Unknown number, late at night—usually not a great combination. But something in your gut told you to answer, and as soon as you did, the noise hit you first. Loud music, people shouting, laughter echoing in the background.
“Hello?”
“Y/N?” a voice said—familiar, but slightly panicked. “It’s—uh—it’s one of George’s mates.”
Your stomach dropped instantly.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s nothing bad,” he said quickly. “He’s just… a bit too drunk.”
A bit.
Right.
You sighed, already grabbing your keys. “Where are you?”
---
When you arrived, you spotted them immediately.
A small group stood outside, half-laughing, half-struggling—and right in the middle of it was George Clarke.
Or at least… what remained of his dignity.
His hoodie was slightly twisted, hair a mess, and he was leaning heavily on one of his friends, blinking like the world wasn’t quite staying still.
“There she is!” one of them called as you approached.
George’s head lifted slowly.
And the second his eyes landed on you—
His entire face lit up.
“Y/N,” he said, like he’d just found the answer to every problem he’d ever had.
Oh no.
You knew that tone.
---
“Hi,” you said carefully, stepping closer. “You alright?”
He immediately reached for you.
Not subtly.
Not gracefully.
Just fully let go of his friend and stumbled straight into you, arms wrapping around you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“You came,” he mumbled into your shoulder.
His weight nearly knocked you back.
“I *had* to come,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You’re a mess.”
“No, I’m not,” he protested, tightening his grip on you anyway.
Behind him, his friends were trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“He’s been like this for the last half hour,” one of them said. “Wouldn’t stop going on about you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Oh, really?”
“Only because I love her,” George slurred, lifting his head slightly.
You blinked.
His friends lost it.
“Right,” you said quickly, trying to regain control of the situation. “Okay. We’re going home.”
“No,” George said immediately.
You frowned. “No?”
He shook his head, then winced slightly like even that was too much movement.
“I like it here,” he said.
“You can’t even stand.”
“I can,” he insisted—and promptly proved himself wrong by swaying straight back into you.
You caught him with a sigh.
“Yeah,” you muttered. “Very convincing.”
---
Getting him to the car was… an experience.
He refused to let go of you the entire time.
Not even for a second.
“George,” you laughed, trying to adjust your grip as you walked. “You need to actually *walk*.”
“I am walking,” he mumbled, clinging to your side.
“You’re leaning.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
He just hummed in response, clearly deciding the conversation wasn’t worth his energy.
By the time you reached the car, you were half-supporting, half-dragging him.
His friends waved you off, still laughing.
“Good luck!” one of them called.
“You’re never hearing the end of this!” another added.
You shook your head, smiling despite everything.
---
Once you finally got him into the passenger seat, you turned to buckle him in.
Big mistake.
Because the second you leaned in—
His hand caught your wrist.
“Stay,” he murmured.
Your heart softened instantly.
“I’m just putting your seatbelt on,” you said gently.
“No, like… stay,” he repeated, looking at you with that soft, slightly unfocused expression that somehow made everything feel more honest.
“I am staying,” you assured him. “I’m literally driving you home.”
He seemed to think about that.
Then nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
But he didn’t let go straight away.
---
The drive was quiet.
Well—quiet apart from the occasional mumble from him.
At one point, you glanced over to find him already looking at you.
“What?” you asked.
“You’re pretty,” he said.
You nearly missed a turn.
“George—”
“I mean it,” he added, like it was the most important thing in the world.
You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re pretty,” he repeated.
There was no arguing with that logic, apparently.
---
Getting him inside was somehow even harder than getting him into the car.
Because now he was tired.
And even more clingy.
The second you stepped through the door, he was back at your side, arms wrapping around you from behind this time, face pressing into your shoulder.
“Don’t go,” he mumbled.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, laughing softly. “But you need to let me move, or we’re both just going to stand here all night.”
“Fine,” he said reluctantly.
He did not, in fact, let go.
---
Eventually, you managed to get him to sit down.
Barely.
The second he did, he pulled you with him, arms wrapping around your waist as he rested his head against you.
“You’re warm,” he mumbled.
“So are you,” you replied.
“Stay here,” he said again, softer this time.
“I will,” you promised.
He relaxed almost instantly, his grip loosening slightly—but not completely.
Like even half-asleep, he still needed to make sure you were there.
And honestly?
You didn’t mind.
Because even through the chaos, the clinginess, the complete lack of coordination…
The pub is loud in that specific chaotic way that only happens on a pub golf night. The air smells like sticky carpets, cheap shots and the kind of competitiveness that ruins the friendship but in a fun, temporary way.
Your team stand confidently by the chalkboard score sheet by the entrance :
You, George and Harry. The dream team. The holy trinity of chaos.
Arthur TV, Becky and Chris stand opposite, already staring you down like there planning battle.
"Alright team excellence, beauty, superior, whatever team we are, we're winning," Harry said stretching like he's part of the Olympics.
George scoffs, " you say that every time, and we always end up battered by hole 3."
Harry shrugs proudly, "Thats called tradition."
You laugh at them and George glances over at you with that quick sideways smile that always hits harder than it should. His eyes flicker down to your outfit before snapping back up like he'd been caught. However you pretend not to notice the way his cheeks tint pink.
"You ready for this?" George asks, his voice slightly teasing.
"Born ready," you say.
"That's my teammate," Harry said fist-bumping the air.
Becky points her putter- shaped straw at you trying to be intimidating, "Your going down."
"Im already down," you reply, "I have awful balance when I'm drunk."
"This is going to end in tears," Chris says laughing too hard for someone who hasn't had a single drink yet.
The music thumps, the crowd shifts and George moves a little closer to you like he's craving your presence. His shoulder brushes yours and you both notice but neither of you pull away. Instead your stomach does an embarrassing somersault.
Soon after, hole one is announced.
Hole 1 : a pint - par two.
George leans in, "starting strong, yeah?"
"Obviously."
You grab your glass and George mirrors you raising his like a toast. You both clink glasses before downing them in one.
You down yours at a good pace but fast enough to impress George who finished his just seconds before you.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins towards you, "Nice."
"You too," you say trying to pretend like you aren't staring at his mouth. You definitely are.
Hole one goes to your team.
Hole 2 : double vodka mixer - par three.
"You good?" George asks you as you all line up in the bar queue.
"I'm fine," you reply, "you worried I'm gonna slow the team down?"
"Nah," he replies, "Never."
It's stupid how warm that made you feel inside.
You take your drink and sip. George finishes his in an impressive two sips. You poke his shoulder to get his attention, "showoff."
"Just giving an example," he said smirking.
"You trying to impress me or something," you teased.
George almost chokes.
"Well he's failing," Harry says cheekily as George hits his arm with a menu.
Hole 2 goes to the other team as they all get it down in one.
Hole 3 : jägerbomb - par one.
Everyone groans.
"Do you want me to go first or you?" George asks nudging me with his elbow.
"I'll go."
You down the shot and in an instant he taste of sweetness and regret hits your body. You wince and blink at the feeling.
"You ok?" George asks softly.
"Fine," you croak sounding like an old drainpipe.
George laughs and downs his like it's water.
You hate how attractive that was.
Harry screams something muffled after spilling half of his down his front.
The hole ends in chaos unclear who even won.
Hole 4 : wine - par four.
You and George sit in one of the booths, your red wine swirling in both as Harry is sharing a story that happened to him with loud gestures and questionable hand movements.
George leans closer to you, "you look good tonight."
You freeze. Your heart skips at least 20 beats.
His eyes widen slightly, like he didn't mean to actually say that out loud. "I mean, you look good every night, not that I stare, I just meant that- I'm just gonna stop talking."
You giggle. He looks mortified.
"George," you say tapping his knee, "that was very sweet."
"It was embarrassing."
"It was sweet."
He stares at your knee touching his but doesn't move away.
Your heart thumps stupidity loud.
This round was won by the other team, which was expected as you and George did more flirting than drinking.
Hole 5 : tequila par one.
Everyone hates this.
The group crowds around a large, tall table as the bartender brings out the shots, and limes to ease the awful taste of regret.
George eyes you carefully, "you good with tequila."
"No, but I'll handle it."
He taps your wrist softly as your heart flutters, "don't push yourself."
"I'm not fragile."
His eyes soften, "didn't say you were."
You both look at eachother for a beat too long before Harry ruins it by screaming something about being an alcoholic.
The shots slam back and the bitterness hits straight away.
You sway a little at the taste and George instinctively catches your hip, his hand staying for a fraction too long.
Your face heats as he steps back, his ears growing red.
Hole 5 is a tie.
Hole 6 : cider - par three.
You sit on a barstool next to George sipping your cider as George's hand slips onto your thigh like its the most natural thing in the world.
"Sorry- was that ... um sorry- ," George stutters before you catch his wrist and put it back on your thigh.
"I didn't mind," you said.
He definitely noticed the way your voice had dropped half a tone.
Harry soon returns to the table looks st you both and chuckles to himself.
"What," George asks.
"Nothing," Harry says in the most knowing tone on earth, as he began to gulp down his cider.
Hole 7 : mystery drink - par unknown.
"Is it even legal to sell this?" Harry says as he sniffed the mystery concoction.
George hands you yours and leans closer and whispers, "Don't finish it if you hate it."
"Your being very protective tonight," you say as you stare at him.
His breath catches in his throat, "I'm always like this."
"Your not."
Harry is pretending not to watch as Arthur TV is sneakily recording you from halfway across the pub.
Hole 8 : sambuca - par one.
Everyone groans as you mutter under your breath, "This is hell."
"Ill do yours," George says like it's nothing.
"George, no, do your own."
"I don't want you to get sick and feel terrible."
"Why are you being like this?" You ask as your face heats up for the hundredth time tonight.
"Don't make me say it while I'm drunk," he says.
"Say what," you ask confused but still blushing.
Harry shouts something knocking you both out of the moment before he got to say it.
Chaos resumes.
Hole 9 : last pints - par one.
The final pub is packed and lights twinkle above your heads.
You and George are stood shoulder to shoulder at the bar now.
George's voice is quiet, "Y'know everyone think we fancy eachother."
"That's ridiculous," you stare up at him.
His eyes are softer than you've ever seen them. Warm. Unsure. Hopeful.
Your chest tightens.
"Do you?" He questions.
The pub noise fades.
The lights grow warmer.
"Why are you asking?"
"Because I fancy you."
You throat dries immediately.
You freeze.
"George," you whisper.
You let go of your pint and your hand finds its way to his jaw.
"I fancy you too," you say as he looks stunned like he doesn't believe you.
George blinks like the world had stopped as he stepps closer.
His hands tremble slightly as they curl around your waist.
His innocence eyes flick down to your lips as he leans in and kisses you softly. Sweetly at first, like he's checking that you won't disappear.
You kiss him back instantly and he exhales like that's everything he's ever wanted.
Your fingers curl in his shirt as the the group around you cheers and claps but all you can hear is his breath against yours.
"Best pub golf ever," he whispers in between the kiss.
First Post, kinda nervous 😓 🙉 praying everyone likes it... feel free to give me requests, I am more than happy to write them. Hope you enjoy !!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You never expected your life to intertwine with someone like Harry Lewis. To you, he was just a voice behind a screen at first—loud, sarcastic, and endlessly entertaining. Someone you watched on late nights when sleep wouldn’t come easy. But somehow, through a mix of chance, mutual friends, and a bit of fate, he became someone sitting across from you in real life.
It started small.
A group hangout. Nothing special. You almost didn’t go.
Harry had been quieter than you expected that night. Not the chaotic energy you’d seen in videos, but something more grounded. Observant. He’d made a few jokes, sure, but mostly he’d been watching—taking people in, choosing when to speak instead of filling every silence.
You didn’t talk much at first. Just a few passing comments, a shared laugh over something stupid. But when you did properly speak, it felt… easy.
“Wait,” he said at one point, leaning forward slightly, “you actually think that film was good?”
You shrugged, smiling. “It wasn’t bad.”
“It was terrible,” he replied, but there was no bite to it—just playful disbelief.
“Your taste is just questionable.”
He laughed then, properly this time. “Alright, we’re arguing about this another time.”
And somehow, you did.
---
The second time you met, it wasn’t a group thing. Not exactly.
You’d been invited out again, but most people cancelled last minute. It ended up just being you and him.
“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Harry said, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets as you stood outside the café.
“Tragic,” you replied, trying not to smile too much.
But it wasn’t tragic. Not even close.
You talked for hours.
About everything—YouTube, yes, but also things you didn’t expect. Music. Childhood memories. The weird pressure of growing up in completely different worlds. He told you about how strange it was having millions of people feel like they knew him.
“It’s weird,” he admitted, stirring his drink absentmindedly. “Like… they know a version of me. Just not all of it.”
You nodded. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it is.”
There was a pause. Not awkward—just real.
“And you?” he asked. “What’s your thing?”
You hesitated, not used to being the one asked. But something about the way he looked at you—genuinely interested—made it easier.
So you told him.
And he listened.
---
After that, it became a pattern.
Late-night messages.
Random memes.
“Are you awake?” texts that turned into conversations lasting until 3 a.m.
You started noticing the little things.
How he’d send you things that reminded him of you.
How he’d check in, even when he was busy.
How he’d call you out when you were overthinking—but gently, like he understood.
And then there were the moments in person.
Like the night you both ended up on a rooftop during another gathering, escaping the noise below. The city stretched out around you, lights flickering like stars that had fallen to earth.
“It’s quieter up here,” you said.
“Yeah,” Harry replied, leaning on the railing. “Better, innit?”
You nodded.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then, “You’re different, you know,” he said suddenly.
You glanced at him. “Different how?”
He shrugged, but didn’t look away this time. “You don’t treat me like… all this.” He gestured vaguely, as if referring to everything—his career, his online presence, the noise of it all.
“I mean,” you said softly, “you’re still just you.”
He let out a small laugh. “Mad concept.”
“I know. Revolutionary.”
That made him smile—one of those rare, genuine ones that didn’t feel like it was meant for anyone else but the moment.
---
It wasn’t a dramatic realization.
No sudden confession. No big, cinematic moment.
Just a quiet understanding that somewhere along the way, he’d become important to you.
And maybe—just maybe—you had become important to him too.
It showed in the way he looked for you in a room.
In the way his voice softened when he said your name.
In the way silence between you never felt empty.
---
One evening, as you sat side by side on his sofa, some random video playing in the background neither of you were really watching, he nudged you slightly.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” he asked.
“What?”
“This,” he said, gesturing between you. “Us.”
You tilted your head. “Weird good or weird bad?”
He thought for a moment.
“Weird good,” he decided. “Definitely weird good.”
You smiled. “Yeah. I’d agree with that.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter this time, “I’m glad I met you.”
You looked at him, really looked at him.
“Me too, Harry.”
And for once, neither of you needed to say anything else.
First Post, kinda nervous 😓 🙉 praying everyone likes it... feel free to give me requests, I am more than happy to write them. Hope you enjoy !!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You never expected your life to intertwine with someone like Harry Lewis. To you, he was just a voice behind a screen at first—loud, sarcastic, and endlessly entertaining. Someone you watched on late nights when sleep wouldn’t come easy. But somehow, through a mix of chance, mutual friends, and a bit of fate, he became someone sitting across from you in real life.
It started small.
A group hangout. Nothing special. You almost didn’t go.
Harry had been quieter than you expected that night. Not the chaotic energy you’d seen in videos, but something more grounded. Observant. He’d made a few jokes, sure, but mostly he’d been watching—taking people in, choosing when to speak instead of filling every silence.
You didn’t talk much at first. Just a few passing comments, a shared laugh over something stupid. But when you did properly speak, it felt… easy.
“Wait,” he said at one point, leaning forward slightly, “you actually think that film was good?”
You shrugged, smiling. “It wasn’t bad.”
“It was terrible,” he replied, but there was no bite to it—just playful disbelief.
“Your taste is just questionable.”
He laughed then, properly this time. “Alright, we’re arguing about this another time.”
And somehow, you did.
---
The second time you met, it wasn’t a group thing. Not exactly.
You’d been invited out again, but most people cancelled last minute. It ended up just being you and him.
“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Harry said, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets as you stood outside the café.
“Tragic,” you replied, trying not to smile too much.
But it wasn’t tragic. Not even close.
You talked for hours.
About everything—YouTube, yes, but also things you didn’t expect. Music. Childhood memories. The weird pressure of growing up in completely different worlds. He told you about how strange it was having millions of people feel like they knew him.
“It’s weird,” he admitted, stirring his drink absentmindedly. “Like… they know a version of me. Just not all of it.”
You nodded. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it is.”
There was a pause. Not awkward—just real.
“And you?” he asked. “What’s your thing?”
You hesitated, not used to being the one asked. But something about the way he looked at you—genuinely interested—made it easier.
So you told him.
And he listened.
---
After that, it became a pattern.
Late-night messages.
Random memes.
“Are you awake?” texts that turned into conversations lasting until 3 a.m.
You started noticing the little things.
How he’d send you things that reminded him of you.
How he’d check in, even when he was busy.
How he’d call you out when you were overthinking—but gently, like he understood.
And then there were the moments in person.
Like the night you both ended up on a rooftop during another gathering, escaping the noise below. The city stretched out around you, lights flickering like stars that had fallen to earth.
“It’s quieter up here,” you said.
“Yeah,” Harry replied, leaning on the railing. “Better, innit?”
You nodded.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then, “You’re different, you know,” he said suddenly.
You glanced at him. “Different how?”
He shrugged, but didn’t look away this time. “You don’t treat me like… all this.” He gestured vaguely, as if referring to everything—his career, his online presence, the noise of it all.
“I mean,” you said softly, “you’re still just you.”
He let out a small laugh. “Mad concept.”
“I know. Revolutionary.”
That made him smile—one of those rare, genuine ones that didn’t feel like it was meant for anyone else but the moment.
---
It wasn’t a dramatic realization.
No sudden confession. No big, cinematic moment.
Just a quiet understanding that somewhere along the way, he’d become important to you.
And maybe—just maybe—you had become important to him too.
It showed in the way he looked for you in a room.
In the way his voice softened when he said your name.
In the way silence between you never felt empty.
---
One evening, as you sat side by side on his sofa, some random video playing in the background neither of you were really watching, he nudged you slightly.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” he asked.
“What?”
“This,” he said, gesturing between you. “Us.”
You tilted your head. “Weird good or weird bad?”
He thought for a moment.
“Weird good,” he decided. “Definitely weird good.”
You smiled. “Yeah. I’d agree with that.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter this time, “I’m glad I met you.”
You looked at him, really looked at him.
“Me too, Harry.”
And for once, neither of you needed to say anything else.
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