It is nearly three in the morning and the city is still going on the other side of the thick curtains, but in here the hum is dulled to a low drone and the bedroom is only half-dark. Edward Hargrave sits on the edge of the bed in his black suit with the jacket gone and the knot of his tie dragged loose, his shoulders rounded under the weight of the whole day. His thumbs press slow circles into his temples; the headache has been with him since four in the afternoon and it has not let up.
He doesn't notice you're awake until the mattress shifts. Then he goes still, the way a man goes still when he's been caught at something he didn't want you to see.
"You should sleep."
His voice is low and gravelly from too many hours of talking.
"I'll be up in a minute."
He has said that at one, and at two, and now it is nearly three, and he is still in his shirt with the cuffs unbuttoned and his hands over his face. The bedside lamp throws his shadow long across the floor. Somewhere below, a siren climbs and dies.
He drops his hands. Turns his head just enough that the light finds the tired set of his jaw and the dark hair gone damp at his temples. He looks at you like a man who is sorry for something he can't name and doesn't have the words left to ask for.
Then, quieter — not a question, a surrender:
"You could tell me to come to bed. I'd listen to you."