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Malia is never drinking again.
She doesn't remember much of what happened last night; the only coherent memory her brain can pull up is Stiles pressing a flask into her hand and yelling at her to drink up.
She's going to kill him.
She stumbles out of bed and lurches down the hallway towards the kitchen, head pounding, mouth tasting like a dumpster. She's desperately in need of caffeine and thankfully, she can smell coffee wafting down the hallway.
She's not surprised that Allison is already awake; she rarely drinks, and when she does, it's never enough to give her a hangover. She's standing at the stove in a tank top and shorts, nudging at a pan with a spatula. There's soft music playing from her phone, and as Malia watches, she moves down the counter to the coffee maker, hips swaying to the beat, humming quietly. As she reaches into the cabinet above her head, her entire body rocks side to side, and her raised arm twists through the air like a druid performing a spell before she hooks two mugs on her fingers.
"Give me an hour, and I'll come dance with you," Malia mutters, collapsing into a chair and dropping her forehead to the table.
"Maybe two hours," Allison remarks, setting a mug of coffee beside Malia's ear. When Malia raises her head, a sunbeam stabs directly into her eye, and the throbbing in her head intensifies.
She thinks that even two hours might be pushing it.