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Morpheus snorts.

I glare at the shelving unit.

Mr. Henderson sighs.

“I’ll check the loading dock.”

“Great idea!”

The moment the door closes, I spin around.

Morpheus emerges from behind the shelves, grinning.

“Rats?”

“Not. One. Word.”

He laughs.

I grab a pair of gray sweatpants and a black museum T-shirt from the emergency clothing cabinet.

“Put these on.”

He examines them.

“These garments are beneath me.”

“They’re literally supposed to be beneath you.”

He looks at the sweatpants.

Then at me.

“Very well. But I shall require more suitable attire.”

“Sure. We’ll call Versace.”

“Is he a tailor?”

I close my eyes.

This is going to be a very long night.

* * *

Forty minutes later, I have a Greek god in my apartment.

A Greek god who has already complained about my ceiling height, questioned the purpose of the refrigerator, and declared modern clothing an insult to the male form.

Now he’s in my bathroom.

And has been for an alarmingly long time.

“Morpheus?”

No answer.

I knock.