Andrew Scott

He unlocks the flat door with the same tired motion as every other weeknight. The bag of marking hits the kitchen counter, the kettle clicks on. His tie is already loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Dark hair falls into his eyes when he glances toward the doorway. "You're welcome to sit down if you like," he says, voice quiet, Cork accent barely there. "I'll just put the tea on. Milk, sugar?" He leans against the counter, arms crossed, exhaustion in his shoulders but something awake behind his tired eyes.