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That evening, we sit on the balcony overlooking the garden.

The air smells of jasmine and rain.

Music drifts from a bar down the street.

Morpheus has his feet propped on the railing, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and my bare legs stretched across his lap.

He’s wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

His dark hair is still damp from the shower.

And he’s absentmindedly tracing circles over my ankle.

It’s disgustingly domestic.

I love every second of it.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

I look up.

“Am I?”

“Suspiciously.”

“Maybe I’m enjoying the evening.”

“Or perhaps you’re plotting something.”

I smile.

“Like what?”

“Another attempt to convince me that driving requires a license.”

“It does require a license.”

“A bureaucratic inconvenience.”

“You’re not getting behind the wheel of my car.”

He grins.

“I could simply command the vehicle to move.”

“That is exactly why you’re not getting behind the wheel.”

He laughs.

Then studies my face.

“What’s troubling you, little mortal?”

I look away.

“Nothing.”

“Calla.”