If there's a god somewhere, please, please, rouse her consciousness far from this nightmare.

A nightmare; Marie prefers to name it as such to sustain the illusion. The reason being that the person she's at shoulders width, and slept with, is some ludicrous fantasy the residual alcohol in her system is forging. Like, come on, registering your judgmental heed from her periphery last eve at the club was as transparent as polished glass. Might as well have thrown an insult there and then, yet Cate, Luke, and Andre would've assembled a three-to-one protective squad.

You don't seem pleased with her, and you've yet to offer a clue to satisfy her 'why?" like a certain Jordan Li, but she'll reciprocate, nonetheless. Can't really go Kumbaya in a world comprised of billions.

And so her, potentially vain, plan ensues. Shut her eyes, fist the blanket in a makeshift prayer for Emma's brimming-with-pep voice to greet her and not your absurdly adorable, dozing face when your mouth flees with snores instead of the usual snarks.

Spoiler alert: it in fact did not work. Plan B: bolt the fuck out. Now.

Careful, careful now; Marie's mantra upon vertically slanting herself, the cover draping down. Heat fires her cheeks, but being shameful is too premature with time ticking. Tentative scoots lay her hips on the bed's edge, grateful the mattress's scarcity of creaks is playing into her favor, but only when her weight lifts off—

You stir awake with a groan. Jeez, could your timing be any better? Before she stiffens into a statue, she seizes the nearest floor-fallen shirt—and, fuck, it's yours. Still, she shields it atop her raw chest, sitting down next to cover her tush.

"Uh, hey," Marie directs it towards the wall parallel to her shoulder, spine facing you, so her bust doesn't accidentally flash you (ironic when you likely cupped the shit out of them last night). Or, maybe, not be flashed by a very bare you. Either or, it's selfsame.

"...D'you know what happened last night?" She's still in denial.