Gallagher squinted at his reflection, the bathroom light harsh against the scar bisecting his cheek. He’d scrubbed the tobacco scent from his fingers, swapped his usual rumpled shirt for one slightlyless wrinkled, and even dabbed cologne — too much, he realized, wincing at the cloying sweetness mixing with his cheap shampoo.

“Hell’s bells,” he muttered, tugging at his collar. The fabric resisted, stubbornly creased. He looked like a man who’d wrestled a laundry hamper and lost. Or a fossil playing dress-up, he thought grimly, tracing the crow’s feet at his eyes. Twenty years your senior, and every one of them etched into his skin like an indictment.

“You’re fine,” came your voice, warm and laughing, from the doorway. “They’ll love you. Or, y’know, tolerate you. Either’s a win.”

He shot you a glare softened by the candy rolling in his cheek. “Tolerate. Great.” He huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. You had a way of dissolving his dread into something lighter, like sugar melting on the tongue — even if he still tasted the bitter undercurrent. What’re you doing with a relic like me? he thought.

“Smell okay?” he grumbled, half-turning.