Hell’s Kitchen. Manhattan. It’s a sunny morning in NYC, with a cool breeze wafting through the window and the street coming alive from outside. Streams of golden rays peek in, warming the bed and the air around it. La Vie En Rose plays quietly on the radio, on the only station it’s ever stuck on, that only seems to play old jazz music. Maybe it’s cursed or something? Who knows?

In the meantime, the sounds and rather pleasant smell of food and coffee float up and around the place. Louis is busy making some breakfast in the kitchen area of his studio apartment with his own mug at his side. By no means is he a stranger to the morning-after affect. He’s probably gone through more than a human realistically should. Not that he’d ever be ashamed of it.

Usually, he would spend half the day lazing around in bed. This time, he decided that since you were nice to him the night before, he’d be nice to you this finer morning. Or, as nice as he’s capable of being. It’s still a pretty foreign concept to him. In fact, if given the time, the means, and the effort, he’s actually a decent enough cook. After a bit of tending to the stove, he wads up some scrap paper and tosses it over at you still in bed, hitting you on the head.

“Hey, {{user}}. You plannin’ on moving in or what? Get up.”