you cross your arms. “you’re pissed.”

“correct.” he holds out his arms dramatically. “do i still get a hug?”

you sigh, but it’s fond, and you step forward, wrapping him in your arms. he sinks into you immediately, chin on your shoulder, swaying slightly.

“you smell like tequila,” you murmur.

“wrong,” he mumbles. “tequila and loyalty. i told everyone at the pub i’m in love with you.”

you laugh. “oh yeah?”

“mhmm.” he presses a kiss to your hair. “chip said i’m whipped. he’s right. fully cooked. done for. medium rare.”

“babe, that’s a steak.”

“you’re my steak.”

“you’re drunk.”

“i’m in love.”

you tug him inside before he attracts a noise complaint from your neighbours. he stumbles a little as he kicks off his shoes, mumbling under his breath about how the hallway carpet feels like clouds.

you guide him toward the couch, but he veers off course and collapses onto the floor instead, flat on his back, arms splayed like a starfish.

“alfie.”

“yes, darling?”

“why are you on the floor?”

“just need a minute. to recalibrate.”

you kneel beside him, brushing his hair off his forehead. “do you want water?”

he lifts a finger. “two things. one, i love you. two, i would like… water. and maybe crisps.”

you leave him for a moment to grab both. when you return, he’s still on the floor, but now he’s humming a slow, off-key version of a song you don’t recognise.

you hand him the water and he sits up, nearly spilling it before you steady the glass for him. “thank you, nurse. you’re very beautiful.”

“you’ve said that three times now.”

“doesn’t make it less true.”

you help him drink, then open the crisps and place the packet in his lap. he immediately starts eating them like he’s never seen food before.

“why did you drink so much?” you ask gently.

he shrugs, mouth full. “chip kept buying rounds. then arthur dared me to do a shot. then i missed you and got sad. then i had another shot to feel better.”

you reach over to brush crumbs from his jumper. “and now you’re a mess.”

“but your mess,” he says, looking very pleased with himself.

“unfortunately.”

he grins at that, reaching for your hand. “can we cuddle now? floor’s nice but you’re better.”

you tug him up with some effort and lead him to the couch. he flops down dramatically, arms wide, making grabby hands at you until you climb into his lap. he hums happily, nuzzling into your neck.

“you’re so warm,” he whispers.

“that’s because you’re freezing.”

“yeah, but it’s also because you’re the love of my life.”

your heart clenches a little. drunk alfie is always affectionate, always clingy, but something about the way he says it—completely sincere, like it’s the only truth he’s sure of—makes you melt.

you tuck a blanket around both of you, running your fingers through his hair.

“you’re gonna feel like shit in the morning.”

“worth it,” he murmurs. “would do it again. for you.”

“you didn’t even drink for me.”

“everything’s for you, babe.”

you roll your eyes, smiling. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re perfect.”

there’s a beat of silence as he settles, his breathing slowing a little, his arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you think he might be falling asleep until he says, voice soft, “sorry if i worried you.”

you look down. “you didn’t. well, not much. just glad you’re safe.”

“always safe with you.” he tilts his head up, meeting your eyes. “seriously. i’m such an idiot sometimes but i know i’m lucky. so lucky.”

you kiss his forehead. “i know. and i’ll remind you tomorrow when you’ve got a hangover.”

he groans. “be gentle.”

“we’ll see.”

he grins again, then yawns, eyes fluttering shut. “you’ll still love me even if i puke later, right?”

you laugh. “i’ll love you especially then.”

“gross. but romantic.”

you pull the blanket tighter and settle in, letting his weight anchor you. you know he’ll be embarrassed in the morning. maybe even apologetic. but right now, in this moment, he’s soft and yours and safe.

he shifts slightly, mumbling one last thing before drifting off.

“you smell like mine.”

believes in soulmates, but not just romantically—she believes some people are meant to find each other in this life to heal or guide or simply be

has the sort of memory where she recalls someone’s favourite flower, their mum’s name, or what calms them down when they’re overwhelmed—even after one meeting

makes tea for every visitor, no exceptions. she has a drawer full of different kinds and always seems to pick the right one

i see her working in a very nurturing and educating career, i’m thinking an english as a second language teacher working with migrant children

and you snap.

“i didn’t ask for tea, george.”

he freezes, blinking. “oh. i—i know, but i thought it might help—”

“what would help,” you cut in, “is just… not being smothered right now.”

you hate how harsh it sounds the moment it leaves your mouth. the mug trembles slightly in his hand. he nods once, like he understands, but his smile falters. just a bit. just enough.

“right. yeah. sorry,” he says softly, placing the mug down on the table before stepping back.

he doesn’t say anything else. just disappears into the other room.

and then it’s quiet.

at first, you’re still irritated. at everything. your body, the headache, the world. but as the minutes pass, the fog of exhaustion starts to clear and something else creeps in.

guilt.

you didn’t mean to speak to him like that. you didn’t mean to act like he was the problem when he was just trying to help.

you sip the tea—still warm, sweet, just how you like it—and it hits you all at once.

he didn’t deserve that.

you find him an hour later, curled up in bed with his laptop, headphones on. he doesn’t notice you at first, totally focused on whatever he’s editing. his brows are drawn, lips in a little pout of concentration, and your heart pulls at the sight.

you feel even worse.

you tap on the doorframe softly. he glances up.

and smiles.

not big. not dramatic. just this small, soft thing like he’s not sure if he should. but he does. because he’s george.

“hey,” you whisper.

“hey,” he says back.

you climb onto the bed beside him, curling into his side, and he immediately shifts to make room, one arm going around your waist out of habit.

you bury your face in his neck.

“i was really mean earlier.”

he exhales slowly. “you were just tired.”

“no, i was shitty. i know i was.”

his fingers trace soft patterns on your side. “you weren’t feeling good. it’s okay.”

“it’s not okay,” you mumble. “you were being sweet and i snapped at you.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, expression gentle. “i get it, love. everyone has off days.”

you frown. “i still feel like a dick.”

he smiles a little at that. “well, you did hurt my feelings.”

you blink. “i did?”

he nods, honest as always. “a bit. but only ‘cause i was excited to see you. i’d been thinking about you all day.”

your chest squeezes. “george…”

“but i knew you didn’t mean it,” he says quickly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “i know you. i know your heart.”

you blink hard. you don’t cry—but god, he makes you want to.

“you were so excited about the tea,” you whisper. “and i was so awful.”

he shrugs, soft. “it’s just tea.”

“no,” you shake your head. “it’s not. it’s you being sweet and thoughtful. and i love that about you. i love you. even when i’m tired. even when i act like a brat.”

“you weren’t a brat.”

“i was,” you insist, grabbing his hand. “and i’m sorry.”

he watches you for a moment, then lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles one by one.

“you’re forgiven,” he says against your skin.

you lean in and kiss his cheek. “you sure?”

he nods. “completely.”

and then he grins, playful. “but i’ll accept additional apologies in the form of cuddles. maybe a forehead kiss. possibly a foot rub.”

you laugh. “you drive a hard bargain.”

he winks. “i am a man of principle.”

you settle back into his arms, letting the warmth of him soothe away the last of the guilt. he holds you close, like he always does, like he doesn’t hold anything against you.

and you realize something.

being loved by george isn’t just sweet. it’s healing.

later, you make him tea.

you bring it to him, proud, and set it in front of him with a dramatic flourish. “for you, my patient, angelic boyfriend.”

he chuckles, takes a sip, then hums. “perfect.”

“better than yours?”

he raises a brow. “never.”

you pout.

he kisses you. “but almost.”

and just like that, everything feels okay again.

“you’re staring.”

“obviously,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek. “you look like a painting.”

you groan, rolling onto your stomach. “you’re so dramatic.”

but you don’t really mind.

his hand trails lazily down your spine. “it’s not dramatic if it’s true.”

he’s always like this—touching you like you’re sacred, like every inch of your skin was carved by someone holy. even when it’s innocent. especially then. he kisses your knees. your knuckles. the dip of your collarbone. like he needs you to know how much he loves every part of you.

he's gentle with your heart, too.

the kind of boyfriend who remembers the things you said in passing and brings them up months later like they mattered (because to him, they do). the kind of boyfriend who lets you ramble about things you love and listens like it’s the most interesting story in the world.

“you always get this little smile when you talk about stuff you care about,” he tells you once, curled up beside you on the sofa, chin resting on your shoulder. “it’s my favourite thing.”

you glance over at him, suddenly shy. “you notice everything.”

he shrugs. “i want to notice everything.”

you don’t know what to say to that. so you kiss him instead.

and he loves hyping you up.

even when you feel like a mess—hair unbrushed, hoodie too big, sleep still in your eyes—he’ll say something like, “jesus christ, how are you even real?” and mean it.

he hypes you up when you try something new. when you talk about your work. when you pick an outfit. when you send him a selfie, even one you’re unsure about.

“fit of the year,” he’ll text back. “model behaviour.”

or sometimes just: “mine.”

you’ll never admit how much it means to you. how much it helps to be loved so loudly, so thoroughly, so unconditionally.

but he knows. of course he knows.

he has this way of holding your face when he kisses you—hands cradling your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

he doesn’t rush it, either. not ever.

he kisses you like it’s a language. like it’s the only way he knows how to say what he’s feeling. like if he could kiss you forever, he’d still never get tired of it.

one night, after a quiet dinner and a walk home under the streetlights, you’re both in your room, half-tangled on the bed. george is looking at you like you hung the moon.

you laugh softly. “why are you looking at me like that?”

he shrugs, eyes still on yours. “because i’m in love with you.”

your breath catches.

you’ve said it before. a few times. but never like this. never when it feels so heavy and light at the same time. never when it feels like he’s baring his soul.

“say it again,” you whisper.

“i’m in love with you,” he says, slower this time. deliberate. “so much it makes my chest hurt.”

you reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss that’s all teeth and aching softness. his hands slide up your sides, gentle and reverent, like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he moves too fast.

“you don’t have to be so careful,” you murmur against his mouth.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. “i want to be careful. you’re everything.”

and then his hands are everywhere—your jaw, your neck, your waist, your hips. his touch is warm, grounding, full of worship.

he doesn’t just want to be with you. he wants to cherish you.

and you let him.

you let him because with george, it doesn’t feel performative. it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to prove something.

it just feels real.

after, you’re curled into his chest, fingers trailing lazy circles on his bare skin, and he’s still looking at you with that same awestruck expression.

“you okay?” you whisper.

he nods, brushing your hair back. “just thinking about how lucky i am.”

you snort. “you always say that.”

“because it’s always true.”

you go quiet, heart soft and heavy.

he shifts so he can kiss your forehead. then your cheek. then your lips.

“you’re everything i’ve ever wanted,” he says quietly. “you know that, right?”

you nod. “you’re everything to me, too.”

george smiles like he’s never been happier in his life.

-

you learn, over time, that this is who he is.

he’s the kind of man who will carry your bag when you’re tired, rub your back when you’re anxious, bring you flowers because “they reminded me of you.”

he compliments you when you least expect it—when you're brushing your teeth, when you're putting on socks, when you're ranting about a tv show.

he always reaches for your hand. always pulls you in closer. always kisses the top of your head, like it’s instinct.

he doesn’t wait for special moments to love you. he turns every moment into one.

sometimes, in quiet moments, he’ll whisper things when you’re not quite awake.

“you’re my favourite person.”

“i don’t know what i did to deserve you.”

“i’ll love you forever.”

you never know if he thinks you can hear him. you don’t think he cares. he says it because it’s true, not because he wants something back.

and every time you do hear it, it makes you love him more.

george doesn’t love halfway. he never has.

he loves in full. in color. in warmth and worship and touch. in the way he holds you like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.

and the most incredible part?

you believe him.

because when george loves you, it doesn’t feel like a spotlight.

it feels like home.

you smile weakly. “you’re already doing everything just by being here.”

“not good enough,” he says, standing up. “stay there, darlin'. i’ve got a plan.”

you watch him disappear into the kitchen, and a minute later, you hear cupboards opening and the soft hum of him singing under his breath. you can’t quite make out the lyrics, but it sounds like an unreleased tune—something he’s been working on, maybe something inspired by you.

by the time he comes back, he’s got a tray balanced in one hand. on it: a mug of tea, a small bowl of your favorite chocolate, a heating pad, and a warm pair of fuzzy socks that he must’ve fished out from the back of the drawer.

“i come bearing gifts,” he announces, setting the tray down carefully on the coffee table. he sits beside you and gently lifts your feet onto his lap. “feet cold?”

“everything cold,” you whisper.

elijah tugs the fuzzy socks onto your feet with such care it makes you want to cry. then he pulls the blanket up over both of you and slides in beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“this better?” he murmurs against your neck.

you nod, already feeling calmer just being near him.

“hurts like hell, huh?”

“mm-hmm. cramps, back pain, general uselessness.”

he kisses your temple. “you’re not useless, love. you’re literally bleeding and still managing to be cute. that’s superhero shit.”

you let out a snort. “don’t romanticize it. i’m gross right now.”

“never.” his voice is firm, almost offended. “you’re not gross. you’re human. and your body’s doing something insane. i’d be crying on the floor if it were me.”

“you would be dramatic as hell,” you tease.

“you mean i’m not already?” he grins, pulling you closer. “seriously though, i hate seeing you like this.”

you lean into him, letting his warmth sink into your bones. he smells like his cologne and rain and home.

“it’s always worse on the first day,” you admit quietly. “everything just feels… heavy.”

“i know, baby. i know.” he presses another kiss to your cheek. “let’s do nothing today. no pressure. no expectations. just you and me and movies and snacks and maybe a nap or two.”

“you’re gonna get bored.”

“never. i’d watch paint dry if it meant sitting next to you.”

you roll your eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

the rest of the day passes in a slow blur. he puts on your favorite comfort movie, something you've seen a million times, something that doesn’t demand too much brain power. he tucks your legs across his lap and rubs circles into your calves, sometimes switching to your lower back when you shift uncomfortably.

every time your face pinches in pain, he murmurs something soft—breathe through it, angel. i’ve got you. and when you get teary for no reason halfway through the film, he doesn’t ask questions. he just pulls you closer, letting you cry it out on his chest, whispering sweet nothings into your hair.

“you want painkillers?” he asks eventually, stroking your spine.

“took some earlier,” you sniff. “they haven’t done much.”

“you want me to punch your uterus?” he offers, face deadly serious.

you burst out laughing despite yourself. “please. go fight it. defend my honour.”

“it won’t know what hit it.” he kisses the top of your head. “i’ll kick its ass for hurting you.”

the cramps don’t magically go away, but the ache dulls with him beside you. the emotional heaviness doesn’t vanish, but it feels lighter when he’s whispering, “you’re doing amazing, babe,” and “just rest, i’ve got you.”

by the time the sun sets, you’re half-asleep in his arms, the mug of tea long forgotten and the heating pad still humming faintly under the blanket. elijah hums something soft, maybe a lullaby or just a tune he made up on the spot. you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest where your head rests.

“thank you,” you mumble sleepily.

“for what, love?”

“for taking care of me. for not making me feel like a burden.”

he pauses like he’s confused. then, he tilts your chin up and looks you dead in the eye.

“you’re never a burden,” he says, voice low and steady. “you’re mine. and when someone’s yours, you take care of them. that’s just how it works.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut again.

“love you,” you whisper.

he kisses your forehead. “love you more.”

and that’s how the night ends. you, wrapped in his arms, warm and safe, the pain still there but bearable, because he’s there—your rock, your softness, your comfort in the chaos.

you fall asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat and the feeling of being completely, unconditionally loved.

-

later, you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked up, some random show playing that neither of you are really watching. george has you pulled into him, your legs draped across his lap, and his hand is running slowly—absentmindedly—up and down your shin.

you glance down. “you’re doing that thing again.”

he hums, not looking away from the screen. “what thing?”

“you’re petting me like a cat.”

he smirks. “you purr when i do it.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. instead, you shift just enough to let your cheek rest on his shoulder.

george drops a kiss to your temple and keeps his hand moving, slow, warm, familiar. “you love it.”

you do. not that you’d admit it out loud.

-

you’re out with friends one night—some crowded pub with too-loud music and sticky tables. george is in full social mode, laughing at some story arthur’s telling, but even then, his hand finds the back of your chair. then your knee. then the crook of your elbow.

he doesn’t even look down when his fingers find yours, lacing them together under the table.

you try not to melt on the spot.

“he’s so handsy with you,” liv teases when george goes to the bar.

you shrug, cheeks warm. “he always is.”

and he really is. it’s not performative. it’s not just in public. in fact, if anything, he’s worse in private—less filtered, more shameless about the way he pulls you onto his lap while you’re trying to get dressed, or slides a hand under your shirt while you’re brushing your teeth, like he can’t go ten minutes without touching you.

he never asks. he doesn’t need to. it’s never possessive, never too much. it’s just george being george.

-

one lazy sunday, you’re both holed up in bed past noon. the curtains are drawn, and the world feels quiet. you’re on your stomach, half-asleep, and george’s fingers are tracing slow shapes along your spine.

he’s barely awake. you can tell by the way his breath is soft and even, but his hand doesn’t stop. it moves on instinct, warm against your skin.

“you’re so tactile,” you mumble into the pillow.

george makes a sleepy noise behind you. “means i like you.”

“you say that like you didn’t literally cling to me in your sleep.”

“you’re warm,” he murmurs. “and soft. and you smell nice. ‘course i’m gonna cling to you.”

you snort. “you’re like a giant koala.”

he hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him. “shut up. i’m adorable.”

you laugh, letting him pull you in, letting his hand settle under your shirt again, splayed across your stomach like it belongs there.

(which, annoyingly, it kind of does.)

-

he does it when you’re getting ready to go out, too.

you’ll be in front of the mirror, fixing your hair or trying to decide between two tops, and he’ll come up behind you—always barefoot, always quiet—and wrap his arms around your waist.

“this one,” he’ll say, gesturing lazily to the shirt you’re not wearing. “shows off your collarbones.”

“why do you care about my collarbones?”

“don’t know,” he shrugs, kissing the space beneath your ear. “they’re hot.”

you roll your eyes, but you change anyway.

sometimes he just wants to sit on the floor while you do your skincare, his head resting on your thigh. he doesn’t talk. he just wants to be there, fingers drawing idle lines along your leg, watching you in the mirror like he’s never seen you before.

and then later, when you’re lying in bed, freshly washed and soft, he’ll be on you again—hands under the hem of your shirt, palm over your heart.

-

one night, after a particularly long day, you climb into bed feeling worn out and quiet.

george doesn’t ask questions. he just pulls you into his chest, one hand sliding up your back and the other cradling your head. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t push—just holds you like that’s the only thing that matters.

you think about how easily he reads you. how he always knows what kind of touch you need—soft and grounding, or playful and teasing, or firm and steady when your mind won’t stop racing.

his hand smooths down your spine again, slow and repetitive, and you let your body relax into his.

“you okay?” he whispers after a while, pressing a kiss to your hair.

you nod against his chest. “just tired.”

“you’re safe,” he says quietly. “i’ve got you.”

and he does. he always does.

-

sometimes it’s teasing, too. the way he sits behind you on the sofa and rests his chin on your shoulder, whispering commentary in your ear while you scroll your phone. the way his hand slips under your hoodie just to rest there—no agenda, just warmth.

other times, it’s… not so innocent.

like when he passes behind you in the kitchen and lets his hand drag across your lower back.

or when you’re doing laundry and he pulls you toward him by your waistband, murmuring something low and smug into your neck.

or when you’re brushing your teeth and he plants himself behind you, wraps both arms around you and says, “need my daily cuddle. don’t care that you’ve got toothpaste in your mouth.”

you roll your eyes and mumble something about personal space, but he just sways you side to side like you’re dancing in the bathroom and hums tunelessly into your hair.

you never pull away. not really.

-

there’s something reassuring about the way george is always touching you. like if he keeps a hand on you, he knows you’re real. here. his.

sometimes it’s his fingers brushing yours as you walk down the street. sometimes it’s his hand on your thigh under the table at dinner, or his foot nudging yours gently when you’re out with friends.

you don’t need the attention. you’re not the clingy type.

but somehow, with him, it’s different. comforting. like an anchor.

you’ve started reaching back now, too. looping your arm through his when you cross the road. curling into his side when he’s editing videos, your fingers fiddling with the hem of his hoodie.

he never complains. he leans into it.

“touch-starved,” he teases once, smiling against your neck.

“takes one to know one,” you shoot back.

he just laughs and pulls you closer.

-

the first time you notice he really can’t go long without touching you, you test a theory.

you sit on the couch beside him and fold your arms. nothing dramatic—just casual. you keep your hands to yourself. you wait.

two minutes pass.

george shifts.

three minutes.

he glances at you.

four minutes.

“you alright?” he asks, already leaning toward you.

“yep.”

“why are you sitting like that?”

“like what?”

“like…” he gestures vaguely. “all self-contained.”

you grin. “no reason.”

he narrows his eyes, then slides over and practically throws himself on top of you. you squeak as he wraps himself around you like a blanket, smug and victorious.

“better,” he mutters.

you laugh into his shoulder. “you’re ridiculous.”

“shhh,” he says. “you love it.”

and you do.

god, you do.

-

it’s bedtime, finally, and george flops into bed dramatically, grabbing your hand before you can even get under the covers properly.

“can’t sleep without you,” he whines.

“you say that every night.”

“and it’s true every night.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart’s full.

you slide into bed and george immediately pulls you into him, one leg hooked around yours, his hand settling on your hip like it’s lived there for years.

“george?”

“mm?”

“why are you so handsy?”

he shifts, propping himself on one elbow to look at you properly. his eyes are sleepy, but warm.

“dunno,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “you’re my favorite person. i just like being near you.”

you bite back a smile. “you are a koala.”

he grins, then leans down to kiss you—soft, slow, full of everything unspoken.

when he pulls back, he murmurs, “you make me feel safe. so i touch you all the time to make sure you’re still here.”

you blink, surprised by the quiet honesty.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

“i know,” he says, settling back down, arms curling around you again. “but just in case.”

his touch lingers. it always does.

and you fall asleep warm, wrapped in him.

just the way he likes it.