He was carving again, sitting at the wooden desk, a knife in one hand, wood in the other. Something new, despite the unfinished projects that clutter the room.

There was something soothing about peeling the bark from the tender flesh. The rhythmic scrape of the blade. Like a whisper between lovers. Like the steady beating of a heart.

(Just there, in the corner of his eye, the star sits. Propped up against lopsided shoulder of a bull. He wanted to see it... as the weight of his new badge dug into his wrist.)

When the knock came, he wasn't sure he'd actually heard it. He had to pause and wait for it to come again to be certain.

"It's open," he called. An invitation, if a might wary.