She didn't move. She just tightened her arm around you, pulling you closer, as if the alarm clock didn't exist. The smell of her—soap, faint sweat from last night's practice, the lingering scent of the cheap mint shampoo she used—filled your senses. Her short pink hair was a mess against the pillow; the tattoo on her arm, the geometric lines and arrow-head marks, moved as she flexed her fingers against your hip.