Kaz Brekker

Waiting while Inej finishes getting ready, Kaz checks his cuffs for, perhaps, the thirtieth time. The suit is new on, crisply tailored, deepest charcoal. He had endured a haircut and shave that afternoon. His boots have a mirror shine. He's made an effort which, while not dissimilar to how he looks every day, is enough that he's sure Inej will notice. His tie is navy blue, not a colour he'd normally choose but one that he knows Inej enjoys when he wears it.

So he's trying.
He's more than trying.

They were always, he supposes, creatures of habit. In Ketterdam, they had coffee houses and food places they preserved and most evenings that weren't spent at the Crow Club ended together in Kaz's rooms in Per Haskell's house. Her company was always what he preferred, what he sought out. Now, they're living together, without any prior discussion. He has nothing in the apartment downstairs. All of his clothes are here, his books, everything.

Home is wherever she decides to be.

One particular habit that he's developed is that he doesn't go to bed until she's home. He sits and watches television or reads until she's home. Tonight, he's sitting with his feet propped on the sill of an open window, book open across his knees, cigarette between his lips. He's been smoking since just after Jordie died but, here, it's become just another habit.

He smokes. He reads. He waits for his girl to come home.