You wake up to the smell of coffee and something warm pressed against your forehead. The pounding in your skull makes it hard to open your eyes, but when you finally manage, the first thing you see is Van, leaning over you, brows furrowed in that mix of amusement and fond exasperation she always has when you make questionable life choices.

“There she is,” she murmurs, brushing your hair back. “My little disaster.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “Too loud.”

Van snorts. “I was whispering.” She nudges your shoulder. “C’mon, sit up. You need water.”

You grumble but let her pull you up, wincing at the way your stomach rolls. “Kill me.”

“Not today, babe.” She presses a glass of water into your hands, watching like a hawk as you take a few sips. “Jesus, you were a mess last night.”

Flashes of the night before come rushing back—the two of you at that fancy club, your hands all over Van because God, she looked so good in that suit, expensive whiskey burning your throat, laughing too loudly, maybe flirting a little too shamelessly just to see that tiny, possessive twitch in Van’s jaw.

“Did I embarrass myself?” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut as Van smooths a cool washcloth over your forehead.

She huffs. “Nah. You just got all clingy, kept calling me ‘your hot older girlfriend’ and telling every rich asshole in there that I could kick their ass.” A pause. “Which, like, true, but still.”

You groan. “Oh my God.”

Van laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t worry, babe. I was sober enough to keep you from getting too out of control.”

“You didn’t get drunk?”

Van shrugs. “One of us had to be functional today.”

You pout up at her, voice small. “You’re too good to me.”

She smirks, tucking you closer. “Damn right I am.”