Touch
A bed. Not a cot, or a bunk, or a hammock, but a proper feather bed. Big enough for him to stretch out completely and only have his feet sticking off the bottom. Soft enough to burrow into, the better to escape the penetrating chill of late fall in London. Linens, clean and fresh-pressed, smelling faintly of lavender. A new night-dress. The sheer sensuality of all that snowy cloth against his bare skin engulfed him as much as the duvet did. It was bliss, and he reveled in it.
Chagrin took over, as sleep began to claim him. Good Lord. He was waxing rhapsodic about bedclothes. Much more of this and he really would run mad.