Back from the dead to say im missing my old job like crazy rn and i kinda want to write a fic based on it??
would yall be keen on a chris or will fic set in an a OSHC!AU?????
insane premise but i miss working in OSHC so bad!!!! idek if after hours kids care is a huge thing in the uk/us but i think chris would go CRAZY as an OSHC educator.....
Author's note: I do not endorse cheating!!! i do not think it is a good thing!! however this song bangs so hard and i need everyone to listen!!!!!
Song: Cheating - Michael Aldag
xxx
The music blasted through the speakers, pounding so hard that Chris could feel it in his chest. Another Fella's party—one of those nights where nothing really mattered except the chaos of bad decisions and the electric buzz of people trying to escape the world for a few hours.
The venue was a strange one. A converted warehouse, they said. A massive open space with industrial beams hanging overhead, walls lined with neon lights. But the real kicker? The entire area was covered in astroturf. Not a blade of real grass in sight, just fake green carpet stretching as far as the eye could see. It was an odd choice, but then again, nothing about this party was ever supposed to be normal.
People were scattered around the yard, drinks in hand, laughing and shouting like they didn’t have a care in the world. The turf, with its strange artificial glow, gave the whole place a surreal vibe—like they were somewhere between a football field and some bizarre playground. It made everything feel a little less real, a little more dreamlike.
Chris leaned against the wooden railing, trying to look casual, but the second he spotted you, everything else seemed to fade into the background. Will was talking, his voice rising and falling like he was saying something important, but Chris couldn’t catch a word of it. Not when you were standing there, across the turf, your eyes glinting in the neon light.
God you look stunning.
You were at the bar, chatting with a few members from The Fella’s production crew—your mates, Chris assumed. There was a natural chemistry in your conversation, the kind that made everything seem easy, effortless. You were laughing at something one of the editors had said, probably some inside joke that only you would understand.
But it wasn’t the words that had Chris’s attention. It was the way you through your head back when you laughed, your eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. Your laugh was brilliant—real, contagious, like you were in your element. It wasn’t forced or fake like most of the stuff Chris heard at these kinds of parties.
And he couldn’t help but watch.
It was strange, seeing your in this setting. He’d always known you as the producer—the one who kept everything running behind the scenes, always serious, always in control. But now, in the dim light, with your hair falling just right around your shoulders, you were something else entirely.
You weren’t just someone from the crew anymore. You were reader. And for a second, it felt like the entire world had shrunk down to just you, standing there, laughing like the weight of the night hadn’t even touched you.
Chris wasn’t supposed to be thinking about you like this. But hell, he couldn’t stop.
And then there was Henry.
Chris had to swallow down the disgust when he saw him—a smug grin plastered on his face as he walked up behind you, practically smothering you with his presence. The guy was an absolute prick. Chris didn’t know why you kept him around. You deserved better.
What made it worse? Henry had asked you out the week Chris had been planning to.
He’d overheard your conversations a few times, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was really going on. Henry thought you could “make it big” if you just stepped up your game—start your own content, get in front of the camera, build a brand. All things you didn’t want. Henry didn’t care about what you wanted—he just saw a way to capitalize on something that didn’t even exist yet.
Chris was sure he’d seen Henry texting other girls when YN wasn’t looking, too. Cheerful, flirty messages that had nothing to do with you. He wasn’t a detective, but he wasn’t blind either. And it pissed him off.
You don’t deserve this.
He kept pretending to listen to Will, trying to act casual, but his eyes never left you. You hadn’t seen him yet, which was probably for the best. He didn’t want to give you another reason to feel like you had to make excuses for Henry. But the more he watched, the more his stomach churned.
Henry had his arm around your waist, his face too close to yours as he leaned in to say something. You stiffened but didn’t pull away. Chris could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted over Henry’s shoulder to check if anyone was watching.
And that was it.
Chris pulled himself off the wall, mumbling a ‘sorry’ to Will, who was still talking to him about something. As he approached, Henry slinked off, probably to hassle someone else about getting him a production job. Thank God. He could talk to you in peace.
"Hey, you," Chris said, his voice louder than it needed to be, a little too casual as he slid in beside you.
Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and that easy smile stretched across your face, making the whole room feel like it brightened a little. "Hey," you replied, your voice warm, but there was something behind it—like you were trying to push past something.
"You look like you could use a break," Chris said, nudging your gently. "Henry giving you a hard time again?"
You gave him a quick, knowing look. "You could say that," you said, rolling your eyes. "He’s a piece of work sometimes, honestly."
Chris raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "A piece of work?" he echoed, leaning a little closer. "What does that mean exactly? 'Cause from where I’m standing, I just see a guy who doesn’t seem to know when to back off."
You laughed lightly, a sound that made Chris’s chest feel a little lighter. "That’s one way to put it." Your eyes flickered over to Henry for a split second, and Chris could tell you didn’t want to say much more about it.
"I mean," Chris said, shrugging casually, "he’s got the whole ‘making it big’ thing going for him, but you don’t need someone telling you how to be a star." He gave you a grin, something playful. "You’re already shining enough on your own."
You looked at him, that sceptical yet amused smile tugging at your lips. "Smooth," you teased, shaking your head. "But trust me, I’ve heard the whole ‘you’re amazing just the way you are’ speech enough times. I don’t need it again from you."
Chris laughed, letting his hands slide casually onto the bar. "Okay, okay. Not the ‘inspirational talk’ then. But you’ve got to admit, you deserve better than someone who’s always putting on a show."
You were quiet for a second, the words hanging between you two, before you said, almost too casually, "Yeah, I guess you're right. But it's complicated, y'know? He can be... charming when he wants to be."
Chris couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. "Sure, he can be charming… but I still think he's a knobhead."
You looked at him, surprised for a moment, then broke into a grin. "Wow, tell me how you really feel," you teased, but you didn’t defend him.
Chris leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with a grin. "I mean, I’m just saying—he’s got that whole 'fake charm' thing down, but when he's real, it’s just too much."
You chuckled, clearly trying to hold back a bigger laugh. "Yeah, that’s one way to put it," you replied, shaking your head. "You really don’t like him, do you?"
Chris shrugged, keeping his tone light but with just enough of a teasing edge. "It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s just... he’s not exactly my type."
Your eyebrow lifted, a hint of curiosity in your gaze. "Oh? And what is your type, then?" you asked, leaning in a little, as though the question was more than just casual.
Chris smirked, looking your up and down with mock thoughtfulness. "Someone who doesn’t need a spotlight to have fun, for starters."
You raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Really?" you teased, leaning in just a little. "You’re a YouTuber. Pretty sure you’re always in the spotlight."
Chris laughed, giving in with a grin. "Ahhh, you got me," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I guess I do enjoy the attention sometimes."
You laughed, the sound light and easy, and Chris could feel the moment shift. But he didn’t back down, leaning in slightly with a wink. "But hey, it’s not the spotlight that matters. It’s who you’re with when the camera’s off."
You looked at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. "Is that so? Guess I’ll have to see for myself."
Chris smirked, leaning in just a little, matching your teasing energy. "Well, it’s not all glitz and glamour. Mostly just me, sitting in front of a screen, pretending I know what I’m doing," he said, raising an eyebrow. "But hey, if you want to see me fail at editing in real-time, I’m your guy."
Your laugh came quickly this time, louder and freer, and Chris felt a jolt of satisfaction at how effortlessly he could make your laugh. It wasn’t even a good joke, but your laugh made everything lighter, and suddenly the world felt a little brighter. "I think that’s exactly what I’m after," you teased, shaking your head like you were still trying to figure him out. "I can’t wait for this ‘behind the scenes’ tour."
Chris leaned in slightly, his voice lowering just a touch. "You might be disappointed—it’s mostly me arguing with my computer. But hey, you’ll see how real YouTube life goes. Before we all had teams of people."
You laughed again, this time softer, and it wrapped around me like a warm feeling I didn’t want to let go of. Your smile was genuine, effortless, and Chris couldn’t help but think that if he kept making your laugh, maybe the night would go on forever.
But then, almost imperceptibly, your gaze flickered behind him. Your smile faded, just a little. That playful energy shifted, and he saw your body language change—like you were bracing yourself for something.
Chris followed your line of sight, and there he was. Henry. In the middle of a drinking game with Cal, knocking back shots like he was trying to swallow all his problems at once. His face was flushed, and he was laughing too loud, clearly trying to impress everyone around him. It wasn’t subtle, and Chris could tell it was starting to wear on you.
Your expression shifted, too—slightly annoyed, a touch disappointed, but mostly just... tired. "Great," you muttered, almost to yourself, but loud enough for Chris to hear. "This is exactly what I needed."
He watched you for a second, not sure what to say. You clearly didn’t want to deal with him, and from the look on your face, Chris could tell it was eating at you. But instead of saying anything more, he gave you a look, one that silently asked, do you really want to be here for this?
"Brilliant," you muttered again, your voice flat, devoid of any amusement. "I’m going to have to deal with him now."
Chris smirked to himself, knowing exactly where this could go. "Just don’t," he said, holding out his hand before you could get lost in it all. "Why don’t we just get out of here before he becomes your problem?" His heart was thudding in my chest, waiting for your response. There was that feeling again—like he wanted to leave this night with your, quietly, before it all spiralled.
You looked up at him, your gaze meeting his, and for a moment, Chris swore he saw something flicker in you. Then, without saying anything else, your hand slipped into his. It was all the answers he needed. No words, no need for anything big. You both just moved, side by side, weaving through the crowd like you knew exactly what you were doing.
No grand gestures. No dramatic exits. Just the two of you, slipping away from the noise, our footsteps syncing as you moved toward the door.
The weight of the party faded as you stepped outside into the cool air, both of you flushed from alcohol but grinning like you’d just shared some secret that no one else knew about.
Chris pulled his phone out of his pocket, hyperaware of how close you are to him. Your shoulder is brushing his. He finds the uber app with muscle memory, already putting his address in. "Wanna watch something stupid and fall asleep on my couch?" he said, keeping his voice light, but his eyes lingering on yours just a little longer than usual.
You met his gaze, that playful spark still in your eyes. "Yeah, for sure," you said, almost like you were agreeing to something more than just watching TV. There is something in the way you’re looking at him that sends a jolt up his spine.
Before Chris could say another word, you stepped closer, closer than he expected. And suddenly your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him.
Chris was stunned for half a second, caught off guard. Your lips were soft, warm, and your kiss anything but subtle. It was like you’d been waiting for this, and he couldn’t deny the rush that hit him as he felt your body press into his. His arm instinctively reached out, pulling your closer to him, his fingers slipping around your waist.
For a moment Chris just let the kiss happen, he couldn’t think, couldn’t process. Your lips moved against his, and he found himself deepening it, one hand sliding to your back, the other cupping your jaw. Your hands were in his hair. You’ve slotted together like it makes more sense than anything ever has.
But then his mind kicked in.
I should stop, Chris thought, I should tell you to figure it out with Henry first, to sort it all out before this goes too far…
But the moment passed, and he could only focus on was how good it felt to kiss you. How perfect you fit against him. The way your body reacted, leaning into him, your hands grasping at his hair, like you were pulling him deeper.
And then he remembered something.
That damn tinder app. The last time Chris saw Henry's phone, he’d noticed it sitting there, not like he was snooping, but the icon was just… right there. His profile, swiping through, no shame. If he cared about you, he would not be doing that.
And just like that, Chris felt his frustration ease. He should feel bad for him, right? Feel bad for him, like he had any reason to. And so, as he kissed you, the thought slipped away.
Hell, I hope he comes out here to spew and sees us.
Without thinking, Chris moved you, pressing you gently but firmly against the nearest warehouse wall, your back hitting the cold, concrete surface. You gasped but didn’t pull away. If anything, you responded immediately, your body melting into his, your hands finding his collar to pull him closer.
God, this is too easy.
Chris moved to kiss your neck, and your breath hitched, the soft sound making the air between you feel charged. He could feel the heat intensifying between you, your chests rising and falling in a hurried rhythm. He kissed behind your ear, hoping to hear that slight change in your breathing, that quiet shift that meant you were as caught up in this as he was.
He pressed a little harder against you, his hands steady on your hips, holding your close. There was something magnetic between you - like every part of you was pulling him in, and every inch of your body was in synch with his. he could feel the energy between you grow, unspoken, but so clear in the way you responded to each touch.
Every second with you felt like it mattered more than the last.
As much as he knew this could end badly - Henry, the mess, the drama – he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
I should feel bad. I should. But right now? It didn’t matter. Not when you were here, pressed up against him, your lips so perfect against his.
Chris pulled away from your neck, just enough to look into your eyes, a breathless smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "So… still wanna watch something stupid?" he whispered, his voice low and laced with the same tension that hung between you.
You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you kissed him again, urgently. Like you couldn’t wait to drown out everything else with him.
Chris kissed your harder in response. And in that moment, he knew. he knew you were past the point of no return. This wasn’t just a kiss anymore. It was something else. Something that neither of you could turn back from.
Firstly, I know writers are super critical of their own work but that chapter was amazinggggggg! You have no reason to be worried!
Secondly, I have enjoyed it as a reader fic but if you want to change it to a oc fic then I say go for it!
And lastly😂 I would love love love another series from you! Like I can’t put into words how badly I would like another series from you!! But little spin off one shots would be good! I’d love to see one maybe of like Ruth and Arthur getting together in the story and maybe like down the line one shots like engagement or reconciliation with George!-🩷anon
the consenus is to keep it as is so that is what ii will be doing! excited to do some more spin off stuff some other things, got more ideas just gotta buff them out a bit!!!
hi op, im a chronic lurker but as a fellow bne uni student (literally what are the chances) i just had to tell you this is such a comforting read even though xreader isnt my thing and oddly enough kind of relatable? 🥹 im so glad you enjoyed writing it !!
good luck with your studies !! - 🦭
Loooove chronic lurking, all time fave hobby.
I had SOOOOO much fun writing it!!!! thanks for sticking around!!
Thank you everyone for a wonderful time. I am going to the mountains for the long weekend with limited reception so I can’t wait come back and see how we all feel about the ending!!
Send me headcannons for TEOU and standalone requests!!!
Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader
Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.
Word Count: 0.7k+
Note: Thank you so much for reading The Edges of Us!!!! 😎 Your support and encouragement through this journey has meant the world to me. Whether you’ve been with me from the start or just joined in, every comment, like, and reblog made this story something special.
This story has been a soft love letter to my best friend, to Brisbane, to the IRL version of The Van, and to my own stubbornness. It's also been an exploration of my experiences with those messy, chaotic situationships—because, if I’m being honest, I’m (unfortunately) a big believer in dating someone twice.
It’s also been a project I poured my heart into during my uni break, and now, as school starts up again next week, other works will slow down as I return to the world of education. But I appreciate your patience and support through this shift, and I’m so grateful for each of you who stuck around for this ride. You’ve made this experience unforgettable, and I can’t thank you enough. ❤️
xxx
The rain tonight is soft, barely more than mist, just enough to dampen my fringe and make the city look like it’s been painted in watercolours. The van’s parked near the usual underpass, the one where the concrete turns slick in the cold and everyone’s boots squeak across the ground.
The grey skies of Londan haven’t changed—but they don’t press down on me like they used to. They’re still thick with cloud, still heavy with that low-hanging weight, but now there’s something softer in it. Familiar, even. Like the sky no longer swallows the horizon, but wraps around it—steady, known.
The city hasn’t changed much. It still pulses with light and noise and the rush of strangers—but I have changed. And now, even under the thickest grey, I know where I’m going.
And I know who I’ll find when I get there.
We’re halfway through the queue. I’m still wearing gloves, even though they make handing out the tea cups a bit awkward. Numb fingers don’t feel like the biggest problem around here, though.
"Y/N!"
I look up just in time to catch her — Marianne, hair wild, cheeks flushed from the wind — as she pulls me into a hug that smells like wet wool and cigarette smoke. She always calls me “sunshine,” because one time I explained to her that my home state is called The Sunshine State.
"You weren’t here last week!" she says. "I told everyone you’d come back! I knew it."
"I’m back," I laugh, surprised by how good it feels to say. "Had a thing with work. Sorry I missed it."
She grins like I’ve just handed her a lottery ticket.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Told you — you always turn up.”
I chuckle and turn to the tray behind me. “Tea?”
“You know how I like it,” she says, proud.
I do. I’ve memorised it — extra strong, two sugars, splash of milk that barely touches the surface. I get it perfect on the first try. Her hands wrap around the Styrofoam cup like it’s precious china, and for a second, she just holds it, smiling into the steam.
When the last of the crowd starts shuffling through the queue, she nods at the plastic chairs we set up behind the van.
“Come sit with me once everyone's sorted. I want to hear about your new job.”
I glance at the queue. Still a handful of people, but not a lot. I nod. “Yeah. Alright.”
There’s a part of me that still flinches when someone offers me a place to rest. I don’t always know how to take up space like that. But this isn’t charity, or obligation. Marianne’s not inviting me out of pity. She just wants me there. Because I showed up. Because I stayed.
The queue moves on, and so do we. I sit with her, handing her a takeaway container of sticky date pudding, my gloved hands brushing her bare ones.
We chat for a minute. Her son is being released from jail next week. She says this every time I see her. But I listen. She asks me about the new job. She doesn’t understand what I did when I was a programmer, and she sure as hell doesn’t understand now. But she listens.
She gives me a wink and disappears back into the crowd like fog.
When I first started coming here, I thought I was doing something useful. Good. Maybe even noble. But over time, I realised I was mostly showing up for me. For the quiet. For the people who didn’t ask me who I was dating or why I looked tired. Who didn’t know me as George Clarkey's Best Mate or WillNE's girlfriend. Who just knew me as the girl who makes a good pesto pasta and remembers names.
I still don’t know what ‘home’ means exactly. But it might be something like this:
Not a flat. Not a person. Not even a postcode.
Maybe it’s just showing up. Being known. Being missed when you're gone.
The casual kindness I used to mistake for nothing. Now I know better.
The kettle hisses behind me, and someone else calls my name.
Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader
Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.
Word Count: 3.3k+
Note: FINAL CHAPTER EVERYONE!!!!! LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOO
xxx
Chris rented out a pub for a shoot, and now I’m here.
The whole place smells like beer-soaked carpet and ring lights (I lived in a cupboard full of them for eight months, ring lights have a smell). There’s still a faint smell of fried chips clinging to the air even though the kitchen’s been closed since noon. Someone's left a half pint sweating near the monitors. I swear I can hear it fizzing.
I thought I was meant to be learning how to edit — working through my online courses, getting a handle on Premiere Pro and YouTube algorithms. But Chris wanted me on set. He said, come see the magic.
So I’m here.
Mostly I’m just being a PA — doing the odd jobs no one else wants or remembers until it’s too late. But honestly? I’m having so much fun.
I’m on the clock. And I’m having fun.
The video’s a Pub Quiz thing. There were a few deadweight questions, so I got asked to come up with new ones. Someone told me mine were brilliant. A perfect mix of niche, YouTube, and fucking hell, they’ll be cooked online if they don’t know that.
Brilliant.
I’ve untangled a mess of cables, skimmed a troubleshooting guide for a mic, actually fixed the mic, and got a crash course on how to attach a mic pack to someone.
Unfortunately, my test subject was George. It was unbelievably awkward — threading the wire through his shirt, trying to stay professional while my hands shook slightly. We didn’t make eye contact. At all.
Will’s here too. When he arrived, he gave me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder (but too close to my neck to be interpreted as anything except for quite intimacy) before moving on — like he needed to touch base with me but didn’t want to interrupt my “very important” task, which at that point was compiling a list of everything we forgot to bring for forfeits.
Yes, the pub quiz has forfeits. Of course it does.
Will’s on a team with Stephen and Becky. It’s a strange combo. But somehow it works.
Becky keeps threatening to sabotage her own team just for the content. Stephen’s already arguing about whether or not “Baboons in Space” was a real series or an elaborate fever dream. Someone handed him a bell to ring for correct answers and now he won’t stop pressing it every time someone breathes. It’s chaos. But it’s good chaos.
I haven’t properly met Becky yet, but Will still insists we’d get along. He and Stephen are electric together — always have been, always will be. I learned that when binge-watching their old videos during… let’s call it the dark period.
Becky fits in too easily, like she’s always been there, but with that uniquely chaotic energy that makes both guys wince and laugh at the same time.
And then there’s David.
I spotted him across the bar and did a full double take. “Wait… I didn’t know you worked for Chris?”
He grinned like it was a running joke. “I am just so cool, I guess.”
He was balancing a lighting rig on one shoulder and a box of croissants under the other arm at the time, so... hard to argue. Somehow, he makes both look effortless. A little sarcastic, a little frayed, but totally unbothered by it.
“David’s technically a camera assistant,” someone muttered behind me, “but also basically head of morale.”
Laughter ripples from somewhere near the bar, where Arthur F is mid-story, arms animated, a tea towel slung over one shoulder like it’s part of the uniform. Why Chris put him as the bartender character in this video is beyond me. Someone hands him a cable and he salutes with it like a sword. The crew moves around him with a kind of ease that only comes from hours on set together—fast, efficient, but loose enough to joke between takes. It’s chaos, but good chaos. The kind that buzzes.
And I can’t stop staring at Will.
He looks fantastic. He always looks fantastic.
And he’s mine. All mine.
There’s no wondering if he’s flirting with Becky. There’s no pit in my stomach.
Because every few minutes, he glances back at me — just quick enough that I catch it.
I'm perched at the sound desk (or... whatever it's called), learning how to monitor audio levels like I’ve done it a thousand times. I haven’t. I still don’t know what half the buttons mean.
But he looks at me like I do. Like I belong here.
And for the first time in forever, I think I might agree with him.
xxx
During a break in filming, I spot Will and George chatting by the bar. It’s friendly — I can tell from the way Will leans in slightly, casual but present, like he’s genuinely listening. George laughs, a sound too easy to be forced, too light to be rehearsed. It filters through the ambient noise of the room, just familiar enough to catch in my chest.
For a moment, I watch them from a distance. There’s no tension in their postures, no sharpness in their words. Just two people in conversation. Nothing serious. Nothing sinister.
Still, that familiar pit opens up in my stomach. Of course it does.
I’ll always have a soft spot for George. I think I’ve made peace with that.
Not in a romantic way — don’t get it twisted.
It’s more… you saw me at my worst, I saw you at yours, and somehow we've almost made it out the other side kind of soft.
Eight years of friendship doesn’t just vanish. But it doesn’t mean I want to be friends again. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I’ll just have to see.
If this were six months ago, I’d be fuming. Mind spiralling. Wondering what are they talking about? Are they talking about me? Does he still bring me up?
But now, it’s different. Now I trust Will. Fully. Enough to just… let it be.
I know it’s friendly. And if I’m still curious, I’ll just ask him tonight. When he’s curled up on my sofa, and we’re both too tired to cook, so we settle on takeaway. Chicken katsu or pad see ew or whatever we land on this time.
xxx
We settled on pizza, of all things.
And I don’t ask him. I don’t care.
The takeaway is spread out between us on the coffee table — boxes open, garlic bread half-eaten, napkins balled up in the creases of our knees. Some Disney Plus exclusive is playing on the TV, but neither of us are watching anymore. The volume is low, the lights are off except for the lamp by the window, and Will’s mid-way through trying to get me to take an odds on bet to dunk my garlic bread into my coke.
“Come on,” he says, nudging my foot with his. “One in five. Don’t be weak.”
I snort. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re chicken.”
We’ve been doing this — falling into each other's evenings — for two weeks now. Just... whichever flat is closer to wherever we were that day. His place has better snacks and mine has fluffier towels, so it evens out. It’s not even a conversation anymore — one of us just appears with a bag slung over a shoulder, toothbrush tucked inside, takeaway in hand. Some nights we fall asleep on opposite ends of the sofa. Some nights we never make it out of the kitchen. Every night, it feels easy. Familiar in a way that doesn’t make me panic.
He tosses a crust into the box and leans back against the cushions. “So, Christmas.” Christmas is in two weeks. Where did the time go? It's been almost a year of me living in London.
“Yeah.” It's been decided that I won't be going to Brisbane for Christmas. Not decided by me, but Mum and Dad are in New Zealand of all places, and my sister is going to a festival
“I mean, obviously, you’re coming with me.”
I blink at him. “Am I?”
“Well, yeah. I’m not letting you sit here eating oven chips while your entire family deserts you for beaches and bush doofs.”
I laugh — too hard. “It’s a camping festival.”
“Exactly. A bush doof.” I have no idea how he knows what the fuck a bush doof is. I must've told him about it.
It’s casual. Playful. But somehow in the middle of laughing, I realise: he’s serious. I’m going to Whitley Bay. I’m going to meet his entire family. All of them. At once.
We start half-planning a trip to Brisbane too, in that meandering, let’s-daydream kind of way. He’s got a list on his phone already — a ridiculous mash-up of everything from swimming with turtles to scaling the Harbour Bridge. Not one thing is in Brisbane.
He also has go to a bush doof on there. He's obsessed. I don’t know how to tell him he would die.
“You’re allergic to my hometown.”
“I’m just efficient,” he grins. “Why stay in the city when the good stuff’s all up or down the coast?”
“Guess we’re doing a road trip.”
“Guess we’re doing a month.”
A month. It doesn’t feel scary. It should, maybe, but it doesn’t. It feels like something we’ll do without even noticing, like two weeks on each other’s couches became the most natural thing in the world.
The moment is soft. Lovely. I don’t even have one email from work. No one needs me. No one’s pinging me. I’m here, in my flat, pizza crusts and terrible TV and Will’s socked foot hooked behind my ankle.
His hair’s damp from the shower. Mine still smells faintly like the popcorn from earlier. There’s a hoodie of his tossed over the back of a chair, and my charger’s already plugged in next to his side of the bed.
I glance over at him. He’s watching me like I’m the movie we forgot to press pause on.
Like he’s finally figured out the puzzle.
It’s late. I should brush my teeth. Fold up the pizza box. Maybe wipe down the kitchen counter.
But instead, I just lean back beside him and let my head drop onto his shoulder. He shifts slightly to make room, then laces our fingers together over the blanket between us like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.
And it really does feel like it is.
xxx
The office is unusually quiet—not late, just empty. Most of the ChrisMD team is either out filming in Tottenham or scattered across town chasing content. I’m at one of the designated freelancer desks, tucked in the corner with a mug of tea going cold beside me and my laptop humming beneath my fingertips.
I don’t usually work up here. Will’s studio is only a few floors down, and more often than not, that’s where I end up—editing on his couch, eating toast I didn’t make, bothering him and Orla between brand deals. But he’s got back-to-back calls today, and I didn’t want to lurk around, pretending to be productive while eavesdropping on brand meetings.
So, I’m here.
When the door creaks open in front of me, I barely glance up.
George peeks in, holding a padded envelope and a takeaway coffee cup. He lifts both in explanation. “Hey, YN. Didn’t expect to see you here. Just dropping these off for Chris.”
I swivel slightly in my chair. “He’s out on a shoot, out near Tottenham, I think.”
“Yeah, figured. He left this at the home, said he needed it.” He sets the envelope down near the printer, then turns back, lingering in the doorway like he’s debating something.
I raise an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”
He exhales, then turns and steps fully inside. “Look—I know things haven’t exactly been easy between us. I’m not expecting anything. I just wanted to say thanks—for not shutting the door completely. It means a lot.”
I nod, slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” I brace myself.
“My dad’s been sick for a long time—you know that,” he says, voice even but heavy. “When we went to Bristol, I got the news. The doctors aren’t hopeful. I don’t know how much longer he’s got. I guess I just… I wanted you to know," He takes a shaky breath "I hope you might go to the funeral.”
There’s a sharp ache in my chest, but I keep my voice calm. “George... I know. And I care. I really do. But I’m not sure I can be that person for you—right now, at least. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”
He nods slowly. No frustration, no bitterness. “I get that. I really do. I just… needed to say it out loud. It’s something I hope for. That’s all. No expectations.”
We sit in that kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled—weighted, but not heavy. Just two people holding the wreckage gently between them.
“Thanks for being honest,” I say, my voice soft. “And for telling me.”
He offers a smile—small, tired, real. “That’s all I wanted.”
Then he turns. Tosses the empty coffee cup into the bin with a quiet clink. On his way out, he leaves the door cracked, just a few inches open. Not enough to invite anything in. Just… not fully shut.
“George,” I call after him, almost before I know I’m going to.
He pauses. Turns around, quickly—like maybe he was hoping I would.
“I think one day we could be friends again,” I say. Not a promise. Just a hope, offered gently.
He smiles. It’s crooked, a little sad around the edges.
“Not yet,” I say. “And not like we were. But… friends.”
Then he nods once and disappears down the corridor, leaving the air humming with a kind of quiet possibility.
xxx
Every single time I walk into my streaming room, I think of her.
Of YN.
The room is almost empty now. Bare walls stretch wider than I remember, like the space itself is holding its breath. The only thing left of her time here is the battered old desk — scratched, stained, the one piece of this place that’s stubborn enough to keep its shape. It feels like a fragment of the past, hanging on while everything else has moved on.
This was her world once. The clutter of her life, her chaos, the noise and energy that made it feel alive — all gone now. I can almost hear the echo of her laughter between the cracks in the walls, see the shadows where she once sat, her presence folded into every corner. But it’s all gone quiet. Too quiet.
Gone is the mess she left behind, the exercise bike turned clothes rack, the cardboard boxes scrawled with my handwriting. The wild chaos that felt like a second skin to her — gone.
I want to be close to her. Not in the way I thought before — that clumsy, desperate way that only pushed her away. I want the easy companionship that doesn’t ask for too much, the kind of friendship that slips into the small moments and fills the spaces where words aren’t needed. The kind that laughs at my stupid jokes, that shows up with bad takeout and wine when life falls apart, the kind that feels like home.
But I’m the one who pulled too hard, stretched those edges until they frayed and tore. I thought I was protecting something, but I ended up breaking it instead.
Now, we’re like two shapes that used to fit perfectly, but somehow don’t anymore. The space between us feels wider than it should — full of silence and things left unsaid. I don’t know if we can bridge it, or if we even should. Maybe some things are meant to live in the margins.
Still, I hold onto the hope that those ragged edges might find a way back to something real. Not the same, not perfect — but enough. Enough to build something new from what’s left.
Because even when we’re apart, those edges are all that remain. And maybe, in the end, those edges are what hold us together — fragile, imperfect, but unbreakable in their own way.
The edges of us.
xxx
Paris is breathtaking — all soft light and quiet drama, like the city knows how good she looks and doesn’t need to prove it. Arthur is asleep beside me, curled loosely into the corner of the hotel bed, his breathing steady. He was brilliant on stage tonight. Commanding. Effortless. I watched from the wings, heart full in a way I’m not quite used to yet.
I think back to how we met — a gentle conspiracy by YN’s friends, who barely knew me but decided to play fate anyway. We weren’t meant to know it was a setup, but YN told me straight away. Of course she did. That’s what best friends are for.
And now here we are. Paris. This room. Him.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about last night — just one of those moods, maybe. The kind that creeps in when everything is quiet, when the lights are low and your mind starts pulling threads. Not in a sad way. Just… reverent. Grateful. Like looking back at the path you walked and realising, somehow, it all led here.
She’s pouring tea into a paper cup, smiling at the guy like he’s a regular at a café and not someone who’s been sleeping rough in the alley behind a Tescos. And she means it — the smile. That’s the most annoying part. It’s not performance. It never has been.
When I met her, she was barely holding it together. Acting like she was fine — smug, sharp-edged, way too proud for someone who’d just abandoned her entire life to move here. She clung to misery like it was proof she was doing something hard and noble.
Not that I saw that straight away.
When we met, I didn’t think we’d be friends. Not really. She was clever and caustic, the sort of person who keeps her coat on at a party and doesn’t laugh unless she means it. She seemed hard in places I wasn’t, soft in places I didn’t know how to be.
We weren’t drawn to each other — we drifted. Slowly. Like vines in the same direction. And one day I woke up and realised she was my person. Not in the dramatic soulmate way, but in the unshakeable, you’ll-have-to-pry-her-from-my-cold-dead-hands way.
She still drives me mad, of course. She’s stubborn as hell. Sometimes she forgets other people exist. She’ll hold onto an opinion like it’s an heirloom. But she’s also the first to notice when I’m quiet, the first to crack a joke at her own expense, the first to pour me a glass of something cold and say “okay, start from the top.”
She’s not the easiest person I’ve ever loved. But she might be the most real.
I think at her now — pouring a coffee for someone else, smiling with tired eyes — and I know she’s changed. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way. Just in the quiet way that happens when someone finally starts choosing themselves. Letting people in. Letting herself out.
And I won’t tell her this. I don’t need to. But she’s in it now — for life. Mine, hers, all of it.
The edges of us didn’t start sharp. They weren’t forged by drama or rivalry. They just grew inward, slow and certain, until they touched.
And held.
xxx
She sleeps beside me, the kind of quiet I never thought I’d see on her—soft, unguarded, like the world’s weight has finally loosened its grip. Her breath rises and falls steady, a rhythm I’ve longed to hear, so unlike the restless battles I know she’s fought alone for years. When she first came to London, she was all sharp angles, defensive edges folded tightly around her heart.
I’ve traced those edges more times than I can count—each one carved by betrayal, by love, and by loss.
She didn’t sleep like this when she first moved to London. Back then, rest came in fragments. She was all tight shoulders and bitten nails, always half-waiting for something to go wrong. Some days I still catch that version of her — flinching at softness, laughing like she doesn’t quite trust it.
But tonight… she’s still. Like she’s finally stepped off the battlefield. Like she’s not bracing anymore.
I know the shape of what she’s been through. Not all of it, but enough to know that peace isn’t something she stumbled into. She fought for it, even when she didn’t realise she was. Especially when she didn’t realise she was. Sometimes I think she was actively seeking the unrest. Easier to deal with. And I didn’t always help. I was one of the bruises, once. I carry that quiet ache, the way you carry anything you wish you’d done differently.
But I get to be here now. Not because I earned it — because she let me in.
I haven’t told her I love her. Not out loud. The words have waited, caught in the back of my throat, because I know what they mean to her. She doesn’t toss them around. She doesn’t let people say them just because they feel nice in a mouth.
But I know. I knew the moment when I turned my to look at her when I was feeding a parking meter. The way she looked at me, half-laughing, half-disbelieving, when I told her she looked beautiful and meant it like it was breathing. She didn’t see it, not really — but I did. I still do.
It's the smallest, stupidest moment to realise that I love her. But I guess it always is.
She’s sleeping beside me like the war is over.
And if she’ll let me, I’ll keep showing up in the quiet. Not to fix her, not to save her — just to be the one who stays. Who listens. Who remembers.
Who chooses her every single day.
To be home.
Maybe that’s what love is. Not the grand declarations. Not even the certainty.
Just the way she’s breathing now.
Just the way she trusts the room enough to sleep.
And maybe that’s what we are — not polished, not perfect. Just something real, unfolding.
Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader
Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.
Word Count: 2.9k+
Note: Second Last Chapter!!!
im literally SPEECHLESS at the reception TEOU has garnered. thank you for letting me write with you all 🙏🙏🙏🙏
xxx
I think all this “being a better person” nonsense has actually changed me. Not in some self-help-book way — I mean it’s rewired something in me.
How many times have I nearly wrecked a relationship because someone tried to help me and I mistook it for an insult?
How many times have I lashed out because someone suggested an opportunity — and I heard criticism?
Last week, I came home from work to my boyfriend — my boyfriend, still makes me giddy just saying that — suggesting I look into a job that’s going with Sidemen Clothing.
They’re building an app for their products, and Will thought it might suit me.
He said it like it was a casual idea, something that had just popped into his head. But I knew he’d been thinking about it.
Normally, I would’ve snapped.
I would’ve folded my arms and accused him of trying to meddle in my life.
But I didn’t.
I told him calmly (almost carefully) that I moved to London to be a programmer. That I am good at it. That I was headhunted, and they paid me well to move halfway across the world for this role.
Will nodded.
“Yeah, and your contract said minimum of six months,” he said. “It’s mid-November. You got off that plane in January.”
That pulled me up short.
He was right — I’ve lived here nearly a year. And suddenly I could hear that familiar question ringing in my head: Do I go back home for Christmas?
If I don’t book soon, flights will get expensive. That thought alone made my stomach twist. I shake it off. Im having a conversation here.
I wanted to argue with him — to tell him he doesn’t understand hard work.
But that isn’t fair.
He does work hard. His day might not start at 7am like mine, but he’s planning until midnight, editing until dawn, replying to fans, flying out at short notice. It’s not structured, but it’s relentless.
He runs a goddamn pre-packaged coffee business.
When Will does a good job, he gets an all-expenses-paid trip to Monaco, or Portugal, or some other sun-drenched place I’ve only seen on postcards.
When I do a good job, I get more work. That’s the reward.
More hours. More meetings. A new deadline.
I can’t fight him on this. Not anymore.
Will has softened me in ways I didn’t know I could be softened.
He’s chipped away at that stubborn, prickly version of me that always had to prove a point. I didn’t even realise how often I’d dig in my heels — until he gently started pointing it out.
“YN,” he said, quiet but sure. “You find your job completely miserable.”
“No, I don’t,” I replied. Reflexively. Defensively.
“You come home every day sulking about something. Complaining.”
And there it was.
He’s right.
Shit.
He didn’t say it to be mean. He said it like someone telling you it’s raining when you’re standing in the storm, soaking wet, and still pretending the sun’s out.
“And I don’t think you’re really that kind of person, normally,” he added. “When we’re away from it all, you’re so much… lighter.”
That word clung to me.
Lighter.
Like steam on a bathroom mirror — weightless, curling, slow to disappear.
And that’s when my mind flicked back to Bristol.
xxx
The next day, after Will and I… rekindled, was blissful. We spent the entire day floating through the main streets. Linked arm in arm, visiting a few spots I remember from the Exeter days. George and I went a handful of times. I don’t talk to Will about it, but he can tell. He knows. And he asks me about it, properly. Asks me to share that chapter of my life with him.
The day had been sweet and sun-drenched. I’d spent almost all of it with Will. The two of us peeled off from the others after brunch, walking too slowly through side streets and little shops, not really buying anything. We were all teeth and clumsy grins, bumping shoulders. Giddy. Tangled fingers. That weird magnetic feeling where you’re sure the other person is about to say what you’re thinking.
The whole day was just brilliant. I didn’t think about work once. Or even grumble, I think.
But it’s the ride back I keep returning to. That long, half-silent haul to London the day after everything tipped over.
That afternoon, we all met up again — Ruth, George, Arthur, the rest of them — and had one too many drinks. And then somehow, suddenly, it was the evening and we were dragging ourselves back to the station in a blur of hangovers and takeaway pastries.
The train ride was crowded and too warm. Someone had brought crisps that made the whole carriage smell like vinegar. Ruth was sitting diagonally across from me, bouncing one leg like she was holding back a secret. Will was beside me, knees touching mine, and I leaned against the window to cool my face.
That’s when Ruth looked over and said, far too loudly:
“You’re glowing, by the way.”
Everyone turned.
I laughed, tried to shrug it off.
“No, seriously,” she insisted. “What happened today? You two were like—”
And I just said it.
“We’re official.”
Out loud. In public. Like I’d just dropped a match on something soaked in petrol.
Both pods erupted — laughter, cheers, fake swoons. George clapped his hands together in this overly dramatic way that made me laugh even though something in my chest twisted.
He congratulated me. Said I looked happy. And he meant it, I think. But I could see the flicker behind his eyes. That brief, biting pause.
It made my heart swell and my stomach sink. All at once.
The mood shifted after that. Not in a bad way, just in a new way. Everyone was loud and tired and joking too much. Will squeezed my thigh under the table. I let him. I wanted him to.
Somewhere past Swindon, Ruth’s phone started pinging relentlessly. She kept glancing down, swiping away banners.
“What’s going on?” I asked eventually.
“Oh my God, you haven’t seen?”
“Seen what?”
She blinked, then laughed. “Oh my God, wait — you deleted Instagram.”
I nodded.
“Well.” She grinned. “We kind of went viral.”
I frowned.
“At Arthur’s concert,” she explained, pulling up something on her phone, “the group behind us filmed him singing Adore You when he pointed at us — remember that?”
He pointed at her, let’s be real.
I did remember it. Barely. We were in the front part between the mosh pit and the stage. Arthur had pointed, smiled. Everyone had screamed. It was like any other part of the concert.
“Well,” she said, swiping again, “they posted it. And then you and Will making out on the balcony. Like, full on, hands-in-hair, cinematic, Taylor Swift-core snog. Twelve angles. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I groaned, head in my hands.
The situation reminds me of when you make out with a stranger in a club and your mates take photos of you, pointing at you in the background.
But so much worse.
“They figured out who we are. Somehow.”
George leaned over the aisle to look at her phone.
“You’re all over TikTok,” he said, amused. “There’s even an edit. With sparkles.”
“Wait,” I said. “How? Like how do they know it's us. We’re not… important." Rut gives me a look. "Not like, famous, I mean." Will squeezes my thigh under the table. I forgot his hand was even there. He hates the word 'famous'.
“Someone linked your photos at the premiere with George,” Ruth said. “And I think you must have a photo of me posted somewhere. Even though I haven’t posted since, like, 2018. Your account’s still up though. So, they connected the dots.”
I laughed. What have I gotten myself into
“Jesus.”
“It’s kind of iconic,” Ruth said. “You’re like, recognisable now. To superfans. Like, UKYT fandom royalty.”
She said it with the kind of awe reserved for museum artifacts or rare celebrity sightings. I cant entirely tell if shes joking. She would make a fantastic groupie.
I looked down at my hands. I suddenly felt watched — retroactively observed, like the last forty-eight hours had been filmed from every angle. I didn’t even know what I’d worn the night before, or what my hair had looked like when we kissed.
“I’m in one of the TikToks too,” Ruth added. “From the side. Not flattering.”
I could hear George still laughing to himself.
George was right about the whole premiere thing. I think deep down I knew he was, but I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted him to be all mine, and I had no clue he never was, or ever would be. I was so stupid to have pushed for an invite, to push to be tagged in his photo. But because of his protecting words, of calling me his best mate to the interviewer and in his caption, I was a little more safe from the backlash.
Scrolling through the comments on Ruth's phone, they were mostly "I guess she really is just George's best mate," instead of anything more sinister.
Plus, we have the long standing social media presence to prove it. I’m in a lot of his early TikTok’s.
You can't see Ruth's face too much in the video of her, and Ruth is fucking stunning anyways. It seems she's been exempt from the backlash too.
“It’s not that deep,” Will whispered beside me, but his hand moved to find mine under the fold-down table. Warm. Solid. That helped.
We talked about it for a bit. About what a relationship looks like when one of you is in the public eye. The answer is these things will pop up and eventually, a year or so, we will post them ourselves.
Private-but-not-secret is the goal, eventually.
Outside the window, the world is plunged in darkness. I hate catching the train at night, there’s nothing to look at. No Hay bales. No Cows. No Half-built fences and long stretches of something. We were speeding forward, but my head was still back in that balcony moment. Still lit in stage lights and adrenaline. I didn’t know it was being captured. I didn’t know I was leaving behind evidence.
I mean I kinda did. Chris warned us. But I guess I didn’t care enough.
I still don’t, not really. I got the guy.
At Paddington, when we finally arrived, I caught sight of Arthur F vlogging in the crowd — phone up, smiling, filming his own face as fans swarmed. I knew, instinctively, that I’d be in the background. That maybe someone would slow the footage down, point me out. The girl in the corner. The one Will is smiling at.
xxx
“We just want you to be happy,” he says. Oh yeah, were having a conversation about jobs. “There are so many people in your life who see how brilliant and smart you are, and want you to be happy.”
I smile at that.
In January, I didn’t think that was true. I didn’t think it ever could be.
“And the Sidemen contract is only six months,” he goes on. “Just give it a go. Plus, Chris needs someone freelance right now — for editing. You’d be sick at that.”
“I don’t know how to edit.”
“I can get you enrolled in a course. And there’s one about how YouTube algorithms work too. You’d pick it up in no time — I’ve seen you mess around with this stuff before.” He's talking about when I took apart and reassembled Arthur's film camera for him. I just followed a YouTube tutorial, but I guess he's right.
I sit with that.
The idea doesn’t immediately repulse me — which is new.
“Would I have to, like… keep up an online presence or anything?”
“Not if you don't want to,” he shrugs. “Look at Orla and Aby. Even Ieuan. They barely post anything more than a regular person would.”
He's right.
Damn.
xxx
And that’s how I’m here, leaving a job interview for the Sidemen Clothing gig.
Chris just sent over a freelance contract, too. Its sitting in my inbox.
Fuck.
I might actually quit my job.
No — you know what? I am going to quit my job. Will’s right. It makes me miserable.
I took the morning off for the interview, and now I’m headed back in for lunch. But not to eat, I’m going in to hand in my resignation. I’ll offer to stay until the end of January — that’s when our current project wraps up, and when the Sidemen contract would start anyway. Plus, I don’t even know if I officially have the role yet.
But it feels right.
Knowing my director, he’ll probably tell me not to bother coming in tomorrow. But the joke’s on him. My contract says my salary’s paid through to the end of the project, regardless.
Perks of being valuable. (Or, at least, looking valuable on paper.)
If I’m so damn valuable, they should’ve treated me like it.
If I wasn’t so stubborn, I would’ve walked out the second the six-month clause ended. The feeling of being needed outweighed the feeling of being miserable for far too long.
But now?
Ruth, Will, Chris; they want me. David — the guy I met that one Sidemen shoot day — keeps texting about that other role, congratulating me for finally taking the step towards something cool. I’ve barely heard from him since, and he is still happy to hear I took the interview.
And for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m wanted. Not for my code, or my credentials, or my calendar. Just… me.
I feel valuable outside of work.
And not just because I am good at what I do. But because, I have friends.
And that feeling?
That feeling is enough.
xxx
I was so right.
My boss told me not to come in tomorrow. And it’s a Tuesday. A Tuesday. I’m going to celebrate by hanging out with my friends while we make an absolutely cracked amount of pesto pasta and pretend we’re all contestants on some chaotic, low-budget cooking show.
Well—Ruth and I are making pasta, as always. Matt is making his goddamn sticky date pudding again. If I have to clean that pot one more time, I swear I’ll scream. (He always leaves it to “soak,” which is just code for “you deal with it.”)
But I don’t even care. Because something is shifting.
Everything feels a little fizzy. A little bigger than me. Like for the first time in a long time, I’m not dragging my feet through the day or holding my breath between meetings. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to feel good about my life.
There’s something magic about this kitchen tonight. It’s loud and warm and smells like garlic and butter and comfort. Ruth is talking with her whole body, hands flying, apron askew. Matt’s doing his usual thing—dramatically narrating his pudding to Oscar like it’s a high-stakes bake-off finale.
And I’m here. Not thinking about Slack pings or code freezes or the anxiety that used to sit heavy in my chest like a brick. I feel light. Not like steam on a mirror—like I did in Bristol—but real light. Tangible. Weightless.
I catch myself smiling for no reason. I feel free. Like I just let go of something I’ve been clenching onto without realizing. Like this is the start of something better.
"Ruth, if I’m glowing, then you’re practically radioactive."
She laughs, that big full-body kind of laugh that makes her shake. But I’m not wrong. She’s all flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, like she’s been running on pure adrenaline and Aperol for three days straight.
Honestly, I was surprised she came home with us on Sunday. The way she looked at him? I was fully prepared for her to hop the barrier and follow him onto the tour bus. Groupie-core. But no. She came home. Back to us. She does have her tickets to Dublin and Paris booked though. Not that she paid for the Paris ones.
"I knew Paris wasn’t too on the nose," I tease, stirring the pesto with exaggerated smugness.
"Yeah, we know that now," she says, shooting me a look but not denying it.
There’s a quiet beat where we both just smile. Stirring. Waiting for the water to boil. Pretending like we haven’t just exploded our lives a little.
"Do you think this is insane?" She asks.
I shrug. "Yeah. But in the fun way."
And that seems like a good enough answer for her.
We move so easily around each other in the kitchen, like we’ve been choreographed. I know exactly when she’s going to reach past me for the olive oil, and she knows when to slide the chopping board my way without asking. We share space like siblings, but with none of the unresolved tension—just that rhythm you build with someone after a hundred shared meals and a thousand unspoken in-jokes. We’re different, but we get each other. And somehow, we always manage to make something edible. Usually.
I think we’re about to talk about Arthur. Ruth shifts like she’s winding up for it—one of those sharp, honest conversations she’s strangely good at. But it never comes.
Instead, we spiral into a rant about people who spell “favourite” without the ‘u’, and how the loops on your jeans always—always—find a way to hook on door handles at the worst possible moment. Ruth acts it out, nearly spills her waterbottle while doing it, and I’m laughing too hard to breathe.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
No unpacking of emotional baggage, no picking at old wounds. Just noise and laughter and our shoes scuffing against the linoleum as we lean into the quiet parts of each other’s company.
xxx
It’s strange, isn’t it? How change can sneak in quietly, almost imperceptibly—like a whisper carried on the wind—until one day you catch yourself breathing differently. Lighter, maybe. Softer around the edges. The version of me who used to brace against the world like it was a storm has somehow started to bend with the breeze.
I used to think strength was standing rigid, unmoved by others’ opinions, armored in silence and sharp words. But now, strength feels different. It feels like opening my hands, letting go of the need to control, the desperate clench of proving myself. It’s in the small, delicate moments of trust—when I hear Will’s voice, steady and patient, and I don’t snap. When I don’t fight back but listen instead. When I say no to bitterness and yes to softness.
The hardest part is the quiet inside me, where the old fear lingers—the fear of being invisible, the fear of being dismissed. I still wrestle with it in the dark, when I’m alone with my thoughts and the night’s silence is too loud. But it’s losing its grip, slipping away like shadows at dawn.
I see it in the lightness of laughter with Ruth, the shared small annoyances that somehow stitch us closer. It’s in the way my fingers tangle with Will’s, the unspoken promises held between us. The knowledge that I’m wanted—not for a role I play or the work I produce—but simply for who I am beneath it all.
And maybe that’s the real transformation—the shift from surviving to living. From proving worth to embracing it. From chasing validation to giving myself permission to be enough.
I am still me—the stubborn, fierce, imperfect me. But now, I’m learning that being “better” doesn’t mean losing myself. It means finding the courage to soften, to surrender control, and to trust that in doing so, I’m not less—I’m more.
The road ahead is uncertain, full of twists and unspoken fears. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid to walk it. Because I carry with me this quiet flame of hope, this fragile but stubborn light that tells me I am seen. I am known. I am enough.
GUYS how would you feel if i retroactively changed TEOU (not now obvs, as in when it’s done and the dust is settled) to change it to an OC! Reader??
Bc like, I’m new to this and I wrote it in first person present tense which is just NOT the done thing, and it does not read like an x reader fic at ALLLLL
Anyway would it ruin the re-read-ableness of it?? Or is it chill. And the I can write proper x reader stuff later ??
Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader
Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.
Word Count: 5.4k+
Note: this is lowkey ass but i think we will all enjoy it.
as always based on real experiences (but flipped to be positive :) )
18+ only, MDNI
content warnings: fingering, riding, unprotected sex. p in v. if I'm missing any let me know <33
xxx
I have no idea how, but somehow Will and I are back at his hotel room.
Okay I know how. We were out drinking at a pub, celebrating Arthur's incredible show when Will's hand brushed my thigh, sliding a little higher under the table. The touch was casual, but it sent a jolt of heat straight through me. We were tucked away in a booth, the dim light flickering across his face, but the air between is felt electric.
And that was it.
We barely sad a word. I don’t even remember how we left the pub, just ended up in an Uber, bodies pressed together in the backseat, lips crashing into each other like we hadn't seen each other in years. By the time we got to the hotel, we were already halfway to losing it.
We barely made it to the elevator before we were kissing again, hands all over each other, frantic and hungry. The second the door slid closed, it was like everything else stopped. He was fumbling with the keycard, and I was kissing his neck, my breath catching in my throat as I felt his pulse under my lips.
We've crashed into the room with barely a pause. There is no grace, no planning — just the rush of adrenaline as he pressed me up against the wall. His body is all heat and urgency, pinning me there, and I can hear the door click shut behind him, locking out the world.
His lips are on mine again, quick and desperate, like he can't get enough, as if the moment is slipping away. My breath is ragged, matching his, and for a second, I forget everything outside of the space between us. I feel the coolness of the wall against my back, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters ishim, the weight of his hands on me, the way he kisses me like he is starving.
I know it’s going to turn soft soon. It always does with Will — the intensity fades, the sharp edges soften, and the heat turns to something more familiar, more comfortable. But for right now? We’re hungry. Hungry for each other in a way that makes everything feel urgent, messy, and alive.
God, I’ve missed this. Missed him.
How he knows me — how he reads me like a book he’s memorised, but still touches me like I’m a new discovery, every inch of me something worth savouring. His hands move over me like he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s never really let go of. It’s electric, familiar, and yet thrillingly unknown all at once.
There it is. The shift.
He takes his time, slow and deliberate, as if he wants to feel every moment, every part of me. The way he undresses me is almost reverent, each piece of clothing coming off like he’s carefully unwrapping something fragile. My shirt and bra are gone swiftly. His fingers slide across my skin, tender but with a purpose, and I can’t help but lean into his touch, wanting more.
There’s no urgency in his movements, just a steady, drawn-out burn that makes my chest tighten. His hands find their way under fabric, lingering in places that make me gasp, not in haste, but in the way he makes everything feel new again.
Will pulls me into his room, and for a second, I almost forget where we are. The bed is still tightly made, the pillows stacked neatly, untouched. The room feels oddly clean, almost too neat for what’s about to happen. But our suitcases are flung open on the floor, clothes spilling out like. Remnants of when we arrived in Bristol and had to be back out the door in twenty minutes.
I haven't even been to my own room yet. I have a feeling I won't ever.
It’s like we’re still in that frenzied moment, when we were scrambling to get ready, too eager to pay attention to anything except the next step. The chaotic feeling still lingers in the air, despite the pristine hotel room. And yet, it feels perfect — a strange mix of the wild and the careful. It’s raw and unpolished, like us, thrown together without thought of tomorrow, without care for anything else except now.
I pull his shirt off, the fabric soft against my hands before I discard it haphazardly into an open suitcase. It might be mine — I can’t quite tell. I also do not care. I have him back. Back in my hands, within my fingertips. He's all mine again.
The room is a blur of movement, a mess of clothes and tangled limbs. We fall onto the bed.
We’re giggling now, soft and silly, the kind of laughter that bubbles up without warning. It feels light, like we’re both remembering how easy it is to just be here, in this strange, chaotic little world we’ve created. Our hands are still clumsy, fingers brushing, slipping as we try to shed the last remnants of the night. It’s funny, this moment — the seriousness of what’s about to happen, but wrapped up in the mess of it all, like we’re still figuring it out in the most carefree way possible.
With his shirt off, I trace my fingers across his chest and down his arms, letting my touch linger over the familiar curves and planes of his body. It's like rediscovering him, but with something new, something different this time. His skin fells warmer, tauter. His muscles just a little bit more defined than I remember. He hovers over me, his gaze steady. Giving me the space to explore, not rushing me, letting me savour every inch of him.
He looks unholy like this. The too-bright lights of the hotel room, his chain dangling slightly, his hair a mess from my hands.
Theres a shift now, a quiet power in the way he holds himself, as if he's become something more since we were last like this, last touched this way. He's slightly stronger, more grounded, and I feel it in the way his body responds to mine, in the way he moves. It's subtle. But it's there. And it makes me realise just how much has changed, how much we've changed.
I think back to our first time together. I rushed it — fast and clumsy, all adrenaline and nerves — when he was trying to slow down, trying to breathe me in. Even then, he was gentle. He’s always been gentle with me, like he’s handling something that could shatter if he’s not careful. And now… now he’s touching me like he’s trying to memorise me. Like he’s scared this might be the last time, and he doesn’t want to leave a single part of me unknown.
It won't be the last time. I refuse.
His breath hitches when my fingertips dip lower, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in, and I feel the heat of his body against mine, like everything is converging in this quiet, intimate moment. The world outside disappears, leaving only the two of us, tangled up in the familiarity of touch and the newness of what is unfolding.
He's kissing along my neck, his lips warm against my skin, and I can't help but gasp. The sensation makes my heart trace my hands move to his belt buckle, but im fumbling. I can never get it right. Frustration builds, but before I can try again, he pills back just enough to kneel over me. With a grin, he undoes the belt in one swift motion and pulls his pants and boxers off in one go.
Well, 'one go' is a bit of an exaggeration. He is still kneeling, and when he goes to pull them off, he sort of, collapses, bedside me, half-giggling, half struggling as he kicks his legs, trying to get them past his feet. I can't help but laugh, the moment too perfect in his awkwardness.
He giggles into my neck, the sound warm and light, creeping along my face. He toys with the hem of my trousers, his fingers brushing against my skin in a way that makes everything feel slow and impossibly intimate. Its messy, it's far from graceful, but it's so us - this odd, silly, and beautiful thing we've found together.
Then my own trousers and panties are gone. In a much smoother motion. Our bare bodies are pressed against each other. He kisses me. Deep, slow, possessive. Like I'm all his.
And I am.
We’re curled up on our sides, tangled together in a way that’s probably not anatomically sound for extended periods, but feels entirely right in the moment. The hotel room is bathed in that dim, anonymous glow, but it’s still too bright for actual sleep. Not that sleep is anywhere on the agenda. One of Will’s arms is wrapped around me, his fingers tracing patterns, light as whispers, along my spine. Sometimes he digs in just a little, a gentle scratch that sends shivers down my back. It’s comforting and utterly distracting.
My left arm is trapped in that awkward no-man’s-land between our bodies, a limb I’ll probably regret in the morning, but right now, who cares? I have him back. He's right here. My right hand, however, is free to roam, currently gripping his bicep, then sliding up to the strong column of his neck, my thumb stroking the stubble along his jaw. He smells exactly like I remembered, a mix of citrus and coffee, and his cologne. It's something uniquely him, something warm and earthy that just makes my head swim.
We’d dissolved into a fresh fit of giggles barely five minutes ago, still reeling from the absurdity, but familiarity of it all. The sound of his deep, rumbling laugh, so close to my ear, had been a balm I hadn't realized I was missing so desperately. Now, the laughter has faded, replaced by a much heavier, much more intoxicating silence.
His hand, the one not tracing my back, drifts. Slowly. Deliberately. It’s like a promise. It dances over my hip, then down my thigh, until his fingers brush against the warm junction between my legs. He makes soft, deliberate circles against my clit.
A soft gasp escapes me, and I press my face into his shoulder, biting back a louder sound. He hums, a low, satisfied vibration against my cheek. He knows exactly what he’s doing. The deliberate movements get firmer. More agonising
Then, unexpectedly, his other hand moves. Not to my hip, not further south, but up. To my face. His thumb brushes my lower lip, then his index finger follows, gently parting them. My eyes flutter open, meeting his in the bright light. They're dark, deep, filled with an unreadable intensity. He slides two fingers into my mouth, slowly, deliberately. They taste faintly of coffee and him. I suckle instinctively, a soft, wet sound escaping. Oh, this is how we’re doing this. He lets out a low groan, a muffled sound against my hair as his fingers dance in my mouth, teasing my tongue, mapping the soft roof. My jaw aches, but I don’t care.
Withdrawing his fingers, slick and warm, he then guides them, unerringly, downwards. The soft fabric of my shorts is no match for his intent. They slip under the elastic, finding their way to my slickness with a precision that’s almost criminal. The first finger slides in, warm and utterly perfect. I gasp again, a wet sound that's muffled against his shoulder. His arm tightens around me, pulling me impossibly closer.
"YN," he whispers, his voice a raw rasp against my ear, and I feel his lips press against the sensitive skin there. "God."
The second finger joins the first, stretching me, filling me just enough to make me ache for more. My hips press back, an involuntary twitch. Yes. More. I try to talk, to form words, but it comes out as a broken murmur, half-moan, half-plea. He just presses deeper, his thumb finding my clit, circling, teasing, then pressing. The world narrows to that exquisite pressure, to the slick glide of his fingers, the rhythmic caress of his thumb.
I squirm, my trapped arm a forgotten inconvenience, my free hand gripping his neck, nails digging in just a little. My legs start to tremble. He picks up the pace, slow, deliberate strokes that pull me to the edge, then hold me there. My breath comes in ragged gasps, small whimpers escaping my throat, quickly swallowed by his mouth as he finds mine, kissing me deeply, roughly, his tongue a mirror to his fingers. It's a kiss filled with months of longing, of unspoken desires, of a quiet understanding that this is where we belong.
The moans are swallowed, absorbed, traded back and forth between our open mouths. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling, desperate. He pulls back just enough for me to gasp for air, then plunges his tongue back in, echoing the thrusts that are building, building, building inside me. My back arches, my body a taut bow string, ready to snap.
My fingers, tangled in his hair, pull, desperate. My hips buck up, an involuntary demand. The world is a blur of heat and need, and all I can articulate is a desperate, guttural plea. "Will," I manage, the word broken, breathless, shredded by the storm inside me. "Please."
He stops the exquisite, maddening motion of his fingers. Just for a heartbeat. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, burn into mine, a silent challenge, a silent promise. And then, his voice, a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates through my very bones, utterly devoid of softness, yet still laced with a tenderness that makes my entire body clench. "Cum for me, YN." It’s not a question, not a suggestion. It’s a command.
And God, I do.
It hits me like a physical wave, pure, unadulterated sensation. My body convulses, an urgent, frantic clenching that sucks him deeper, milking every last ounce of pleasure from his touch. I cry out, a raw, ragged sound torn from my throat, my vision swimming.
From the sensation, I react by gripping. My hand still tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tightens, hard. I pull. I pull so hard I fear I might rip a chunk out. The sound he makes is unholy – a choked, strangled growl, a guttural groan that rumbles deep in his chest and vibrates through my mouth. It’s the sound of a man obsessed, utterly possessed, and it makes my own climax deepen, shuddering through me in waves.
I fall onto his chest, releasing my grip on his hair, stoking is neck. He shifts, sitting up on the headboard.
Fuck. He looks incredible like this. Sat up, dick hard, looking down at me. He strokes my face softly. He rolls slightly, pulling me with him, until I’m above him, straddling him. My legs hooked over his, and I’m on top now, my body screaming for release, for him. Without his fingers, I'm aching, throbbing, exposed. My eyes are wide, hazy, meeting his. A lazy, triumphant smirk plays on his lips.
I hover over him, slowly lowering myself.
The first inch makes me gasp. It always does. My entrance is already swollen, slick from his fingers. He stretches me open. I'm trembling with the feeling.
God he makes me feel so full.
I grasp the headboard for support, Its one of those weird scratchy ones that hotels always have. the other hand on his bare chest. Its already a little slick with sweat. He's slightly heaving himself.
I sink down, slowly. Inch by inch, swallowing him deeper, my body clenching around him as he fills me.
A breath catches in my throat. A choked moan slips free, cascading from my mouth. The feeling is delicious. Indescribable.
Finally, I'm seated fully, thighs shaking, pussy pulsing, your body stretched to its limit around him. I have to take a moment to adjust. He is so big. It shocks me every time.
"Fuck," he says, voice low, his hands firmly grasping my hips. He looks up at me from where he’s sunk slightly into the mattress, like the softness pulled him down. “I’ve missed you,” he says. “So much.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I reply, breath catching in my throat. I go to move, to rock my hips or anything to help with the ache he's created in me, but he tightens his hold, grounding me.
"I want to be your boyfriend." he gets it out in a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it in for too long and couldn’t keep it back a second longer. His voice is almost a whisper—urgent, raw, like he needs me to hear it. Like it matters more than anything else right now..
“What?” I blink. I heard him. I'm just shocked.
"Like, lock us down," he says, looking at me like I hung the stars. "Like you said, not making the same mistakes."
I let out a breath that’s part laugh, part disbelief. "you're literally inside of me."
His grin is cheeky now, crooked and smug. “Is that a yes?”
I roll my eyes, smiling like I can’t help it. “Yes,” I say. “William Lenny, I would love to be your girlfriend.”
"Thank fuck," he mutters under his breath, like he can't believe this is real. His hands move from my hips, slower now, steadier—like he’s trying to memorise the moment, every curve, every breath. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time and somehow remembering me all at once. Like he’s breathing me in.
"Can I," I gasp as he bucks beneath me, his dick hitting that spot. I learn and grasp his shoulders. "Fuck." I was going to ask can I move now? But he's answered that for me.
The bedsprings sigh beneath us, a soft, shared rhythm as I finally, finally feel him against me. My body remembers his, moulds to his, as if no time at all has passed. Every single cell hums with the ache of months apart, an ache that I didn’t realise I had until just now.
Just before, we were dissolving into a fit of absurd giggles over something ridiculously trivial – I can't remember what it was, and I do not care – and now… now it’s just the sound of skin on skin, the heavy, humid air of the hotel room, and the frantic beat of my own heart. Typical.
He always makes my heart beat like that.
Will braces himself, his hands finding purchase on my hips, pulling me down, drawing me in with each eager thrust. He’s all business now, no more laughing at each other. My hair spills around my face, a soft curtain occasionally brushing his chest, a comforting whisper against his skin as I ride him, faster, deeper.
Honestly, he does all the work. I'm just sitting here and enjoying it. Which, to be fair, I’m doing rather spectacularly. Its so him. Each descent is a revelation, a reunion, a cherished invasion that steals my breath, a soft, longing moan catching in my throat with every upward slide. My fingers curl into his shoulders, clinging, desperate to feel every inch of him, to hold him tight. Tighter than ever before, because it’s still vaguely unbelievable that he’s actually here. Not on a screen, not a distant voice, but solid, warm, and undeniably, wonderfully real.
A low, guttural murmur escapes Will's chest, a sound of profound relief and simmering passion. He’s certainly not giggling anymore. His hips meet mine with instinctive precision, and a part of me notes how perfectly we still fit. Like custom-made puzzle pieces, even after all this time. He’s here, he’s really here.
I throw my head back, eyes squeezed shut, a breathless cry escaping my lips as the pressure intensifies, building to an unbearable, exquisite peak that feels both familiar and brand new. My inner muscles clench, milking him, urging him on as a tremor starts deep within me, spreading outwards like wildfire. The world narrows to the pure, unadulterated pulse of him inside me, the sweet friction, the overwhelming stretch and fullness.
He kisses me, on the forehead. Quickly, casually. I smile to myself, against his bicep, that there's nothing casual about us anymore.
Then it hits. A blinding, beautiful flash, a shattering release that seizes my whole body. I cry out, a filthy lewd sound of unadulterated joy and relief. I collapse forward, my chest pressed against his, face tucked into the crook of his neck. My hands long gone from the scratchy headboard. Theyre now digging into his shoulders, leaving angry red cresnts in their wake.
Holy shit
Will's movements get sloppy, and then his own body convulses beneath me, a final, fervent groan of release escaping him as he pumps one last, deep thrust inside, before slumping back against the headboard, gloriously spent. Well, that explains the quiet.
Heavy breaths fill the room, softening to sighs as our bodies slowly cool. I lie draped over him, my forehead resting on his shoulder. It's slick with sweat. His arms are still around me, a soft, protective embrace that feels exactly like coming home. The scent of sex and his familiar skin hangs sweetly in the air, a delicious, musky perfume that I inhale like the most precious thing.
My legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling slightly, and the delicious ache in my thighs is a welcome testament to the wild reunion we’ve just shared. For a long, precious moment, neither of us moves, just listening to the calming beat of our hearts, the only sound the soft rasp of skin against skin.
We sit like that for a moment — me still clinging to his chest, both of us catching our breath. Then I shift, collapsing gently beside him so we’re flushed together, chest to chest. I press a lazy kiss to the side of his neck, and he hums, one hand trailing soft, absent-minded shapes along my spine.
Eventually, he rolls away with a groan, rubbing at his eyes like he’s only just remembered they’re still open. “Hang on,” he mutters, and slips out of the bed, disappearing into the ensuite. I hear the tap run for a few seconds, the low hum of water against porcelain, before he reappears — towel in hand, expression softer now.
He doesn’t say anything as he kneels beside me and carefully wipes at my stomach, then his own. It’s quiet, save for the low, annoying hum of the too-bright overhead hotel light — the kind that makes everything look a bit too sharp, too awake. We’re both blinking against it, slightly dazed, caught between post-adrenaline and something gentler.
He tosses the towel toward the bathroom door and then makes a beeline for our open suitcases. Mine is still half-exploded across the floor from when we were rushing to get ready earlier. He crouches and starts rifling through it like he’s done it a thousand times.
“You want the pink ones?” he calls over his shoulder, already pulling out the soft cotton pyjamas I packed. Theyre the only PJs in there, I have no clue why he's asking
“Sure,” I say, watching him from the bed, my voice still a little hoarse.
He finds his own too — plain grey trackies and a wrinkled old T-shirt — and tosses mine gently to me before switching off the main light with a click. The room plunges into a calmer, amber glow from the bedside lamps.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, already pulling the top over my head. “Much.”
He crawls in beside me, wrestling with the tucked-in corners of the hotel bedding like it’s personally offended him. Each tug is exaggerated, dramatic, until one finally gives way with a satisfying rip of fabric from mattress. “Why do they do this?” he mutters, breathless. “Is it supposed to be a test of strength?”
Eventually, he manages to free enough of the sheets to cocoon us both beneath them. The bedding is cool at first, but it warms quickly between us. We settle close, legs brushing under the covers, our arms finding their place around each other like muscle memory. It’s not choreographed, but it fits.
His hand lands at the curve of my back, thumb brushing gently. My cheek presses against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat — steady, grounding. He shifts just slightly to press a kiss into my hair.
For a moment, it’s quiet — the kind of stillness that feels suspended in time. Not quite sleep, not quite fully present. Just us, tangled in hotel sheets that don’t quite smell like home, but feel like safety anyway.
I think sleep might take us. It’s right there, circling. But my heart’s still thudding in my chest, too loud in the silence. I can hear his, too — steady, but unmistakably present. Like we’re both wide awake pretending not to be.
Then, after a beat, he mumbles, “Do you want a crumpet? I’m gonna order some on Deliveroo.”
I blink. “A crumpet?”
He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, already reaching for his phone. “Yeah. I’m starving. Thought about it earlier and now I can’t stop.” He squints at the screen. “Theres a corner shop that still delivers at this hour.”
I laugh, shaking my head into the pillow. “Sure. Why not. Midnight crumpet feels very on brand for us.”
“Excellent choice.” He taps away, victorious. “pack of crumpets, there's complimentary tea in the kitchen. Romance.”
I roll my eyes, but my grin gives me away. “Peak intimacy.”
He hums, settling back beside me. “Wait ‘til you try them with raspberry jam. That’s when things get serious.”
xxx
We sit tangled up in the rumpled hotel sheets, leaning against the headboard where soft pillows pile up behind us. Will’s legs are stretched out, one lightly brushing against mine, while my knees are bent, feet tucked close to his calves. He holds his mug in one hand, the other resting comfortably over mine. The lamplight bathes us in a honeyed glow, making his face look softer, more vulnerable than usual.
I catch myself stealing glances at him—how the light catches the slight curve of his smile, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. My chest feels warm, a mix of relief and something tender blooming inside me.
I’ve missed this, I think. Missed how easy it is with him—how he knows me without needing words, how even silence feels full and good. I never thought locking something like this down could feel so right.
“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he says, his voice low and earnest, eyes catching the flicker of the lamp.
“Me too,” I reply, smiling against the warmth of the moment. “Feels right. Like we’re finally on the same page.”
He nods, fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of my hand. Then, almost like a surprise, his face lights up. “Wait… what’s the date today?”
I pause, then grin. “For our anniversary?”
We laugh, the sound light and happy in the quiet room. He grabs his phone off the nightstand, and the screen illuminates both of us.
The room feels like a bubble, soft and golden around us. Outside the window, the city hums quietly, but here, everything slows down—the gentle clink of our mugs, the faint scent of warm crumpets mingling with the faint tang of tea. It’s in these small, perfect moments that everything else fades away, and all that matters is the quiet closeness, the shared smiles, and the ease of simply being together.
“Do they have crumpets in Australia?” Will asks, breaking the comfortable silence.
I laugh, shaking my head gently. “Yes, you idiot.”
“Hey, I have no idea,” he says, grinning.
“My mum puts Vegemite on them,” I explain, watching his face carefully.
“That’s criminal,” he replies, a grimace forming on his face.
We laugh together, the sound light and easy, weaving itself into the stillness of the room. It’s silly, intimate—like a secret language just for us. These little moments, full of teasing and tenderness, wrap around me like the softest blanket. It’s not about grand gestures or perfect words. It’s about this—two people, quietly discovering how lovely love can be, one crumpet and one smile at a time.
“I can’t believe you asked me while you were balls deep,” I say, biting into a crumpet and trying not to laugh.
He chuckles, eyes sparkling as he swirls his tea. “Well, I was going to make it a whole thing—flowers, chocolates, maybe a nice restaurant.” He grins, a little sheepish. “And I was planning to wait another month… but then, it just felt right.”
I watch him nervously mess with his fringe, his smile soft but honest. The warmth from the tea and the quiet of the lamplight make everything feel a little more tender.
“What are we going to tell people when they ask? Like when we get the train tomorrow evening and everyone’s all, ‘Oh, how did it happen?’” My voice is part teasing, part panicked.
He laughs, the sound low and warm. “Didn’t think about that,” he admits, taking another bite of his crumpet. “Me mam’s going to ask too.”
I press my forehead into my hands, chuckling helplessly. “Oh my God.”
He leans back on one elbow, looking at me with mock seriousness. “We say we got home late and were having a deep and meaningful conversation.”
I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Rough, but I guess it’ll have to do.”
We share a quiet laugh, the kind that settles into your bones. The crumpets are nearly gone, the tea gone cold, but none of that matters. It’s this silly, imperfect moment—full of teasing and hope—that makes everything feel just right.
"Are you going to tell your mum?" I ask quietly, tracing the rim of my mug with a finger. I haven’t met Jean yet — it would be strange if I had. But Will always talks about her with a warmth that settles in my chest.
He shifts beside me, eyes soft in the lamplight. “Too right I will,” he says. He turns to face me, a small smile playing at his lips. “I told her I was seeing someone ages ago — like, when we first started going out. She asked if I was happy.”
I swallow, thinking about how long ago that must have been. “What did you say?”
Without hesitation, he breathes out, “I said I was over the moon.”
I sit up a little, heart skipping. “Really? Even back then?”
His grin widens, genuine and steady. “Yeah. From the start.”
The room falls into a comfortable silence — the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket. The soft hum of the city outside, the gentle clink of our mugs, and the lingering sweetness of crumpets fill the space between us.
“Are you going to tell your parents?” he asks after a moment, voice low.
I nod, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. “Yeah. The time difference makes it tricky. I want to say big things like that over FaceTime, not text. But we’ve got one scheduled next week. That’s when I’ll tell them.”
“Sounds good,” he says, relief and something softer mingling in his tone.
We finish our crumpets, the crumbs forgotten on the plates. I rest my head on his shoulder, and the weight of the day melts away. Sleep tugs at my eyelids, pulling me under as the quiet of the room holds us safe.
I’ve been checking your page all day for the next chapter and have just seen your post about the new chapter. Take all the time you need! We will happily wait until you have something you feel good with!-🩷
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