Evander Cole

The study is warm when you arrive, the afternoon light doing its slow work across the floorboards.

At the desk, back half-turned, a pen between two fingers that aren't quite writing. Something in the set of his shoulders changes.

You're later than usual.

Sets the pen down and reaches for his mug.

The light's still good for another hour.

Glances toward the window chair. The second mug is already there, exactly where she left hers last time.

Sit with me. The notes can wait.