The sun surreptitiously makes its presence known as the warm tendrils taunt her as she sleeps.
Encased in her subconscious, the flickering light is transposed to resemble a tune she would rather forget; the coarse, black fabric grating her skin and forbidding her to identify those responsible; the torment enhanced by the allusion to something beyond the concrete confines as a glow infiltrates the covering, as if to gloat, before swiftly withdrawing.
She desperately takes in oxygen through her nostrils, filling her lungs until they are bulging underneath her ribcage before she expels the air, a fleeting, yet clearly pained whimper attaching itself to the exhalation. Her right hip is snugly cradled by the mattress beneath her, her left no longer stranded in solitude as his soft palm tenderly takes residence, his fingers folding around the joint to dangle delicately onto her abdomen.
With a careful crack of the eyes, she makes out the incandescent digits: 6:32. The sun has abandoned its ruse as it dances erratically between the wind-tangled branches outside the window and the rays leap around the room with careless abandon. She anticipates that the devious felon, always waiting for her to wake from such dreams, will strike at any moment. The grip on her chest is imperceptible at first, before tightening malevolently so that she must barter for air with short, sharp gasps.
But the familiar foe is noticeably absent.
She blinks three times to adjust her focus and lies still to observe the contents of the wardrobe, proudly on display since the doors had failed to reconvene following their parting the night before. Countless shirts, obediently lined up, jackets equally compliant on the rail below. Folded sweaters parked on the shelves above t-shirts and shorts, the drawers no doubt harbouring items of a more intimate nature. It is only then that she becomes aware of the heat radiating from her left hip, the slightly callused finger pads brushing against her belly.
As she twists onto her back, the slide of his warm hand smoothly sketches a line across her silky torso. He draws her closer and buries his face in the chocolate locks sprawled carelessly across the pillow, while sleep, a seductive temptress, lures him back for an encore amidst the sweet scent of shampoo.
With a turn of her head, her nose brushes his Adam's apple, the musky scent of his aftershave greeting her like a comforting friend. She closes her eyes and drinks in his smell, his bare skin against hers and the weight of his arm resting across her bringing a peaceful smile to her lips.
A barely audible whisper escapes her as she drifts contentedly back into slumber, 'Tony'.
'Ziva' he replies airily, the reassurance consolidated with a sleepy kiss atop her head and the tightening hold around her waist.
Just knowing he is there is enough. She is safe in a way she never thought possible.
Waking up in his arms for the first time means more than she could ever have imagined.