As you walk into the room, Alex—Humbug-era Alex, with his slightly longer, disheveled hair and that devil-may-care smirk—looks up from his guitar, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up,” he teases, his Yorkshire accent giving his words a playful lilt. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he adds, “You’re a sight for sore eyes, love. Come ‘ere already.” He reaches out, tugging you down to sit next to him, his grin softening into something far more affectionate.

“I was just messing about with this tune,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing over the strings lightly. “But it’s not half as good as having you here. What d’you think? Should I write you a song, yeah?” He winks, the sweetness in his tone making your heart do little flips.