A snarling wolf. What a lovely image, he thinks, and appropriate enough as he buries his stare at the fringed edges of silver bangs where they give way to sharper features.

After a beat, he shrugs off his doublet— nothing else— and clambers up across the mattress to drape down over its edge, one hand drifting lazily to catch (gently) the underside of Fenris' chin with the back of two artfully flexed fingertips, just in the dip between bright markings.

"Well, I'd consider it, if there were anything to forgive in the slightest." Suave and simple, hardly the painted niceties he's capable of offering. "But looking back you were right."

Take note of this, Fenris. He's not likely to admit it again.

"Off with you now. Kitchen doesn't kick off till after dawn, and the more I stare at you, the less I want to sleep."