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15, 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝-𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲

"My credit card has been rejected?" I ask the receptionist. I'm not in utter disbelief; I just thought that I had a little more saved up. Apparently not.

I mean, it's not like I was planning for this to happen...

"I'll pay for a room for you," Clay says from behind me.

I put my arm out, stopping him before he can do anything.

"I'm not taking money from you," I say. "I'll feel bad."

He smiles slightly. "Well," he starts, "then you can sleep on the couch in my room. It'll be even then."

"...Okay."

"Okay."

I flick my head to him and narrow my eyes. "But no funny business, Clayton Doh."

He laughs, taking the keys from the receptionist. Wilbur and George finally walk into the hotel with the drinks and the four of us go up to Clay's room for a party.

We're celebrating Olive leaving--oh, no, I mean all of us meeting.

"Clay, try this," I say, handing him a bar of Dairy Milk. "It's a million times better than whatever they give you in America."

George nods vigorously. "I agree."

"Chocolate is one of the many things that us Brits do better," Wilbur remarks.

Clay laughs, taking the bar. He takes a bite into it. The three of us look at him expectantly, our faces devoid of expression.

"Yeah, it's good."

"It's good?" I exclaim angrily, scrunching my face up.

"This is insulting," Wilbur mutters, taking another swig of his beer.

"It tastes like chocolate."

George shakes his head furiously. "Getting diamonds from a shipwreck is good. Having this chocolate—this chocolate—doesn't even compare."

"The taste is sensational," Wilbur adds.

"Completely uncomparable to Hershey's," I add.

Clay laughs. "How are you guys already drunk?"

"We're a nation of alcoholics," Wilbur says. "But I'm the most civil British person here."

"Yeah, okay, He-Who-Called-Phil-Daddy. It's me that's the calmest. Gogy is the drunkest here."

George's mouth hangs open. His eyes are droopy. "What?"

We all laugh. In fact, the rest of the night is full of laughter and drunk comments that we'll probably forget in the morning. Eventually, Wilbur decides to leave before he drinks anymore and George stays back a bit longer.

The three of us end up playing Minecraft together. George asks me to start streaming all of a sudden and starts hitting me in-game, screaming, "Manhunt! Manhunt!" My Minecraft character runs off and I scream from the impact of his many punches, climbing up a tree. Clay wheezes, running after me in-game. Thanks to his epic parkour skills, he ends up right behind me.

I scream again. "What the fuck is going on? Is this a Manhunt?"

"Manhunt, Manhunt, Manhunt," George won't stop saying.

"Oh, Aspeeeen."

After ten minutes of running and trying my best to gather literally just wood, Clay sneaks up behind me, punches me into lava and slays me. I immediately end the stream, putting my head in my hands.

The three of us talk until midnight when George decides to go. Before he leaves, Clay and he try to come up with a cool handshake but end up failing; Clay wheezes for like five minutes because of it. They end up just giving each other a fist bump.

"Love you. Bye," Clay teases, a grin on his face.

George scoffs, choosing not to respond.

I give George a hug and mutter, "See you, Gogy."

He groans dramatically. "I'd hope not."

And then he's in his taxi.

Clay and I make our way back into the hotel room and, without even thinking, I collapse on his bed.

"What should we do now?" I ask Clay, my legs sprawled everywhere. My head feels funny again.

He smiles, sitting down on the bed next to me. The TV remote is in his hand. "Wanna watch a movie?"

"Why is that always your line?"

"What's wrong with that line?"

I imitate him with an American accent. "My name's Clay and I'm just as smooth as my name. Hey, girl, wanna watch a movie? Wanna Netflix and chill?"

"Woah, woah, woah, I never said I wanted to Netflix and chill. I mean. Unless..."

I punch his arm. He laughs.

"What do you wanna do then?"

My face heats up at the first answer I think of.

I shake my head, hoping it does the same to that bad thought.

But he's so pretty...

"You're so pretty," I blurt.

His lips part slightly. "Pretty?"

"What? Can't take a typically feminine adjective? Stupid misogynist."

"I am not a misogynist."

"You're a hot misogynist."

"Stop using that word."

"Fine, a pretty misogynist."

"Az."

"Clay," I murmur, liking the feeling of his name bouncing off my tongue.

He uses his finger to lift my chin. Our eyes meet. Carefully, he puts my hair behind my ears, and gives me a small smile. "You look tired."

I don't look away from him. "I am."

He brushes his fingers lightly over my cheek and I lean into them, wanting him to cup it.

"Cup my cheek," I grumble.

"What?"

"Cup me. Come on, Clay, cup me."

His green eyes shine with amusement. "That sounds so bad."

"Cup my cheek, idiot."

"You'll sleep on my hand if I do."

"Good."

"I'll get a cramp."

"You'll have a strong left arm," I drawl.

He laughs softly, brushing his fingers through the strands of hair that fell out when I nuzzled my face into his palm. "You should get some sleep," he says.

"Mmm."

"Catch some Zs, kid."

He stands up. I hate how far away he is from me now.

I assume he's about to leave for the sofa, so I grab onto the hem of his shirt. He stops in place, looking over his shoulder at me. The room is darker now so I can't see all the features of his face, but the atmosphere is enough for me to tell what he's feeling. What I'm feeling.

"Stay," is all I say.

...

I wake up tangled in the bedsheets.

Rubbing my eyes, I try my hardest to sit myself up. My head starts banging immediately and I hiss, clutching onto it. Golden sunlight slides across the bed through the slits in the curtain. My eyes follow it, until they land on...

Nothing.

There's nobody next to me.

Relief floods through me. Good.

I hear a loud knock at the door and dart to it. I open it up to see Clay standing there, two coffees in his hands. He doesn't come inside. He takes one glance at me, blushes and turns around.

"Az, you're..."

I look down and immediately turn bright red. Hello, knickers. I slam the door in Clay's face, hurriedly trying to find my jeans. I open the door again, trying a smile.

"Morning," I say nervously.

His eyes are full of mischief. "Yeah. Morning."

I groan. "Please don't tell anyone that that just happened. Or about last night. Whatever happened last night."

"You don't remember?"

"Well, it couldn't have been that bad. There were no boys in my bed after all," I laugh.

Clay doesn't laugh.

There's a long silence.

"There was," he mutters, "but I left to get coffee before you woke up."

My face drops.

"Did I...? No, please tell me I didn't. Well, tell me the truth. Actually, don't. Oh, god, Clay, I didn't—with you—did I?"

"We didn't do that," he laughs. His cheeks are stained pink. "But I did sleep next to you."

My mouth drops. "Clay—"

"You asked me to," he defends.

"Why would I do that? I'm such a stupid drunk. You shouldn't have listened to me."

"I can't read your mind, Az."

"Aren't you good at mastering games? Master my mind games! Please!" I joke half-heartedly.

He chuckles. "It was completely innocent. Promise."

"Then why did I wake up without bottoms on this morning?"

"I don't know. You must have taken them off in the night," he says, laughing lightly. He hands me my coffee and we both take a sip at the same time. When I look up, he starts to imitate me. "Bottoms," he mocks in a British accent.

I slap his arm. "You are not in a position to be laughing at me, pervert."

"I most definitely am," he replies, again, in a British accent.

...

We're at the airport, but it doesn't really feel like it. Even with all these busy people rushing around, trying to get to their terminals, knowing very well that if they don't they might not be able to for a while. Again, fuck corona.

Clay stands in front of me. We're at the point of the airport where I can't get any further.

His smile fades.

Without warning, he wraps me into a hug and pulls me flat into his chest. I feel his head lower to my shoulder as he breathes against my neck. My heart flutters at the sensation.

"By the way," he mutters. "You know that picture you put on Instagram yesterday?"

"The one of me in the bik..."

I hear him suck in a breath. He pushes my head firmly into his chest, not letting me look at him. I roll my eyes, even though he can't see it.

"Pervert," I grumble. My voice muffles.

Clay laughs lowly, his hands travelling down to the low of my back. "Stop being so damn attractive and maybe I could help it."

"I hate goodbyes," I mumble into his chest.

"It's not goodbye. It's, you know, see you later."

I snort, covering my eyes with the backs of my hands. "That's so cliche. Get out of here, American."

We both pull away. He starts to walk away but before he goes, he gives me a quick wave; I wave back. I stand there for a long moment, watching him disappear behind the doors. Even after he's gone, I decide to stand. When I've half shaken myself out of my daze, I turn around and walk out of the airport.

A ding sounds from my phone.

small d

that chocolate was mediocre by the way

i'm glad you're gone >:(