He was acutely aware that he had again been lying in bed, and this time he seemed to be doing so in boxers and no shirt. That wasn't strange, in and of itself--he often padded around his apartment in the French Quarter like that. But the sheets felt wrong, and this wasn't his bed there.
The threadcount wasn't quite absurdly high enough.
He put his feet on the floor, stood, and walked to the window, watching the light reflect into the room and onto the carpet, and noting the extremely high height the room he was in seemed to be at. His eyebrows narrowed, considering the world he could see below. It was not where he had been, not that town square where he'd broken a window and told stories, and it wasn't anything that looked familiar, though it was modern and pretty, aesthetically.
But she wasn't here. Nanshe. He still did not feel her.
It was then that he heard a door open somewhere behind him, and Morpheus realized he was in part of a suite.
He turned his head over his shoulder but did not move, waiting to hear who his neighbor was.
Waiting to see who he needed to be, how he needed to act, as he tried to put the pieces of his insides back together.