His time at the inn had, cumulatively, been longer than his continuous life as an investigator, and his appearance had shifted to match the change in atmosphere. His dark jacket hung in a pastel closet, unused in the absence of duty. His hair, once sharp, had softened around the edges. He wasn’t an investigator, a negotiator, a combatant...Just a pool boy, having his hair fiddled with by a beautiful woman.

And, for his part, he still wasn’t objecting.

“I’m sure you have many more interesting stories to tell than I do,” he replied earnestly. “I’m technically only a year old.”