#useless hotline

“right, welcome back to the useless hotline,” he said into the mic, trying to sound normal, casual, definitely not like a man who had been up until 2 a.m. last night with the very guest now smiling sweetly across from him. “the show where we help you with your problems, whether you want us to or not.”

“usually not,” max muttered next to him.

you laughed—a soft, familiar sound george had heard a thousand times before, but now it echoed in his headphones like a siren call.

max leaned forward, smirking. “and today we’ve got a very special guest... content creator, chaos gremlin, and george’s—what was it? longtime friend?”

george gave him a look. a subtle but deeply meaningful shut up look. you just smiled and said, “that’s what we’re calling it, yeah.”

you were good at this. at pretending. too good.

george could barely keep his eyes off you. the way your fingers tapped the mic stand absentmindedly, how your lips twitched whenever max made a joke, how you’d glance at george when you were holding back something private - something only the two of you knew. well not just you two but also not the rest of the world.

he was so screwed.

“so,” max said, reading the first listener submission. “this person says: ‘my situationship keeps liking my Instagram stories but never replies to my texts. what do I do?’ classic.”

you leaned in, “oof. see, that’s emotional terrorism.”

george barked a laugh - too loud, too sudden. you glanced at him, amused, and he felt his neck heat up. “sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “just - ‘emotional terrorism.’ that’s gold.”

“tell me I’m wrong, clarke,” you teased, tilting your head.

his full name. dangerous territory. it made his stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t while on camera. “nah, you’re spot on,” he said, but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

max turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “you good, george?”

“yep. yep. great.” you smirked. george wanted to crawl under the table.

the episode went on. more questions. more advice. more jokes. and the longer it went, the worse george got. because you were so effortlessly you. because every time you teased him, he had to stop himself from reaching across the table and grabbing your hand like he always did when you were off-camera. because every time you laughed, he remembered what it felt like to kiss you mid-laughter, tangled in sheets and sunlight.

you reached for your drink, eyes flicking to him mid-sip. that look. the look you gave him when you wanted to be alone. private. quiet. yours.

he nearly dropped his mic. max noticed—of course he did.

“george,” he said suddenly, interrupting whatever nonsense advice you were giving. “what’s going on with you today? you’re being weird.”

george flinched. “i’m not being weird.”

“you’re being super weird,” max insisted. “you’re staring at her like she’s about to float away.” you raised your eyebrows in mock surprise. “am i?”

george laughed nervously. “i’m just - she’s just funny. that’s why she’s here.” max narrowed his eyes. “uh-huh. not because you live together or anything.”

you coughed. george blinked, “we don’t live together.”

max smirked. “not technically. but didn’t you stay at her place last night?” george’s mouth opened. closed. you shot Max a look that could kill.

“wow, max,” you said slowly. “way to make it weird.”

george leaned back, palms up. “can we not do this on air?”

“oh my god,” Max gasped. “you two are actually—?”

“nope,” you cut in smoothly. “still besties. he just likes my cooking.”

“yeah,” George added, voice hoarse. “just... spaghetti and stuff.”

you knew he was remembering last night. the way you kissed him in the kitchen, salt still on your fingers, shirt half-unbuttoned from laughing too hard during dinner. the way he picked you up and laid you across the counter, like-

“george,” max said again. “dude. you’re gone.”

“okay, next question!” george blurted, slapping the desk. “this one says: ‘is it a red flag if my boyfriend won’t post me?’”

max raised an eyebrow. “a very fitting question for the current vibe.”

you looked at George. your voice was low, almost teasing. “well, it depends, right? some people just like privacy.”

“yeah,” george said, throat dry. “privacy’s important.”

max squinted. “sure, but like… if you’re dating someone and you’re never in their stories, never on their grid, don’t even get a soft launch - what’s that about?”

you shrugged. “maybe they’re just waiting for the right time.”

“or maybe they’re secretly dating their podcast guest,” max said under his breath. george choked.

you snorted. “i think we’ve veered off-topic.”

george could barely look at you for the rest of the episode. he was red, flustered, and so obviously not okay. the fans were going to eat this up. the clips alone were going to break tiktok. you were cool as ever - effortlessly gliding through the chaos.

but as the outro music played and the red light on the camera clicked off, you finally looked at him properly. the kind of look that said, you’re in so much trouble, but i kind of love you for it.

george leaned toward you, voice low, private, almost pleading.

“i was trying so hard to keep it together.”

you leaned closer, “you did terribly.”

he laughed, soft and warm, “i know.”

you looked over at max, who was pretending to check his phone but was definitely eavesdropping. then you reached over and squeezed george’s hand under the table, a quiet promise between the chaos.

“next time,” you whispered, “maybe we don’t pretend.”

george blinked. “yeah?”

you grinned,“yeah.”

TWITTER

@/uselesshotlinepod - Y’all… there’s NO WAY George and y/n are just “friends.” This episode is wild and you can go watch it now.

They’re only two pubs in, but Y/N already feels the city spinning in a strange, hyperreal way. Not drunk—yet—but loosened. Her anxiety still hums beneath everything like background static, but it’s muffled by the ridiculousness of it all.

“We should be vlogging this entire thing,” ArthurTV says, spinning the camera toward Bach, who’s trying—and failing—to convince a stranger to swap shoes with him. “This is quality content.”

“Mate, please. I’ve got plantar fasciitis,” the stranger protests, eyeing Bach’s bright pink trainers like they might give him a disease.

“Respect,” Bach says, backing off. “I wouldn’t either.”

Y/N leans against a lamppost, laughing, trying to steady the giddy lurch in her chest. There’s something freeing about being this visible. Normally, she hates standing out. She prefers to blend, observe from the edges. But today, dressed like a walking punchline and surrounded by people who don’t seem to care about how they’re perceived, it almost feels... safe.

“Okay, team,” Arthur says, scrolling through the bingo list. “Outfit challenge—check. Two pubs down—check. Failed the shoe swap. Should we try the wild animal next?”

Bach’s eyes light up. “Let’s find a squirrel.”

“Do squirrels count as wild animals?” Y/N asks, eyebrows raised.

“If it can bite me and give me rabies, it counts,” Bach insists.

“By that logic, George counts too,” she mutters before she can stop herself.

Arthur snorts into his drink. “Oh damn.”

Y/N groans. “Ignore me. That was... nothing.”

But the moment hangs in the air for a second too long.

It was nothing. And yet—it wasn’t. She keeps replaying the way George leaned in, the way his voice dipped when he called her shirt “very accurate.” It was harmless teasing. Probably something he does with everyone. Still, it lingers.

She doesn’t have time for that kind of distraction. Not now. Not when she’s still trying to prove she belongs here.

“Alright,” Arthur says, saving her from herself, “we’ll circle back to the animal. Let’s hit pub three.”

They keep walking. More pink. More laughter. A random tourist stops them to ask for a photo, clearly thinking they’re some kind of performance art. Bach poses like a runway model.

By the time they reach the third pub, Y/N’s legs are starting to ache, and her drink has settled into a warm buzz just beneath her skin. Inside, the pub is dim and a bit crowded, the kind of place that smells like sticky floors and good stories.

They order pints, squeeze into a booth, and spend the next ten minutes trying to convince a guy at the next table to do a shot with them.

Eventually, Bach pulls out a fiver and slaps it on the table. “That’s my final offer.”

The guy considers it for a beat, then shrugs. “Alright.”

The whole pub cheers when they clink glasses. Y/N throws her head back and laughs, cheeks flushed with the kind of joy that comes from being in the moment and nowhere else.

She feels her phone buzz in her pocket.

Chris

> Pub 4. Team Sad Lads are ahead. Hope you like losing.

Y/N shows the message to Arthur and Bach.

“We need to pick it up,” she says, draining the rest of her pint.

They step back onto the street, and almost like the universe is laughing at her, they immediately run into the other team—Chris, Arthur Hill, and George—lounging outside a pub bench, mid-pint and mid-laugh.

“Ahhh, the Barbie Brigade returns,” Chris calls out.

“Did you guys even try to change clothes, or did you just raid your granddad’s closet?” ArthurTV asks, nodding at George’s tweed jacket and matching flat cap.

“We’re going for sophisticated chaos,” George says. “It’s high fashion. You wouldn’t understand.”

Y/N tries not to stare, but George does actually look unfairly good. The tweed makes him look like a countryside villain in a murder mystery. Smug. Relaxed. Teasing.

“You look like you own five boats and cheat on your taxes,” she deadpans.

He grins at her, slow and wide. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Before she can think of a response, Chris claps his hands. “Alright, let’s do a mini challenge. First team to convince someone to let them jump in a fountain wins a bonus point.”

Everyone groans. It’s still early spring. The idea of swimming in London water is... vile.

But Bach’s already scanning the area like he’s dead serious.

“No way,” Y/N says, shaking her head. “There’s not enough gin in the world.”

George sidles up next to her, just a little closer than necessary. “Scared?”

She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t look at him either. “I just have standards.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Keep those. You’ll need them around this lot.”

His voice is different this time. Still teasing—but softer. Like he meant it. Like he’s offering something more than just flirtation.

She looks at him then, eyebrows raised. But before she can say anything, Arthur Hill lets out a whoop and sprints toward the nearest fountain like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

Chaos erupts. Chris follows, shouting. Bach yells something about filming it for TikTok. ArthurTV is already pointing the camera and running after them.

Y/N stands there for a moment, blinking. And then—laughter bubbles out of her chest. Real, unfiltered laughter.

She turns back to George, who’s still watching her, not moving.

“You’re not going to jump in?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I don’t need to. I already won.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but the smile won’t leave her face. She hates that he’s good at this—at getting under her skin in ways that feel both infuriating and... weirdly comforting.

The rest of the group is soaked and breathless by the time they regroup, laughing and dripping all over the sidewalk.

As they all head toward the next pub, the teams split again.

Y/N trails behind for a moment, her fingers brushing the hem of her ridiculous pink shirt.

She’s not sure what she expected when she agreed to this. Maybe just a fun distraction, a video to be edited and forgotten. But it’s starting to feel like something more.

And George?

Yeah. He’s going to be a problem.

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Masterlist

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