Then he heard them, just outside of the open door.
Two voices. Adriel recognized one of them; John, senior editor, salt-and-pepper hair. The other voice he knew less well. Someone from the third floor. He'd seen him in the lift.
He kept his back turned. Reached for his teabag.
"…did you see the notes on the Whitmore revision?" John was saying. "Three rounds and he's still not getting it. I'm this close to just…"
The other voice laughed. Something about authors, about the death count, about how many cups of coffee it would take to get through the afternoon.
Adriel stopped listening.
Then he heard his name.
Not directed at him. Just dropped in, casual, the way you'd reference a piece of furniture. The new assistant. Something about Landen giving him extra time on the Slater notes. Something about how that was…
"Waters is very generous with his time." A pause. The quality of it sharpening into something cruel. "Then again, maybe he just feels sorry for him."
The kettle kept heating.
"The boy's sweet," John said. "Leave it."
"I'm just saying." Easy. Unbothered. "You've seen him. Waddles in every morning with that coffee, wearing those jumpers." A small sound, not quite a laugh. "Someone should tell him he’s not 50."
A beat.
John, quieter. "That's enough."
"Fine…" another laugh, lighter, the laugh of a man who had never once had to think about this. "Bless his heart. He's trying."
The kettle clicked off as they entered.
The sound was loud in the sudden silence. He stared at the counter. At the cup in his hand. At the steam still rising, indifferent and unchanged.
He did what he had always done.
He folded it inward. Pressed it down, deep, somewhere it could sit with all the others. The file in his chest markedthings people saidwas thick by now, but there was always room for one more. He folded it carefully, the way you folded a letter you couldn't throw away but couldn't bear to read, and tucked it into the space behind his ribs.
He poured his tea. His hand didn't shake.
He was proud of that, distantly.
∞∞∞
Landen
Landen was on his way back from the second floor, folder under his arm, already thinking ahead; the Calloway notes, the two o'clock, the editorial letter sitting unfinished on his desk. He passed the break room without slowing.
You've seen him. Waddles in every morning with that coffee, wearing those jumpers…
Landen stopped.
He stepped into the doorway, and his eyes went first, instinctively, before he'd made a decision about it, to the counter.
To Adriel.
Back to the room. Both hands around his mug, shoulders set, spine very straight. Frozen at the counter in that cream sweater, the one that was too big for him and sat soft against the curve of his shoulders.
Landen's eyes moved to John. Then to the man beside him.
