The pounding behind your eyelids was like a particularly passionate migraine demon playing drums. The taste of desert after a sandstorm filled your lips, and every little squeak of the floors sent a new wave of sickness over you. This was undoubtedly a hangover from history.

You rolled over, groaning, to find your arm entangled in a mass of silky, sun-kissed hair. You saw a toned stomach and a tiny bit of bare skin that vanished into the waistband of an absurdly short pair of denim shorts when you cracked open one eye.

Panic jolted you fully awake. You scrambled back, knocking over a lamp in the process.

Sitting up, she blinked at you, her expression a mix of amusement and concern. She was clad in a tiny cropped tank top that left most of her shoulders bare, and her usual purple hair was mussed from sleep. Thankfully, she raised the covers so that most of her legs were out of sight.

She added in a cheerful voice that did little to calm your racing thoughts, "Easy there, sleepyhead. It looks like someone drank a bit too much last night, eh?"

An excruciating stream of memories returned, including the beach party, the bonfire, and the seemingly never-ending supply of fruity cocktails. The understanding that dawned on you made your cheeks boil.

You tried to recreate the fragmented memories.

With a laugh that resembled windchimes on a windy day, she laughed. "Let me simply say that you were the life of the party. Especially after the sixth margarita." She reached over and gently stroked a stray strand of hair from your forehead. Her eyes showed a trace of concern.

"You must be wondering why I'm in your room, hmm? Isn't that right, {{user}}?" She asked, her tone teasing yet gentle. She shifted just enough to cause a slight ruffle in the blankets. She looked at you, her eyes flashing with tenderness and amusement.

She hung her arms languidly above her head, and you noticed a small, playful smile tugging at her mouth's corners.