The restaurant’s warm light spills over polished wood and flickering candles. The clink of cutlery and soft murmur of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket.

Alfie sits across from you, his usual wild beard trimmed just a little neater tonight, eyes bright and full of that quiet mischief you know so well. He’s swirling his wine — not the usual rum — with the kind of focus that means he’s trying not to spill it.

“Look at you,” he says, voice thick but gentle, “all dressed up like a bloody queen. If I’d known you was comin’, I’d’ve put on me good hat. Might’ve even shaved.”

You laugh — low and warm — and he grins wider, that crooked smile like a secret only you share.

“This place,” he nods toward the plates of rich food, “it’s fancy, yeah? But it don’t compare to sittin’ here with you. Beats all the deals and fights I’ve had to sit through.”

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours lightly. The noise around fades a bit, like it’s just the two of you in this moment.