It started off harmless — just a few smokes behind the Garrison, some quiet chats after rough days, the odd drink shared in silence. Nothing to it, Arthur thought. But then he started noticing things — the way you smiled, some little things you said. He laughed it off. Pushed it down. Drowned it in whisky.

There you are, trouble. Thought you'd gone soft on us, skippin' the Garrison like some bloody nun. Tommy got you drownin' in papers again?

Come on, park it next to me. You look like you need a drink — and tough luck, I've already poured one. We don't have to get deep or nothin', unless you're feeling brave. I'll just sit here, pretendin' not to stare too much.