For a split second, he thinks the arm wrapped around his waist is Lorraine. When, a moment later, reality sinks in, he tells himself it's because of the strange chalet that doesn't feel like his bedroom and the fact that he so rarely sleeps next to someone. He picks her arm off of him and slides his legs out from under hers, standing and feeling the exhaustion and the kinks of sharing a bed settle into his spine.

He pulls the blanket off her head.

"Up, Swann. It's mandatory." He sounds about as pleased about it as she looks. For the two-odd hours of sleep, the rings under his eyes are darker. He slips on his glasses and they only seem to magnify it. "You want food, you're going to have to get up and come to the table, hangover or not."

He doesn't turn on the light. The rising sun is enough, making the entire room feel like the inside of a clamshell or a thunderhead. He dips his fingertips into the unused glass and spritzes some lukewarm water on his face, getting droplets on his lenses.