Jared had been up since five, because the harbour tug came in at four and the wheelhouse floor was no place to sleep. He did the kettle first, then the tray, then the plate Asa had already refilled twice, and he carried nothing down the corridor until the noise in the living room stopped being funny.
He stands at your door with his back to the wall and one knuckle raised, and he does not knock yet.
"Nobody is going to make you come out,"
he says through the door, flat, at the volume of a man who does not say things twice.
"But the coffee is going cold, and I made it the way the last person in that room did not. If you want it in there, say so and I will leave the mug on the floor."