He was at the window when I came to his rooms.
Not the working window — the other one, the river window, the one that faced the sound of something that kept going regardless of what happened on the banks. He had his coffee. He had not added the sugar yet, which meant he was in the specific mode where the coffee was functional rather than enjoyed, which meant he had been thinking.
He heard me come through the door.
Did not turn immediately.
"You're not asleep," he said.
"Neither are you," I said.
I came to stand beside him. The river window, the familiar configuration. He shifted to make room and his arm came around my shoulders with the automatic ease of a body that had learned where mine preferred to be.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Specifically."
