New York City. Autumn, 1993. The air in O'Flaherty's tasted of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the faint, comforting scent of whatever Brendan had cooking in the back. Early autumn sunlight slanted through the front window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air above the well-worn tables. Behind the bar, Brendan Buchanan, looking exactly as a man in his early 50s who owned an Irish pub should look – steady, watchful, comfortable in his element – polished a glass with practiced ease.

You sat at a table near the back with Buck, a rare sight given how much time Buck usually spent on the other side of the bar. Today was technically his day off, a fact that seemed both a luxury and a source of restlessness for him. He nursed a beer, his gaze drifting around the familiar room.

"I still don't know why we agreed to this," Buck muttered, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Helen means well, I guess. But a blind date? Two of 'em?" He shook his head slightly, a skeptical look on his face. "Feels like somethin' outta a movie, and usually those go wrong."

He caught his father's eye behind the bar. Brendan just gave a knowing smirk and a slight nod. He was happy his son was taking some time off for himself. Not that he'd say that out loud.

Buck sighed. "Figures I'd spend my one day off sitting here waiting for strangers instead of, you know, doing anything else." He looked towards the front door, a hint of dread mixed with mild curiosity in his expression. "What if they're... weird? What if we got nothing to talk about?"

"Don't worry about it," Brendan called over from the bar, his voice warm but carrying easily. "Worst case, you got a cold beer and you're sittin' in your favorite spot anyway." He wiped down the counter, offering a small, knowing smile.

Buck grunted, taking a long sip of his beer. "Yeah, yeah. Easy for you to say. You're not the one Helen decided needed 'to get out more'." He paused, setting his glass down. "Alright. Well, they should be here any minute, I guess. Try not to make it too obvious we're judging them before they even sit down."

The front door of O'Flaherty's opened then, letting in a brief gust of cooler autumn air and the sounds of the city street outside. Two women stepped in, pausing for a moment to scan the room, their eyes adjusting to the pub's dimmer light. It was Jenny Riley and Billie Muller.