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DATE NIGHT | g. clarkey

summary: you have your first date with your tinder match. [9k words.]

pairing: reader x george clarkey.

notes: woooo! first date finally posted! i think i’m happy with how it turned out 🙂 hope you all enjoy, let me know what you think! hype her up!!! 😌💞 hopefully this can help build what we think gc’s girly will be like and come up with further fic ideas and concepts 🥰 lots of lovee. don’t forget to reblog! <33

YOU COULDN'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME you had nerves like this.

Then again, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d gone on a date, with a lad living in London, a very stunning lad at that - and on the path to fame and endless opportunities with his never-ending increase in followers online.

You just had to keep reminding yourself he was still just George at the end of the day. The one you hadn’t stopped texting, the one who clearly fancied you to some extent.

I mean . . he swiped right after all.

Luckily for you, you didn’t work weekends, so you told him you were free after four o’clock from Friday.

You talked and he’d mentioned how he’d just moved and had few places he was still yet to find out about in London, from bars and restaurants to fun activity places, there was a lot to choose from.

So, to cut short — coffee had gone out the window, and you both settled for a Friday afternoon playing mini-golf, with drinks, with drinks after with a nice meal.

But you were crapping yourself.

You didn’t know where to begin to get ready, your brain was buffering.

You didn’t think you’d took so long to do your makeup but you wanted everything to be perfect and long-lasting by the end of the night — in all hopes he didn’t ditch you after 30 mins max.

The train from Brighton to London was a little over an hour long, but you took it as a time to keep yourself collected, running over every possible scenario and thing that could go wrong.

You had a good feeling about tonight up until you started getting ready, it was like your brain started to play tricks on you the more it became real.

Oh my days!!! You were going on a date with George! George Clarkey!!

You knew he wasn’t the biggest name online but . . he was bigger than you would probably ever be, and the ladies were loving him — and you were no PLT model! You felt like an imposter buying that train ticket to London.

The sun was still up, London bright and the sky still blue at 6:30PM in the Spring, Summer finally around the corner, it’s why you didn’t bring a coat with you.

You were stunning. Wearing a white shirt with a beige pocket skirt, paired with some chunky black boots, you didn’t want to make it too formal, just stylish; you’d stuck on your favourite jewellery and brought your little handbag with your necessities inside, from your perfume to mints, you were ready for tonight.

It was odd — you felt more excited than nervous.

Your hair was flowing behind you, your makeup painted to perfection on your face, you’d done it yourself as always, very happy with your look today and proud things seemed to be sailing smoothly so far.

You had a good feeling again.

George was trying to ignore the absolute shambles he’d faced the other day which was gonna cost him today, killing time at the same time you were rushing to get ready, by filming a video with the boys.

Alex was doing a good job at taking his mind off his date by screaming into his headset as the five of them argued over something he’d worded wrong.

“Shut up, TinTin.”

“ALEX. FUCK OFF!”

“It’s the return of the TinTin.”

“LEWIS!”

“George shut up man. Hurry up and go.”

“NO!

“Go!”

“No!”

“Mate! Just go! Literally everyone is going!”

“I don’t care! I told you I’m going out,” he gave a laugh as they pressured him once again to join them on their night out.

“Meet us after?!”

“I’ll see,” he almost muttered, amused at their effort, but pretty certain he would not be seeing them after spending the evening with you.

You smiled leaving the train, waving your fingers goodbye as you stepped off, eyes immediately looking around for the boy who promised to he right there for you getting off to walk through the city with you to your first destination.

George noticed you immediately the second you stepped off, compared to every other bland person leaving the train, his features seemed to drop the second he saw your leg stick out the door, his eyes trailing up the long-legged beauty, past her skirt and her frame, up to her unbuttoned shirt where a shiny pendant hung around her neck, resting just above her chest. She swung one foot in front of the other, the intimidating boots hitting the ground as you looked to the left first and then to the right, your hair flowing effortlessly as you searched for him.

But with weak knees, he was already walking over to you, eager to get by your side and prevent anyone from swooping in to pester you and your beauty.

His saliva got stuck in his throat, not expecting you to look so . . good, so divine. It wasn’t a causal fit but it wasn’t over the top — it was perfect. You dressed perfect. Once again.

Why was he so surprised? He needed to get used to you outdoing him. Effortlessly dressing out of his league.

You looked to your right and almost jumped to find a pair of eyes trained on you, saving you from the embarrassment of looking utterly confused.

You smiled at that friendly face, clearly excited to see you, and smiled at his appearance, liking the effort of a pair of trousers that weren’t some Nike joggers or a top that was an old sweatshirt (like past dates had showed up in). He had some dark jeans on with a fresh, white t-shirt with some tiny branded logo, paired with some white shoes to match and his black padded coat to beat the cool London breeze. You could smell his aftershave before you’d even hugged him and noticed his effort to have shaved and even have gotten his hair cut.

It was the first thing he saw you noticed as your eyes glanced to the top of his head and he laughed midway pulling you in for a hug, “ignore the trim, I was sabotaged!”

“No, it’s lovely! I really like it!” You smiled from his shoulder, his body much warmer against yours as you kissed his cheek like the French. He felt so nervous with you so close to him, scared you could feel his hands shaking with them on your back. “You look lovely.”

“You look lovely. You — you look gorgeous, I mean,” he evidently checked you out from top to bottom, sending a flattering smile to your face with rosy cheeks.

“Thank you.”

“Not cold?”

“The train was quite stuffy. I should be fine,” you reassured, unable to take your eyes off him.

He . . was so attractive.

You were so charmed by him!

The haircut had fuck all affect on you — it was nice! He pulled it off!

“Oh no, is my hair really that bad?” He noticed you looking again.

“No! Honestly,” you reassured, “It’s really fine, George. You suit it.”

He raised a brow at you at that, “now that’s just pushing it.”

“I’m serious! I like it!” You convinced him, smiling up at it. Yeah, it was shorter since the event but he’d styled it to look nice. It was cute! He was cute.

He playfully rolled his eyes at you, “okay.”

You tilted your head at him adoringly, his gaze stuck on you and your dazzling eyes. “I’m serious.”

He trusted you. “Shall we?”

“Yes! Lead the way!” You nodded excitably, tucking your hair behind your ear as he offered you his arm. You took it gracefully, nervous by his strong eye contact.

Walking through London at that time was perfect: the sunlight hit just right and it seemed to empty as people abandoned the streets to head home for the weekend. You couldn’t stop looking around as George spoke to you the entire for time, rambling about what he knew so far and the stories he’d been told on certain areas that kept you intrigued.

London was beautiful, and you were happy with the opportunity to get to walk right through the centre with him.

Sitting down at the first bar you’d agreed to before your activity, you both ordered your drinks to your outside table, already poking fun at your date and his choice of drink. “Oof. A beer man. Didn’t see that coming.”

“Just one of the lads,” he fake flexed, making you laugh for getting your sarcasm.

“Real men order cocktails.”

“I actually do like cocktails,” he broke into a smile, “I’m just . . trying to impress you.”

“Wow, and it’s done the trick,” you raised your brows, before the two of you shared a coy laugh.

George smiled at you, unbelieving this was actually happening right now. That a girl like you were sitting with him. That you were with him. Laughing at him. “Thank you for coming up here, you look . . stunning,” he got all soft, dropping his gaze to the table where he scratched his nail to the chipped wooden table. It must have been nerve-wrecking to have to come all the way here on your own — and for a date. Ballsy, he thought.

“Thank you,” you beamed kindly, “of course! Here’s to hoping it’s a fun night,” you pretended to clink a glass as that would have been the opportunity had you got them yet, but he joined you in pretending anyway, hitting his fake pint to yours. “Thank you for asking me out.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

You raised your brows. “So it is a pity date.”

He panicked, widening his eyes as he sat with his arms on the table, “NO! No, I mean—” what did he mean? Great, this was great. “I mean . . I wanted to anyway, since the start. It’s what I should have done from the start instead of—”

You laughed and reached to touch his arm reassuringly to stop him, “George! I’m joking.”

He breathed. Sarcasm, George. It exists. You’re the king of it. “I’m surprised you agreed to be fair.”

“I’m surprised you asked! I thought I was so cheeky to you on the carpet, I was like what am I doing?!” You ranted as your drinks were brought to your table. George was excited to hear your side of the story because he didn’t think you were cheeky for a moment. He knew you were just getting your own back, not maliciously. Not in the slightest. He got your banter. “I was like why did I do that?! You like him?! Talk to him? Don’t—” he laughed across from you, cheeks pink from your confession, “don’t . . say exactly what you said? I swear — it was — I was like ok, get flirty, you know, just be nice and then I . . attacked you?!” You apologised?

He laughed. “You didn't attack me,” he reassured, “I didn’t feel attacked anyway, don’t worry,” he lifted his drink, “I deserved it. I’m glad you said so. I got that you were . . trying to flirt.” You had to set your drink down from laughing as he mirrored your struggle to drink his.

“Oh, great!” You celebrated your awkward efforts, “cheers to that,” you both hit glasses, you going in with too much force as his shaky hand met it and astonishingly — smashed your martini glass.

The drink went everywhere as George’s hand immediately covered his mouth while you stared with yours hanging open, in disbelief that this was how it was going.

You began to silently laugh because you didn’t know what you’d do if you didn’t!

George followed, both hands now covering his eyes as he witnessed this, “there is no . . way.”

You laughed loudly with your hand covering your eyes, and George could feel himself growing fond at the sound.

Getting another glass with a fresh drink, you clinked glasses properly this time, chuckling as you both did so and drank.

Take two.

Conversation flowed nicely between you both; you’d feared your shyness would get in the way, especially considering George was someone new to you, but surprisingly, it didn’t end. You bounced off each other, retorting back and fourth, a hundred questions to ask and hundred stories to tell.

“Were you working today?”

“One of my co-workers actually had a doctors appointment and she didn’t want to cancel her client ‘cause it was for a wedding so I offered to take her,” you explained, your casualty in tone proving to George just how kind-hearted a girl you could be. Didn’t like disappointing others. “But no, not technically.”

“Do you like your job?”

“Yeah! I’m one of the lucky ones who doesn’t mind work. Hate the early mornings but,” you shrugged, “doesn’t feel much like work when you enjoy what you’re doing. It’s my creative outlet.”

So you were artistic.

“So do you hate nail biters?”

You raised a shoulder. “I don’t hate them but I do find it annoying.”

You watched how he nodded and slowly, jokingly, slid his hands off and under the table to hide. You laughed and quickly explained, “I just don’t know how people feel the need to bite their nails! How it’s appealing! The sight and sound of it is so annoying!”

“D’you know who would say exactly that?” He waved a sarcastic finger, feeling attacked, “a non-nail biter.”

You laughed more, and he smile, seeing how easy it was to make you do so.

You didn’t know how it happened, but the pre-drinks had turned into just drinking when you both got distracted talking the ear off each other, missing the time slot you had booked your mini-golf.

“Well! That's great! Wait ‘til 8 now!” Your date lifted his third pint, planning it to be his last as he could feel that little tiny buzz taking him.

“It’s fine! Who cares, we’re having a good time,” you shrugged, letting him know you were happy — more than happy to sit here all night and drink.

Oop, ‘cause that sounded good, Y/n. Alcho.

“I’ve never had an Espresso Martini.”

“Have you not?” You raised your brows, playing with the stem of the glass.

He shook his head. “Are they your go-to drink?”

“Not really. I love my fruity cocktails. Just thought I’d switch it up to seem more . . extravagant to you or something!” You laughed. ‘Cause Espresso Martinis gave off that vibe, Y/n.

“What would you say is you go-to? If you were at a bar?”

Anything, George. The smell of alcohol gets me off my tits, my tolerance is that bad – but why would I tell you that? “Pink Gin is my poison. It fucks me up so I stay away from that as much as I do love it it but . . probably Vodka with . . anything. Or Malibu with pineapple juice,” you raised a shoulder, “I try to be different every time I go out.”

“Do you go out often?”

“I mean . . I like to go out. My friends have all moved away now, got their degrees and living with their partners and i’m just . . not.” You laughed.

He raised his glass at that, not needing to voice another ‘cheers’ as he related to you once again. Had he not been able to find his group of friends to move out with, he’d have happily stayed at home with his mum and dad.

“I do like to go out but Brighton isn’t really the place I feel. It’s different from London,” he nodded along to your words. “Besides, I’ve been getting ready to go out before and then my Nan will text me and ask if I want to spend the weekend on their little barn and . . I can’t say no . .” you confessed, cheeks blushing at how much of a people pleaser you’d just shown you were.

George thought that was really cute of you, you were as sweet as you seemed. “I mean, they’re not gonna be around forever.”

“Exactly! I love my Nan and Grandad, and I love driving out to see them!”

“They live far?”

“They’re countryside folk. They basically run a farm at this point.”

“DO THEY?!”

“Yeah!” You grinned.

“I can’t imagine you to help out with all the farmwork,” he lowered his voice, awkwardly swirling his drink.

You feigned offense. “Why not?!”

“I don’t know! I just — can’t imagine you getting,” quick, think of something! Don’t offend her! “—your fingernails dirty.”

You laughed at that, and he smiled at your reaction. “I mean it’s not ideal but I love to help out. I like getting out there. Let my hair down for a bit, nice change of scenery . . and smell from the salon.”

“I’m sure!”

You shook your head at him.

“I like the country.”

“Maybe you’ll get out there one day,” you didn’t want to scare him, “maybe you’ll be the lucky lad to . . shoot a pheasant with my grandad,” you came up with at the top of your head.

And George could tell you’d come up with that at the top of your head from the look on your face when you said it, his laugh cackling, “what?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know why I said that! I don’t even think I've seen a pheasant up there! I don’t even think my Grandad shoots birds?”

He laughed more, closing his eyes while you tried to fight off another blush on your cheeks.

He didn’t think he could have experienced such a good date.

“Who’s been the ‘lucky lad’ before,” he playfully mocked your words.

“There’s never been a lucky lad.”

George’s features changed, his brows pulling together and his smile dropped in disbelief, “there’s never been a lucky lad? That’s met your grandparents?”

“There’s never been a lad, period,” you drank your drink.

George stared at you, unknowing if you were joking.

You looked back.

“ . . you’ve . . never had a boyfriend?”

That didn’t even feel right on his tongue.

“No,” it was your turn to divert your gaze to your swirling glass of liquid, “do what you will with that!”

Suddenly, George felt a lot more serious. You didn’t need to look at him to see the cogs turning in his brain. He kept diverting his eyes to your hand circling your drink and your face avoiding eye contact. “ . . are you serious?”

“I swear,” you admitted. “Okay, maybe when I was 15 — talked to a guy for a while . . went to his house once or twice, but,” you shrugged, “yeah. Talked to a guy before Lockdown but . . no. Never got ‘round to . . doing anything really: meeting the parents, making it as the other’s wedding date.”

“Wow.”

“Wow? Why, don’t you believe me?” You laughed.

“No! Or yeah! I mean—” he raised a shoulder, not knowing how to carry this conversation now. You’d given a lot away with that, he felt. “I just thought you’d have somebody. Before.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

You looked at him blankly, wondering what he was thinking.

Did that make you weird? Did he view you differently now?

“Yeah. Just too picky. Nobody’s been worth my time – met my standards,” you joked to divert the awkwardness you felt, tucking your hair behind your ear and checked your nails as he lightly laughed, playing on the perception people had of you: stuck up; spoiled; goody two shoes, too good for any boy.

He had such a pretty smile.

“So you’re close with your family.” He stated more than asked.

“Yeah.”

“Do you have lots of siblings?”

You shook your head. “None.”

“NONE?!”

“Yeah,” you chuckled a little, “why? Do you find that weird?”

He was surprised, rather. “Yeah!”

“Are you close with your family? Do you have siblings?”

“Yeah,” he amusingly answered, demeanour softening as he thought of them. “I have a sister.”

“YOU HAVE A SISTER?!”

“Yeah, I have an older sister,” he smiled with pride.

“Do you?!”

You would have bet he had at least one brother.

“Yeah!”

Well, that told you all you needed to know. That . . explained a lot, actually.

“Wow.”

“‘Wow’ to you! You’re an only child!” He mocked you, still disturbed by this news.

“All you sibling people find only children so odd like we missed out a huge part in our childhood.” You jokingly rolled your eyes.

“You did.”

You laughed at him. “Well, to be fair, I cannot express how close I am to my cousins. They are like my siblings, we would all be very tight-knit.”

“But have you trailed them by the hair?” He spoke wisely, drinking his beer. Just sibling tingz.

“Actually! My cousin Dan,” you started, “him and I– we’re like not even a year a part, he would be like the closest thing I had to a brother — we’ve pulled the hair off each other.”

“REALLY!” George laughed at the thought of that, of someone as sweet as you participating in such hate crimes.

“Yeah!” You laughed. You could speak for hours on Dan, on all your family but Dan and you were treated like twins growing up: sent to the same school, lived 10 minutes away from each other, always sent to Nan & Grandad’s on the same days, holidays together.

You’d fully experienced that universal brother experience when you began secondary school and everyone disbelievingly asked you throughout: “are you related to Dan L/N?!”

“Yeah. We fought all the time once we turned 13 and 14. Literally sickened me,” you thought of the days. “Made me glad to be an only child.”

George looked at you as you spoke, and you couldn't help but wonder what the hell he was thinking about. “Why are you judging me. Are you making some only-child stereotypes?”

He laughed loudly at your words, clearly able to read him like a book.

“You so are! You think i’m some . . spoiled brat,” you sipped from your cocktail glass.

“I mean,” cut him some slack. Easy assumption.

Did you get everything you want? Practically, not always but . . I mean yeah, your dad couldn't say no to that face. (Your mum could). Your Nan and Grandad couldn’t, you were their golden girl, and even your Auntie who only ever had boys, she — “ok, some ti—”

“You have to be!” He laughed, seeing your expression change in thought.

“So you’re close with your sister?” You jokingly changed the subject.

George laughed at that too, shaking his head humoured at you, but went for it. “Yeah, we’re really close. I’m close with them all, it’s weird not seeing them everyday. Weirder that neither me or my sister live in Bristol now. She used to . .” then he shook his head with a laugh, “no, actually—”

“What!”

“No, no I—”

“What! Come on, just say!” You touched is arm.

He fought to lightly roll his eyes, “no, she just used,” he shook his head again, clearly amused at the memory, “she used to dress me up when we were younger. I actually idolised her,” he rubbed his eye.

You laughed at the confession, finding it the sweetest thing.

Yeah, you knew you had a good feeling about him.

“That’s adorable.”

“Yeah. She’s a prick sometimes though,” he took a drink, and you laughed even more at that — classic sibling behaviour.

You crossed your leg over the other, “I—” your knee hitting the table and ta-da! You jumped to grab the falling glass, jumping off your stool as the sticky liquid covered your legs, sending your mouth agape for the second time tonight with laughter trapped in your chest.

George had turned away with his back to you to hide the laugh fighting to get out of his mouth, not wanting you to think of him as ignorant.

Your knees bent as you laughed with your hands on them, shaking your head as he dabbed tears from his eyes, your hand signaling for you to ‘cut it’ and get going — you’d had enough. “Enough, enough. Let’s just go,” you chuckled, looking to where he pointed on your skirt — to the dark patch that looked like you’d wet yourself. You shook your head at him as he proceeded to laugh, and grabbed your things.

“I can’t believe I spilled that all down me,” you noted as you stood in the resort now, leaning on your golfclub as George got a snigger out before putting the ball. It rolled perfectly into the hole.

“Me neither,” he rubbed his eye, distracting himself not to laugh. Well, at least your skirt was dry.

You followed him to the spot and did your bit of putting the ball, not surprised when you needed to go another two times. You shook your head at the brunet again, seeing him watch humoured from the corner of your eye, clearly feeling cocky by leading this competition.

He leaned his arm on his golf club, watching you part your legs and dip your head to the floor, glancing between the ball and where it was supposed to go, watching you sway once, twice, and hit it — too hard to hit against the wall but bounce back enough to land in the hole. You looked excitedly at him and he applauded, cheering for you just as you wanted. “Woo! Only took you four tries!”

Your shoulders dropped and you gave him a ‘be quiet’ look.

He laughed more at himself, mocking you at the next hole, copying your movements, spreading his legs and moving his hips the way you had, which had you laughing with your hand to your mouth. “George!”

He was glad you could take a joke.

He smiled smugly coming to stand next to you, too good, getting it in a hole-in-one, and you looked at him peeved, his eyelids lazy as they dropped onto you, eyeing the proximity. “Stop the showing off.”

“Hurry up and score or we’re not making dinner!” he teased.

You straightened up, leaning your back forward but keeping your legs straight, unable to find the flag to put the ball at with the darkness of the room, and George was too busy rubbing his hand down his face at the sight to tell you. “Where’s the hole?”

His loud rupture of laughter had you abandoning your club with flaming cheeks, having enough of his childishness.

“Come on, I’m not doing this anymore,” you subconsciously tugged your skirt down, accepting defeat. He laughed even louder.

You were both in the taxi, heads feeling a little fuzzy when you spoke up from his side, trying not to laugh at your realisation, “. . I don’t know if I can do dinner. I think I’m a bit . .”

He looked down at you humoured, the same word on his mind. “Same.”

You both laughed in the backseat, your hand subconsciously touching his leg as you tried to collect yourself, not wanting to piss off the taxi driver who’d pin you both as your average pissed young couple he wanted to charge more for being annoying.

George’s blood hit the roof, his hand gripping the handle bar above the window at your hand on him.

But for a moment — it was nice. It was natural. He felt like . . he could get used to this, but at the same time, never get used to this, because there was no way a girl like you would stick him that long.

You were surprised he hadn’t been put off by you, as you seemed to have something most lads didn’t like.

Self-respect? Maybe?

You were shocked by how easily up bounced off him – you could be quite shy around new people and new settings - it was strange.

Another bar turned into another bar, and talking the night away, chatting each other’s ears off, you’d managed to spill another drink between you as you’d smashed the stem of your cocktail on the table, and George, whilst trying to be funny, picked up his glass that seemed to slip right from his fingers and smash under your table.

Now it was his turn to cover his face with a hand.

“I don’t think I’ve met a better-suited pair,” the bar-maid pettily joked, cleaning your mess up.

“Sorry,” you apologised, meaning it truly but you could’ve guessed she wanted you gone in your tipsy state.

Oh no. It wasn’t supposed to get like this.

“Think I should order a water.” George looked at you.

“Me too. For me.” You specified.

“D’you think — oh for fuck’s sake,” he quietly grumbled as his phone rang for the third time.

“Just answer it!” You encouraged, finishing the sip of your drink.

He looked at you and you nodded, watching him bring it to his ear, “what?”

You crossed your leg and watched him, biting your lip to hold back the bubbling laughter at the tone of his voice and expressions of his face.

He was so freakin’ cute.

“No! I told you already—” his brows pulled together, “arth—Arthur! No! . . ‘cause I’m out already! . . yeah! I’m in . . no! Around the corner from there, yes! . . no! Why would I do that? . . no, I’m not bringing them along, are you joking?” he looked at you as his friends continued to ramble on the phone, “no, we wouldn’t make it anyway . . Arthur, I don—” he facepalmed, hand dragging down his face and you laughed softly, leaning on the table to grab his arm, holding just past his watch.

“Are you okay? Are they okay?”

He lowered his phone with a petty shake of his head, “just being a headache. They want me to meet them on the tube to go back to some houseparty—”

“We should go!” You unexpectedly perked up.

He paused, looking at you. “Huh?”

“Or — you should go. It’s getting late anyway and I’m sure you’d be needing to get home — keep the night going!”

“But I . . . I don’t want to leave you just yet.”

Your heart exploded at his confession. Your eyes had to be twinkling looking at him if they hadn’t been all night. “I’ll come with! I don’t mind! Or I—I mean if they don’t mind! It’s your friends, right?”

The side of his mouth perked up, “yeah.”

“Then why not! You wanna keep the night going, I wanna keep the night going, we should!”

George smiled wider as he brought the phone back to his ear, not taking his eyes off you, “right, yeah. Sod it — we’ll meet you on the tube you freak.” He annoyingly rubbed his eye.

Even you could hear the cheers from the phone’s speaker.

He was clearly looked up to by his friends.

“Bye.”

“I feel like I just invited myself to your friend’s party—”

“No, don’t be ridiculous — I wasn’t going anywhere without you tonight,” he timidly admitted, necking the rest of his drink before jumping from his seat and grabbing his jacket, picking your handbag off the floor for you so you didn’t need to bend down.

You smiled and took it from him, catching his eyes, forever feeling intimidated with how he stared through his eyelids, clearly something turning in the back of his mind every time he gazed down at you, and that little smirk didn’t help either.

“Christ, it’s cold,” he noticed, feeling the immediate different from inside to out, however, the alcohol in his system seemed to be doing its job because although he could feel the nippy air, he still felt comfortable in his skin.

You on the other hand were crossing your long legs over the other to help keep warm whilst George checked his phone for the quickest backstreet leading to the underground.

Without a second thought, the Bristol boy took one look at you from his phone and held his coat out to you, ashamed he hadn’t said sooner. “Here!”

“O — are you sure?” You blushed, “it is freezing.”

“Yeah, of course, take it,” he smiled, watching you take it before eyeing his phone again.

“Are you sure? Just take it back if you get too cold,” you advised, appreciatively taking the padded coat from him. The second you slipped it on, you were wrapped up in warmth — his aftershave filling your nostrils as you tried not to get so giddy in the oversized article of clothing. “Thank you so much George.”

“It’s alright,” he was barely paying attention, trying to get the fastest shortcut, which only made your heart flutter because of how casual he was about it.

A natural gentleman.

Thank God he was engaged on his phone, or he’d had seen the way you gawked at him, once again in disbelief you were on a date with someone as attractive as him, as funny as him, as enticing.

You fancied him so much.

The side of his face was so handome, and his arms — oh Lord, his arms were beautiful, he didn’t need to move much for his muscles to flex.

“Ok, think I found it,” he quickly locked his phone and shoved it in his jeans pocket, “come on,” he was ready to break out into a full-blown sprint in order to make this train. But he held his hand out beforehand, promoting a girly smile to your face and a light glow by your dimples as you secured a hand on the strap of your bag on your shoulder and took his with the other, laughing the entire way he maneuvered you both through obstacles of people and slip through tiny spaces under the cool, London sky.

The night felt like a dream.

You chased behind him, holding your bag, his hand, his large hand gripping yours, secure enough so it wouldn’t let go. You followed behind him, tucking in closer and gripping him tighter when you went underground, a natural wary feeling taking over you at the acknowledgement of being in such location at night and as a woman.

“You ok?” George pulled you over closer to him, sensing your timidity as you looked around the strangely emptied surroundings.

You glanced to him at the feeling of his hand squeezing yours, and the sight of that face looking down at you, eyes soft but demeanor showing you he was ready to fight anyone who came near you — your chest wasn’t the only thing with a thrilling heartbeat.

You nodded, throat dry as his eyes danced across your face, your body subconsciously tucking itself securely behind his toned arm.

Fuck!!! He was so fit, you could have cried.

His eyes flickered, investigating your eyes before your lips, your face the closest it had ever been to his tonight sending a rush to his heart.

You were even more perfect up close, truly not a flaw he could pick out.

“George,” your voice dropped, playfulness to your tone as his face eased and his grin grew, his arm pulling you close and then raising above and over you so it was wrapped behind your neck, your hands now connected on your shoulder — even he was surprised by how smooth it was! “Yeah?”

You barely tilted your head at him, raising your brows when you let your eyes level at his mouth, at those pink lips.

His arm tightened by your head as he pulled you into him, your lips meeting his in the most romantic kiss that rattled your stomach with nerves.

His arm relaxed behind you as you shoulders slouched, your free hand coming up to rest on his shoulder before inching to his face where you didn’t hold him but let your fingers brush against his cheek, almost guiding him in the direction of your mouth, encouraging him to stay put, rather than pull away.

You kissed long once, not opening your eyes as you went for another, lips softly smacking as you transferred your lipstick on him, releasing a soft breath as you locked lips for a third time.

Clearly, an unexpected urgency seemed to crawl up you as you let go of his hand to slip it round the back of his neck and instinctively hitch your leg up, lips smiling as you opened your mouth more for him, he grabbed it and almost hooked it over his hip.

Your whole body felt on fire.

Electrical.

You pushed close against him, his hand placed strictly by your thigh, you felt the unusual feeling of both nerves and arousal pooling in your stomach when suddenly — you heard a smash, and you flinched!

“OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE — ARTHUR!”

The loud ruckus of voices had you pulling your heads away to face the direction of the booming voices and behold, your split just in time to see the bodies appear from the steps, shards of glass sprinkling down the concrete stairs that had just slipped from Arthur Hill’s hand.

“HOW WAS THAT MY FAULT?!” A younger-sounding voice laughed back, a head of dark hair craned at the other’s direction as he argued his defence, avoiding the broken ping glass and sticky liquid.

“HEY! HEY!! There he is!” Another called the moment his eyes landed on George, who’s although body was still facing yours, his neck was craned to look at the walking buzzkills skipping over to you, his mind feeling a little hazy after the crude interruption — like he’d just been rudely woken from a dream.

“Finally made it to the gates!”

“What d’you mean finally? I was here before you?” He bluntly reciprocated.

The dark-haired boy shrugged, his hands not leaving the pockets of his jacket.

“Just dropped my pint.”

“It was your own fault,” the youngish-looking one retorted.

“Arthur, no it wasn’t!”

“ARTHUR! YES IT WAS! HOW—”

So they were both Arthurs. Interesting.

Either that or you were really drunk.

“And who are you?”

You blinked by surprise, caught watching the other two bicker when another face addressed you. Another dark-haired boy with blue eyes looking down on you.

“Oh! U— Y/n” your nervous hands wiped at the back your skirt, instinctively pulling it down after, your eyes flickering between all these boys now. “Y/n.”

“Alex, give her some space. Take a step back. There’s a good boy,” George’s dull tone instructed him as he didn’t want you to feel like you were suddenly being interrogated by his roommate.

“Alex. Arthur and Arthur,” he held out his elbow to the two still fighting with each other.

“Where’s Lewis?”

“He’s at the next stop with Cam.”

You observed the trio who had just showed up, and how they seemed incredibly unbothered by your presence. You didn’t know if to be worried or thankful for it. However, watching them interact and speak to one another — it was obvious they had also had their own round of pre’s.

Which probably explained their lack of enthusiasm to you.

George guided you both a step back as the train slowed on the tracks, stopping in front of you before opening the doors. A comforting hand found your back as it guided you through onto the transport.

You’d felt so safe in his company all night long.

On the tube – you hadn’t felt a mood like this since your days in school — when you tried your best at keeping a straight face as to not break your good-girl act when all you wanted to do was burst out laughing along with the rest of the class at the class clown.

There were quite a few people riding the train with you and truthfully you felt sorry for them having to deal with this group you’d clearly discovered to be quite chaotic when put together. The people not in on your jokes must have found them quite annoying.

“ARTHUR!”

“Would you stop trying to grab his big toe!”

“Tell him to shoving his finger in my ear!”

You sat amused across from them, unable to divert your attention.

Alex had been sitting across from you also, his foot on his other knee as he observed you for the last 5 minutes, trying to suss you out as he suddenly realised George Clarkey was with a girl. “We didn’t even ask how — what you’re — what are you two doing together?” he dropped, something finally clicking as he questioned this pairing. Seriously — where did you come from? Who even were you?

“We . . just met up, after—” George was irritably rubbing his eye again, coming up with something on the spot as he was not in the mood to explain to Alex when he clearly wasn’t going to remember anything.

“Are you a homophone?”

You blinked at him, unknowing if he was joking. What he meant. Wasn’t that what you learnt in English? “Am I a what?”

“Say yes.” George grumbled next to you.

“Are! You! Homophobic!” He thudded his foot (playfully).

You hurriedly shook your head, appalled if he’d picked up such thing that made you come across that way.

George was staring sternly at the little twerp, almost warning him to stop being so weird and putting you on edge. You were yet to learn to never take Alex Elmslie seriously.

“Ok.”

“Literally, never take anything he says to heart,” your date told you.

You timidly looked at the group, worried what else they might have already thought of you. If these were his friends and you already were making a bad impression — well you just didn’t know what you would do. You really liked George and another day spent with him felt like something too good to happen to you.

“Hello — AH!” A ringing rang in your ears as two others of George’s friends, you assumed, approached but one missing the pole which he’d bung in his head on.

You covered your mouth as you felt it was too mean to laugh.

The others — they did.

The scottish one took a seat next to ‘Alex’, rubbing his head, “who’s this lassie?”

“Y/n.” Alex answered also.

“Who is she?” He turned to him, feeling rude to not have known you like everyone else seemed to.

Nope. I am in fact a new face to see!

“George’s . . dunno. Are you datin’?” He asked casually. Savagely.

“No.” He shot down. Not yet.

Oh right.

The boy looked confusedly at you. “Oh. Alright. Well I’m Lewis,” he held out a hand for you to shake.

“I’m Cam,” the other copied.

“That’s Arthur and that’s Arthur,” George re-explained to you the others who had clearly forgotten to introduce themselves, “Hill. Frederick — or we call him Arthur TV. He’s Alex, as you know. I live with those two.”

If that didn’t put you off — he didn’t know what would.

You raised your head in acknowledgment. “Cool!”

“And I . . want to die,” he huffed, leaning back in his seat with crossed arms as he realised what he’d just signed you both up for.

“Now come on! No you don’t!” Arthur Hill’s hand slapped his leg which got him to smile. “You’re glad we’re all here, family reunion!”

Truth be told, the train ride was probably one of the funniest you’d ever had — watching this boys interact had your stomach hurting from laughing so much, no longer feeling as drunk as you watched their antics. If anything — you felt sober — maybe even sobered up seeing them mess with each other.

Little Arthur TV (which was ironic because he was supposedly the oldest of the lot!) skipped off the train while Alex finished off the beer Lewis no longer wanted (clearly already getting a headache) while you laughed into yourself as George walked alongside you, his hand on your back as you exited the transport. “I’m sure you didn’t expect the night to end like this.”

“Nope, actually better than I imagined,” you reassured, tilting your head up to give him a smile, and if it weren’t for his friends prancing in front of you two, he would have pulled that sweet face in for another kiss.

Your words were reassuring as George was fully convinced he had brought you out on the worst date ever — what date ended with the girl tagging along with your group of mates?!

And they said chivalry was dead!

But the circumstances had worked in his favour as it not only resulted with you laughing and engaging with his friends with the biggest, most beautiful smile, but also sharing a seat with him — your bum barely on the arm of the chair as he kept a hand on your cold legs propped on him.

His friends were quite funny, and you’d quickly learned a bit about them - including Alex’s dry and blunt humour.

The house you arrived at put you in mind of an influencer lifestyle - the kind you could only dream of being able to afford some day, very big, and very modern. “Who’s house is this?” You asked George.

He paused, as clueless as you were. “ . . I dunno.” There were quite a lot of people but all you’d come into contact with were extremely nice.

You’d even noticed the famous head of blond hair begin an argument with your date when you’d both retrieved drinks from the kitchen— “GEORGE CLARKEY.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mumbled, hating the singling out but a smile took his face as one of his dearest friends stomped up to him, “alright mate—”

“DON’T ‘ALRIGHT’ ME. WHERE WERE YOU?! WHY WEREN'T YOU IN HEAVEN?!” Max stopped right in front of him, before turning to you, “—the nightclub, not upstairs,” he laughed proudly at his joke and you couldn’t believe you were as blessed to have gotten to have witness a drunk, Max Balegde.

The party was good fun and you’d been kindly offered endless drinks, a few you’d even brought with you on your journey to the next house Max had advised you all go to — yet another person neither of you knew but went to because — let’s keep the party going!

Once again, you got that buzz back on your way to the underground once again, the high of excitement before the low when you wanted to slump it in bed.

George was humoured by your excitable ways, the most he’d seen you so animated, he was almost a little worried you would do something unpredictable.

“What the hell are they doing?” He rubbed his head at the sight of Arthur doing tumbles on the path.

“My party trick!”

“I don’t think you can class that as a party trick, mate.”

“What’s your party trick then?” You nudged him.

“What’s yours?” He threw back.

You raised your brows and strutted back, handing him your bag and tin, “hold my cocktail.”

George’s eyes lit up in anticipation of what you were about to do.

The boys applauded you as you made space. “GO ‘AN GIRL!”

“YESSS! GET YOU ARSE OUT!!!” Max’s eyes were barely open and his boyfriend (you assumed) was rubbing him back to prevent him being sick.

You were pretty sure he didn’t even know your name.

You steadied yourself, tugging your skirt down before placing a leg in front of the other, all eyes on you, you raised your arms before doing a little skip, placing and flipping your body in a kart wheel and then a backflip, before doing another slickly kart wheel again before allowing your legs to fall in a straight, perfectly-landed splits position with your arms held out in like you’d finished your display.

The boys screamed and thudded their legs on the ground excitedly while the tall brunet with the dodgy haircut stood with his jaw on the floor, not expecting such capability to come from you.

How does — where — how did your body bend— your legs—

“Ow Y/n! What the fuck!” Alex couldn’t even imagine the strain along his thighs if he tried to do such thing himself.

You pulled yourself up and immediately hoisted your skirt down for the 100th time tonight, taking your things off a dumbstruck George with a pleasant smile. “That count?”

The edges of his lips curled upward. “What the hell?!”

He was mesmerised.

“I can get my leg up next to my head, but I don’t know if I’m ready for you to know the colour of my knickers just yet,” blink and you’d miss the quick closing of one eyelid, but George didn’t and the comment alone had a blush chasing his cheeks, a skip in his heart when you playfully bit your tongue at your playful comment.

He was worried you’d noticed the little nervous shudder in his hand passing you your tin back.

It was 1:35 by the time you arrived at the other house, and the crate of beer Lewis had stolen from the previous party had been opened and finished off — not that you knew — as you’d found someone’s room on your way back from the bathroom after spilling yet another drink over yourself - and threw yourself down for what was supposed to be a moment. George eventually found you and joined you, the pair of you sweetly talking over your night where you reassured the other it had been the best date you’d both gone on in a long time.

And you both meant it - as messily as it had gone.

“I promise. It was so good. I hope you know I’m never like this,” you referred to your current state — you weren’t even that drunk but more so just tired: with working all week and that morning - it had finally hit you.

But George knew that. He knew you were (both) fighting off the drunkenness but those were sleepy eyes, and bless her, he thought, you must have been trying to keep awake all day for him as to not seem a bore.

“I hope you know not all my dates end like this, I had better intentions,” he rubbed the back of his neck with a smile.

“I really had a good night George,” you told him slightly underneath, considering he lay propped up on an elbow, “even though you beat me at mini golf. And we ditched dinner. And we spilled about 10 drinks between us,” you listed on your fingers, “I hope you know I really enjoyed my night out in London. With you. And I’d do it again.”

His face was the equivalent to a kid waking up on Christmas morning. “Would you?!”

“Yeah, would you not?”

“Yeah! Of course I would.”

You smiled up at him, still in his coat, lifting your arm to pull him down, “and I still think you’re fit — even with that haircut.”

He embarrassingly laughed against your mouth before meeting your lips, sneaking another kiss which filled your stomach with butterflies because oh my days, how were you kissing George Clarkey right now?! You couldn’t remember falling asleep but you did remember the last thing you’d told him in your half-slumped state. “Want to know something funny?”

“Huh?”

“I wasn’t drinking Espresso Martinis. I’ve been drinking Guinness all night long,” you covered your mouth to your hand as you let the secret slip.

George could not believe his ears, he opened his eyes to look at you and burst out laughing at the confession.

What?!

“I told them to make them in Martini glasses so you didn’t think I was some . . 50-year-old beer-belly bloke regular,” you breathlessly laughed as you realised how dumb it sounded, eyes crinkling with delight, “or one of those girls who say ‘tHey’Re nOT LiKE otHEr giRLs!’”

You both laughed on that bed for ages, your stomachs both badly hurting.

George was in absolute awe.

He was in for it.

You couldn’t even remember falling asleep as you’d simply woken up almost laying against the headboard, still in his padded coat, your arms folded like every dad ever. But George was next to you, also asleep as well as Alex who’d slept at the foot of the bed — and Lewis who’d taken the floor with a person’s coat thrown over him.

He told you he wasn’t letting you go home at that hour in the morning on your own anyway — to get a train from London to Brighton all by yourself and make your way home by yourself under that night sky — he’d apologised and told you he couldn’t let that happen. He, in the nicest way possible, put his foot down in his expression for your safety. And it meant a lot to you.

But that didn’t mean you’d expected to slum it in some randomer’s house together.

You laughed when you took in your surroundings, wondering how the hell you’d ended up in such a position, in someone’s house with a group of boys you barely knew — and your date!

God, you would have even surprised if he asked you out for a second. Genuinely.

But he did. After waking up and assuring him you’d be fine getting the train home on your own, as it was now bright and morning time, he saw you off, still disbelieving such a date had gone like this.

“Oh! Your coat!” Your immediately started to shrug it off, but George stopped you and shook his hands.

“No, keep it on. You’re still in your skirt and . .” he shrugged, really not minding, “I’ll get it next time,” he winked.

“Are you sure? . . It’s North Face, George.”

Why were you so fucking adorable?

The way you spoke his name made him feel fuzzy.

Yes. Of course yes. In fact — keep it. I don’t even want it anymore. Better still — take all my coats. Have them all.

“I promise. You’ll text me when you’re home, won’t you? Or call me?”

“Yes. I’ll call you when I’m all pretty and fresh-faced again,” you smiled at him, an inch away from his face.

He gave you a look, disagreeing there. You’re already pretty. You’re always pretty - the sight of you first thing in the morning with your makeup still on was a million dollar sight.

“Shut up, you’re gorgeous,” his head barely shook as he was almost disgusted at you for lying to him, and your chest fluttered as he threw an arm around the back of your neck.

Those big arms.

You smiled. “Debatable, but thank you very much,” you leant up to kiss his cheek goodbye, “I had the best time.” You double-checked you had all your belongings with you before approaching the doors of the train.

“Same. Hopefully the next one doesn’t results in some randomer’s houseparty.”

You laughed with a cute tilt of your head. “It’s the company that counts,” you pushed yourself to gently cup his face before giving a sweet, little goodbye kiss.

He smiled sweetly from the platform, and waved, looking like the cutest boy ever in his sleepy state as you took a seat on the train.

And it wasn’t long before you were back on that train, headed straight back to see him.

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