He pauses momentarily when he sees me.
"Evening," he says, setting his briefcase down. I notice the slight loosening of his tie, the single concession to the end of the workday.
"How was your meeting?" I ask.
"Productive," he answers, his standard response to most questions about his work. Then, surprisingly, he elaborates: "We're evaluating expansion into sustainable construction materials."
He moves to the kitchen, his routine unfolding: jacket hung over the chair, sleeves rolled up exactly three turns, hands washed for exactly twenty seconds.
I watch over the back of the couch. When he opens the refrigerator, he pauses. "Have you eaten?" The question feels like an overture, the first invitation to share something beyond obligation.
I haven't, actually. I lost track of time with my sketches, and now it's well past dinner.
"Not yet," I admit.
He nods, considering this information as seriously as if it were a business proposal. "I usually order in on Wednesdays," he says. "You're welcome to share if you'd like."
The invitation is formal and awkward. But sweet.
"That would be nice," I reply, closing my sketchbook. He orders without consulting me. He orders Japanese food from what must be a high-end restaurant, judging by the way the person on the phone greets him by name.
When the food arrives, the meal is exquisite, presented in delicate ceramic dishes that make my usual takeout containers seem crude by comparison.
Seamus asks about my project, listening attentively as I explain the concept of the mechanical-minded child who builds increasingly elaborate devices to solve simple problems.
"An engineer in training," he observes with what might be the ghost of a smile.
When he rises to clear the dishes, I notice something unusual on the console table near his office door—a leather-bound photo album I haven’t seen before.
“Is that new?” I ask.
Seamus follows my gaze. Then he nods once. “My mother sent it over. I haven’t decided what to do with it.”
“May I?”
“If you’d like.”
He hands it to me instead of setting it back down.
The leather is worn soft at the corners. Inside, the photographs are slightly faded, edges curled with time. There is Seamus at five, gap-toothed and scowling at the camera. At ten, all knees and elbows and a wild riot of red hair that refuses to be tamed. At thirteen, already too serious for his age, standing stiffly beside a man I assume is his father.
I glance up at the Seamus in front of me taking in the precise tie knots, the measured tone, the posture engineered for boardrooms, and then back down at the boy in the photographs.
“You had curls,” I murmur.
He exhales, almost a laugh. “Unmanageable.”
“They’re wonderful.”
His mouth twitches at that. He doesn’t correct me.
I turn another page. There’s one of him in a school uniform, scuffed shoes, a grass stain on one knee. His hair is an untamed halo around his head, eyes narrowed against the sun.
He looks defiant. Uncontained.
Alive.
Something in my chest tightens.
