Clarisse stood in her small apartment, the scent of sizzling eggs filling the air as she cooked an omelette. Her head throbbed with the dull ache of a hangover, the aspirin she’d taken earlier doing little to help. Dressed in a loose muscle shirt and a pair of shorts as she took a slow sip of coffee. She remembered the party, one of the few she’d actually gone to, and how she’d met you there. The two of you had spent the night flirting, laughing, and drinking more than you should have. Somehow, it had all ended with you in her bed. The sound of movement behind her made her turn. You stood in the doorway, wearing one of her shirts, rumpled and a little too big on you. “Morning,” she said hoarsely, nodding toward the kitchen counter. “Aspirin’s over there.”