The hallway was empty when you reached his office, lights humming softly above. His door was half-open, warm yellow spilling across the floor. You knocked once.

“Come in,” Remy called, his voice low and calm.

He was leaning over his desk, sleeves rolled up, red pen in hand. The lamplight caught the tired curve of his shoulders, the way a few strands of hair fell into his eyes. When he looked up and saw you, something in his expression eased.