#theinternetsgirlfriend

The pub is noisy in the charming way of a Friday night, sticky floors, empty glasses and a playlist for all ages. Your sat at the usual table filled with laughter as stories are told and future plans for videos are made.

You sit there, not involved in a current conversation, but instead just observing your friends; Chris narrates something too loudly, Arthur Hill is crying with laughter as Isaacs sneaks chips from his bowl, and George is across from you, tipping his chair back on two legs like a dare he intends to win.

He catches you looking and his mouth tilts, as he leans forward towards the table. You glance away, pretending to focus on the sticky menus on the table and noticing your empty glass like that was intended plan all along.

"I'm getting another," you announce, pushing back your chair, hovering to wait and see if anyone needs another.

"Bring me a miracle babes," Becky says, before turning back to taking pictures of the boys.

"Please bring napkins," Live wheezes referencing to the spilt drink.

The crowd closes around you as you make your way to bar, sliding into a gap at the counter, and resting your forearms on the wood. You're just about to catch the bartenders eyes when you catch another's and voice is heard.

"Hi gorgeous," the husky voice says behind. "Let me buy you a drink."

You shift a step away from the man, with a polite script already queued. "No need, I'm fine. Thanks."

The man follows your step still hovering behind, "come on, what's your name?"

“Same,” he says. His laugh isn’t friendly. “We have so much in common already.”

When he rests his hand on the bar, his knuckles touch your wrist. An accident, you decide. You shift your arm. He adjusts again. You pull further back, and his hand lands on your forearm, casual and not at all casual, thumb dragging in a way that makes your skin cold.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, firmer.

“You don’t look fine,” he says, and the smugness in it makes your stomach turn.

The bartender finally drifts over. The man’s grip tightens.

“Vodka soda,” you tell the bartender, because ordering feels like a small, reclaimable thing. “Please.”

“Make it two,” the man says. “She’s with me.”

“No,” you say, louder. “I’m not.”

His fingers bruise your arm. He leans in, breath sour with something that isn’t tonight’s beer. “Stop playing hard to—”

“Mate.”

The single word slices through the noise are cleanly as a cymbal crash. The voice is familiar to you, and your shoulders relax. George steps in beside you, easy and unhurried.

His gaze drops to the man's hand on your arm, and his jaw tightens at the view; causing him to step slightly in front of you. "She said she's not with you." George says, voice even. "And she said she's fine."

The man laughs and spits back in vain, "we were just talking."

George ignores the man and demands, "you're holding her. Let go."

The man glances between you and him, calculating something and not coming up with the right answer. His thumb presses in once more, a petty little power move, and that’s it—George steps closer, one hand loose at his side, the other finding the edge of the bar next to your wrist. He doesn’t push, doesn’t shove; he just fills the space so completely the man has nowhere to stand that isn’t an argument he won’t win.

“Let. Go.”

It’s said calmly enough to sound like a suggestion and shaped enough to be a line no one should cross. The man’s hand lifts off your skin. He scoffs, mutters something colourful, and backs into the crowd, swallowed by a chorus of bodies and a song you can’t place.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your arm feels hot where his fingers were, like memory can burn.

George looks at you properly now, not for show. “You okay?”

You nod before you can find words. His eyes skim your face, down to your forearm; he doesn’t touch it, just glances long enough that you register both the restraint and the urge. The bartender returns with your drink, sets it down like none of this happened.

“You want to stay?” George asks, the question quiet and private, like a room with the door gently closed.

You swallow. The neon menu buzzes. Chris’s laugh ricochets from the table behind you. “I want to go home,” you say, surprising yourself with the certainty.

“Alright,” George says, already stepping back, giving the decision space. “I’ll tell them. I’ll walk you.”

You open your mouth to say you will be okay to catch an uber, but he's sending a text to Chris about walking you home, and briefly explaining what happened. He hovers a hand over your back and directs you to the front door of the bar. At the door, he mentions to the security of the incident and pints in the direction of the man from the bar.

Outside, the air is cold; although provides a clean shock to your body. A small shiver crosses over your body, and George notices; he shrugs off his jacket and offers it to you. You hesitate for a second, about to protest, but the weight of the jacket settles over your shoulders before you can speak. It's warm, carrying the faint mix of his cologne and the lingering smoke of the pub.

"Better,” he says softly, his fingers brushing your arm as he lets go. The touch is fleeting, but it leaves a trail of heat behind, stronger than the cold air ever could.

You walk. Your breath paces with his. The city is hushed, distant, as if the two of you have walked into your own quieter world. Every time his hand swings close to yours, you feel the pull, the awareness of him right there.

By the time you reach your building, your heart is thudding louder than your footsteps. You hesitate at the door, looking up at him. “Do you… want to come up? Just for a bit?”

His eyes search yours, cautious but warm. “If you want me to.”

“I do.”

Inside, the quiet is heavier. The faint hum of the fridge, the tick of a clock—it all feels amplified because he’s here, standing in your space. You kick your shoes off, shrug out of his jacket, and suddenly the weight of the night settles between you both.

He’s watching you. Not the way strangers watch in bars, but like he’s memorising, like he’s checking to see if you’re okay, like he wants to close the distance but won’t without a sign. The knot of nerves in your stomach twists, and with a rush of liquid courage still buzzing from earlier drinks, you step forward and press your mouth to his.

It’s quick, tentative, meant as a thank you; but his lips are warm, steady, and when you try to pull back he follows. The kiss deepens, urgent, all the tension of the night crashing to the surface.

our fingers knot into the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He lets you, breaking the kiss just long enough to peel it over his head. The sight of him—warm skin, muscle carved from all the years of sport—makes your breath stutter. You drag your hands across his chest, greedy, tracing the heat of him.

“God,” he mutters against your mouth, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. The hard line of his body leaves no question of what he’s feeling.

You moan softly, emboldened, and tug at his belt. He catches your hands for a second, eyes dark, chest heaving. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice low and desperate.

“I want this,” you whisper, lips grazing his jaw. “I want you.”

The restraint snaps. His mouth finds your throat, kissing, nipping, sucking hard enough to leave proof he was there. You gasp, threading your fingers through his hair as he presses you back against the wall. His hands roam everywhere—cupping your waist, sliding up your sides, tugging at your top until it’s gone and the cool air hits your heated skin.

His lips descend again, over your collarbone, down to the swell of your chest, and you shiver at the trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses he leaves behind. You arch into him, chasing the pressure, needing more.

Clothes scatter, half-discarded across the floor, every new inch of bare skin feeding the fire. His hands are all over you—possessive, reverent, hungry—while yours scrape down his back, pulling him closer, closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat.

He groans into your mouth as you kiss again, tongues tangling, the sound raw and wrecked. Every brush of his body against yours makes your pulse jump, pleasure sparking before you’ve even reached the edge.

He pauses just long enough to look at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His chest heaves, sweat already sheening his skin. “You’re mine,” he says hoarsely. “No one else. Not him. Not anyone. Just me.”

“Yes,” you breathe, tugging him back down. “Yours.”

He scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you toward your room, mouths never breaking apart. The world is a blur of heat and want—his hands sliding under you, your nails digging into his shoulders, your heart hammering as he lays you down on the bed.

Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and before you can even settle into the sheets, George is on you again. His mouth claims yours, hot and relentless, while his hands explore every curve like he’s been starving for this.

Your top is gone in seconds, tossed aside, and his lips leave yours only to trail lower down your throat, over the delicate slope of your collarbone. You gasp when he nips gently at the skin there, soothed a second later by his tongue.

“George…” Your voice is already unsteady.

He hums against your chest, fingers sliding behind your back to unclasp your bra with maddening ease. The straps fall away, and before you can feel self-conscious, his mouth replaces them; wrapping around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make your hips buck. A sharp cry escapes you, half-plea, half-praise.

“God, you taste good,” he groans, switching sides, giving the same worship to your other breast. His tongue flicks, circles, teases until you’re arching into him, desperate for more. He pulls back just far enough to grin, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger. “I’ve thought about this...about you...too many times.”

Your hand finds his hair, tugging him back down to kiss you again, deep and messy. The weight of him pressed over you is dizzying. You slide your hand lower, across the firm planes of his stomach, until you reach the hard length straining against his jeans.

He groans into your mouth when you squeeze him through the denim, his hips jerking involuntarily. “Fuck…” The sound is raw, wrecked, like he’s seconds from losing control.

You tease him, stroking over the bulge, feeling just how ready he is. The power of it makes you bold—you unbutton his jeans, sliding your hand inside to feel him properly. Hot, hard, pulsing beneath your palm. His head drops to your shoulder, breath shuddering.

“Don’t...don’t tease me like that,” he warns, though the tremor in his voice betrays just how much he loves it.

“You’re so hard for me,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.

He growls low, yanking your jeans down in one swift motion, underwear following. He takes a moment just to look at you, spread out beneath him, bare and trembling. His hand slides between your thighs, fingers skimming teasingly close but not quite touching where you need him most.

“You’re perfect,” he says, voice rough. “And you’re mine.”

You moan as he finally strokes you, slow and deliberate. Your hips lift into his hand, desperate for more, but he holds you down, keeping the pace torturously controlled.

You tug at his jeans until they’re gone, leaving him in just his boxers. The sight makes your breath catch—hard and heavy, straining against thin fabric. You reach for him again, wrapping your hand around him through the cotton, and he shudders, teeth grazing your shoulder as he gasps your name.

“Jesus Christ… you’re going to kill me,” he mutters, thrusting into your hand.

The heat builds between you, clothes scattering until there’s nothing left to hide behind. His body is pressed to yours, skin to skin, every movement fanning the fire higher. His mouth finds yours again, tongues tangling, while his fingers work you open, leaving you breathless, begging, undone.

When he finally pushes his boxers down and grinds against you all bare, hard, perfectly aligned; you both moan at the contact. It’s raw, electric, unbearable.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, sweat beading his brow, chest heaving. His tip nudges against your slick entrance, one last tease. “Say it again,” he whispers. “Say you want this.”

“I want this,” you pant, nails digging into his back. “I want you.”

With the small sentence, George takes ahold of his length, and places it at the entrance.

He leans down to press another kiss to your lips, as he thrusts forwards pushing the tip inside. He groans as he slowly pushes deeper again, the sensation overwhelming the both of you.

You gasp, your body adjusting to accommodate to this size, the feeling of fullness both intense and exhilarating. He pauses, giving you a moment to adjust, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Okay?" He asks, his voice a husky whisper, his body trembling with restraint.

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "More than okay," you breathe, encouraging him to move. He begins to thrust slowly, each movement deliberate and controlled, building a rhythm that has your breath hitching and your hips rising to meet his.

The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure; his ragged breaths, your soft moans, the wet slide of skin against skin. He leans down, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes never leaving your face as he moves inside you. The intimacy of the moment is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation.

"God, you feel so good," he murmurs, his voice strained. "So tight, so perfect."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him faster. He complies, his thrusts growing more urgent, more desperate. The world narrows down to the two of you, to the heat and the need and the connection that binds you together.

His hand slips between your bodies, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is too much, and you cry out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over you. He groans, his own release following close behind, his body shuddering as he finds his own climax.

He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting presence, his breath hot against your neck. You hold him close, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, both of you sated and content.

As your breathing returns to normal, he rolls off you, pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The room is quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside your window.

"You okay?" he asks again, his voice soft, his fingers gently stroking your hair.

You nod, a contented sigh escaping your lips. "More than okay," you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. "I'm perfect."

He tightens his arms around you, holding you close. "Me too," he whispers, his voice filled with a warmth that makes your heart swell. "Me too."

The first thing you notice is the weight of him. Not heavy, not uncomfortable...just there. Solid warmth pressed against your back, an arm draped loosely around your waist, his breath steady against your shoulder. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the room still carrying the faint scent of sweat and his cologne.

You blink into the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, piecing together flashes of last night; the hunger, the whispered confessions, the way his name left your mouth like a prayer. Your body aches in the sweetest way, every stretch a reminder.

George stirs behind you, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he pulls you closer. His lips brush the curve of your shoulder, lazy and unthinking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice low and rough with sleep.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Morning.”

For a moment, it’s just silence and warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. Then he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. His hair is a mess, his eyes soft but searching, like he’s not sure if this is real.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing over your hip where the sheet slips.

You roll onto your back to face him, meeting his gaze. “More than okay.”

Relief flickers across his face before it softens into a grin, that crooked smile you’ve seen a hundred times, only now it feels like it’s yours. He leans down, kissing you gently; slow, lingering, a promise rather than a demand.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve let you walk away after last night.”

You reach up, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough under your touch. “I wasn’t planning on walking away.”

His grin widens, boyish and irresistible. “Dangerous thing to tell me. You’ll never get rid of me now.”

The bed is warm, the morning unhurried, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t want to be anywhere else.

hehe... first time writing smut here. I hope you enjoyed and would love any feedback if possible.

Then

He was the kind of boy who looked like a forecast: clean lines, pressure dropping behind his eyes.

I sat three rows up in Atmospheric Dynamics, pretending to be fascinated by vorticity while my heart did its own messy spin. After the lab night—a thunderstorm shivering over Cambridge, his hands careful on my hips, my laugh dropping like warm rain—I’d woken to an empty side of the bed and a note that said nothing useful. The campus smelled like petrichor and bad decisions. I put on a sundress because it felt like armor and went to class anyway.

After lecture, I caught him by the door. “Scott.”

He paused like you do when your name pulls you back by the collar. He looked exactly at me and not into me. “Hey.”

“About last night—” I started, soft.

“It was one time,” he said, voice level, an instrument he knew how to play. “I shouldn’t have—” He edited the sentence like code, stripped it to function. “We should keep it simple. School. Work.”

My face remembered how to smile; my stomach didn’t. “Right. Simple.”

“I’ve got a meeting,” he added, as if that explained the space where decency should’ve been.

And then he walked away, neat, contained, the human version of a door closing without a slam.

I learned a hundred ways to take up less space. Moved seats. Did the labs. Kept my sweet drinks and stopped asking why sweetness felt like a dare. You don’t need a storm to get wrecked. People will do.

Now

The backseat of Tyler’s ute judders; the sky has gone that nickel color that means the afternoon is loading a gun.

“Remind me why we’re in the back of a moving vehicle toward danger?” Ben shouts over the wind. He’s braced against a pelican case, hair already at war with Oklahoma.

“Because your editor wants ‘immersive,’ and the atmosphere is obliging,” I shout back. “Look—see the flanking line? That’s your clue the main updraft has friends.”

Boone—camera on his shoulder, grin like a golden retriever with a drone pilot license—pivots toward us. “For the vlog: We’ve got Y/N riding shotgun—okay, truck-bed—today. Ben’s friend, storm brain extraordinaire. She’ll make us sound smart.”

I smile for the lens because the sun likes me today, because the light turns my sundress into something brighter than I feel. “Hi. I’m here to bully Ben’s adjectives with science.”

Tyler twists around from the cab, arm hooked over the seat, hat tipped just so. “Boys, back off. I’ve only known her days, but she’s like a little sister to me. You hear?” He winks at me, goes serious for the camera. “Also she’ll roast you with math.”

The road unspools. Heat shimmers. Off to the west a wall cloud is hanging like a question somebody’s going to answer wrong. I squint at the base, at the skinny aspirational finger of rotation tasting dirt.

“Mesocyclone tightening,” I call, half to Ben, half to myself. “Look at the scud getting hoovered—see how it feeds? That’s inflow. Dewpoint’s doing the most. If that rear-flank downdraft wraps just right, we’ll see a stovepipe go needle, go wedge.”

“Translation,” Ben says, dutifully. “Bad.”

“Potentially bad,” I correct. “Weather’s a thousand coin flips and a rumor.”

We pass a line of white trucks on the shoulder, clean logos glinting: StormPAR. They look surgical in a world held together by zip ties. I track the convoy the way your tongue checks a busted tooth. I wonder who’s behind the wheel, but there are a thousand men in Oklahoma with that jaw and those sunglasses, and anyway, I’m not looking.

The dryline breathes in. The world tilts.

Tyler taps the roof and Boone smacks the window twice: pit stop.

We slide into the gravel lot of a diner that has held the sky’s secrets for sixty years and isn’t about to stop. Tyler’s fans appear like they smell high wind and free stickers. Phones up, voices shrill with the cocktail of fear and someone to blame it on in a fun way.

“You saved my cousin’s car last week!” a girl squeals at Tyler. “Like actually pushed it.”

“I’m twenty percent adrenaline, eighty percent brisket,” he deadpans, signing a hat. “Eat your veggies, stay in a shelter. Dani, get this kid a T-shirt.”

I get pulled into a selfie by a teenager shaking hard enough to rattle bone. “Is it true you do the science?” she whispers.

“I do the explanations,” I say. “The science is the sky; we’re just translating.”

She beams. I’m pivoting to grab waters when the mood swings. Javi Rivera strides in from the lot like a problem you’re lucky to have. Scott is a step behind him, jaw set, eyes already heated. They’re both mud-dusted and efficient, the StormPAR convoy stacked behind them in a tense line.

“Tyler,” Javi says, keeping the temperature just under boil, “you cut us off at the bypass.”

“We had a school bus!” Tyler shoots back, instantly hot. “I’m not going to let you park a dish in front of—”

Scott starts where Javi stops. “Your livestream was blocking—”

He breaks off.

He sees me.

The words leave his face. For a second, he looks like a man who suddenly remembered the exact position of his own heart. He doesn’t say my name. He doesn’t say anything.

I feel the old anger strap itself on like a parachute.

“Excuse me,” I tell the kid with the hat, stepping past. I angle my body so I’m almost between Scott and the fan swarm, not because I want to touch him, but because I want him to feel what it’s like to be corrected by a boundary.

Tyler clocks the freeze and, because he is both chaos and shepherd, claps a hand to my shoulder. “This is Y/N,” he announces to Javi and, pointedly, not to Scott. “She’s helping Ben keep me from sounding like a raccoon with a weather thesaurus.”

Javi’s mouth flickers. “Hi. Javi Rivera.”

“Hi,” I say, warm. “Big fan of your phased array. Your data briefs are tight.”

“Thank you,” he says, pleased despite himself.

I don’t look at Scott.

I aim my smile at Tyler. “I’m going to grab extra water from inside before people pass out.”

“Take Boone,” Tyler says automatically.

“I’ll be quick.”

I can feel Scott watching me walk away. The ridiculous part of me wants to check if his expression is apology or inventory. I do not check. I step into the cool, coffee-and-bacon air and lean against the counter to ask for two flats of bottles like my hands aren’t trembling.

Back at the door, through glass, I see Javi angle toward Scott, lips forming what’s up with you? Scott shakes his head in that universal male sign for later, which always means never.

The storm pulls itself together for the evening show.

Ben and I take the same booth every morning because routines hold when nothing else does. He types; I scribble gust-front notes and draw little arrows to make my brain feel useful.

“Tell me about your college,” he says, pen hovering. He’s learned to ask questions that let me choose which past I hand him.

“The Institute,” I say, because we all call it that when we’re being coy. “Nights in the lab with the fluorescents buzzing like crickets. Pizza that could break a window. Professors who spoke about wind like it was an old friend and an occasional thief.”

“You liked it.”

“I loved it,” I say, and it’s true. “It made the world make sense, even when people didn’t.”

He raises a brow. “Person, singular?”

I smile into my coffee. “Plural.”

The bell above the door jangles and brings the outside in—heat, grit, the smell of something brewing. Tyler barrels in, hat tipped back. “We’ve got a boundary doing the tango two counties over,” he announces. “We roll in ten.”

I’m already packing up, but my lungs are a little tight, the old anxiety moving around furniture. “I might sit this first push,” I tell Ben, voice even. “Track from here. I’ll feed you the numbers. Catch up in the second wave.”

“You okay?” he asks, quiet.

“I’m fine,” I lie, which is what functional people do when their nervous system is chewing gum wrappers.

He squeezes my shoulder and follows the stampede. The diner empties to a hum.

I open my laptop. The GR2Analyst feed paints the state like a bruise blooming. I can breathe better looking at colors than out the window. I’m mid-note on storm-relative helicity when the door jingles again.

“Of course,” I say to nobody.

He spots me before I can pretend to be part of the furniture. He doesn’t hesitate; he approaches like a man who decided to stop pretending time fixes anything without help.

“Y/N.”

“Don’t,” I say, without heat. “You’ll waste the first sentence on my name and run out of courage by the fourth.”

He stops at the far side of the table like it’s a neutral zone. For a second he looks like the boy at the lab bench who couldn’t look at me and look away at the same time. Then he squares it all away, the way he does.

“I was a jerk,” he says, plain. “Back then.”

“Accurate,” I say, focused on the radar. “And after.”

“I didn’t—” He exhales hard. “It was a one-time thing to me. I made it that on purpose. I had this… rule. No complications. No promises I couldn’t keep. I thought I was protecting both of us.”

“You weren’t,” I say. “And it wasn’t your decision alone.”

His jaw tightens. “I know.”

“You don’t get to define what happened and then define what I’m allowed to feel about it,” I add. My voice is steady. Practice: that’s all anger is, edges honed by repetition.

He nods like he’s been rehearsing taking a hit. “You’re right.”

“And now you work for a man who treats the sky like a claw machine,” I say, tipping my head toward the white trucks outside. “So forgive me if I’m not dazzled by your growth arc.”

“Javi is my partner,” he says, bristling for somebody who deserves it. “We’re trying to put data where it buys minutes.”

“And who signs the checks?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The silence is a confession.

“You haven’t changed,” I say, quietly. “You’ve just got better gear.”

He flinches like I taught him something he didn’t want to learn. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t owe you fair,” I say. “I owe you honest.”

His radio cracks, Javi’s voice sharp: “Scott, where are you? We need to move. Rotation tightening near 412.”

He looks at me like he’s waiting for permission to go. I don’t give it because I’m not in the business of making men feel moral. I look at my screen. “You’re about to lose your road options if you don’t go now,” I say, purely practical.

“Y/N—”

“Go,” I repeat, blandly. “Do your job.”

He does. The door bangs the way weather does when it wants you to know it doesn’t care about your narrative.

I stare at the map. The hook fattening. The couplet kissing. It’s easier than staring at the past.

By the time the lot has stopped steaming, Tyler’s declared a morale emergency. “We’re going to Miller’s,” he says. “We’ll hydrate in liquid and fiddle. If you try to say no I’ll make it content.”

The band saws at something that makes everybody’s blood swing. We pack into a corner that smells like cedar and spilled beer and adrenaline trying to sit down. Ben nurses a Coke like it owes him money. I order first on muscle memory.

“Shirley Temple,” I tell the bartender. It slips out like breath.

The drink arrives pink as a dare. I spear the cherry with my straw and feel sixteen in a dangerous, forgiving way.

“You used to get that,” a voice says behind me, amused and a little wrecked.

I don’t need to turn to know who it is. I turn anyway.

Scott stands there like the idea of him; he’s showered and somehow still looks storm-touched, clean tee, knuckles nicked. The dim light sharpens his mouth. The noise swallows the world and hands us a little pocket of it back.

“What happened to your sweet?” he asks, a question pretending to be a joke.

“Some things change,” I say, and the cherry is suddenly a ruby I don’t want to choke on.

His mouth tips. “Some things don’t.”

“Like what?” I ask, and I hate that I sound curious.

“That you walk into a room and the weather calibrates.”

For a second I almost smile, because he used to talk in equations and now he’s trying poetry and both feel like truth the way a bruise does. I don’t smile. I let him try.

“I was an ass in school,” he says, louder than the band, like he wants the whole place to witness. “And after. I told myself rules about staying clean. I used people cleanly. I’m not proud.”

“Good,” I say. “Shame’s a start.”

“I’m trying to—”

His phone buzzes between us on the bar, screen upside down. He turns it over without meaning to. The name glows white in the dark: RIGGS.

I don’t look at him. I look at the cherry, bright as a warning light.

He silences it. It buzzes again. Again. He breathes like he’s lifting something heavy that isn’t in his hands.

“Just—give me one sec,” he says, and his voice splinters.

“Of course,” I say, pleasant as a blade. “You’ve always been good at stepping out.”

He flinches. He doesn’t move. The phone stops. It lights again—JAVI this time, caps like an alarm. His hand hovers.

He looks at me. He looks at the phone.

Somebody yells from the other side of the bar. The televisions all blink amber. A siren blares from a dozen pockets and the old radio by the kitchen door:

EMERGENCY ALERT. TORNADO ON THE GROUND. SEEK SHELTER NOW.

The power hiccups. The fiddle jerks to silence. The room inhales as one organism.

Scott’s hand is still hovering. My cherry slides off the straw and plops into pink.

He makes a choice with his eyes.

And the whole bar lurches like a truck dropping into a ditch.

The televisions sputter, the lights strobe. Then the whole bar jerks like a truck in a ditch.

The siren outside doesn’t just wail—it claws.

People are moving, scrambling, chairs tipping over, drinks crashing. Panic is a tide with no lifeguard. And in the eye of it, Scott moves. Not toward me—toward the door. He shoulders it open, light knifing in, and disappears.

For a second, my lungs forget.

Of course. He left. Again.

The narrative writes itself because it’s always been his handwriting: absence where presence should’ve been. My chest hollows out in a way I swore I wouldn’t let it.

“Basement!” someone screams. “There’s a basement!”

I turn, pushing through bodies, when the door bangs open. And suddenly, he’s there. Scott. Broad in the frame, shoulders first, hair wet with sweat and storm. He’s guiding—no, ushering—people back in, his hands firm on backs, his voice carrying authority I’d almost forgotten he could wield.

“Downstairs, now. Move!” he commands.

And then I collide with him. Hard. My forehead clips his collarbone. My fists bunch automatically in his shirt.

“You—” My voice fractures. “You walked out. I thought—”

His chest rises, solid as a wall. His hand is already at my arm, steady. “I was getting them inside,” he says, rough, urgent. “I wouldn’t—” He stops, shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

But anger is faster than reason. “You always leave,” I snap, voice jagged as glass. “Why should now be different?”

The siren rises, the building groans. He looks at me with a kind of desperation I’ve never seen on his face before, and maybe I don’t want to.

“We don’t have time,” he says, low. “Fight me later. Right now—we move.”

The crowd funnels toward the basement door. The air outside is darker than evening, green-black and rotating. My brain catalogues: rotation tightening, inflow screaming. But my mouth is just breathing.

Scott’s hand is on my back, firm, steering me down narrow steps.

The basement smells of damp stone and old beer, ceiling too low, heat rising from bodies crammed together. It’s chaos—Tyler barking jokes to calm people, Boone fiddling with his camera like even the apocalypse should have B-roll, Ben pale but scribbling notes because that’s how he doesn’t fall apart.

I try to count heads, check faces, run through my team. “Where’s Dani? She was handing out shirts—”

“Hey.” Scott steps into my line, palm braced against the wall above my head, pressing me back with his body as another wave of people pushes through. His proximity is suffocating, but the alternative is being trampled.

“Stop,” he says, voice low but carved with command. “You can’t help anyone if you’re crushed. They’re fine. Breathe.”

I want to shove him away. I want to scream at him for daring to act like he gets to protect me when he forfeited that right years ago. But the ceiling vibrates with the low growl of air shredding itself apart, and my body does the unholy thing of leaning closer to his.

Around us, the storm hits its stride. The basement walls tremble. Someone sobs in the corner. A child clings to her mother, eyes wide saucers.

I move. I duck under Scott’s arm and crouch beside the girl. “Hey,” I say softly, pulling my notebook from my bag. I sketch quick swirls, arrows, a little smiling sun. “This is what the storm looks like on my screen. See? It’s just colors moving around. And colors can’t hurt you.”

The girl sniffles, nods. Her mother mouths thank you.

When I glance back, Scott is watching. Not with judgment. With something else—something I don’t want to name because names make things real.

The wind screams. A sound like metal being torn from the earth explodes overhead. The crowd ducks instinctively. My balance goes, the floor lurches, and I stumble—straight back into Scott.

His arms close around me before I hit concrete. He pulls me flush against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, his chin lowering to the crown of my head.

“Got you,” he mutters, raw.

The sound is unbearable—freight train, jet engine, world-ending roar. My ears pop, my eyes sting. Tears blur unbidden because I can’t science my way out of this noise, this pressure, this fear.

And Scott feels it. His hand finds the back of my head, shielding me. He kisses my hair—swift, unthinking, desperate.

My breath punches out of me. My tears wet his shirt. He holds me tighter.

The basement is one organism: crying, praying, holding, waiting.

Above us, the tornado rips.

Minutes—or centuries—later, the sound tapers. First the roar, then the whine, then just dripping silence. People unpeel from each other, shaking.

I pull back fast, ashamed of the wet on my face, of how I let myself fold into him. “Don’t—” I start.

But he doesn’t push. He lets me go.

The town above was shredded—trees snapped, shingles scattered. People stumbled into the street, dazed but alive.

I moved instinctively, checking cuts, pressing bottles into hands, reassuring strangers. My team was safe: Tyler cracking jokes, Dani handing out shirts, Ben taking notes with pale determination. Relief knifed through me.

And always, just at the edge, Scott. Helping, steady, present.

When I finally cornered him by the diner’s ruined sign, my anger found breath again. “Why?” I demanded. “Why hold me like that? Why now?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I should’ve back then. Because I walked away when I shouldn’t have. I told myself rules—no mess, no promises. I thought I was protecting us.” His voice broke a little. “I wasn’t. I was protecting myself.”

“You broke me,” I said, plain as fact. “You don’t get to erase that.”

“I know,” he said. “I can’t erase it. I can only show you I’m not that man anymore.”

We worked side by side through the evening—taping windows, moving debris, checking houses. And each time, he stayed. When his phone buzzed—RIGGS—he silenced it, then finally powered it off. He chose to be here.

Later, when the worst was done, we sat on the curb outside, the air warm and bruised. Someone had salvaged pie and coffee. The generator hummed. My sundress was streaked with dirt; his knuckles were raw.

He glanced at me. “May I?” he asked, tilting his hand toward mine.

I hesitated. Then I nodded.

His fingers threaded through, careful but firm. My chest hurt in a new way.

“You don’t get points for pretty words,” I said quietly.

“I’m not giving words,” he said. “I’m giving the rest of my time.”

And for once, I believed him.

He leaned in slowly, waiting. “May I kiss you?”

The question unraveled me.

“Yes.”

The kiss was steady, sure. Not a storm—an answer. His hand cupped my cheek; mine clenched in his shirt. The world around us softened into hums and quiet laughter and the distant flicker of lightning.

When we finally broke apart, he stayed close, forehead against mine.

“I won’t leave again,” he whispered.

And for the first time in years, I let myself believe it.

You've tried your best to stay up for him, but exhaustion eventually wins out. You find yourself drifting off on the couch, the soft hum of the television lulling you to sleep. The last thing you remember is the gentle tick of the clock, counting down the minutes until George will be home.

The sound of the front door opening jolts you awake. You rub your eyes, disoriented and groggy, as George's familiar silhouette appears in the doorway. He smiles warmly, his eyes twinkling with affection.

"Hi beautiful," he whispers, his voice soft and tender. "I'm home."

You blink, a sleepy smile spreading across your face. "George," you murmur, stretching your arms out to him. "I missed you."

He walks over and gently pulls you into a hug, his strong arms wrapping around you protectively. "I missed you too," he replies, his voice filled with sincerity. "I'm sorry I was out so late."

You shake your head, nuzzling into his chest. "It's okay. I understand. You're doing amazing work."

George helps you up from the couch, his hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you towards the bedroom. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, inviting light.

You climb into bed, your body aching with a mix of exhaustion and desire. George follows, his movements fluid and graceful. He lies beside you, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Let me make it up to you," he whispers, his lips hovering just above yours. "Let me show you how much I missed you."

You nod, your heart racing with anticipation. George leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss. You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongues dancing together.

George's hands roam over your body, exploring every curve and contour. You can feel his desire growing, his touch becoming more urgent and needy. He gently rolls you onto your back, his body covering yours as he settles between your legs.

He kisses your neck, his lips trailing down to your collarbone, then lower to your breasts. You arch into his touch, your breath hitching as he takes one nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue. His hands roam lower, cupping your ass and pulling you closer to him.

You can feel his hardness pressing against you, and you spread your legs wider, inviting him in. George takes his time, his fingers slipping between your folds, feeling your wetness and heat. He teases your clit, his touch gentle and precise, building your pleasure slowly.

You moan softly, your hips lifting to meet his touch. George's fingers slip inside you, his thumb continuing to circle your clit. He moves slowly, his fingers curling to hit that sweet spot deep inside you.

You can feel the tension building, your body coiling tight as you near the edge. George's mouth returns to yours, his kisses hungry and demanding. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more.

He positions himself at your entrance, his tip teasing you. You can feel him swelling, his need for you growing. With a single thrust, he's inside you, filling you completely. You cry out, your nails digging into his back.

George begins to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm. He takes his time, drawing out your pleasure, his body moving in perfect sync with yours. You can feel every inch of him, his length and thickness stretching you, filling you.

The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure, your breaths mingling as you move together in perfect harmony. George's hands roam over your body, his touch gentle and reverent, as if he's worshipping every inch of you.

You can feel the tension building, your body coiling tight as you near the edge. George's hips thrust up to meet yours, his movements matching your rhythm. You can feel him swelling inside you, his own release building.

With a final cry, you come undone, your body trembling with the force of your orgasm. George follows soon after, his release pulsing deep inside you.

You collapse beneath him, your bodies slick with sweat and your breaths coming in ragged gasps. George rolls to the side, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close as you both drift off to sleep, content and sated.

Jess laughs, "she's not wrong. You went from tipsy to TED talk in under thirty seconds."

"Shut up," I giggle, cheeks flushed. "I just... I like helping people find stories they'll fall in love with."

"And people love you for it," Becky said softly, nudging me with her shoulder.

I don't say anything. I'm still floating a little - from the sweets, the fans, the buzz of the street. From knowing that George is just around the corner.

And then we spot him.

He’s standing outside the next pub — The Queen Crafthouse — camera in one hand, waving his other dramatically in the air like we’re arriving at the bloody Oscars. Isaac and Arthur are beside him, already laughing, and Chris is filming the chaos like the natural-born director he thinks he is.

“Hello, hello!” George calls, exaggerated posh voice on full blast.

“There they are — the sweets bandits!” Arthur TV adds, giving us a mock bow.

I break into a jog the last few steps, launching straight into George’s arms like it’s instinct. He catches me, arms around my waist, spinning me slightly before setting me back on the ground.

“You smell like sugar,” he teases.

“You smell like Guinness and poor decisions,” I fire back.

George laughs. “So basically, we’re a perfect match.”

I laugh as I pull away just enough to keep myself tucked into his side as we head inside.

The Queen Crafthouse is dim and cozy, more polished that the last few stops. We all slide into a booth, the group curling around the table like we've done this a thousand times.

George nestles into the corner, pulling me onto his lap. I toss my licorice into the middle of the table, and Becky and Isaac fight over the bag.

Chris is going on about something about the train earlier to the group but I'm not focusing as George leans down, chin resting lightly on my shoulder. "So what's with the big smile love?"

I grin, still buzzing. "We got stopped by a fan. Well - two girls. Teenagers. One asked for a photo, and her friend asked me for a book rec!"

His whole face lights up. "No way."

“I know, right? And it wasn’t like a fake 'what should I read’ thing — she really meant it. She said she didn’t know where to start. So I asked her what movies she liked and she said Heartstopper and To All the Boys and 10 Things I Hate About You—”

“Oh my god, she’s you,” George says with a chuckle.

“Exactly. So I told her to start with Better Than the Movies. I went full book goblin on her. Becky and Jess were watching me like I was giving a sermon.”

“You kinda were.” Becky interupts.

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling again. “It just felt really good. Like… not just being recognised, but helping someone find something they might fall in love with.”

George squeezes my thigh gently under the table. “You’re gonna be amazing when you start that book club.”

I tilt my head, surprised. “Wait, who said anything about starting one?”

“You did, just now.”

“I didn’t—”

“You were thinking it.”

I laugh, leaning into him again, letting myself enjoy this — the moment, the warmth, the weird magic of Doncaster.

And then my phone buzzes.

I think nothing of it at first. Just a notification. Probably the group chat or someone tagging me in a post from earlier.

But it's not.

It's instagram.

A post. From a guy. The random guy from the pub earlier in the night.

GEORGE CLARKE AND Y/N KISSING IN A PUB IN DONCASTER???

The photo is directly below the heading.

It's the bar kiss.

The one with my hands on his chest, his fingers digging into my sides. His lips on mine.

My whole stomach flips. Not from the alcohol.

"And we're about to have the best night of our entire life!" Is the statement said by Chris which breaks me out of my trance.

I look pale; the secret is out - the secret we wanted to tell our fans ourselves.

“George,” I whisper, stiffening beside him.

He immediately notices the shift in my voice — in my body. “What?”

I show him the screen.

His whole expression changes. That easy smile melts away as he leans in, squinting at the photo.

Becky leans over too, letting out a low, “Oh… shit.”

The rest of the group hear Becky and stop their conversation, peering over to what we're dicussing.

I turn my phone around to face the group.

“He said he deleted it,” I mutter. “The guy from earlier. The one who took the photo.”

George doesn’t say anything. Not right away. He just exhales, jaw tight.

“It’s already got thousands of likes. It’s spreading fast.”

I look up at him, heart racing. “We didn’t even get to do it ourselves.”

He looks at me for a long moment — then grabs his phone.

“Chris,” he says, loud enough to catch attention, “photo?”

Chris takes the phone with a smirk and begins commentating, "and look here viewers, is this George and Y/N finally deciding to post their relationship?"

Becky and Arthur are on ethier side of us and huddle closer for a group photos. George keeps him arm around me as Chris snaps the photo - all of us squished into the booth, a little drunk, a little red-faced and a whole lot happy.

George takes his phone back and types out a few words showing me to make sure I'm happy of which I nod.

He uploads the image to his Instagram story, and tags me.

A single caption:

💋#Doncaster

When I turn back to him, he’s already watching me.

“If it’s out,” he says softly, “I want people to know it’s real.”

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We continue to enjoy our night as drinks keep arriving and conversations spiral into the usual pub chaos. Suddenly Arthur declares loudly, "Let's give them a shot, a shot! Somebody take their trousers off."

I stand from George's lap with exaggerated dramatics, raising my hands like I'm accepting as Oscar and was about to do it as a joke whilst Arthur cheers me on.

Becky hollers, "THAT'S MY GIRL!"

George doesn't even blink. He just grabs my hips with both hands, smirking. "Nope. Not until later tonight, love," he says, voice low and casual as he pulls me firmly back into his lap.

I shift a little, trying to get comfortable again, wiggling my hips slightly as I settle - and then freeze.

There's something.

Hard.

Pressed against me.

George leans in close, lips brushing my ear, voice strained and quiet, "baby, I need you to please stop moving against me."

A drunk giggle bubbles out of me anyway.

Naturally, I do it again.

George’s hands immediately tighten around my hips, steadying me in place. “You’re evil,” he murmurs.

“And yet, you love me,” I shoot back.

Before George can reply, Chris raises a pint triumphantly above his head. “Guys! We have got a locally sourced IPA for everyone!”

The boys erupt into a cheer as pints get passed around the table. I grab mine and lift it in Isaac’s direction as he clinks his against mine.

We take a sip — or, well, I intend to.

But Isaac doesn’t stop sipping.

And I’m not one to back down from a challenge.

The race is on.

I chug the pint, head tipped back, finishing just a second before Isaac slams his glass down. I beat him by barely a breath.

“Wait, you finished that quick!” someone shouts from across the booth, their voice half in disbelief.

Isaac and I break into matching grins, eyes wide with pride.

“UNEXPECTED LEGEND!” we shout in unison, throwing our hands in the air like we just won the FA Cup.

George laughs and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “Yeah, that’s my girlfriend!” he shouts to the pub proudly, raising his own pint in salute.

The booth erupts into laughter, and the moment is golden — warm and chaotic and sticky with beer.

I slump back into George’s side, breathless and buzzing.

That’s when I check my phone.

Just to see the time.

Instead I was met with the fan reactions of the story.

I quickly repost the story to my own story and check out some of the reactions.

My notifications are flooded.

Screenshots of the story reposted with captions like:

"WAIT WAIT WAIT I KNEW IT!!"

"remember when they were in that Sidemen hide and seek and they were in that tiny cupboard together??? it all makes sense now!!"

"the way the always sat next to each other in every video - the soft launch was real!"

"GEORGE AND Y/N CONFIRMED! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"

"the beer forehead kiss???? the matching sambas???? THE HANDS ON THE HIPS!!!!!"

"do you guys remeber that tiktok where she said her type was 'tall, sarcastic, and emotionally unavailable' and the top comment was 'so George Clarke then?' I AM SCREAMMMMINGGGGG"

I scroll and scroll, half laughing, half speechless.

The fans didn’t just notice — they’ve been tracking us like detectives.

And they’re so happy.

Not a single negative thing in sight. Just love. Just support. Just a million puzzle pieces finally falling into place.

George peeks over my shoulder and lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. We’ve gone viral.”

I turn to him, dazed and grinning. “They’ve known this whole time.”

He shrugs, smirking. “We were pretty obvious.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “We were sneaky.”

“You literally did a shoey for me on the train,” he deadpans.

“…Okay, maybe not that sneaky.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to my temple. “Still the best secret I’ve ever had.”

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We spend the next hour at the pub, cheering and drinking like champions, the energy still buzzing as we decide to head to the next stop.

Just outside the door, we’re briefly stopped by two boys — one proudly claiming he tried to copy Isaac’s hair, and the other grinning at me with a cheeky, “you’re actually so fit.”

Before I can even respond, George’s hand finds mine, tugging me away with a low, amused mutter under his breath.

“She’s mine.”

I glance up at him with a smirk. “Possessive much?”

“Territorial,” he corrects, squeezing my hand with zero shame.

We fall into step with the group, spilling out onto the streets of Doncaster once more. The night is alive — loud music pouring from doorways, people spilling out of clubs, the pavement sticky under our feet.

And then, suddenly, a group of locals starts backflipping on the footpath.

Like, full-on Olympic flips — no warning, no explanation.

Arthur TV claps like they’re street performers, while Chris yells “DO IT AGAIN!” and nearly trips over a curb.

I turn to George, wide-eyed. “Was that real or am I drunker than I thought?”

He just laughs, looping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re drunk and it was real.”

We carry on, weaving through crowds and chaos, soaking in the messy magic of the Doncaster night — George’s arm never leaving mine, and his smirk never fading.

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George is ahead of me as I walk alongside Isaac and Arthur TV, still grinning from the night and the chaotic pub crawl energy clinging to us like spilled cider.

“I swear to God, if the next pub doesn’t have toilets that aren’t terrifying, I’m starting a protest,” Arthur mutters, adjusting his jacket.

“Yeah, a piss protest,” Isaac adds, deadpan.

"Oh my god, it's a minion! What the fuck!" Arthur suddenly shouts, interrupting us mid-conversation, "it's a minion!" He repeats, pointing dramatically like he's discovered Bigfoot.

Isaac and I exchange a glance - the vibe has definitely shifted. I feel his arm push gently in front of me as he mutters, "no, no, no..."

Becky stands to our left, frozen in pure confusion as Arthur, far too drunk to clock the mood, stumbles forward and says with a dopey grin.

"It's a grumpy minion."

The minion takes a step closer.

His friend tries to hold him back.

Arthur, still oblivious, points again. "It's an angry minion!"

I subtly nod to Becky, silently telling her to get Arthur out of there. She moves quickly, slipping an arm around him and guiding him away.

Isaac and I remain, trying to de-escalate.

"Please just ignore him," I plea, hands raised, referring to Arthur.

The minion's eyes lock onto me. His body tenses and then -

"Are you taking the piss?" He snaps, voice sharp.

Arthur is now halfway across the street with Becky, but it’s too late — the Minion steps in and grabs a handful of Isaac’s shirt.

“Oi!” Isaac stumbles slightly as the guy tugs him forward.

The girl with the Minion acts fast, trying to pull him back, while I step in front of Isaac instinctively, putting myself between them.

“Hey! No need for that,” I say, voice firm but calm.

“Let’s just split ways,” I tell the girl, holding eye contact. “You guys go that way, we’ll go the opposite.”

She gives me a small nod. “Yeah. We’re gonna leave it.”

Crisis nearly averted — until Arthur appears again.

He’s crept back like a drunk raccoon, arms outstretched like he's rejoining a musical number.

I grab him immediately, wrapping a hand around his arm like an annoyed mum at a carnival. “Nope. Noooo. This way.”

We start dragging him off as Isaac glances over his shoulder one last time. “Mate, we weren’t taking the piss,” he says honestly.

Then he looks at me, exasperated. “I can’t believe we almost got decked by a Minion.”

“Doncaster,” I reply simply, as we walk away. “Never boring.”

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Hi all!

I'm back after my little break with a new part - how exciting! And we've met the grumpy minion!! Honestly that part never gets old - like I have rewatch it so much to write this and get the quotes and it's never not funny! However we only have ten minutes left of the video meaning only one part left :(

See you guys next time,

mwah x

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taglist x