The doorway.
He was at the map.
She'd known he would be. Not the medical bay, not the residential wing, not anywhere that would have required someone to come find him and bring him news. The map, the study, the place where the work lived, where he'd put himself when there was nothing else he could do, and for four days there had been nothing else he could do, and she understood that in a way that didn't require words.
She stood in the doorway.
He looked up.
The whole of him looked up. Not the assessment. She'd learned the difference between Vincent reading a room and Vincent seeing a person, and this was the second thing, all of it at once, four days of whatever he'd been holding compressed into the moment before he locked it back down.
It took him maybe two seconds.
Then the lock.
Then he crossed the room.
