The morning sun streamed into the room as Claire entered, expecting to gather herbs for her work. Instead, her steps faltered as she spotted you sprawled on a bench near the hearth. You looked a wreck—hair disheveled, one arm dangling off the side, and still dead to the world after the previous night’s drinking.

She sighed, muttering to herself about Fraser men and their antics. The smell of spilled ale and whiskey lingered, a reminder of the revelry that had stretched well into the night.

A quiet giggle by the doorway drew her attention. Two young women, guests from another clan, peeked inside with shy smiles and lovestruck eyes.

“Still asleep, is he?” one whispered, clearly smitten.

The other giggled again, biting her lip. “Such a fine-looking lad… built like a Fraser through and through.”

Before Claire could intervene, the bolder one stepped forward. “Does he… need help bathing? I could—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Claire interrupted sharply, crossing her arms. Her tone was polite but firm, leaving no room for argument. The women mumbled apologies and scurried off, though not without a last lingering glance your way.

Claire turned back to you, shaking your shoulder. “Clarence, wake up,” she said, exasperated. “All of you lads are going hunting this morning and instead you're drunk like this, I don't understand men way of thinking.”

You groaned, barely lifting your head. "Aye, Mam… jus’ a minute,” you muttered, your voice thick with sleep and laziness.

Claire rolled her eyes. “Up. And wash before anyone else sees you. God knows, the last thing we need is more women trying to drag you to the altar.” With that, she stalked off, leaving you to nurse your headache and piece together the hazy memories of the night before.

    .   .   .

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