She'd sunk deep, this time, whether by longing or relief or the simple need for his familiar comfort, it made no difference. She breathed slowly, every so often turning her head a little to feel the rub of his shirt against her cheek. She loved being just here, when he made the world around them fade quietly away.
"I like picnics," she murmured, her fingers curling at his waist and gently kneading.
But at length, he drew her back up with the words that moved them toward the direction they needed to go. She wasn't exactly pleased with the interruption, but ah, that was the thing about Morpheus. He always made you want to stay -- he always made you want to drift. When she finally lifted her head from where she'd nestled down, her eyes were still filled with a slow and floating desire, both sweet and deep and unassuming. She set her fingertips against his bottom lip, then skimmed them across the line of his jaw. There was a pleading in the motion, one she didn't try to verbalize.