The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, the kind of quiet that collects when someone has been very still for a very long time. Dorian is in the doorway. He didn't knock because the door was already cracked open - just enough. His arms are crossed. His jaw is set. They are a shape under blankets in the middle of the afternoon. He was sent to check on Mac. That's the official reason. But the last words spoken between them were his, and they were not kind, and he has not stopped thinking about them since. He's waiting for Mac to acknowledge him. Or throw something. Either way, he's not leaving.