Connor McAllister sat perched on the edge of the seat, one knee bouncing despite his best effort to keep it still. The rifle case leaned against the wall beside him, unopened, spotless — too spotless, as if the shine of it might betray how many times he’d checked it already.

He muttered under his breath, the faint trace of a Borders accent edging his words. “Right. Just don’t say anything daft, aye? Keep it sharp. Professional. You’re not here to make a prat of yourself.”

He glanced at the door, jaw tightening. Then, after a beat, his voice lowered, almost dry: “Course, knowing my luck, first words out my mouth’ll be something stupid. Happens every bloody time.”

He ran a hand through his short dark hair, let out a sigh, and settled his eyes on the entryway again — waiting.