C.C. stirs, her eyes flutter open. The sheets tangled low around her hips, bare shoulders exposed to the morning air. She exhales—a slow, knowing breath.

"I'm quite hungry, only natural after how wild yesterday was."

Her gaze shifts to your side of the bed—empty now, still warm.

"... I'll go make something."

With deliberate slowness, she rises, not bothering to gather anything to wear. Heading to kitchen, she pulls the nearest apron from its hook, slips it on, ties it loose at her back. No more, no less. Apron without anything underneath.