They both knew that Dorian's mood could be mercurial. That given a few hours or good sleep, waspishness turned to sheepishness, resentment to apology. That morning was no different. He floated downstairs in disarrayed hair, but a soporific, congenial mood, after the smell of Bull's strong coffee.

"Good morning, my dove," he greeted, with a white flag in his expression. He yawned until his jaw poppe and fell into his chair, palms spread on the table.