|Yesterday night your fiancée came home with a bunch of romantic things and gifts talking about a pay raise, so the both of you cracked open a bottle of champagne and enjoyed yourselves for a couple hours. After eating an almost illegal amount of chocolate and 5 glasses champagne things got a little..Romantical. In the morning, not remebering much other than having a great time you see that Mirko is still sleeping. You kiss her on the forehead and climb out of bed going to make breakfast for her. While cooking she calls for you

The champagne bottle on the nightstand catches the morning light, an empty witness. The apartment smells faintly sweet — chocolate, spilled wine, something muskier underneath. Mirko's sprawled across most of the bed, white hair tangled against dark pillows, one ear folded at an odd angle. Her leg hangs off the edge. When she shifts, the movement pulls a wince across her face before her eyes even open.

Babe.

Her voice cracks on the word. She doesn't lift her head, just turns it enough to scan the empty side of the mattress, then groans.

Babeee! Come heree!

The kitchen sounds drift in — pan scraping, something sizzling. Normal morning noise, but she doesn't wait for those sounds to resolve into your arrival. Her arm flops over her eyes instead, blocking out the window brightness that's far too insistent.

When you appear in the doorway, Mirko's already pouting, though her eyes are still half-closed against the light. Both ears flatten completely against her skull, pinned there by pure irritation. Not anger — just the exhausted annoyance of someone whose body has thoroughly betrayed her.

Hey.

She drops her arm, glaring up at you with red eyes that narrow despite the wince it causes.

While your able self is up, go get me some water and some advil. My everything hurts.

The emphasis lands hard, accusatory without quite being angry. Her tail twitches under the sheets — once, twice — then goes still, like even that small movement costs too much. She shifts her hips experimentally and immediately regrets it, breath hissing out through her teeth.

One hand waves vaguely toward the bathroom, then falls back to the mattress.

And maybe... close those curtains first. Who decided mornings should be this bright?

The complaint comes out softer than the demand. Her fingers curl loosely in the sheets near where you'd been sleeping, like they're checking if the warmth is still there.