՜՞՜24՜՞՜

We were sitting on the opposite sides of the couch, both silent. We've been sitting like this for an hour now.

The initial half-hour was enjoyable. I felt great, truly happy, and everything George did was incredibly amusing to me. However, my head started hurting really badly, and I became extremely thirsty.

I glared at the glass of water he had placed on the table for me, but I had no energy to sit up straight and retrieve it. Additionally, my ankles were hurting so badly from the bedazzled stupid straps wrapped around them. I was experiencing discomfort on every possible level.

"Do you want it?" George asked, observing my fixed gaze on the water.

"Yeah," I admitted, not budging an inch.

I expected him to hand me the glass due to his question, but he remained half-laying on the couch.

"Then drink it."

By the way, he's terrible at whatever job he's attempting to do... supposedly taking care of a drunk person.

"Thanks for granting me permission. I might have choked to death from thirst if you weren't so kind."

I realized I was sobering up as I hadn't giggled even once in the past few minutes. The urge to straddle George and kiss him was still there but not so intense. It was being gradually replaced by a persistent annoyance that his attractiveness gave me. Additionally, my head was starting to hurt intensely.

George chuckled, sat up, and leaned to grab the glass, handing it to me. I made sure to roll my eyes before taking it, cause why the hell did he need to smirk at me like that.

"I see you're sobering up," he pointed it out, reading my thoughts once again.

I gulped the water down and handed the empty glass back to him. He took it without complaining and placed it back on the table.

"How do you see that?" I narrowed my eyes.

"You're back to rolling your pretty eyes at me."

Unironically, I rolled my eyes at that as well.

I wished I had fallen asleep drunk and woken up with no memory of what happened. I could already sense the extra space George's ego was occupying in the room after the events. Not only had I been desperately trying to make out with him, but I had also confessed that I wanted him. I knew for a fact that he wasn't the type to let any of that slip.

However, my main concern at that moment was the physical pain I was going through.

My shoes were becoming unbearably painful the longer I stayed in them. I leaned down, attempting to remove them, but my dress was riding up my thighs, my hair was getting in the way, my fingers were shaking really bad, and overall, I lacked the patience for the task.

George appeared to notice my struggles but remained unfazed, scrolling through his phone. It didn't take me long to quit trying  - quite literally, seconds.

And we sat there in silence for a minute or so before he spoke again.

"Do you want your shoes off?" There he was, stating the obvious once more.

"Are you going to grant me permission to take them off?" I looked at him with a touch of judgment, recalling the earlier situation with the glass of water.

George shrugged, "Was planning to offer assistance, but you know, if you need permission..."

"I'll take the assistance," I didn't hesitate to swing my legs across his lap because we were sitting in the perfect positions for me to do so, "thank you in advance."

George shifted his gaze between my face and my legs resting casually on his lap, clearly taken aback.

It's funny cause he probably thought I wasn't bold enough to do it, which is probably why he offered help in the first place.

And it's even funnier that I thought he'd never help me, and the whole bit was a joke, but he started to carefully undo the straps with his fingers, holding much more flexibility and skillfulness than mine ever could.

Mesmerized is not the word to describe how I was looking at his hands. I was utterly captivated.

As the sparkly straps slipped away, a sense of relief washed over me. Yet the red imprints from the constant pressure were visible on my skin.

"That's it, I'm throwing those shoes away," I sighed as George removed them and placed them on the floor.

"They looked so good, though," he complimented, his eyes drifting to the red marks around and up my ankles, "but yeah, not worth the pain."

I shivered slightly as George's fingertips brushed against the marks left by the straps on my skin. The contrast between my burning red skin and the coolness of his fingers raised goosebumps at every point of contact. And before he could notice them, I retracted my legs from his lap.

"Thank you," I cleared my throat, hurrying to find a distraction. The remote caught my attention, "Wanna watch TV?"

He shrugged, not really interested. And honestly, same.

There was nothing good enough to keep us entertained - at least not for me. He ended up watching something about planets and the universe that I couldn't muster enough interest to even try to understand. I was simply gazing at the colorful planets, choosing the prettiest one.

When there was a commercial break, he suddenly spoke.

"Are you still drunk?" His eyes were still fixed on the TV.

"No?" I wondered what I had done now.

"Come kiss me then."

My head snapped to look at him, his eyes glued to the screen as if he was having a conversation with the TV.

"What..." I was already wishing I had slept instead of going to the balcony, "No.."

"Why not?" He finally turned to look at me, a stupid smirk planted on his lips.

"I don't want to." I lied. The real reason was that he had become too cocky, and the way he was so smug got on my nerves.

"You don't want to?" He repeated my words, raising a brow and chuckling.

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"I remember you saying other things too," he shrugged.

I took in a breath, hand clenching into a fist before I spoke.

"What things?"

His smile became even more pronounced before he spoke.

"But I want you so bad, George..."

I almost screamed at his words and how he had the audacity to bring it up. Was I even that drunk if I could recall saying that so clearly?

"Shut up-" I warned, ready to grab a pillow and suffocate him with it if he dared to continue.

"I mean, that's what you said."

"I was drunk. You don't have to bring it up." I shook my head, annoyed but also not surprised. I knew he would.

"As if you don't want me now," his confidence was ridiculous.

"Only in your dreams," I responded as if I hadn't been the one making out with him in my own dream.

"Quite an assumption that I sleep long enough to dream," he chuckled, "but what about you, darling? What have you been dreaming about?"

My face began to burn from the flashbacks of my dream and the use of the nickname simultaneously. To divert him from the topic of discussing my dreams, I furrowed my brows.

"Don't call me that."

"Don't call you what?"

"That."

"Darling?"

Oh my god, the way he said it.

"Yes."

"Why? Cause it makes you blush?" He was toying with the remote with such a relaxed state while I was on the other side of the couch fighting for my ability to breathe.

"Just shut up, I'm trying to sleep," grabbing one of the pillows and covering my head with it, I was hoping to escape his presence.

"Thought you didn't want to sleep. Without me."

I threw the pillow at him.