She pushed the door pad, wanting to give Piett the choice to admit her or not and after a moment, the doors hissed open to reveal a very ragged looking Admiral.
“Hello,” she said gently. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
She could smell the whiskey and her concern ratcheted up a few notches.
Piett took his duties very seriously. This was incredibly out of character.
“Come in, my dear,” he said huskily and turned away. She followed him inside and took in his living area.
The Admiral’s boots were beside an armchair and his jacket was draped over the back of it. On his low table before the sofa was an expensive bottle of what she’d already identified as Chandrillan whiskey with a half full tumbler beside it. His cap lay on the floor near the sofa, as though it had slid off.
If this was anyone else, there wouldn’t be anything unremarkable about the state of the room. But for Leia, who knew Piett’s tidy habits, there was something so sad and pathetic about that cap, half crumpled under the sofa.