The Only Exception | W2S

TEN.

"Morning," I reply back, my voice considerably more croaky.

"Oh dear. You sound frail," she laughs, though not in a mean way.

"I feel frail, Talia. I'm actually going to have to go sober for a few weeks, being this hungover isn't normal," I laugh in return.

"I mean, I think you did drink an entire tequila bottle. You sweet talked the bartender, and he just let you have it. Every time I saw you, there was less tequila in it," she giggles, which makes me groan.

"That explains the headache," I mumble. "Fucking tequila, what an idiot."

"If it makes you feel better, Freya had a whole bottle of sambuca. I don't even think she's awake yet, but she's gonna have a rough one today," she tells me, and it does make me feel slightly better that at least one other person took it a tiny bit too far.

"Anyway — I phoned you to say thank you for bringing me home last night. George told me that —"

"Uh, I didn't bring you home. Harry did," she tells me. "Me and Simon were going to, but you insisted that you needed a cigarette, and we did try to convince you otherwise, but our Uber was gonna leave and it was a long drive back to ours, so Harry told us he'd sort it," she explains.

"I feel like I'm going on a wild goose chase," I laugh briefly. "Alright — well, I'll message you in a little bit, I need to go and apologise to Harry for last night," I say, and after saying our goodbyes, I hang up the phone.

I about to press on Harry's contact, when George yells out my name, presumably from the living room.

I don't have the energy to yell back, so I struggle out of bed, putting on my dressing gown, and heading out into the living room, that smells of toast.

"George, I said I didn't want any food this —" I start, but he's not in the kitchen. Rather, he's stood by the front door, which is open, and Harry is stood on the other side, looking slightly awkward.

"It's for you," George says casually, as I walk towards the door, and George subtly disappears.

"I was just about to phone you," I say simply, too hungover to even care about my appearance.

"I was this side of London anyway," he spoke quickly, like he was making up an excuse, despite me not asking why he was here.

"Do you want to come in?" I ask, and he nods, coming into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

"There's — uh, some sort of breakfast if you want any," I offer awkwardly, pointing over to the kitchen counter, where George was stood, his back facing us.

"I've already eaten, but thanks," he smiles, easing the awkwardness, and enabling the conversation to take on a more natural flow.

"Alright, well — do you wanna come in my room, then? It's a bit messy, I had a wardrobe nightmare last night apparently," I say, before remembering that he'd put me to bed, and cursed myself.

"Sure," he laughs, and his chill demeanour relaxes me a little.

He follows me into my room, and I close the door behind us.

"So —"

"How —"

We both laugh. "You first," he insists, leaning against the wall by my bed, gazing at the posters on my wall like he'd done last time.

"I was just going to say that I only just found out you were the one who brought me home last night, so thank you. And sorry," I say quickly, sitting on the edge of my bed.