george clarke x reader.
Rain tapped lightly on the tin roof, a gentle percussion that filled the quiet space of the partially renovated cottage. You sat cross-legged on a dusty window seat, a warm mug of tea cradled between your palms, wrapped in a thick cardigan that probably wasn’t yours.
"Found it in the van," George said from across the room, holding a matching mug and flashing you that familiar crooked smile. “Figured you were colder than you were letting on.”
You offered him a small, sleepy grin. “I was, actually. Thanks.”
It was your third week working with him on the project. What started as a client-consultant relationship had quietly bloomed into shared lunches, accidental hand brushes while sketching ideas, and long, lingering talks about how buildings carry memory.
George leaned back against the newly fitted kitchen counter, watching the rain with soft eyes. “I love days like this,” he murmured, voice low and comforting. “Nothing to do but listen to the rain and pretend we’ve finished the whole thing.”
“We could pretend,” you agreed. “Maybe imagine the fire’s lit. You’ve just finished making your world-famous cheese toasties.”
He chuckled. “Legendary, they are.”
You sipped your tea, eyes on the window, but you could feel his gaze lingering.
“I think this place is going to be special,” you said.
George nodded slowly. “It already is.”
You turned to him, surprised at the sincerity in his voice. He smiled again, a softer one this time—one that didn’t quite reach his lips, but glowed in his eyes.
“Not just because of the stonework or the beams,” he added. “Because you’re here. I’ve done so many of these projects, but with you, it’s… different. Nicer. Warmer.”
You blinked, warmth rising to your cheeks.
“That cardigan helping?” he teased.
You rolled your eyes, laughing, but you didn’t take it off.
He wandered closer, sitting down beside you on the wide windowsill, your knees just touching. His shoulder brushed yours gently as he leaned in to refill your tea from the shared flask. “I like this,” he said simply. “Being here with you. No cameras. No plans. Just... this.”
You looked at him, really looked. The drizzle painted light across his features, and something about the way he was watching you—careful, hopeful, utterly sincere—made your heart squeeze.
“I like it too.”
He bumped your shoulder with his gently. “Would it be terribly unprofessional if I told you I think you're the best part of this whole project?”
You laughed. “If you’d said that during the consultation phase, I’d have asked for a discount.”
“Fair,” he said with a grin. Then quieter: “But I would’ve said it anyway.”
The silence that followed was comfortable. Your heads leaned closer, resting side by side against the window frame, watching the mist roll in over the hills. No declarations. No big moments. Just you, George Clarke, two mugs of tea, and a half-finished cottage that already felt like home.