Loxley's lodgings are small, but tidy, lit by a cluster of candles in a shallow bowl. In her previous visits, Derrica noticed how neatly he kept the room, along with the little decorations, the orderly way he'd lined up his boots by the door. It was the type of detail about him that stuck in her mind, that strike her as sweet.

It comes to mind now as she watches him move through the room. It stalls her halfway out of her coat, which was moments away from being left in a puddled heap on the floor, and redirects it to drape over the chair instead.

"The tavern is not so loud yet tonight," is a stray observation, as Derrica leans a hip against the edge of the table to begin the process of undoing her boot laces. Maybe they've picked a good night for this, when so much of Kirkwall is drinking at the tourney into the wee hours.

Derrica is still watching him, attention evenly split between the task at hand and Loxley himself.