As they sleep, he dreams of flying - though not over desert and hot sand. Of flight over wild, untouched northern coastlines, cold wind and waves crashing upon rocks below. She is with him, and he is not scared of falling, even as the weather rages.

The moonlight has shifted from the bed to the mural painted upon the wall, nothing but a thin sliver left to illuminate the room once he does finally stir, his fingertips idly tracing a pattern over the skin of her arm that is wrapped around him.

(He doesn't want to wake her from her sleep, but at the same time he cannot help but touch her, using the contact to ground his senses and establish a firmer grip on the lines of this world.)

It has been a very long time since he has been this utterly comfortable and relaxed, and he is grateful for it.