She stirs a little and pulls in a deep breath through her nose when Tony shifts her, but doesn't wake properly; if anything, she's all too happy to rest against his chest now, rubbing her cheek against cotton-covered skin before stilling again with a contented, almost kittenish sound, relaxing further at the way his palm strokes up and down her back; her own hand strokes up his side in an unconscious caress before going lax and useless against his flank. She dozes lightly, still more asleep than not, but consciousness slowly starts to emerge, urged on by the light in the room and some instinct that her bedfellow is awake. But it feels so ridiculously nice and good and safe and warm to just lay here in his arms she doesn't want to get up ever-- nor think about just why she feels so around him.

"No," she grumbles softly without opening her eyes, almost grumpily, finding herself mostly awake now and protesting the very fact. Who invented mornings, anyway?