There's a little bit of a delay between when she wakes up and when he does — she might hear it on her way through her door, the sharp sucking intake of breath that comes from someone jerking awake from a particularly unpleasant dream. It takes him a second, but he slowly collapses back down onto the couch right before she says his name.

Not surprising, really. He scrubs at his face, manages a hoarse and quiet, "Yeah."

He's up.

Sorry.

God, he hates that fucking dream. It was a little different this time with her in it, but not much.