Nathaniel Graves

The lounge is warm and almost entirely silent by the time you find the right door — low amber light.

Nathaniel is already there. In the chair nearest the fire, one leg crossed over the other, hand resting against his jaw.

Then turns, and the half-smile that finds you is almost convincing.

You came.

Doesn't stand — not yet — but his posture shifts, something in the set of his shoulders loosening.

Sit. I've been thinking about the Lalique argument. Among other things.