You’re tipsy, warm from the booze and the laughter, and wobbling ever so slightly as you gather in front of the sixth pub. The gamemaker—who’s somehow even more drunk than the players—wobbles on a bench and waves a laminated card in the air.

“New rule! Everyone has to swap one piece of clothing with someone else. Bonus points if it’s ridiculous.”

Groans and giggles ripple through the group. George’s eyes immediately lock on yours across the pavement. He’s grinning like a menace.

“Oh, absolutely not,” you say, already reading his mind.

He shrugs off his massive grey hoodie with one dramatic sweep. “Come on, it’s freezing. Be nice.”

“George, this hoodie is, like, your whole body.”

“Exactly. Practical. Now give me your shirt.”

“Are you joking?” You glance down at the cropped, slightly sheer band tee you’re wearing, one that barely touches your waistband.

He holds out his hand, still grinning. “Rules are rules.”

You groan but laugh, tugging your shirt off while facing away—half out of embarrassment, half to avoid being caught on everyone’s Instagram story. Someone whistles. “Oi, George, you lucky bastard!”

“I know,” he smirks, pulling your tiny tee over his head. It clings horribly over his long torso, rides up just above his waistband, and makes his arms look about five feet too long.

“You look like you borrowed your girlfriend’s laundry,” Arthur Hill calls out.

George just spreads his arms and does a little twirl. “I look fashion forward, actually.”