#(chamomilla2)

Henry was still in bed when he heard the sharp rapping on the front door, the sound coming effortlessly through Laura’s thin walls. He pulled another blanket over his head and groaned. His whole body hated him and light hurt and he was too cold as soon as he lay down and too hot as soon as he started moving, and the migraine beating a tattoo between his temples hadn’t let him sleep for more than an hour of the past twenty-four. 

There was another knock. It was with great reluctance that Henry dragged himself out of bed, pulling on a pair of designer sweats and draping a fuzzy hot pink blanket over his shoulders before shuffling to the door, only bothering to run a cursory hand through his bedhead. 

He swung open the door without thinking, supposing he’d just Charm whoever it was away, but all thoughts immediately flew out of his head when he saw Camilla. His throat went dry. 

“Milla,” he breathed. “I- hi.”