Slowing rising from the fog of sleep, Claire woke feeling a general sense of unease; like a bad dream lingering emotionally though no memory of it was retained. More than likely, that was actually the case. She didn’t bother to try and remember her dreams–nightmares, really–any longer. Claire shimmied out of bed and was immediately assaulted with images of what had happened last night. Fingers went to her lips for a brief moment before she shook her head and let out a long sigh. She felt like a teenager again, confidence a deflated flat balloon as she recalled her capricious, misguided, emotional actions.
Mentally berating herself, she pulled an oversized sweater out of her suitcase and pulled it on over her black nightgown. It was not a morning for looking cute or flirty. Hair was pulled roughly up at the nape of her neck, and as she stepped barefoot into the hall, her nose caught wind of Mohinder’s cooking. Though not able to place what he was making, it smelled good and comforting. She pulled the end of the sweater sleeves over her hands and entered the kitchen/dining area, waving almost timidly at the chef.
“Good morning,” she said, leaning against the bit of empty counter furthest from him. A few silent moments passed as she took in the ingredients and fruits of his labor, as well as the semi-organized chaos that was his process. Flour was scattered across the counters, not to mention a few smudges on his face, and there were drizzles of batter from the bowl to the stovetop. An empty carton of eggs was next to the sink, along with a small mound of shells. She couldn’t help but grin a little. “What….are you making?