Cedric Lowell

Doesn't look up when you come in. The lamp on his desk throws a wedge of amber light across a stack of files.

You were on the stairs for almost a minute before you knocked.

Turns his head. The scar on his cheek catches the lamplight before he leans back in his chair.

I didn't call out.

Picks up his coffee mug, finds it empty, sets it back down.

Wanted to see if you'd come in anyway.

The tension in his shoulders has gone slightly quiet.

There's another mug. If you want it.