The call came at 11:47 p.m.
Unknown number, late at night—usually not a great combination. But something in your gut told you to answer, and as soon as you did, the noise hit you first. Loud music, people shouting, laughter echoing in the background.
“Y/N?” a voice said—familiar, but slightly panicked. “It’s—uh—it’s one of George’s mates.”
Your stomach dropped instantly.
“It’s nothing bad,” he said quickly. “He’s just… a bit too drunk.”
You sighed, already grabbing your keys. “Where are you?”
When you arrived, you spotted them immediately.
A small group stood outside, half-laughing, half-struggling—and right in the middle of it was George Clarke.
Or at least… what remained of his dignity.
His hoodie was slightly twisted, hair a mess, and he was leaning heavily on one of his friends, blinking like the world wasn’t quite staying still.
“There she is!” one of them called as you approached.
George’s head lifted slowly.
And the second his eyes landed on you—
“Y/N,” he said, like he’d just found the answer to every problem he’d ever had.
“Hi,” you said carefully, stepping closer. “You alright?”
He immediately reached for you.
Just fully let go of his friend and stumbled straight into you, arms wrapping around you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“You came,” he mumbled into your shoulder.
His weight nearly knocked you back.
“I *had* to come,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You’re a mess.”
“No, I’m not,” he protested, tightening his grip on you anyway.
Behind him, his friends were trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“He’s been like this for the last half hour,” one of them said. “Wouldn’t stop going on about you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Oh, really?”
“Only because I love her,” George slurred, lifting his head slightly.
“Right,” you said quickly, trying to regain control of the situation. “Okay. We’re going home.”
“No,” George said immediately.
He shook his head, then winced slightly like even that was too much movement.
“I like it here,” he said.
“I can,” he insisted—and promptly proved himself wrong by swaying straight back into you.
You caught him with a sigh.
“Yeah,” you muttered. “Very convincing.”
Getting him to the car was… an experience.
He refused to let go of you the entire time.
“George,” you laughed, trying to adjust your grip as you walked. “You need to actually *walk*.”
“I am walking,” he mumbled, clinging to your side.
He just hummed in response, clearly deciding the conversation wasn’t worth his energy.
By the time you reached the car, you were half-supporting, half-dragging him.
His friends waved you off, still laughing.
“Good luck!” one of them called.
“You’re never hearing the end of this!” another added.
You shook your head, smiling despite everything.
Once you finally got him into the passenger seat, you turned to buckle him in.
Because the second you leaned in—
His hand caught your wrist.
Your heart softened instantly.
“I’m just putting your seatbelt on,” you said gently.
“No, like… stay,” he repeated, looking at you with that soft, slightly unfocused expression that somehow made everything feel more honest.
“I am staying,” you assured him. “I’m literally driving you home.”
He seemed to think about that.
But he didn’t let go straight away.
Well—quiet apart from the occasional mumble from him.
At one point, you glanced over to find him already looking at you.
“You’re pretty,” he said.
You nearly missed a turn.
“I mean it,” he added, like it was the most important thing in the world.
You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re pretty,” he repeated.
There was no arguing with that logic, apparently.
Getting him inside was somehow even harder than getting him into the car.
Because now he was tired.
The second you stepped through the door, he was back at your side, arms wrapping around you from behind this time, face pressing into your shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, laughing softly. “But you need to let me move, or we’re both just going to stand here all night.”
“Fine,” he said reluctantly.
He did not, in fact, let go.
Eventually, you managed to get him to sit down.
The second he did, he pulled you with him, arms wrapping around your waist as he rested his head against you.
“You’re warm,” he mumbled.
“So are you,” you replied.
“Stay here,” he said again, softer this time.
He relaxed almost instantly, his grip loosening slightly—but not completely.
Like even half-asleep, he still needed to make sure you were there.
Because even through the chaos, the clinginess, the complete lack of coordination…
And very, very attached to you.
