The knock at Claire’s door came a little after midnight.
Not urgent. Not frantic. Just three tired taps against the wood before silence settled again.
When the door finally opened, Leon was standing there looking rain soaked and exhausted, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket while the other held a paper bag that smelled vaguely like takeout and bad coffee.
“…Before you say anything,” he said immediately, voice rough with fatigue, “I know it’s late.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“But I was in the area and figured if I went back to my hotel room right now, I’d probably just stare at the ceiling for the next six hours.”
( @tiredfederalagent )
Cool air drifts into her rented housing from the hallway. The room was unkempt from where he could see past her—papers and magazines and books strewn from where she'd been organizing.
Had it been organizing?
Felt closer to moving stuff from one place to another. In no particular order.
Claire taps near the door handle with a manicured nail, staring at him through her messy fringe a moment. The dull grays slid to the bag and back up to his face, almost in tired scrutiny.
"Kinda late for a social call, isn't it?" She offers a smile, lolling her head to the side and back.
