Eyes Bright, Uptight {EDITING}

//it takes a bit more//

{Short chapter, more to come, slowly but surely. Love you all, thanks for being pals and the continuous votes and comments! by the way I will never not love this interview/gif}

{Play "You" by The 1975}

{Claire's POV}

Perhaps it was the hotel bed, in its plush, perfect-temperature. Perhaps it was the fact that I had fallen asleep, snugly wrapped in George's arms, post-orgasmic sex. Either way, when I woke the next morning, I was in the best of moods.

The California sun had presented itself in all its glory, the white of the sheets wrapped around George and I shining in a yellow-dipped glow. I had woken up on my side, and George was on his stomach, handsome face mashed into the pillow, arm still wrapped around me like I would fly away.

Even in his sleep, George Daniel took care of me.

My lashes fluttered, my brain fluttering along with it trying to accept what had happened last night. What I had agreed to, what George had agreed to.

Last night, I had had sex with my best friend. Four times.

It was somewhere around four in the morning when George had exhausted himself to the point were he was stumbling around the room, sleepy-eyed and yawning, and a little high. He had wandered out onto the patio, in nothing but his white Calvin Kleins, and lit a cigarette. When I followed him, my body carelessly wrapped in a sheet, I had commented on how beautiful the Los Angeles. He had told me "Yeah, but it's got nothing on you kid."

As the light of the moon and fanstsical buildings of Los Angeles radiated against George's features: his nose, his jaw, his mouth, I questioned whether or not I had set myself up to fail.

Could I agree to be just George's friend? George had always been a bit of a player, and it was well-warranted. He was funny, handsome, sweet, and now in a band that was getting more famous by the minute.

How would I feel when they day came? The day I found a photo of he and another girl on Instagram; an ad in a tabloid suggesting he was dating a famous singer; the times he wouldn't call me back.

Georgie had always called me when he had the chance. I knew he would never forget me. But I was still very scared shitless. At the

And at the same time, I felt so safe, so small, so warm in his arms. This hadn't been the fist all-nighter I had pulled with George Daniel, but it was the one that changed everthing between us.

George was snoring now, a deep cushioned hum coming from his lips. His hair was tickling the bridge of his nose, and I pushed it softly back against his head, enjoying him in this peaceful state. I watched him for quite some time, and when I felt the urge to use the restroom, I began wiggling away from the grasp of his arm that was clutched against my lower back.

And that's when he spoke.

"Did you know that Beverly Hills actually started as a lima bean ranch?" he spoke.

The noise was not coming from George.

I jolted up in bed, grasping the sheets around my naked body.

He was sitting in the chair at the corner of the room, one pajama bottomed-leg crossed over the other, his tattooed feet bare. He had a traveler's brouchure in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other.

"Matty," I gulped.

He coiled his finger around a lock of his curly hair and igored me.

"And did you know that Marilyn Monroe dotted the 'I' in her name at Graumann's Chinese Theater, but someone stole it?" he went on.