Morpheus moved toward her bedside with a deliberate calm, every step echoing softly against the marble floor. When he sat down, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, the faint scent of his cologne— wood and smoke— brushing the air between them. With practiced grace, he set a silver tray upon her legs, the porcelain plates clinking softly in the quiet room.
He poured water into a glass, the liquid catching the light like fragments of a fractured mirror. Then he guided the cup into her trembling hands, his fingers curling over hers— not too tight, but just enough to feel possessive under the pretense of tenderness. His skin was warm, almost too warm, as though he meant to thaw her confusion with his touch.
"You still seem to be in a bind," he murmured, voice smooth as silk and low enough to almost sound kind. His palm moved to her back, the rhythmic motion of his patting oddly controlled, almost mechanical. "How about you drink some water first?"
