Page 22 of Lorenzo

Today, he does not push.

He leans lightly against my leg and stays there until I take a breath.

The room is quiet except for the radiator ticking near the wall.

I look around again.

The office is small. The furniture does not match. Half my supplies are still in boxes, and I have no clients scheduled because I have not officially opened yet.

But it’s mine.

That matters more than I expected it to.

I have spent enough time in buildings where every door required clearance and every conversation belonged in a report. Places where someone else decided what counted as relevant, what counted as acceptable, and who could be sacrificed when the answer became inconvenient.

Here, the locks belong to me.

The files will belong to me.

The decisions will be mine too.

I pick up the framed photograph from the desk.

For a moment, I consider turning it over.

Then I place it in the bottom drawer and force the drawer shut with my hip.

“Later,” I say.

Mocha watches me.

“You’re very judgmental for someone who ate half a receipt yesterday.”

He looks away.

“That’s what I thought.”

A knock sounds against the open door.

I turn.

A man stands in the hallway holding a cardboard drink tray with two coffees. He is around fifty, broad through the shoulders, with silver hair and wire-framed glasses. I met him briefly when I signed the lease. His accounting office is across the hall, and he introduced himself twice because he forgot he had already done it.

“Moving in?” he asks.

I look at the boxes surrounding me.

“That’s the rumor.”

He smiles and lifts the tray. “I brought coffee. Didn’t know how you take it, so one is black, and the other has enough cream and sugar to qualify as dessert.”

“I respect the planning.”

He steps inside, notices Mocha, and stops.

Mocha remains beside me, relaxed but attentive.

“This is Mocha,” I say. “He’s working.”