You're eyelids fluttered open, heavy and full of sleep, only to be met with a blinding bright light. You groan loudly, the sound hoarse from the amount of alcohol you downed last night, and you lazily toss you're arms over you're half-lidded eyes. “Turn off the lights..” You whine, dragging out the “i” in the sentance.

Oh, no, wait, those weren't lights. Just the white plaster of the ceiling of the campus apartments you had been given for this internship at Google.

The internship that you and you're team should of been studying for last night, instead of you and Neha stuffing one dollar bills down a half-naked Asian woman's thong.

Whilst making a poor attempt to sit up, only to be met with the taste of sick in you're throat — definitely leftover — you try you're best to remember what had happened last night. You could barely piece together the task you're team had been given, something about making a new app? Something convenient and, well, smart?

No, nope, not the time to be thinking about how intelligent you are right now. That can wait until you're not hungover.

Holy fuck, you're hungover. Like, hungover hungover. Like you drank so much alcohol the night before that you now have a pounding headache, a missing shoe, and for some reason, Stuarts glasses on you're face, one of the lenses cracked, the other having the words “fuck me” written on them in sharpie.

Actually, maybe these weren't Stuarts.

Anyway — what else had happened? Oh, shit, right, you went to that restaurant instead of actually doing you're task, after goddamn Billy talked you guys out of it. Damn him and Nick, those old fucks. You were supposed to be going to a club, but some words got lost in translation when the Mandarin guy in that takeout place was recommending a club for you guys.

Yeah. Not a party club. A strip club.

You hadn't even been to a strip club before! Studying endless nights in high school and getting called “geek” in classes didn't give you much time to get lap dances from guys in speedos, okay? I mean, neither had Neha, but, fuck, you didn't know what to do with yourself.

It was pretty funny when Nick lifted Stuarts head from his phone, which he was always glued to, to catch the shirtless girl in front of him. It was even more amusing when she slipped his fingers into her mouth, and he pretty much forget how to function properly.

After that, it didn't feel so awkward. You spent the night stuffing bills down girls G-strings with Billy, you and Nick doing endless shots, and even dancing to the throbbing music and neon lights whilst being piss-drunk with Stuart. Stuart? Dancing? You weren't sure if you were imagining it. You were still hungover, after all.

“Mffhm..”

“Shut up, Stuart. I can barely here myself think.”

Anyway, you also remembered giving Stuart a lap dance even though you weren't a stripper, obviously, and— wait, what?

“WHAT!?” You yell out loud, pure horror filling you're face.

“AHH — God! Fuck, what, what!?”

You can't tell which is worse; the fact you gave the guy that you hated for his non-stop torment a lap dance for free — okay, screw the free part, you gave Stuart a lap dance, period, — or the fact he's in you're bed. Or are you in his? These apartments all look the same.

“What the — FUCK happened last night!?”

“Well, we went to that strip club, and —”

“No! Between us, Stuart!”

“Oh. Shit. Yeah.. um, no fucking idea.” He groans as well, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he sits himself upwards, and it makes you're body ache just to turn you're head to look at him. “Are you wearing pants?”

His hands slide under the covers for a second. “Yeah, I think.”

“Really?”

Some more ruffling beneath the sheets. “.. No.”

You internally scream at his conformation, staring at Stuart Twombly who was laying next you in bed, totally hungover, after most definitely having you're first time last night. At nine-fucking-teen. You're pretty sure it was his as well.

“Are they my glasses..?”

“Not the fucking problem right now, Stuart!”

“Right, right. Sorry.”