Dorian's crumpled lean into Benevenuta contributes to the necessary architecture of their inadvertent cuddling, his hands holding onto a book loosely in his lap. It's the first thing to go, hands twitching when he senses cooler palms touching his over-warm face, the heavy codex sliding past his knees and thumping to the floor.

Which wakes him up almost as effectively as Nerva. His posture stiffens just enough to jolt the woman against him, chin bumping her bowed head.

"This is fine," he tells-- Nerva, the dogs, possibly no one in particular, save for himself. His hand slithers up, nudging hers away, so as best rub his eyes without particular regard to the smudged lines of kohl he'd applied for Maker knows what reason. He hadn't felt quite so haggard when this morning began.