t had a day without you since we met. And I was scared I didn’t know who I was without you. I needed to remember I could figure it out alone. And mainly, I thought we both wanted space.” 

His voice cracked. “Well, I didn’t want space. I wanted you. I was ready to talk. I needed to talk, and you disappeared.” 

You looked down, ashamed. “I didn’t know how to face you. Because if I said it out loud—if I told you how I felt—and you didn’t feel the same… I couldn’t come back from that. It would’ve broken me.”

You thought of all your movie nights, your friendships with Chris and Arthur and heck, even the Sidemen. This wasn’t a light crush you could forget about, this could impact everything and implode everything that was normal in your life. 

“I do feel the same,” he said, stepping forward, like the words were waiting to explode. “I’ve felt the same for so long. You think I would’ve kept calling if it didn’t matter? I was losing sleep over you, and you were acting like we never happened.”

Your voice broke. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

His hand found yours, gently, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. It was warm, compared to the cold air hitting you. “Then let’s not ruin it. Let’s start something. Because I can’t go back to pretending I don’t want more.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “I don’t want to pretend either.”

He brushed your hair from your face, the gesture so soft and so familiar it made your throat ache. “Do you think we won’t work out?”

“I don’t want to think that,” you whispered. “I was scared to risk it. But now... I think you’re worth the risk.”

A slow smile tugged at his mouth. “You’ve always been worth it to me.”

A silence. A beat. Your breath hitched and your heart thumping. 

You smiled back. “Then make the move.” 

He kissed you then—slow, tender, warm, but most of all, certain. Not testing the waters, but like he knew. Like he has been waiting. His hand curled around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like he was scared you’d disappear again. Forget the cold air of the night, you had George to warm you up. You kissed him back, your fingers tangled in his curly hair, trying to tell yourself this wasn’t a dream. 

When you finally pulled away, your breath was still caught in your throat.

“You’re such a silly goose for thinking I didn’t have feelings for you,” he said, resting his forehead against yours. You let out a breathless laugh, your arms wrapped around his neck. 

“So what now?” You asked hesitantly, tilting your head to stare straight into his blue eyes–something you’ve been stopping yourself from doing since Day 1 on the Inside. 

“Well, what do you want?” He asked, nudging you slightly. 

“I want you.” You said, without hesitation. Without question. Without concern. 

He let out a breath, the kind you only let go when you’ve been holding it in too long. “Then that’s all I needed to hear.” Smiling, he said your full name, slowly, like each syllable mattered. “Would you like to be my girlfriend?”

Your breath hitched, heart pounding like it was about to leap out of your chest. 

So you didn’t answer, at least not with words.

You just kissed him again—firm, passionate, smiling against his mouth—and this time, it wasn’t to test the waters. 

It was to say yes. To him, and to everything that once scared you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe this could be something to do with the massage gun, you decided, denying the inevitable upcoming elimination. After all, there’s thirteen of you and six more days to cut that number down to four. 

Officially on your third day on the Inside, you’ve resigned to pretending that everything is normal with George. With cameras on you at all times, you know whatever…talk you two need to have will end up being on the outside. So, for now, nothing has changed…even if that means ignoring how your heart jolts every time you lock eyes longer than needed, your hands accidentally touch, or he calls your name. 

However, right now, you found yourself grateful for George taking your hands in his; pulling you out of bed and tiredly guiding you into the living room. At least you got out of bed. 

You hummed in response, not registering Tobi’s teasing tone or George’s eyes fixating on you. “I think that’s your answer.” George joked, making Tobi chuckle. Soon, the latter motioned for you two to move along and join the group by the couch. 

Tobi clapped his hands together, immediately commanding the room. “Good morning, Insiders. Can I please ask you to clear the front of the sofa, and line up in front of it?” Everyone listened to him, lining up dutifully, far too tired to argue. “One by one, you’ll collect an envelope from this plinth here. Please do not open it until you’re called to do so.” 

You were called first to get your envelope…and were the first to open it. 

“A circle.” You announced out loud, holding out your paper for everyone to see. 

George was next, “Me too.” 

Are they putting us in teams? As more and more people got circles, that option seemed less likely. Until it reached the very end: DDG, whose envelope unveiled an X. 

“Not the big DDG!” Jason groaned, upset to see his friend on the chopping block. Is it all chance this time around? Is there any point in being a team player while here? 

Tobi smiled mischievously, enjoying the confusion and chaos that erupted in front of him. “As you can see, DDG is the only one who got an X,” he turned to him, “which means you’ll have to pick someone to go home right now.”

Is George going to go home? Your hand instinctively reached for his, squeezing it tight. You know how much he wants to win to help support his sister and her wedding. Is this what the boys were talking about Dylan last night? 

Thoughts of your own relationship with DDG quickly flew by: you got along and have definitely bonded, helping with his ‘facial’ and getting to know more about him and his son, but were you truly safe? 

“Salute!” PK repeated, over and over, enjoying the chaos amidst the shock that ran through the room. Suddenly, you thought: if you were chosen, who would you pick? You tried to rationalise everything, think of every possible outcome, but it was too early to know who was truly detrimental to the team. 

Uncle P shook his head, tsking. “This is brutal.” 

“It’s crazy,” Whitney countered, watching as DDG scanned the group.  

Should you have been playing with a strategy? Could this be your way out? 

In this one moment, it felt like hours have gone by, millions of thoughts and scenarios running through your brain. The only thing grounding you back to earth was George’s thumb, rubbing circles into the back of your palm.

“I’ll be honest,” DDG started, rubbing his hands together, “we were all up last night, chatting, vibing, but there was just one person who wasn’t vibing at all.” He turned around towards the front of the line. Fuck. “I’m sorry, Dylan.” 

A weight was lifted off your shoulders knowing George and you were safe, but your heart felt heavy at seeing a close friend leave the set. 

“Dylan,” Tobi faced him, “you have been nominated to be eliminated. Please pack up your things. You’ll have ten minutes to say your goodbyes.” 

You scoffed light-heartedly, immediately turning around to give Dylan a hug. “It sounds like we’ll never see you again.” 

Dylan chuckled, “You still down for coffee? On me.” 

“Of course.” You smiled, swaying in the hug–ignorant to how George tensed behind you. 

Taking a step back, you let Dylan give hugs around. “I should’ve taken that 5 minute hot shower when I had the chance.” He joked, prompting a round of (admittedly polite) laughter to echo throughout the room. 

Like an entourage, you all followed him back into the bedroom, helping him pack up the few things you were allowed on the Inside. You sat next to him while he packed as the others stood idly around, talking to themselves, not sure what to say to Dylan. 

“Hey,” Dylan called for you in a hushed whisper, “Don’t trust anyone, okay? Even George. I know you were close outside, but this is Inside, if it isn't for the money, it’s for the shock factor. How far would George go to entertain?” 

You nodded, fazed, not sure how to process his words. Surely, it comes from a sense of bitterness towards what happened…right? 

Once Dylan was done packing and was ready to leave, the group surrounded him again. “I understand where you were coming from, bro.” Dylan punched DDG’s shoulder lightly, “It makes the  most sense. And as much as my sleep schedule has helped me on the outside, it clearly didn’t help on the Inside.” 

As he said his final goodbyes, he announced that he was the one who committed the massage gun crime…and how that actually earned you an extra 10k for the prize fund. 

Everyone thanked him, fist bumping him and celebrating him, grateful that he was strict on the budget. But only you, Farah, Milli, and George walked him to the exit. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I would have voted him out, too.” Cinna whispered, now that it was just you, Milli, Uncle P, and her slumped on the couch. Everyone else was scattered throughout the house–some at the gym, some at the shop, and a few playing table tennis. “Sorry, I know you two got close, but he was the least participating. Like, I wanted him here, he was good, and he tried to save…but you need to make friends, too.” 

You nodded, now understanding the strategy behind the Inside, even though your chest still felt tight. “Yeah, no, I get it. I can’t even imagine having to choose who gets to be eliminated.” Sighing, you let yourself melt more into the pillows. “Honestly, I would’ve voted out…” You scanned the room, only spotting George and Jason in the middle of an intense table tennis rally. Leaning in, you mouthed, ‘Whitney’. To be honest, she was likely in the shop, being sneaky…again. 

“We all like Dylan!” Uncle P added, sounding frustrated with the situation. “But sometimes, we just have to make the best decision for the group.” 

“It definitely sets the tone for the day.” 

Cinna groaned in agreement, grabbing a throw pillow and burying her face into it, letting out a muffled scream. “All I’m thinking about now is elimination.” 

“And all before breakfast.” You could hear your stomach rumbling, even if breakfast was just the usual porridge and cold beans. 

Farah walked in just then, teary-eyed and sniffling. “I’m a severe empath! I can’t control my crying!” She wailed, with her loud voice, before darting straight into the bedroom. 

As you heard the door close behind her, you jumped to your feet. “We should probably check in on her.” 

Milli agreed instantly, and before long, the living room emptied as everyone followed. Even George and Jason set down their paddles.

You hung back without thinking, lingering behind as the others made their way through the hall. George immediately came beside you, his hand slipping to your waist like second nature. 

“You alright?” He asked softly, his voice a low murmur that made your chest tighten. 

You glanced up at him. “Define ‘alright’.” 

He let our a breath of amusement, but his eyes didn’t leave you. “I meant after all that…with Dylan. I know you two got…close.” 

“Yeah,” you admitted, the chaos of the morning already getting you buzzed. Surely, you didn’t even need a coffee today. “It just feels like…a lot.” 

George shifted uncomfortably, “The coffee…thing… with Dylan…is that a date?” 

You raised an eyebrow. Was George jealous? “Why? Jealous?” You knew you were playing with fire, teasing him—but it was easier than addressing the deeper truth. You were the one who left before he could even wake up.

George didn’t say anything right away. Instead, his thumb started tracing slow, careful circles over your side—like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “We need to talk soon…” He said, finally, “About…us.” 

You looked away, watching the others disappear into the hallway, grateful for the brief illusion of privacy. “Yeah,” you said. “I know.”

He hadn’t sounded angry. Not once. Not even when you slipped out that morning, left him alone with nothing but rumpled sheets and silence. You could see it in his eyes—he wanted to ask you why, wanted to understand. And maybe you wanted to explain. But not here. Not with a mic strapped to your chest.

You opened your mouth to speak then closed it again, unsure what exactly to say. Then, finally, “It was easier to leave than to stay. That’s all.”

George gave a small nod, his jaw tightening—but he didn’t look away. “I figured.”

He was always understanding.

His gaze dropped to the floor as he whispered, “But just so you know—I would’ve liked it if you’d stayed.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of it landing like a stone in your throat. “I know,” you said, barely above a whisper. “That’s what scared me.”

The silence between you stretched. Everything around you—voices, movement, the rest of the house—faded.

George gave your side a gentle squeeze. Then his gaze flicked down to your lips.

You cleared your throat, stepping back. “The others might get suspicious. We should go.”

“Okay,” he hesitated. “But let’s have that conversation. When you’re ready. Just… don’t wait too long.”

You didn’t get the chance to reply before Jason came barreling around the corner.

“Yo, yo, yo—where are you guys? We have to—oh. Am I interrupting something?”

You and George jumped apart instinctively, shaking your heads in sync as Jason’s eyebrows raised.

“We’re gonna sing Whitney ‘Happy Birthday,’” Jason said, trying to play it cool. “You guys should come. But, like, if you need a moment—”

“No, no—we’re all good!” you blurted, already pushing past him, quick to escape the heat of George’s gaze and the weight of what you’d just said.

Jason looked between the two of you, then muttered to George, “What was that?” as you disappeared down the hallway.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite just dropping five grand on coffee and an energy drink (admittedly, you’ll let Whitney slide on this one, after all, it is her birthday), the group stayed in high spirits. From George, PK, and Jason fangirling over Uncle P in the bedroom to Whitney and Mya doing something suspicious in the store, it was almost as if the elimination this morning didn’t happen. 

You had rolled your eyes when they bought the squiggly ball, calling it a waste of money, but now as you’re pulling at it’s ridiculous plastic ‘squiggles’, you were kind of glad for it. You and Milli turned it into a relaxed game of catch mixed with 21 questions. 

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do on the Outside?” You asked, tossing the ball her way.

Catching it, Milli fiddled with it in her lap, her cheeks suddenly flushed. “So…I actually started seeing this guy…and I think I’ll go see him first.” 

You sat up a little straighter, recognising the telltale signs of the lift in her voice and her hand going straight to twirl her hair. She was gone. 

“Oh my gosh, spill!” You leaned in, elbows on your knees, fully invested. 

She launched into the story. They met online recently, went on a few dates, and now? She’s heads over heels. “We talk everyday, and it’s been so weird not messaging him. Like, I know it’s only been a few days, but…” She trailed off, kicking her legs a little. 

“You really like him, huh?” 

She tossed the ball at you, suddenly bashful. “Shut up. Your turn. What are you going to do first?” 

You shrugged, not totally sure. “Honestly? A long nap.” 

Milli laughed, “Fair, fair.” 

You threw the squiggly ball back at her with a grin. “No, but that’s so exciting about you two! You have to keep me updated.”

She smiled, warm and a little dreamy. “Of course, of course. But here’s my next question…” She lobbed the pink ball back at you before scanning the area. “Do you want to talk about it now?” 

You caught the ball midair, blinking at the shift. Your heart thudded. 

You didn’t answer right away, just pulled at the fraying edges of the ball. Part of you wanted to. Desperately. But here? With the cameras? You’ll beg the boys to cut this from the final episode. Still, the silence between you was patient. Warm. Safe.

You trusted her. You were certain. And you were tired of carrying the weight alone.

You opened your mouth, closed it. Picked at the plastic again. And then, softly—

“I left before he woke up.” Your voice was barely audible, only to Milli and the mic strapped to your chest. “Didn’t text, ignored his calls. He didn’t do anything wrong… it was perfect. I just panicked.”

Milli nodded slowly, like she already knew. Maybe she did. Maybe George had told her something. You wondered what he said about that morning.

“Have you two spoken about it yet?” she asked.

You gave her a look. That was answer enough.

“Okay, fair. It’s a bit difficult with… all this. But you’re going to have to eventually. You know that, right?”

You let out a long sigh, sinking back into the couch cushions. “Yeah. He… actually brought it up earlier. I think he got jealous of Dylan.”

Milli’s eyebrow shot up. “He brought it up? He got jealous?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, fidgeting with the squiggly ball. “He said we should talk about… us.”

She let out a low, impressed whistle. “He isn’t exactly the type to get jealous or throw around the ‘we need to talk’ card… He’s like, one of the most chill, take it easy lads I know.”

“I know.” You stared at the floor, your heart dropping. That’s what makes this all worse. You didn’t want to hurt him, that was never the intention. 

Milli’s expression softened. She scooted a little closer. “Do you regret what happened?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know the answer, but because saying it out loud would make it real.

“No…” you said finally, voice fragile. “But I regret running.”

Milli nodded, slow and thoughtful. “You can un-run, you know. Tell him now.”

“Even with the cameras?”

She shrugged. “The Sidemen love you. They won’t broadcast this if you don’t want them to.”

You glanced toward the hallway, where laughter echoed faintly from the bedroom–probably George and Jason, messing around. The sound twisted in your stomach, acting as a reminder that someone important was right there, only meters away. That all this tension could go away if you were only brave enough. 

“I’m just scared that if I do… it won’t be the same,” you admitted. “Like I ruined it. Or what if it doesn’t work out? And our friendship changes, and everything is different.”

“Maybe it won’t work out,” Milli said gently, but with a tough love edge. “But what if it does?”

You looked over at her, startled.

She shrugged, but her gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, babe. I think he told me because he was hoping I knew something.”

You didn’t say anything. Just tossed the squiggly ball back at her and rested your head on the back of the couch.

The tension wasn’t gone—but it didn’t feel as heavy. Someone else was helping you now.

“Thanks, Mills.”

She smirked. “Anytime. But seriously—go talk to him before it’s too late. You’ve had enough running."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m so scared to get a coffee!” Mandi squealed, “What if I get eliminated? Can someone else get me one, please?”

Part of you wanted to snap back, after all, spending money hasn’t stopped her before. But Cinna and everyone were right–this game isn’t just about saving money, it’s about making friends. And so far, you haven't spent a thing. 

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Really?” Mandi blinked, caught off guard, especially after butting heads with you all day over her jokes taking the piss out of Dylan.

You stood up, starting to head to the shop, trying to seem like spending the prize money was nothing to you (when it was eating you up inside). “What do you like?”

“Yo, if Mandi’s getting a free coffee, surely someone will shout me one, too?” Jason called out from across the room. 

Silence, until Cinna begrudgingly offered.

“Oh my God, are they finally spending money?” George cheered, clapping dramatically like you’d both just graduated university.

Everyone mocked outrage, pretending to be upset, rubbing salt in you and Cinna’s reluctance. “How dare you spend money!”

And, you pretended to be unaffected while Cinna was jumping around, showcasing her reluctance. (“It’s okay,” You told her in the shop, trying to justify the purchase for both of you. “We haven’t spent a thing yet. We’re just helping out.”) 

By the time you returned with the drinks, the chaos had calmed down. As you two sank next to Mandi, Jason, Milli, and DDG, the two now enjoying their coffee orders promised to owe both of you big time.

“I really want to play the charity match,” Jason exclaimed, and you had to resist the urge to groan. Not because he wanted to play, but because he’s showing his cards. Whatever anyone said now, the Sidemen were listening; that’s why you’ve been staying vague about your temptation.

Jason turned to you, “You’ve been, right?”

“It’s amazing.” You sighed, eyes flickering to George who suddenly tuned into the conversation.He’s been hoping to get the invite—and Harry already confirmed it with you, even asked you to help plan the reveal. But he doesn’t quite know it yet, and he’s not the type to assume he’d get it. 

“Is it that special?” DDG asked, unaware of the special event. 

You smiled, “Yeah, I could talk about it for hours, but I’m not gushing over those assholes while they’re giving us all these stupid challenges.” You flipped off the camera with a grin, knowing the boys would take the joke. 

Despite the heaviness hanging over you (mostly about Dylan’s elimination), the day had actually brought the group closer. Everyone was either at the table tennis setup or lounging on the couch, talking, strategising together,

Suddenly, KSI’s laugh crackled over the speakers like a horror movie villain, interrupting the conversation at hand.  “How’s everyone doing?”  Groans filled the room with someone about to shout, before KSI’s voice continued to echo throughout the room. “Shut up! I don’t care! Go to the challenge room.” 

You snorted. “I swear, JJ’s voice is like a bad omen.”

Milli nodded. “Morning alarms or challenges. Nothing good.”

But honestly speaking, this challenge isn't as terrible for you. The worst part? Tolerating PK’s fart. Massive respect to him for answering and eating the food, but…you kind of wished he didn’t. The whole room essentially became a gas chamber. 

At one point, you jumped from your seat in front of Uncle P and ducked behind George.

“I complimented you!” Uncle P yelled, laughing. He said earlier you were the contestant he’d most want as a daughter. “And you hide from me like this?”

“I’d love to have you as a dad,” you said from behind George’s chair, avoiding eye contact with the footballer. “But that’s just... not a normal smell.”

Cinna was next in the chair, escaping her spot next to Uncle P, as she faced the question: “Who’s the most boring Insider?”

“He’s gone!” Uncle P croaked. Honestly, these Dylan jokes were getting old. He wasn’t even here, and at the end of the day, he helped the group massively. Why keep dragging him in? 

Cinna winced, “Maybe Farah, but—”

Another fart ripped through the room, interrupting Cinna’s explanation and making Milli leap up. “Can you aim that somewhere else?!”

While chaos broke out again, George’s hand slid over yours on the back of his chair. His touch was warm, steady. Your cheeks flushed.

Eventually, Cinna tapped out—refusing to shave off an eyebrow before the Streamer Awards. Fair enough. You wouldn’t do it either.

She slumped into her seat, teary-eyed, and you immediately left George’s side to wrap your arms around her in an attempt to comfort her. 

PK was next, tasked to rank the girls by attractiveness. Oh God. 

“Least attractive is Milli,” he said without hesitation. 

Your jaw dropped. “It’s fine,” Milli said coolly. “I said he was the least attractive earlier.”

He rattled off names, ending with you and Mya. Looking between you two, he smirked. “Who’d kiss me?”

After he didn’t hesitate for Milli, you didn’t hesitate either. “I’m good.”

PK ignored you. “Don’t worry, George—I won’t go after your girl.” He winked, then turned towards Mya. “You’re my number one, wifey. We’re married, after all.”

His punishment? Lamb testicles. He pretended it was amala and went for it. Honestly, good on him for finding some way to deal with the taste. The challenge got interrupted one last time by a blaring smell. “I’m sorry, I just have to go to the toilet,” Uncle P said, finally getting up and excusing himself from the room. You love Uncle P, sure, but you were grateful he left. Unfortunately, he left a trail of fart in his wake.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You feel like the Sidemen were out to get you. 

No, you know it. 

“Your challenge is called Tied for the Night,” Simon read with a shit-eating grin, “and since George failed to answer his question, instead of losing money from the prize fund, he’ll be doing this challenge with you.” You would’ve called bullshit on that reasoning, but hey. 

Jason and DDG were handcuffed together, but you and George had your ankles tied together. Forced to essentially compete in a three-legged race that lasts until morning.

“That was wild,” George sighed, head falling back against the couch. His arm was draped casually around your shoulders, reminding you of all the movie nights at his flat with Chris and Arthur. This was your normal, and your heart hurt at the fact it didn’t quite feel like that anymore. “Someone would have shaved their whole eyebrow off, but Milli is just dressed as a banana.” 

Honestly, you were kind of grateful for the challenge. It gave you a reason to be close again without arousing suspicion, without prompting any questions; just proximity with an excuse. Even if you had to bite back a million things you wanted to say, motivated by Milli’s pep talk. 

Milli stood in front of you two, arm’s crossed in her banana suit. You laughed, making her groan. “Yeah, honey, I don’t think I can take you seriously for the rest of the day.” 

As the others piled on, she turned around to argue with them. You could feel yourself drifting off, the emotional highs and lows of the day finally getting to you. Your head felt heavy, and so instinctively, you let it rest on George’s shoulder, your legs still tied, resting on the coffee table. George froze, like even his breath might make you jump away. You ignored his racing heartbeat, and the way yours mirrored it. 

“I still can’t believe you heard the chocolate packet from…” Milli turned around to face you and George again, and immediately regretted speaking up when she saw the two of you cosied up, “...here.” 

George recovered quickly, pretending he was unaffected (although his flushed cheeks gave him away). “They think they’re slick,” George said confidently, “but they can’t escape…Detective Chocolate.” 

You sleepily scoffed, “Please. That’s the best you’ve got?” 

“Alright, what about Coco Noir? Hershey Holmes?” 

You patted his chest with a laugh, “Keep trying, Clarkey.” 

Letting yourself drift off on his shoulder, lulled by his voice as he talked with Cinna and Milli, you missed the look the girls exchanged with George. If your eyes were open, you’d learn that Cinna knew as she mouthed, ‘Go for it, dude’. 

Unsure of how long you were asleep for, the TV in front of you suddenly jolted you awake. 

“Whitney!” Cinna announced, “You’re going to the Temptation Room!” 

“Fuck,” you muttered, sitting up fast. There went thirty grand. Maybe more.

George chuckled and sang under his breath, “We’re about to lose some money…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were exhausted for this birthday party. 

Not just because it felt ridiculous or because everyone kind of agreed that Whitney fucked up by accepting her temptation, but because today has been a lot. 

Dylan’s elimination. Your talk with Milli. The challenge. Uncle P’s gas. Getting literally tied to George. 

You were overwhelmed, to say the least. 

And honestly? You weren’t expecting the Sidemen to cough up a ‘birthday feast’ worth £30k. 

To be fair, you can understand Whitney’s thinking. She wanted to celebrate her birthday and lift the group’s spirits. Maybe, she thought this was cheaper than everyone upgrading their meals. Maybe, on another day, you’d be more open to it. But the speed of her decision, barely five minutes in Room 19, was frustrating. No second guessing, no critical thought; just yep, let’s spend more of the prize fund. 

There was no taking it back now, so you were trying not to stay mad. Thankfully, you had George glued to your side, distracting you, now gleefully attempting to play ‘Vienna’ on his newly bought harmonica.

“How does it feel now that George’s attention is all on that harmonica?” Farah teased, making you roll your eyes. While part of you worried she might have overheard anything, you knew she didn’t know anything. After all, she mentioned that she saw the TikTok edits of you two on your first day on the Inside. 

Before you could answer, she added, “Also—sorry, again. For earlier.”

You raised an eyebrow, confused about what she was apologising for. Surely you heard her wrong over George’s god awful playing. “Huh? What did you do?”

“For saying I’d marry George during the challenge,” she said, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “I know you two are together. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful—I just wanted to be honest.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to deny it. “No, seriously. You’re all good. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

George pretended not to hear your response—but his harmonica stumbled suspiciously mid-note.

When the party setup was finally revealed, you were shocked. Genuinely.

Was it worth 30K outside? Absolutely not.  But it was quite a surprise, and definitely not what you were expecting from the boys. 

The room was decked out in balloons, mountains of cake and snacks lined the table. Maybe—just maybe—it was lifting your spirits.

“Hey,” George nudged you, making you turn. He slipped a ridiculous paper party hat on your head and grinned. “Beautiful.”

Before you could even process the compliment, Whitney clapped her hands and pointed to Uncle P.

“It was worth it!” she declared.

Uncle P raised his arms. “It’s worth it if it makes you happy.”

You grabbed the lighters, passing one to George as the two of you lit the cake candles together.

“Can you believe we started the day losing someone, and now we’re throwing a party?” you muttered so only George could hear. 

“All in a day of Inside,” George replied, slipping into a faux narrator voice.

Whitney raised her arms. “Okay! Time to sing Happy Birthday! But, before we start, I want to make a speech.” She raised one of the plastic champagne glasses, filled with alcohol. “You guys are all so special—thank you for making this moment what it is.”

You had the admit, the party was actually a lot of fun. 

DDG and PK kicked off a rap battle. Patrice gave a heartfelt speech. Milli, still in her ridiculous banana costume, tried to seduce you with an exaggerated sexy dance. Farah had taken up the role of unofficial photographer, snapping polaroids of everyone—she even got a few of you and George. (You made a mental note to definitely steal those before the show ended). 

The whole day had been a rollercoaster. But right now, this felt like a decent landing.

Sure, you’d been mad. Upset. There were people you felt closer to than others. But in moments like this, it felt less like a reality show and more like a chaotic school trip—just a bunch of you along for the ride.

“Can we sit?” you murmured to George, motioning to the dining table. “My feet are killing me.”

Without hesitation, he looped his arm behind your back to help you up—like he’d done since the challenge started. The two of you clumsily synced your steps, giggling at your off-beat coordination.

You were too distracted to notice the massive box being wheeled into the room.

“Whitney, please open your present.” The omnipresent voice cut through the laughter, startling you. 

You looked up, spotting a huge box now sat in the middle of the room. Whitney stepped towards it, eyes wide. 

As she pulled the ribbon, the box collapsed—revealing a single slip of paper.

“In this box reveals the biggest spender and the smallest spender,” she read aloud. Then she stopped, reading silently.

“Who?” Jason called out, confused.

Whitney gasped, hand flying to her mouth. The paper slowly dropped to the ground, almost tauntingly. 

“What?” Cinna asked, as murmurs rippled through the group.

“PK and Uncle P have to eliminate someone in the next twenty minutes,” she finally said.

Not again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the only team of four in a room full of trios, you’d been forced to take enough shots to render each of you tipsy enough prior to the game starting. It was “to level the playing field”, Simon claimed. But a secret challenge involving the word snookums? Surely, that was disadvantageous enough. No one ever said that word naturally, not even ironically. 

While the boys huddled over Plan A (which was currently convincing Chip to call Arthur snookums instead of pookie), you scanned the room in search for a Plan B. 

Becky may be down, as an act of female solidarity in a room full of men. Or maybe Harry–he was your first friend in the Sidemen, and he’d jokingly call you “sugarplum” and “babycakes” on  more than one occasion. You thought of–

“What are you thinking about?” George whispered, sliding across the bar sofa until your thighs touched. 

You lifted your chin dramatically, looking the opposite way with a faux scoff. “Sorry, I don’t fraternise with the enemy.” 

He nudged you with his shoulder, a shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. “C’mon.” 

You turned, already feeling the heat creep into your cheeks. You tried not to let your eyes wander to his bare chest and stared him down instead, raising your brows. “You’d like to know, huh?”

“Why would I ask if I didn’t want to know?”

Damn him. He was always so quick witted. It was something you admired so much, but you’ve absolutely hated being on the receiving end of it. 

He glanced at your glass, and then back at you; that same teasing grin softening into something gentler. Your face must’ve given you away; you’re very much gone right now. 

The two of you got locked into a silent and unofficial staring content, until a strand of your hair fell across your face. 

“You okay there?” He laughed, brushing the hair away without thinking. He was so close. All you had to do was lean in. But instead…you giggled. 

Too aware of the cameras around you. 

Too aware that people are watching. 

Too aware that, at this very moment, someone in a scuba suit was dropping random objects into a fish tank to see if they’d float—because this was, technically, still a game night. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder instead. His hand found your hair, patting it softly. He chuckled again, and you could feel his chest shake under you. His warmth was addictive, especially in the London winter—maybe more intoxicating than the alcohol.

“Boo!” Arthur screamed suddenly, calling attention to how close you were. Cole slid in, dragging you off George with exaggerated offense. “Stop trying to cheat, you copycat! You infiltrator!”

George, ever the performer, threw his hands up and donned a thick accent. “Alright, alright, you caught me!”

Still, his eyes lingered on you as he scooted closer to his team. And that wouldn’t be the last time your team had to intercept him. He kept trying to sneak over—whisper a joke, make a snide remark, drop a comment he just had to share. Like magnets, you found yourselves drifting closer and closer—nearly holding hands, but never quite letting ourselves go there.

Eventually, Cole gave up on separating the two of you and swapped seats with you.

An hour in, the alcohol's fog had partially lifted. “I’m going to get another drink. You guys want anything?”

You gathered orders, then slipped out of the booth—stretching with relief.

“I’ll come with,” George said casually, turning to ask his team the same.

While waiting for him, you continued to stretch your sore muscles, before a warm hand rested gently at the small of your back. “Let’s go.”

You expected him to drop his hand once he got your attention. He didn’t.

“Your usual drink?” George asked as you reached the bar.

“Do you even know it?” you teased.

He smirked, winked, and rattled off your go-to to the bartender—along with his own and your team’s. He noticed. 

You pouted. “So I didn’t need to come.”

“But I wanted you to.”

The bar was practically empty—booked out for the shoot—but the two of you were so close, almost as if a real crowd was pressing in.

You deflected. “Looks like your team’s losing.”

George rolled his eyes. “Don’t get cocky now.” He reached up to brush another stray hair from your face. “We’re only a few points behind.”

Your eyes flicked to his lips.

Part of you felt your tipsy self slowly leaning in, but the sober part of you held yourself back. 

“Call me snookums,” you blurted, grounding yourself in the stupid challenge. You leaned back against the counter. “Please.”

George’s brow rose. “Is that your challenge?” He chuckled, remembering how close Chip was to making you lose. 

You shushed him with a finger to your lips. He laughed. 

Drinks in hand, he guided you back with a steadying hand at your back. He didn’t bother sitting far from you—thanks to Cole for not reclaiming the seat closest to the other team.

“Why the fuck is Danny still shirtless?” you asked loudly, slouching onto the sofa, sipping your drink while chaos continued to unfold in the background. The other teams heard what you said, joining in. His teams only defense? “He likes it”. 

George laughed too, equally baffled. “Snookums, he just likes it!” he said, repeating the sentiment. 

Your eyes widened. Your team high-fived under the table. Simon winked at you in acknowledgement of succeeding your secret challenge. 

Once you were sure that Simon’s attention was back on the challenge at the front of the bar, where Danny was trying to get a balloon into a bucket with a spray bottle out for an extra point, you gave George a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“I know how competitive you are,” he said, his voice low, “and I always beat you at everything anyway… so figured I’d give you this one.”

You smiled—soft, helpless. You couldn’t help it.

“How’re you getting home?” he asked, his arm casually draped over the couch behind you.

You groaned. “Probably Uber, or something. Ysa isn’t able to pick me up. She’s at Brad’s. They’re seeing his parents tomorrow.”

“I’ll take you,” George said, like it was obvious.

You leaned into him, your head heavy with alcohol-fuelled tiredness. “Wanna stay over?”

George grinned. “Yeah. But we’re stopping at mine first to get some stuff.”

You shook your head. “Still have the extra toothbrush. Your clothes, too.” Last time he came over, he essentially created a permanent stayover bag that you stored away for safekeeping…although George has caught you borrowing the shirt he left behind a few times.

He beamed. “Movie night?”

Shaking your head, you proposed something else: “Doctor Who marathon.” 

Eventually, the pub quiz ended. People slowly started filtering out; some loudly announcing their departure, while others left without a goodbye. 

You lingered with Becky, Tobi, Ethan, and Harry around the stage. 

“Faith’s calling. I gotta go,” Ethan announced, hugging everyone. “Come by soon. Olive’s missing her godmother. She’s getting too much of her ridiculous asses of godfathers.” He eyed Tobi and Harry, who both threw their hands defensively in the air. 

You smiled, “I’ll come by sometime this next week. Sorry, work has been exhausting.” 

Becky chuckled, “How is work going though? I can’t imagine juggling all that with your content.” 

You shrugged, “Luckily, it’s marketing so my content actually gives the company more exposure.” 

You were one of the few in your group still working a 9-to-5. Your parents always said to keep something stable—and maybe they were right. It’s a contingency plan, for sure. 

“What time are you guys heading?” Tobi clapped his hands, “I think that’s my sign to go home too.” 

Harry and Becky jokingly boo-ed him. “One more drink?” Becky proposed, Harry nodding.

“I’ll stay, but I won’t drink.” Tobi gave in, turning to you to see if you were going to do the same. He secretly wanted you to say no, your ability to stand without support being questionable at the moment. 

“I’m leaving soon.” You answered, shaking your head to let them know you weren’t going to get a drink. 

“Your loss, babygirl.” Harry shrugged, making you cringe, much to his laughter.

You cringed,  “So you would call me babygirl, but not snookums?” 

“George can do that for you.” Harry winked, before Becky and him headed to get another drink. 

Your eyes flicked towards the door where George was saying goodbye to Arthur Hill, likely telling him that he’ll be home tomorrow. You dropped your head onto Tobi’s shoulder, both of you leaning against the pub stage. The two of you stayed in comfortable silence. 

“I think I like him.” You mumbled, saying the words for the second time outloud. The first was to your roommate, who gloated ‘I knew it!’ 

He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to. He saw it. Everyone saw it.

“Uh huh.” 

“Like, really like him.” 

Tobi looked over, debating saying something until he realised George was on his way to you now; Arthur Hill having left with Arthur TV.  He didn’t need to hear George tell him that he liked you; that confession was in his eyes. Every time George looked at you, it was like you put the stars in the sky.

With George next to you now, you stood up to your feet. His arm snaked around your waist like it was where it belonged.

“Tobi, we need to do real trivia with these idiots,” George said. “We’ll crush them.”

“You wish,” you said, stepping back in mock offense, but he pulled you back in again.

Tobi rolled his eyes. “You two better leave now or Becky’s gonna trap you with another drink.”

You and George each gave him a quick hug goodbye before George’s arm found you again—drunk enough to drop his guard, and sober enough to mean every bit of it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most of your subscribers and followers know your feelings about Twitch: you respected the grind and the hustle, but you were not a fan. 

A tip came in, with the message: finally! 

Another one came in, she also joins u all the time tho

“She does, she does, I know,” George threw his arm around the chair you’re sitting in, “but what can I say? We just can’t get enough of her.” He pinched your cheek, making you roll your eyes and push his arm away.

George can u do smth else real quick we wanna talk to just her 

He scoffed, flabbergasted. “So, this is my stream, and you’re telling me to leave!” He turned to face you, “you’re stealing my spotlight! Leave now!” 

“Happy to!” Immediately, you stood up–teasing him and pretending to leave. His hand instinctively went to your arm, dragging you down back into your seat. “No, stay, stay, I’m kidding!” 

“I thought you wanted me to leave?” You retorted, arching your eyebrow. “Hey, maybe this is a sign I should start streaming…” Dozens of comments came in, supporting the idea. “I’ll stream at the same time as you as well, take away all your views…” You trailed off, teasingly. 

George dramatically put his hand on his heart, before you returned your attention to the chat. “Can you two watch this video, please?” George read out, navigating his mouse to the link. 

While George continued to entertain the chat, telling them about his day; you leaned in, curious—until the title loaded.

Your stomach dipped.

The caption read: “they’re fr dating but just not telling us,” followed with a series of hashtags including your names. 

It was a TikTok edit. Of course it was.

And then the music started. And you had to stop yourself from internally face-palming. 

Of course, it was Taylor Swift. No edit of anyone with Taylor Swift music could ever be just platonic. Ever. 

There were flashes from your own vlogs–your park walks, late-night food runs, gym sessions, dinner at yours. Snippets from friend’s videos; the two of you chatting to yourselves in a crowd of people, the video cropped to highlight the two of you giggling. It would cut to the game night he hosted, you sitting between his legs and him staring at you a little too long with a look you swore your roommate gave her boyfriend a million times. You, watching him, that same night and smiling. It ended on Arthur TV's stream, someone asking him where George was, only for him to respond that he was with you, "as always".

It played like a montage of a couple who just hadn’t admitted it yet, or a recap of a couple to be played at their wedding. A highlight reel of moments you didn’t realise anyone noticed. 

Your heart kicked in your chest.

“Wait, oh my gosh, what the fuck did you do?” you blurted, reaching for the mouse, clicking away on another video before George could properly see it. You forced a laugh, pulling your best “shocked by George being a dumbass” expression. The stream would see this as you getting distracted by a stupid video of George, a friend wanting to make fun of the other. 

Distraction was always the easiest weapon.

He looked up at the new clip. It was the football shoot—the one where he tripped and sprained his ankle.

“You knew about it!” he said, eyes lighting up. “That day was terrible.” He looked at you with a new look in his eyes, and you immediately had to turn away. You couldn’t give the fans any more ammunition. 

But still, you swallowed hard. He didn’t say it out loud, but you remembered it well. You got the call from Chris that George was being a baby, so you showed up to see George at home pouting like a kid who had all their candy stolen from them. You remember bandaging him up. How he insisted you stayed over. How you two watched a movie while you helped him iced his leg, with his head on your shoulder. The weight of him was so comfortable that it hurt a little.

He turned back to chat. “Why did you guys send us this? We literally lived it.”

You changed the topic before the stream could correct him. After all, they hadn’t sent that TikTok. You clicked on it, away from what they did send. 

You didn’t want him to see that TikTok. To overthink everything between you. 

And he hadn’t seen it. But you had. And you couldn't unsee it.

It suddenly felt like a spotlight was on you, burning you up; making you sweat. Your hands felt clammy, your cheeks felt flushed, and your heart felt like it was beating miles per minute. 

You tried to follow George’s voice as he kept talking to chat, but everything sounded far away. Muffled.

You were still seeing the edit. Still hearing the music.

“I once believed love would be burning red…”

Your throat tightened.

You’d been in denial because it was safer, funnier, easier. But sitting next to him now, while your heart raced and the chat erupted in chaos.

It wasn’t a joke anymore. 

You missed him when you didn’t see him. The day felt empty when you didn’t text him or see him at least once. Your mood depended on whether he laughed at something you said. You knew how exactly he likes his tea, his Twitch schedule, and the weird look of concentration he had when he was stuck editing. 

You realised your whole world was built around him without intending to.

And it’s crazy. First, he was that weird guy you met at a Sidemen video, doing impressions on stage. And now he was your lifeline. 

After seeing it played back to you, it finally hit you—

You liked George. 

And not just a little.

You liked him in a way that made your chest ache.

In a way you couldn’t laugh off.

In a way that scared you shitless.

And you don’t want to think about going home and rambling to your roommate about this realisation, who’d only say four words back to you: “I fucking called it.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You immediately rolled over and buried your head into the (admittedly stiff) pillow, desperate to cling to the sleep you managed to get. Maybe if you stayed perfectly still, no one would notice –especially as everyone else dragged themselves out of bed to start the day. 

“That’s the worst noise to wake up to,” George groaned from the bed next to yours. His voice was still rough, low and raspy, like it hadn’t fully woken up yet. 

Farah’s voice piped up from across the room. “No, what’s worse is those blinding lights.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter. Stay perfectly still. Maybe they’d let you be. 

And for a while it worked. But of course, it ultimately didn’t. . 

“Oi,” George said softly, coaxing you out of your shell. “You’re not fooling me. You never do.” 

It was just the two of you in the room now. Maybe, the idea of avoiding him would be impossible in these conditions. It was just you and him, alongside eleven others in a small space. Avoiding him wasn’t an option, at least not in here.

“I’m not awake,” You mumbled unconvincingly into the pillow. Sleep was almost impossible last night, especially as it took all the self control you could muster from turning over and talking to George–whether that was about how the set reminds you of The Circle, how the meals remind you of a school cafeteria, how Whitney scares you, or how PK snores like a cartoon character. 

He chuckled, “and I’m Chris MD. C’mon.” 

You were stubborn, but a second later, you felt the blanket shift. At the cold breeze, you popped your head up. George stood over you, hair messy, eyes puffy with sleep, and the softest smile tugging at his lips. This is what you would have woken up to the other day in his apartment if you didn’t leave, which now feels like an entirely different world than here where there are now hundreds of cameras tracking your every move. 

“If I have to get up, you’re getting up with me.” George teased, taking your hand and pulling you into a sitting position. He stood close enough that his warmth bled into your skin, and you couldn’t help but melt into it. You instinctively rested your head against his chest while his fingers untangled knots from your hair, pushing stray strand out of your face. 

You shouldn’t do this. Not after that night. But right now, half-asleep, it’s the only thing that feels right like everything is normal, even if just for a moment.

“I’d try to coax you out of bed with good food, but you know I can’t promise that.” 

You laughed quietly, letting your head fall back…and in doing so, your eyes caught the edge of a fading hickey on his collarbone, poking out from beneath his shirt. 

You froze.

The illusion of everything being normal, even for just a few minutes, shattered and memories of that night seeped through the cracks. 

“Good morning,” you croaked out. 

George smiled widely now, cupping your face in his hands and tilting it back. When the fuck did George become so smooth? You heard about all his failed bar pick-ups and Hinge dates from Chris. 

“Good morning,” he said softly, his hands warm on your skin, but his eyes flickered—like he was caught between wanting to kiss you and being terrified of what it might mean if he did.  

The air around you felt thick, humming with everything left unsaid. But you wouldn’t dare say a word now, under the weight of way too many cameras. 

“Don’t tell me you guys are shagging!” Whitney’s voice shrieked from the hallway, Mandi and PK following closely behind. Both of you jumped apart. 

“No!” You blurted hurriedly, although too fast to sound convincing. Luckily, the attention shifted back to the argument in the hallway: whether PK was lying about being in the army. 

Mandi turned her attention to you. “Have you guys eaten yet?” She asked kindly, though the suspicious glint in her eye said she didn’t miss the tension buzzing in the room. 

You busied your hands, tying your hair up as George awkwardly coughed, and threw on a hoodie over his shirt–concealing the hickey. “I’ll get changed first. Is the food gross?” 

“The grossest,” Mandi said, while she and PK fake-gagged. 

“I’ll go grab us some,” George offered, as if nothing just happened between you two. “Meet you at the table?” 

You nodded and smiled, trying not to think too hard about what happened this morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you got to the lockers and everyone was still at the dining area, you were grateful. You could be alone and take your time to collect your thoughts. 

George. A week ago, you would’ve said you could read him better than anyone. Now, he’s like a book in Latin. 

The cold metal locker behind your head sent shivers down your spine. Eyes squeezed shut, you finally came up with what you’re going to do. 

There was no doubt you had feelings for him. At one point, your friends convinced you that he felt the same about you… but then the boys told you he was going on a Hinge date, and then some lads decided to try and set him up, and then you heard Chris talk about how he brought a girl home (although, he made sure to tell you that nothing actually happened)...

“Hey, you okay over there?” Dylan interrupted your thoughts. “You disappeared on us.” 

“Yeah, just needed a minute. I’m all good now.” Your eyes narrowed in on the takeaway cup in his hands. “What the fuck, Dylan? I trusted you!” You laughed, screaming in joke offense, knowing full well that he probably spent a sum of the prize fund on that drink. 

He tossed his free hand in the air in defense. “I’m sorry, I can not survive today without it.” 

“Excuses, excuses,” You tsk-ed. Dylan chuckled as he carefully sat down beside you, offering you a sip of his drink, which you politely declined. 

He leaned in, voice low. “You ready for whatever the hell they got planned for us today?” 

You shook your head. “Love the lads, but I don’t think anyone can predict what’s coming.”

He grinned. “Stick with me. I got you.”

You laugh again and let yourself enjoy the moment; it was simple and uncomplicated, something that you haven’t felt in the last 24 hours. 

You were about to reply with something cheeky when footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hey-oh, sorry… about, uh, disturbing you two,” George said, sounding as if he just walked in on a moment. It was almost as if he had to force the words out. He held two paper bowls—your breakfasts, untouched. He was waiting for you. 

“Jason wanted to lead this…meditation thing. Told me to round people up. “ 

You blinked up at him, suddenly aware of how close you were to Dylan. His arm brushed yours. Your knees touched.

George’s face didn’t flinch. Not soft. Not angry. Just… blank.

Something tugged at you. Jumping to your feet, you turned to Dylan. “You go ahead, I need to talk to George-” 

You weren’t even sure what you were going to say to George; that nothing happened, that Dyaln was just checking in on you, that you weren’t– 

“I think Jason wants to start right away,” George cut in, voice clipped. Then he turned and walked off, leaving the sting of it behind him. You looked at Dylan, who seemed just as thrown as you were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The twelve of you circled Jason as he led the so-called “meditation session,” with Uncle P warning that anyone who spoke would be the first eliminated.

“Envision yourself with a waterfall…” Jason began dramatically. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw George lift his hand as though the imaginary water was splashing onto his face. You bit your cheek to hold back a laugh. 

“Think about how the water sounds…” Jason continued, eyes closed—blissfully unaware of George clowning around. 

You leaned into George, hiding your face in his neck to stifle your laughter. Mya, sitting on his other side, wasn’t so lucky—she burst into giggles.

“You’re out!” Uncle P bellowed, pointing at her like she’d betrayed the whole group.

Your head stayed tucked against George’s shoulder, now facing toward the group. He rested his head lightly against yours, the way he used to. Except now, your heart was pounding.

It was strange—how easy this felt. Despite the cameras. Despite the competition. Just thirteen friends passing time, suspended in a bubble. You smiled without meaning to. After last night, everyone (minus Dylan, who’d already fallen asleep) ended up curled around the beds, swapping stories and secrets in the dark. At that moment, it wasn’t a competition; it felt like a sleepover with people you were already starting to love.   

George’s hand drifted to your lap, his fingers brushing your knee. Testing the waters, you fidgeted with his fingers—like muscle memory. Normal. Easy. But now, every touch felt heavy, like something unsaid was waiting to be named. 

You didn’t dare move, and neither did he. 

Suddenly, and you don’t know how (too distracted by your thoughts), but the conversation led to a fake wedding between Mya and PK–the lads going to set up the ‘venue’ while the girls ran to the dressing room. 

Almost immediately, the vibe shifted into giddy chaos. Mandi was smacking her lips dramatically, fluffing her hair in the mirror.

“Do you think he’s the one?” She teased, applying her lipstick. 

“Is it true love?” Whitney dreamily sighed, brushing her hair with theatrical flair.

You flushed. “We’re not together,” you said quickly. “He’s just one of my best mates.”

Mandi rolled her eyes. “You’re such a bad liar.”

Cinna just smirked. Mya arched a brow. “We’ve seen the TikToks. And the way George looks at you.”

“I think this would be good for something blue,” you blurted, holding up your charm bracele, a desperate pivot in conversation. 

Thankfully, Milli swooped in. “Makes it something borrowed too,” she said smoothly.

You shot her a grateful look. She winked.

An hour later, you were all ready for the wedding–leading a giggling, blushing Mya down the ‘aisle’. Jason and Cinna were ring bearers. George and Dylan stood as groomsmen. You, Mandi, Whitney, and Milli were bridesmaids. DDG officiated. Uncle P—naturally—was the father of the bride. 

At the makeshift altar, Jason nudged George. “Don’t you know everyone hooks up with a bridesmaid at weddings?” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. George shot him a massive side eye, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Does anyone object?” DDG asked, playing it straight.

“I object!” Uncle P cried, clutching his chest. “Just yesterday I was changing her nappy! And now she wants to marry this man?” He pointed toward you and George. “The real couple should be married today—”

But before he could finish, a loud buzzer echoed through the room. Saved by the bell. Or well, maybe, the next challenge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The challenge was simple: Silent Library. No talking. No laughing. No noise.

The first round? Brutal. Milli and DDG had to pie each other using slingshots. George, Whitney, and Farah cracked immediately, costing the group thousands. After you told him to squeeze your hand to contain his laughter, George nearly crushed all the bones in your hand. 

Next up: PK, forced to pop fart-filled balloons using only his hips and drunk goggles. Somehow, his interesting choreography saved you money—despite Milli clapping and George wheezing with laughter beside you. Whitney clapped at the news. 

“What are you doing?” Ethan asked her, horrified, and you had to physically bite your lip.

As Jason and Cinna began transferring liquid while being electrocuted, George’s arm found your shoulder again, pulling you into his side as he rested his arm around you. 

“I thought we were gonna be here till fucking tomorrow,” Mandi muttered when it finally ended—just in time for Ethan to turn on her.

“You just lost more money,” he grinned.

“The challenge was over!” you protested. 

“Still counts! And that cost you some more of the prize fund too.” Ethan said, a mischievous look in his eye. Uncle P ran over, putting you in a playful headlock, dragging you from George’s side and dropping you between him and Mandi like a captive. You accepted your fate.

Luckily, that fate was short-lived as the next challenge had Patrice and Mandi snapping rubber bands onto each other’s calves, chicken toys clenched between their teeth. You thanked God you weren’t involved. Mandi’s reactions alone nearly broke you, but luckily you turned around and faced the wall. Unfortunately, George, Whitney, and Milli broke.  Another 10k down the drain.

Then came the pie gauntlet.

Dylan, George, Farah, and Whitney each had to pie someone based on a secret prompt.

Farah pied Milli—“Who’s the fakest?”—but hugged her right after. (You were shocked when you heard the question. They were close.)

Mya pied Dylan hard for “Who has the deadest jokes?” He took it like a champ.

Whitney pied Patrice: “Who makes the most money?” Fair enough. You all assumed the same, with Patrice being a professional footballer. 

Then Dylan pied you. You found out later it was for “Who do you see yourself getting along with most on the outside?” 

Then George was up.

He motioned for you to come forward. You blinked. Again? You felt gross and icky with the cream all over your face. 

Just as he raised the pie, he turned and smashed it into Ethan’s face.

“VAR check needed,” Ethan called, wiping cream from his brow. “Even though we all know the answer to ‘Who do you fancy most,’”—your stomach dropped— “we’re deducting 20k.”

Eyes were on you. But thankfully, Ethan saved you by moving to the final question—Farah got pied again.

Then came the real nightmare: a massive metal tub rolled in as the crew cleaned up the pie carnage.

You were told to strip off your hoodie and handed a towel.

No way this was your solo challenge. No.

No, no, no.

“This is the Ice Bath Challenge,” JME announced. “You’ll need to submerge yourself for 90 seconds. No sound.” The tub shimmered with condensation. Ice cubes bobbed like blades. You stared in horror.

You squared your shoulders. You could do this. You had to do this. You showered in freezing water already, anyway. Uncle P would judge you forever if you bailed.

The moment you received the signal from Ethan and JME, you climbed in…after a minute of psyching yourself up. 

The cold slammed into you like knives. You gasped, fists clenched, nails digging into your palms.

Thirty seconds in, you were trembling.

Sixty, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably. You squeezed your eyes shut.

Then: the buzzer.

As you were about to climb out, Ethan taunted you. “Do you want to put your head inside? Wash the pie off?” You can tell he wasn’t expecting you to do it, but you wanted to prove him wrong. 

Taking a deep breath in, you dunked your head—remnants of the pie now gone from your face—before climbing out, your legs feeling like jelly.

George was there instantly, arm wrapping around your waist, steadying you.

His eyes were full of concern, silently asking ‘are you alright?’ . His eyes scanned you, although lingered a little at your trembling lips. 

You nodded, dazed, before being called by the production crew to change into dry clothes as they paused the challenge momentarily. 

When you returned, George pulled you right back into his arms, rubbing warmth into yours. He didn’t move—not even when the group got up to crowd around Mya’s challenge. Not even when one of the snakes took a shit next to her head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You found Milli sitting alone after her latest side quest: cutting PK’s nails.

“You okay?”

She gave a weak smile and nodded. “I don’t know why Farah called me the fakest.” Her fingers twisted in her lap, voice tight with frustration. “I’ve just tried to be nice to everyone, you know?”

You sat beside her, resting a hand on her back. “That sucks,” you said, meaning it. From what George and Max had told you from before Inside, Milli really was just kind. “I’m sorry. It was probably just part of the challenge.”

“Why not Whitney? Or Mandi? Mya? Cinna? Even you?” she muttered. “I’ve known Farah the longest. I thought we were close.”

If anyone was fake, it wasn’t Milli.

You pulled her into a side hug. “For what it’s worth, you’re definitely not the fakest in my eyes.”

She gave a dry laugh. “I’d be worried if you thought I was.”

You bumped her shoulder. “Maybe she didn’t know who to pick. Maybe she chose you because she thought you’d get it wasn’t personal.”

Milli huffed, unconvinced.

“Do you want to talk to her?”

She shook her head. “She’ll have to come to me.” A pause. “I’m tired of people thinking being nice means I’m fake. Just because I don’t fight doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. Or have opinions.”

“Exactly. It means you’ve got control. That’s not fake. And when you do speak up, people listen.”

She hummed, smiling. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

“I still think you should talk to her.”

Milli narrowed her eyes playfully. “When are you going to talk to George?”

Your eyes widened. Did she know?

She sighed, smirking. “Don’t tell him I said anything, but he told me what happened. I had to drag it out of him, though.” Relief washed over you—one less person to hide it from. “Even before this, when I first met him and Max for the podcast, he wouldn’t shut up about you… so I kinda figured it was happening anyway.”

You scoffed, chuckling. “I’ll talk to him when you talk to Farah.”

She scoffed. “Gladly—if it means less eye-fucking in the house.”

“Har-di-har-har.” You rolled your eyes, standing and offering her a hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With table tennis paddles being used as a glorified talking stick, you felt like the lot of you were back in kindergarten.

“What’s the point, Mandi?” Patrice was exasperated, eyeing the pile of leftover meal upgrade boxes like they were mocking him. “You need to calculate how much we’ve lost, thanks to you.”

Harsh. Not inaccurate, but harsh.

Farah raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit targeted.”

Mandi’s eyes flared, the accusation lighting her up. “I wasn’t the only one who fucked up, Uncle!” She jabbed a finger toward George. “He cost us ten grand!”

You didn’t even think. “George hasn’t spent a single dollar.”

The words shot out—sharp and immediate. Jason nodded beside you, but your focus was already locked on George, on how he shrank just a little under the weight of her accusation.

“He pied the guy though!” Mandi snapped.

“Ethan,” you corrected automatically, like naming the Sidemen might somehow soften the blow. George raised his hands in mock surrender, guilt tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, okay–fair. I did do that,” he admitted, sheepish. 

You sighed and turned your attention back to Mandi. “It was one challenge. Beyond that, he hasn’t spent anything. Not even a meal—”

“Oh my god, stop defending your boyfriend,” Whitney groaned, her voice pure poison. “You two wanna have a moment? Do it off-camera, yeah; go suck his dick in Room 19 or something.”

You froze. The whole room seemed to tilt sideways for a second.

Then you rolled your eyes and bit back the first ten things you wanted to say. “That’s rich. Coming from you.” You’re not sure what took over you, why you felt so inclined to return her venom—but once it started, you didn’t stop. 

Whitney blinked, caught off-guard. She hadn’t expected you to bite back. It took a second before she processed it. “What did you just say to me?”

Silence followed. Heavy.

George’s hand brushed yours under the table—quiet, grounding, a silent attempt to calm you. You pulled away.

“I’m just saying,” you said, voice steady and low, “if you’re going to talk about overspending, maybe start with your own receipts.”

Whitney crossed her arms, scoffing. “I didn’t drop ten grand.”

“No,” you said. “You’ve spent more.”

Jason gave a low whistle. Even Mandi blinked in surprise. 

George was watching you. You could feel it—but you didn’t look. If you did, he might stop you. And today, you weren’t letting him protect you. Today, you were protecting him.

Whitney stopped closer, eyes narrowing. “You really wanna do this, sweetheart?”

You shrugged. “You already did.” Then added, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “But sure—keep calling me George’s girlfriend if it makes you feel better.”

Dylan cut in, calm and even. “Whitney, she’s not wrong. I’d guess you, PK, and Mandi were the biggest spenders.” Milli, Jason, and Cinna all nodded in agreement, backing you up.

Whitney looked around. The numbers weren’t on her side. She took another step, then hesitated. 

You took a breath, pulling yourself back together. “This isn’t about picking sides,” you started, slowly regretting the tone you just had. “It’s about cutting back on dumb spending. Challenges are part of the game. But coffee upgrades? Extra meals? Especially now, with the price hike on shared meals?”

You exhaled. “To be honest, the real issue is dishonesty. I don’t care if people spend—as long as they own it. This isn’t every man for himself until the very end. Right now, we’re a team.”

Patrice jumped in. “You three don’t even discuss your spending. You just do.”

Before the argument could spiral again, the overhead voice crackled to life.

“DDG, please come to the Temptation Room.”

The room shifted, attention scattered. You finally let yourself exhale.

And still—George was staring at you. Like he’d never seen you quite like this before.

“What do you think will tempt you, DDG?” PK called out after DDG, teasing him. 

Jason snorted. “I bet you it’s his kid.” 

“The Sidemen wouldn’t kidnap a kid,” you said, deadpan. “Although… Harry on a bad day…”

Laughter broke the last of the tension.

Under the table, George’s leg brushed yours—just a quiet point of contact, steady and warm, grounding you again.

“Don’t worry, I got you guys!” DDG reassured, walking backwards with a grin.

“Even if it’s your kid,” George said, grinning at his back, “don’t look at it. Don’t even make eye contact!”

You laughed—finally—and George smiled at the sound.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With DDG returning without leaning into his temptation (hereby earning a date with Uncle P at a fancy restaurant), everyone went to the Shop to claim dinner. 

“Guys, new menu item just dropped…” George started, as if he was a promoter, “horny beast!” He broke character immediately, cracking up as soon as he pointed at the new prized item on the sheet. 

Knowing the lads, it’s probably just a unicorn toy. 

PK scoffed. “We don’t need to pay for that. We already have you two.” He motioned at George, then gestured toward you with a wicked grin. George let out a sarcastic laugh in response.

Changing the topic, George started speculating—likely to derail the group from actually buying it. “What’s the chance they just put it there to bait us into wasting money, and it’s literally just a stuffed animal with horns?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “A hundred percent.”

Around you, the others kept throwing out wild guesses. Jason was convinced it was a double-headed dildo, while Farah thought it was just a fat one. Mya leaned in and whispered she suspected it was some kind of aphrodisiac.

Before Jason could confirm the order and solve the mystery, you felt a light tap on your wrist. George. A subtle nod of his head toward the hallway.

You followed him quietly, heart ticking up a notch. Through the corridor, past the cameras, until you landed in the bedroom area. If this is the moment he decided to talk about it, you’re not quite sure you’re ready for it. 

“I don’t think this is the best time to talk,” you said, glancing around, hoping that it wasn’t his intention. “Anyone could-”

George cut you off gently. “This is about Whitney.”

A small, almost shy smile curled on his lips–even as guilt bloomed in your chest, just at the name mentioned.

You weren’t sure if you regretted what you’d said to Whitney—only that it felt like your heart was going to explode the entire time you were saying it. Regardless, you made a mental note to pull Whitney aside before lights out to apologise. (It was in this chat she told you she wasn’t angry, instead, she was impressed that you stood up for yourself). 

You started rubbing your arms, not sure if it was self-comfort or if the house had somehow gotten even colder. “If you’re here to tell me I overreacted—” Your eyes dropped to the floor.

“I’m not.” His hand found your shoulder, warm and grounding. “Not even close.”

You looked up and realized how close he was. One lean forward and your lips would brush his again. His eyes searched yours—not judging, just looking. As if the answer to everything he wanted to ask was buried somewhere inside your eyes. 

“That thing you did… standing up for me like that…” he hesitated, struggling for the right words. “You didn’t have to.”

You gave a breathy laugh. “Firstly, George, of course I did. It’s you. I’ll defend you anytime. I’m always on your side, remember?” You tried to hold his gaze, silently daring him to look away first. “Secondly, it wasn’t a thing.”

He didn’t flinch. “It was a thing.”

You tried not to smile. “It was nothing.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that angry. At least not for real.”

“Well… she was talking shit about you.”

“Maybe. But you don’t do that. That’s not usually you. You’re the keep-the-peace one. The one who plays nice.”

That weirdly stung, more than it should’ve. “So what? I can’t be mad now? I can’t speak up?”

He took a step closer, if that was even possible, and lowered his voice. “I’m saying I noticed.”

“Please don’t make a thing out of it,” you whispered. “We already have enough… things going on.”

“I’m not. I swear I’m not.” He paused, eyes still on yours. “But it meant something.”

A silence stretched between you, long and loaded. Every unsaid word pressed down like weight. His eyes flicked to your lips—just for a second—then he looked away, clearing his throat.

“You shouldn’t have to defend me,” he murmured, taking a step back. “Not like that. Not when it paints a target on your back.”

Your voice came out softer than expected. “You always defend me.”

He gave a small, crooked smile. “Yeah, well.”

You almost smiled back. Almost. Instead, you shook your head, voice tight. “They shouldn’t be able to make you feel like shit. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And for a second, it felt like everything else disappeared. The house, the show, the drama. Just you. Just him.

Your breath caught.

“We should head back,” you said quickly. “Don’t want it to look like we’re making an alliance.”

That was a lie, and you both knew it. They already thought you were dating, so why wouldn’t they think you were already allies? 

“Right,” he said, unreadable. “Thanks again.”

You started walking back. He stayed behind for a moment, probably to gather himself.

Then came the squealing, making George jump into action and immediately follow behind you. 

The moment you stepped into the hallway, you saw it—Jason triumphantly holding up a stuffed unicorn.

George’s voice rang out behind you, proud of his foresight. “I FUCKING KNEW IT. I KNOW HOW THEIR BRAINS WORK.”

You rolled your eyes and picked up the pace, trying to get some distance between you and him by leaving the room. In your head, you imagined the Sidemen watching the whole thing like some episode of Big Brother meets 1984.

You didn’t get far before a voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Where did you two run off to?” Milli’s eyebrow arched, suspicious but playful. You opened your mouth to answer, but—

Dylan popped around the corner like he was summoned. “You buying anything?” He smiled, motioning towards the others in the Shop trying to sneak meal upgrades like it wasn’t being filmed.

“I’m still not taking you up on that hot drink offer,” you teased, trying to keep your tone light.

“Shame. Guess it’s something we’ll save for the outside, huh?”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded, still sorting through the mess George left in your chest.

Earlier, Dylan was a distraction. A well-timed one. It was easier to flirt with someone new than admit that every look from George felt like a defibrillator straight to the heart. Now, after everything in the hallway? You were stuck. Frozen in your feelings.

Behind you, Milli’s jaw practically hit the floor. You could feel her staring lasers through your skull.

“Hey,” Dylan added, “you did a good job standing up to Whitney earlier.”

Milli chimed in, “Yeah, no, Whitney needed to hear that.”

You exhaled. “Thanks. I low-key kind of need to hear that I did the right thing too.”

“I’m about to hit the showers and then head to bed,” Dylan said, “but I just wanted to say good job. And goodnight.”

“Thanks.” You smiled. “Goodnight.”

As he walked off, Milli pulled you aside even further, eyes wide with delight.

“Is Dylan-the-news-man flirting with you?”

You stared at her, equally stunned, then the two of you burst into laughter—quiet but giddy.

“But the question is,” she said, once you both calmed, “how are you feeling about George?”

“Milli… I really don’t know.” You dropped your head onto her shoulder.

She laughed, gentle and warm. “Let’s chat, okay, sweetie?”

You nodded, ready to finally unload. But—

“Guys! We’re playing Mafia in the living room! Join!”

Jason’s head popped out from behind the corner.

You and Milli exchanged a look. Mafia? Really? Inside Inside?

You both silently agreed: the heart-to-heart could wait. After all, what better way to end an emotionally fraught day than casual, simulated murder?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the table tennis ball bouncing between George and Milli filled the room, their trash talk echoing off the walls like comforting background noise (think playing a true crime podcast to bed). You lay curled up on the couch, body half-melted into the cushions, fighting off sleep as your eyes tracked the rapid back-and-forth of the game.

Milli was multitasking—playing and talking to you like she wasn’t even trying. “Whoever wins gets to order anything under the loser’s name,” she said through a grin, swatting the ball with flair. 

You raised a hand lazily in approval. “Add a hot drink to that, yeah?” Part of you said it as a joke, but another part of you… kind of regretted not taking Dylan up on his offer.

“Play till 11?” George suggested, bouncing the ball off the paddle. Milli nodded, resetting her stance with a competitive gleam in her eye.

The match heated up fast—volleys sharp, the air thick with laughter and competitive swearing. But despite her valiant effort, Milli lost 11 to 6.

“George, you cheeky little fucker!” she shouted, slapping his shoulder as he burst into a ridiculous victory dance, spinning with his arms wide, singing, “I love table tennis!” like he’d been paid to write a jingle.

The two disappeared into the Shop, still arguing and laughing over what to order, and you let yourself melt back into the couch. The cushions cradled you. The noise blurred into a lullaby—soft, familiar, like the safety of simpler nights at home.

Until…“Who the fuck ordered alcohol?” Milli’s voice rang out like a record scratch as she stormed back in. Her face was scrunched like she’d smelled something rotten. “We are not getting fucked up in this joint, I swear.”

Heads turned. People perked up; some curious, some smirking. The tension stirred—but in the middle of it, George quietly slipped something into your hands.

It was warm.

You looked down. A takeaway cup. You furrowed your brow, confused—until the faint smell of cocoa and cinnamon hit your nose.

George grinned, his voice low and meant just for you.

“My prize,” he said, nodding at the cup. “Please. Drink it. Warm up.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly. For a second, your brain short-circuited.

“I was joking,” you said softly, even as your fingers curled tighter around the cup.

“I know.” His voice stayed gentle, “But you still looked cold.”

You felt it then. Not the heat of the drink, but the heat under your skin. The tension that never really left. The one that lived in glances, in jokes, in silence. You looked away before you could overthink it and took a slow sip.

You knew you had feelings for George. But you were certain this could be love…oh shit…you were completely, irreversibly fucked. And you were left wishing you had much less to lose. 

He sat beside you without asking, close but not touching. In the background, Milli was still yelling, and the likely culprits—PK, Whitney, and Mandi—were trying to spin it as, “Well, since it’s here…”

But you weren’t really listening.

You were thinking about the way his fingers had brushed yours when he handed you the cup. About how this stupid hot chocolate was the warmest thing you’d had all day.

And how, without meaning to, George had just made everything harder—and somehow easier—all at once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

913k to 762k.

A loss that big in a single day? It wasn’t just bad. It was embarrassing.

The room felt still; even as Uncle P barked “Fake” and “Robbery!”, even as you moved from the TV to crowding around DDG’s bed, the space transformed into a late-night strategy session. 

Milli curled up at the end of the mattress, clutching a pillow like a security blanket—so tightly that Mya ended up handing her the horny beast to keep her hands busy.

“We need to stop with the secret purchases,” Cinna argued quietly, careful not to wake Dylan. “We can’t keep doing these secret meal upgrades, alcohol, or anything else. Like was said earlier today…” She glanced toward you, “We’re a team right now.”

“That is, until elimination,” Mandi countered, raising her eyebrows.

DDG laughed. “But we already know what we’re gonna do when that comes.” His eyes flicked towards Dylan.

You eyed them suspiciously, already sensing a plan taking shape between the two of them.

Eventually, the group started to break off—some heading to brush their teeth, others disappearing under duvets. The house was winding down, like a machine powering off. The buzzing from earlier faded into a lull. Everyone seemed exhausted, but still too wired to sleep.

You curled up into yourself, the soft hum of whispered goodnights filling the space.

Click. The last light finally went out.

And then—

“WHO PUT THIS FUCKING MASSAGE GUN IN MY BED?!” Uncle P’s voice sliced through the room like a grenade.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist:

@rubyskies @edgyficuselastica @gmontaguesbitch @sundarksposts @canyouseethesainz @lovingaphroditesworld @maggie-readss @liz140569 @lmaowhathahah @moofilms @lalisasrealwife @courtjjade @bowielovesyou @raekensluver @cuntessaiii @theresglitteronthefloor @isabella-2934 @smzyyx

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

authors note, please read!

a few things....

one, so sorry for the late update! i was on a trip with some friends and we wanted to do a no tech getaway, so didn't have time / ability to write.

two! would you guys be interested in reading bonus sections/blurbs about them? (ie: how tobi found out, general tweets/reactions, random moments, etc...)

and finally, thank you guys so much for your support! i didn't expect it to get as many notes as it did and as much love as it did... it all means a lot, so thank you so much <3

It happened after a year of skirting the line: hundreds of inside jokes layered with meanings, countless one-on-one moments that felt far too intimate for 'just friends', lingering glances you hoped no one noticed, and endless excuses to be near each other. Friends constantly asked "will they or won't they?" as they did whatever they could to set something up, push something to happen. Meanwhile, your fans created millions of edits, insisting that it had been secretly happening all along.

But beyond all your friends' efforts and fan speculation, nothing ever happened.

Until two nights ago, alone in his empty flat.

Both of you gave each other the heads up that for the next week, you wouldn't be able to talk due to 'important family trips'—a lie, of course, to cover up being on the show. A week wasn't long, sure, but for you two—seven days felt forever. You hadn't gone more than a single day without at least texting since you met during the Sidemen Talent Show. His roommates were out on the town, and while you were both invited, you opted to spend the night alone—just the two of you. At some point, the shitty television show playing in the background became nothing but noise—forgotten between the shared laughter and stolen glances that lingered longer than they should've. Soon, the silence felt loaded. With one too many glasses of wine, your guard dropped...but it was the way George looked at you, almost as if he was trying not to. You don’t remember exactly how it happened, but he was soon hovering over you. You could feel the warmth of his breath and see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he knew it was a bad idea but wanted it anyway. His hand brushed your jaw, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt down your spine and butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You whispered, "We shouldn't." But you wanted nothing more. "What are we doing?" George mumbled, his eyes now locked on your lips. His voice was low and a little slurred, and for a while, none of you moved. Until you leaned up, and his lips were on yours. The kiss, though soft, was hungry and aching. Like a secret finally breaking free, like a weight being lifted off both your backs. His mouth moved against yours with a year’s worth of restraint unraveling all at once—desperate, tender, and a little clumsy from the wine, but so, so real. Each kiss tasted like everything you’d never let yourself say sober.

"Can the contestants please make their way to the challenge room?" Tobi's voice blasted from the speakers, accompanied by the screen flashing the same message in bold white letters.

Cinna and Milli stood up from beside you, prying themselves off the beanbags you'd all practically melted into. You let out a playful groan, dropping your head back. “I don’t want to go. I know they’re going to be evil,” you whined, making both girls chuckle.

Taking Milli’s outstretched hand, you let her pull you to your feet. As the others started making their way toward the challenge room, you caught George’s gaze lingering on you out of the corner of your eye. He stayed back, letting everyone else pass.

He disguised it as adjusting something on his microphone pack, which only made your chest ache. Him waiting for you wasn’t odd—no one would’ve questioned it. Everyone already knew you two were close before the show. Mandi had even declared the moment you walked in that it was unfair both of you were here, claiming you were “definitely dating,” which would make "doing nothing together too easy." Her theory, of course, was backed by the dozens of TikTok edits she and Milli had watched of you and George together.

You both denied it—laughing it off with an ease that had been practically rehearsed for months. But you silently prayed none of them noticed the flush in your cheeks, the redness in George’s ears, or the way your eyes kept finding each other across the room.

As Cinna and Milli moved ahead, their laughter blending into the buzz of the rest of the group, you hung back. For a second, it felt like it used to—just the two of you; normal, almost. You had to physically restrain yourself from throwing your arms around him and telling him how happy you were that he was here. He licked his lips, and you had to force yourself not to remember how they felt on yours.

"Hey," He said, soft enough that only you could hear.

You swallowed. "Hey."

The silence that followed stretched between you like a tightrope. One wrong word—one mention of that night—and it would snap, sending you both tumbling.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering to the ground and then back up at you. You noticed how they paused, just briefly, at your lips. "So, uh...how are you finding things so far?"

The conversation already felt...so small. Meaningless.

You forced a smile. "Fine, you?"

He nodded slowly at your words, sheepishly even. "Yeah...just...you know," he shrugged, "ready for the lads to fuck with us." He put on a stupid accent, one that he knows always make you chuckle. And it almost did. Almost.

Silence filled the space again, thick and charged. You stared at each other a little too long, both of you trying to refrain from subconsciously moving closer to each other, as you always have done. George shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure of what to say next.

His voice dropped down to an even quieter whisper so that no one could hear (as if he didn't have a microphone pack strapped to his chest). "You left before I could wake up. I'm not sure if you wanted to talk about it...or if we can...but I think we definitely should."

You hesitated. Too many words fought to reach your tongue, none of them right. Not here. Not now.

"Yeah, uh, I don't know..." you mumbled, "but we definitely should." Your eyes darted around. Everyone else was already in the challenge room, just two studio managers still tidying up the set.

He nodded again, too quickly this time. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Just, I wanted to let you know that I don't want it to be-"

"Oi! Lovebirds!" JJ poked his head from the challenge room and into the hallway, "Get your asses in here right now! We're waiting on you two!"

George let out a low breath and let out a quick smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess that's our cue." He held out his hand for you to take.

You stared at his outstretched hand, your heart thudding in your chest.

For a split second, and against your better judgement, you almost reached for it—almost letting muscle memory win. But instead, you wrapped your arms around yourself and took a small step forward, slipping past him to join the others without another word.

Not a rejection. Not quite. Just...space.

His hand hovered mid-air for a moment longer before dropping back to his side. He didn't say anything, just followed behind you—his eyes trained on the ground.

When you stepped into the challenge room and saw JJ, Simon, and Tobi—JJ in mid-rant about how he was this close to starting without you, you smiled.

Familiar faces. Some sort of normalcy. Even under the far too bright lights, you could pretend that nothing actually happened; that you weren't spiraling and panicking underneath your cool exterior; that George's closeness doesn't mean anything more than usual.

You mumbled an apology as you took your spot next to Milli and Dylan, trying to keep your expression neutral. Out of the corner of your eye, George slid into his place across the room.

Your eyes met once—just once. A flicker. A slient later.

But for now, the cameras were rolling, the game was beginning. And you can't let Tobi, Simon, or JJ have an idea that something was weird between you two. Then you'd never hear the end of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"The challenge is Insider Dating," Simon began, clapping his hands together. "You'll each be given two questions that you must answer to our satisfaction. Think of it as a chance to really get to know your fellow Insiders!"

The group let out a chorus of exaggerated awwws, leaning into the bit for the cameras.

"But," Simon added with a mischievous grin, "there will be distractions. You can opt out… but it’ll cost ten grand from the prize money.”

A collective gasp echoed through the room—playful, dramatic.

Tobi jumped in. “We’ve already paired you up. We’ll call your names. When it’s your turn, sit at the table, open the menu, and read what you see.”

As stage managers did a final sweep, double-checking mics and cues, everyone began speculating about what the distractions might be.

“I think we got this,” Dylan assured you, resting his hand on your bouncing knee. “Don’t worry.”

Milli grinned. “Remember, you’re a bad bitch!” You laughed, grateful, until something across the room caught your eye.

Mya leaned in toward George, who seemed to be explaining the rules again. Her hand rested lightly on his bicep, a sly smile on her lips. Your stomach twisted. She was gorgeous. And George? Maybe he’d like her more.

It shouldn’t matter. You and George were just friends who’d… hooked up. No claims. Still, the way she tilted her head toward him, the way he let her—it made your chest feel tight.

You looked away quickly, turning back to Milli. “As long as it’s not snakes, I’m happy.”

Finally, the challenge began.

First up: PK and Cinna—rats crawling over them.

Since entering, Cinna was the person you trusted most. She seemed genuine; serious about the challenge, lovely, and just overall kind. PK, on the other hand, terrified you—loud, outrageous, unpredictable. You worried he’d spend more than he’d earn.

Still, you had to give them credit. They both endured the rats. Neither tapped out.

You looked up—George was watching you. But as your eyes met, he quickly looked away.

Next came Farah and Jason. Though Farah had been rowdy so far, you admired how kind she truly was. When Jason panicked about the nail near his ear, she comforted him, hyping him up.

“This is so fucked up!” Jason screamed, sending the room into laughter. Except George. He had his own bit ready.

“It’s gonna get more fucked up!” he said, slipping into that same ridiculous accent he always used to make you laugh. Everyone cracked up—but you knew that joke was targeted particularly for you. It became clear when George's eyes looked over to see if you were laughing.

His eye contact made you feel small. You sank a little into your seat, hands beginning to fidget.

“Hey,” Dylan whispered, taking off one of his rings. “Here. Fidget with this, if it helps.” You smiled gratefully, twiddling the ring between your fingers.

Dylan and Mandi were up next—"a kiss from a chicken" as their distraction. Dylan admitted what he’d do if he could be invisible; Mandi revealed her first kiss.

“This is our only group of three—a threesome, if you will,” JJ announced with a smirk. “Milli, Mya, and Whitney—please take your seats.”

Shit. That meant you were left with George.

You were pretty sure the realization showed on your face, especially when JJ and Simon winked at you. Tobi’s lack of reaction was more concerning—did he realise something?

“You got this, Milli.” You gave her a smile as she stood.

Creepy spiders crawled across their heads as they answered: Milli’s most embarrassing date story, the most famous person in Mya’s DMs… and then Whitney tapped out. Another $10K lost. Fuck.

Now it was your turn.

Tobi called out yours and George’s names. JJ led the group into a chorus of exaggerated “Ooooohs.”

You forced a laugh, heart pounding as you stood. George met you halfway, giving your hand a quick squeeze. You hadn’t realized how visibly nervous you were—but he had.

Still, he looked away quickly. His expression unreadable.

“Go on, loverbirds!” Jason heckled. The group erupted in laughter. George flipped him off, and you forced a laugh.

You sat across from each other, and today, the table felt too small. George slid his foot between yours—a subtle touch to ground you. This time, you didn’t pull away.

As always, JJ made another joke at your two's expense “This isn’t your first date, so you know what to do.” You rolled your eyes and flipped him off again, earning some more laughter.

"Please open the menus." Simon instructed.

You flipped it open.

SHOCKING QUESTIONS.

“Ladies first,” JJ said, smirking. “So George, you're up.” George nodded in resignation as a technician locked you both into the shock devices.

You look at the questions listed on your menu. "What is your worst online dating experience?"

You’d heard this one before. But instead of listening, your eyes tracked the way he flinched—eyebrows furrowing in pain. Your hand instinctively reached for his, ignoring the group’s collective aww. You squeezed it, silently telling him to hang on. He squeezed back.

“Was that satisfactory?” George muttered, wincing.

Tobi, Simon, and JJ nodded. "Please ask the next question."

Really? You turned to look at the three hosts, who all had a mischievous look in their eye. These bastards.

"Snog, marry, and avoid three Insiders." He's going to say Mya.

George hesitated. "Do I really have to answer this?"

“You can tap out,” JJ taunted, “but we all know what your going to say anyway."

“Can it be any gender?” George asked, trying to stall. A shock hit. He grimaced, then gave in.

“Snog Cinna. Marry you. Avoid Farah.” He turned to Farah. “Sorry—you’re quite loud.”

“Fair,” she shrugged. She had admitted that was her red flag.

Tobi clapped. "Good job, George. It's now your turn to ask the questions."

"Which Insider do you currently trust the least?" George asked hesitantly, his hand now enveloping yours even before the shocks started.

The jolt shot through you. You yelped.

“This is unfair—I've just met them!” you protested. Another shock hit. You squeezed George’s hand tighter.

“You can always back out,” Simon teased, shuffling the cards.

But ten thousand...

Cinna came to your rescue. "It's okay! We won't be offended, right guys?" She got everyone to agree.

“Okay, really, no offense, but—either Whitney or Mandi!” They immediately jumped up, demanding to know why.

“Let me explain!” you pleaded. “It’s obvious one of you got the golden straw, and your denial makes me not trust you. Just admit it—it’s teamwork, so there's no point in being mad. ’Just be honest.” You were rambling, rushing to defuse the tension. “Also—the prices are literally extortionate! Who the fuck charges that much for a straw?” you added.

As the group laughed at your extra comment, the Sidemen motioned that the answer was satisfactory.

“George, just—please ask the next question,” you blurted, voice getting higher as you try and ignore the pain.

He looked down, face flushing red.

“Really?” he asked the Sidemen. They nodded. He berudgingly asked the next question; “Which Insider of the opposite sex would you… uh… be willing to share a bed with?”

“Agh—literally fuck off!” you yelled, jolted by the next shock.

You could answer honestly. Or safely. But the pain—and your instinct—won.

"George." You didn't dare look him in the eye, instead staring at the ceiling. You didn't see George's gaze fixating on the menu, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

"Why?" JJ prodded.

“That’s not part of the question!” George defended for you.

“Uh uh,” Simon tutted. “We decide when the answer’s complete.”

Tobi stayed silent. And that’s when you were sure—he realised something was up.

You didn’t care anymore. “I’ve fallen asleep in planes with him, and on his couch plenty of times.” Even before two nights ago, you've stayed the night countless of times; mostly on his sofa, whether that is side by side on the chaise lounge or on his shoulder.

The Sidemen finally nodded. Accepted.

With the challenge over, the hosts announced how much prize money had been lost. Everyone began to file out—some toward the shop, others back to the living room.

George lingered by the door, waiting for you who stayed behind to playfully punch JJ in the shoulder.

“Hey, can we get you in Room 19 for a confessional?” a producer asked, pulling you aside. “Tobi wants to speak with you too.”

He knew.

You turned to George, his eyes locked on yours. Sorry, you mouthed. Later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Room 19 was too bright and too quiet .

Tobi was already inside, lounging on the sofa like he hadn’t just summoned you in. He’d asked the camera crew to give you two a minute.

You slid into the sofa beside him, hiding your face in the back of the sofa. "Why do I feel like I'm about to be told off?"

He didn’t answer—just looked at you, like he was waiting for you to crack.

"What?"

He raised an eyebrow, "Something happened."

You shook your head too quickly, too defensively.

Tobi, of all people, wasn’t going to buy that. He knew. He knew. Ever since the YouTuber Pub Quiz—when he’d finally gotten fed up with watching you and George make heart eyes for three hours while being far too close to him. He heard firsthand George calling you snookums and had to physically pull George closer to him in order to protect their answers, especially after George kept gravitating towards you. When Tobi pulled you aside that night, he managed to get you to confirm it, drunk and giggly (fuelled by the alcohol from the night, and the shots you did with George), slurring out your not-so-little crush.

Maybe this was your sign to stop drinking.

“Don’t even deny it,” he said. “You and Clarkey aren’t acting like your usual lovesick selves.”

You rolled your eyes, scowling. “Fine. But you can’t tell any of the boys.”

Tobi mimed zipping his lips and tossing the key. You sighed.

“We slept together.”

His jaw dropped. “And?”

“And… nothing. We haven’t talked about it.” You could see the panic spiral forming in his head. “We were both drunk, and it was two nights before filming. We didn’t know we’d be here together. I kind of… left before he woke up.”

Tobi groaned. “You idiot. You didn’t want it to be awkward, so you made it more awkward.”

“I panicked!”

“For what it’s worth,” he muttered, “that poor sucker looks even more in love with you than before.”

“Tobi, we haven’t even made eye contact.”

“He looked wrecked when you were hurting earlier. That wasn’t acting. And trust me—Clarkey can't act for shit. Trust me, I've seen it."

You snorted. He wasn’t wrong.

There was a long pause. You didn’t say anything more. Not yet.

“They’re gonna call you for a confessional soon,” he said gently. “You good?” You nodded, even though you weren’t sure. Your head was a mess of George. "If you ever need a break, just ask them to go to the smoker's area. And, if you ever need to talk to me, just say so. We can hear everything."

You gave him a grateful smile, and then he was gone. The door shut behind him.

The crew came back in, cameras rolling.

You straightened your shoulders, just enough to fake composure. Although the world as you know it felt shook to its core, you had to pretend it was all fine.

Giving the producer a small nod, you convinced yourself you could do this. You'd done harder things. You just should not mention George, as much as you want to.

Maybe being away from your phone is harder than you thought. You wished you could text your roommate for her advice, although you could already guess what they were. Maybe you just needed the comfort. Maybe you just need George.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The end of the day came around faster than you expected.

With two new faces—Patrice (or “Uncle”, as he insisted) and DDG—the group loosened up again, especially after that tense challenge. Chaos resumed not long after, as people either tried to sneakily snag meal upgrades or tried to stomach the quite...unpleasant dinner prepared.

You wanted to keep track of who was doing what, to have a better idea of who to trust. But George was already on top of it. And right now, you couldn’t trust yourself around George, let alone what you might say if you were alone with him.

So you stuck close to who you could trust so far; Milli, Dylan, Jason,a and Cinna. Luckily, DDG managed to wrangle everyone into a budgeting talk—half serious, half banter—and you nodded along, grateful for the distraction.

Across the room, George finally stopped circling the space, his self-appointed half-joking job of policing the 'ruffians' (his words, not yours) done for the evening. But his gaze kept drifting. Back to you.

His eyes were pleading.

You could tell he wanted to talk. Needed to talk. About that night.

And you knew you should.

And part of you really, really wanted to.

But you were scared.

With a week still ahead of you—and cameras in every corner—this wasn’t the time.

Not quite yet.

Not quite here.

So you laughed a little louder with Dylan, leaned a little closer to Milli, and pulled Cinna deeper into the conversation.

Maybe you could avoid him for seven more days.

Maybe by then, you’d know what to say.

Maybe, in the real world, without all these cameras, this would feel less messy.

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