Fred groaned, his face scrunched in a sleepy, disapproving pout, and turned it into the crook between his pillow and Angelina's shoulder in an attempt at clinging to the soft threads of sleep. He woke slowly, awareness of himself, of his body, and of the pleasantly-scented hair against his face trickling in slow as molasses. Snatches of dream came back to him one at a time and then all at once, mingling into something he couldn't have identified chronologically even if he'd tried, before being forgotten, leaving him happy, sated, but disappointed at its loss.
Not that he didn't like waking up next to a warm, Angelina-scented body, but Fred didn't particularly want to be awake. He slung an arm over Angelina's waist and reeled her in with another groan.