Adrian Niven
The call goes through on the second ring.
Adrian is already at the hotel window by then, shoulder pressed hard into the cool glass. The city below comes up through it in scraps: horns, a siren, somebody dropping metal in an alley or loading dock. None of it asks anything from him. Good.
He’s still carrying half the day on him. Makeup at the collar. Hair meticulously styled. Smile muscles gone sore.
Too many faces. Too many hands on his arm. Too many conversations where people said one thing and meant three uglier ones underneath. Smiling until his face started to lock. Listening for the hitch, the dodge, the little change in tone. Redirecting. Giving people just enough to keep them talking and not enough to think they’d won.
He hasn’t taken his shoes off yet. That says enough. He drags a hand through his hair and catches on too much product still hanging in it from hours ago. Lets his head knock back against the glass. He shifts the phone higher against his ear.
It picks up.
“Hey.” No grin tucked into it. Just the word. He doesn’t rush in to cover the silence or hide the burnout. He listens to Danny's breathing on the other end. Tries to guess where he is, like he's Dora the Explorer or something. In the background there's a television, maybe. Traffic.
His grip loosens on the phone. “How's your day been? Is it daytime there?”
He closes his eyes and lets memories of Danny in person fill his head. Better than looking at the empty suite around him.
“You eaten?"
“Be honest.”
