“I’m not from this part of London, maybe you can take her home.” Arthur smirks, observing the flush of your cheeks and the way you’re having trouble staying upright in your bar stool. His eyes trail to the window where the snow flies through the wind with quiet intensity. It’s a snow storm but the three of you crossed paths and landed here at this tavern. Arthur ended up talking with Harrison about books after seeing him editing a manuscript, all while worriedly glancing in your direction as you downed glass after glass of ale.

Harrison sets down his own empty glass. “I can’t see any carriages in this weather. We’ll have to wait until the snow calms down.”

The tavern is mostly empty, all but the three of you and bartenders, trying to figure out how to close up and make it back before you’re entirely snowed in.