#theinternetsgirlfriendmasterlist

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.

There’s a breeze off the water that pretends to be "salt air", and the dock still has "and the rust on your door" kind of charm. He kicks at the planks. “You’re thinkin’ real loud,” he says.

“I’m thinking you owe me a beer,” I say, because some stories are easier if you start in the shallow end.

He grins, same as when we were ten and he swore he could ride his bike with no hands. “Rammer Jammer’s got your name on a bottle.”

That’s the other piece of us: the bar and its neon heartbeat. He’ll close up late and we’ll linger later, counting tips and crumpling napkins into terrible free throws. Sometimes we don’t talk. Sometimes that feels like worship.

We drive—windows down, wrist out, small-town constellation of porch lights and gossip—until the Rammer Jammer’s sign hums us under. The kitchen smells like fryer oil and cinnamon pie, which should be illegal. Wade shoulders the door with a practiced shove, flicks on half the lights, and the room comes awake like a polite yawn.

He moves behind the bar with a confidence that makes me forgive him for everything I haven’t even blamed him for yet. Beer slides across to me; his fingers brush mine and heat spikes like it’s got nothing to do with weather.

We’ve always been almost. Almost a kiss in the back of a church hall after a dance when the band was too loud for our heartbeats to be heard. Almost a confession on the tailgate when the meteor shower refused to show. Almost an admission every time his hand hovers at the small of my back like it’s known the map all along.

He tosses me a rag, nods at the sticky table by the jukebox. We fall into the easy choreography of closing: wipe, stack, laugh, repeat. The radio behind the bar murmurs a summer song, and my memory plays its own, the private reel that runs only in August: "remember when I pulled up" to this very lot and he said "get in the car" like we’d never been anywhere but here; how I’d "cancel plans just in case you call", how I lived "to live for the hope of it all" and told myself it was a strategy, not a prayer.

We end up on the back steps, humidity hugging the night to our skin. Fireflies bob like someone sprinkled stars too low. Wade rests his shoulders against the door, tips his beer bottle to his lip, and looks at me the way you do when you finally decide to read the warning label.

“You ever think about leaving?” he asks, words lazy, eyes not.

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But I always think of how I’d miss this. The noise. The quiet. You.”

“You’d miss me?” He says it like a joke he might want to be real.

“I’ve known you twenty years,” I say. “I’d miss you like I’d miss my own name.”

There’s a long, brave silence.

“I ain’t always been the guy you deserve,” he says. “But I’m tryin’ real hard to be the guy you actually want.”

My heart clatters against my ribs, startled and eager. I can feel our history lighting up inside me like a row of porch bulbs: "I can see us lost in the memory", driving the long way around town because we liked the long way; late-night swims, clothes a wet heap, laughter echoing off the dock; the cheap, glorious drama of homecoming, his bow tie crooked, my lipstick trying to keep up.

He toes the step, scuffs wood. “Feels like 'august slipped away into a moment in time',” he says finally, voice low enough to barely be legal, “and I’m not tryin’ to blink.”

“It’s still August,” I offer, even though the calendar has never cared to save anybody.

He huffs a smile. “Yeah. Guess it is.”

I picture every “almost” we’ve ever survived and suddenly I’m tired of manners. I set my beer down, move haltingly, like I’m approaching a skittish thing I want to love right. “We were kids, Wade,” I say. “And then we weren’t. And I kept waiting for someone to hand me permission. But I think—” I swallow, scare easy, keep going. “I think I’ve loved you since your dad’s truck broke on County Road 6 and we walked three miles in the heat and you sang to me so I wouldn’t notice my blisters.”

He looks stunned, then something steady arrives in his face, like a boat finding dock. He steps closer; the night breathes with us.

“Trouble,” he says, and I can hear the boy he was inside the man he is, “I been in love with you since you beat me at a cannonball contest and then let me win the next one ‘cause you said my pride was more delicate than your ankles.”

We are both laughing when our mouths find a way to stop. It isn’t a dramatic kiss. It’s the kind you offer when you are very sure and a little scared: careful, curious, home. My hands go to the warm line of his jaw; his thumb draws a reverent arc at my cheekbone like he’s making a wish.

When we breathe again, the uselessness of words makes us bold. He presses our foreheads together. “I don’t want 'so much for summer love and saying “us”',” he says. “I want summer, and fall, and… whatever’s after that, long as the calendar’s got.”

“Okay,” I say, and it’s holy.

The night unspools. We clean the rest of the bar with the giddiness of thieves. He locks up; we walk Main the long way, Bluebell tucked in and dreaming. He takes my hand because of course he does. At the lake, the dock waits, always patient. We lie on our backs, dew threatening our clothes, stars negotiating with the pines, and I think of all the ways wanting brought us here: "wanting was enough", sometimes; "back when we were still changing for the better", always.

He turns on his side, props his head on his hand, studies me like a route he’s memorized and is still delighted to take. “Tell me something true,” he says.

I tell him how every August I used to steel myself for "because you were never mine", like the month was a test I kept failing. I tell him how I hid in the Rammer Jammer’s noise so I wouldn’t hear my own heart. I tell him I’m done negotiating with the version of us that was scared.

He kisses my knuckles like he’s signing a contract and says, “Mine,” soft, like a promise we both get to keep.

Summer doesn’t bow; it just leans toward September. There will be mornings he burns the biscuits and blames the oven. Afternoons when the whole town needs him and I wait on the tailgate with a book and a smug smile. Nights when we argue about the Braves and make up with the kind of apologies nobody teaches you in school. There will be days that feel ordinary and, because of that, perfect.

We walk back to the truck in a hush that’s not empty. The dashboard light makes us look younger; the rearview is a quiet witness. I tuck my feet up, shoulder to him, his hand on my knee—the geography of us finally mapped. He drives slow. Home is a short distance, but we lengthen it anyway, not hoarding, just savoring.

I think of all the summers we let slip through our fingers and feel no grief, only gratitude for the one we finally caught. Tonight, there is no almost—only the simple fact of him and me, Bluebell breathing easy, the road curling toward everything we were brave enough to ask for.

Outside my place, he walks me to the porch like we haven’t known this route all our lives. He kisses me goodnight in the doorway and it tastes like beer and peaches and the relief of finding what you didn’t know you’d been holding your breath for. When he pulls back, his smile is a slow sunrise.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“See you tomorrow,” I echo, and tomorrow doesn’t feel like a gamble; it feels inevitable.

Inside, I lean against the door and listen to the world I love settling into itself. My phone lights with his name and a message that reads: “Open your window.” I do, and he’s there on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, grinning like a fool. He mimes a phone call to his ear, then mouths, "meet me behind the mall", which in Bluebell means behind the Rammer Jammer, which really means anywhere I am.

I laugh, loud and unafraid, and think: I will remember this—the night August stopped slipping and started staying, the moment we decided we were ours. Not a moment borrowed; a life chosen. And when the heat finally backs off and the leaves consider their exit, I know the memory won’t sting. It will glow, steady and sure, the kind you return to the way you return home.

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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Instead, I stand there like a bloody idiot, gripping my drink, heart thudding in a rhythm I thought I’d forgotten.

Then someone connects to the speaker.

And Taylor starts singing.

We were built to fall apart, then fall back together...

Oh, come on.

I feel it before I see it — his gaze. Heavy. Unavoidable. Like a pull in my chest that says: Look at me. Remember us. Do you still feel it?

I lift my eyes.

He’s already looking.

I wish I could fly, I'd pick you up and we'd go back in time...

I remember the way he used to sing this in the car, windows down, fingers drumming the steering wheel like he knew the beat better than his own pulse. He always skipped the sad songs. Except this one. He liked this one.

And now it’s playing between us like a challenge.

He’s crossing the room.

I forget how to breathe.

“Hey,” he says.

Like it’s nothing. Like we didn’t tear each other in half and leave the stitches unfinished.

“Hi.”

My voice doesn’t betray me. It’s calm, cool, unbothered. I hate it. It doesn’t match the way my ribs are tightening under my coat, or the way I’m gripping my plastic cup like it might anchor me.

George looks… good. Hair a little longer than it used to be. Shoulders wrapped in something too expensive for this crowd. He’s trying to keep it casual, but his eyes do that thing — the thing they always did — where they scan my face like they’re memorising it. Like he’s checking if I’m still me.

The chorus hits. I look down.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say, even though I did. Becky mentioned it offhand in her message, buried between, “we’ve got drinks!!” And, “Chris is bringing snacks.”

George half-smiles. “Did you come with someone?”

It’s casual, the way someone might ask about the weather. But his jaw is tight. And I know him too well not to notice the flicker behind his eyes.

“No. You?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just came with Isaac. He’s already disappeared, probably trying to charm the host’s cat.”

We laugh. It’s soft. Familiar. It cracks something open in me.

The flash of your smile, the smell of your perfume...

I still wear the same one. I wonder if he notices. I wonder if he wore that hoodie on purpose — the grey one I used to steal when I stayed over, big enough to sleep in, soft enough to miss.

We fall quiet.

There’s music, and people, and laughter spinning around us — but we’re standing in the eye of it, where everything slows down.

“I heard your interview,” I say finally. “The one with the cooking podcast.”

His brows lift. “Didn’t think you still listened.”

“I didn’t,” I lie. “It just came up.”

He looks down at his shoes. “I said some stupid shit in that.”

“You said you were happy.”

“I wasn’t.”

Silence.

I remember the night at the hotel, I was riding in the car when we both fell...

The memory slams into me so suddenly I feel breathless.

The hotel room in Manchester. Rain on the windows. George in the passenger seat, telling me I was his favourite part of touring with the podcast, even if no one knew I was there.

The way he kissed me like a secret.

The way I let him.

“You don’t get to say that now,” I whisper, voice tight. “You left.”

“You told me to,” he says, low and raw.

“You didn’t fight me.”

He steps closer. Not touching — he never touched me in public — but close enough that I feel the gravity of him, steady and sickening.

“I didn’t fight,” he says, “because I thought it was what you needed. You were slipping away and I—” he exhales. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

My eyes sting.

He’s right. I was slipping. The long distance, the hiding, the pretending — it wore me thin. But I didn’t want him to go. Not really. I just wanted him to say please stay.

And he never did.

You said in a simple way. 4 AM the second day...

“George…”

His name tastes like regret. Like something half-written.

“I still think about it,” he says. “The mornings. The bad movies. That time we ordered chips and they delivered a birthday cake instead.”

I laugh, broken and sudden.

“I still think about you.”

It hangs between us like smoke. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

I miss you like it was the very first night...

“Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like?” he asks. “If we didn’t care about the cameras. If we just… posted a photo. Told people. Held hands on the street.”

“All the time,” I whisper.

His hand twitches, like he might reach for mine. But he doesn’t.

“Can I see you?” he asks.

“George—”

“Not tonight. Just… sometime. No hiding. Just us.”

I want to say yes.

God, I want to.

But the song’s ending. The room is loud again. Someone bumps into my arm, and the moment breaks.

“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s easier than the truth.

He nods. Bites the inside of his cheek. “I’ll wait.”

Then he turns, and walks away.

And I just stand there, heart pounding like it’s the very first night.

I LOVE TAY TAY! And I'm sure that will become very apparent during this series.

If you have any song suggestions for the playlist, please leave a note alongside a character idea if you have one too!

Love you all,

mwah xx

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