"Good morning, Father."
Dorian grumbled, practically collapsing into the dining chair.
"Good morning, son."
James grunted back, making a valiant effort to shove a spoonful of rice into his mouth.
Now semi-seated, Dorian finally bothered to lift his gaze from the battlefield that was his breakfast and aim it squarely at his father. From his vantage point, he could practically smell the exhaustion radiating off the man. Even the way he was trying to shovel food into his mouth was regulated, as if he were holding back from simply inhaling it.
'Hold on a minute,' Dorian mused to himself, a furrow appearing between his brows. 'Why in the heck is my father even eating breakfast at this ungodly hour?'
"Father, were you out battling dragons this morning? Why are you chowing down so late?" he asked, reluctantly picking up his own spoon as if it were a booby-trapped utensil.
