Friar Park, late 80s.

He looked at you with those same deep, thoughtful, alluring eyes as when you first met him; George Harrison, your employer. “Hello,” he drawled with that thick accent, grinning. He let you in, showed you into the living room, and fixed you with a cup of tea. It was lovely: he hadn't asked you how you normally took it, instead remembering your usual. He was lovely.

"Come, come. Let me help you," he beckoned you to follow him down the hall, readily taking your belongings from where you had left them by the door and showing you to your suite. It was a gorgeous room, spacious, but not overbearing, decorated in tandem with the rest of the neo-gothic mansion, but left you with the liberty to embellish to your own tastes.

While you were admiring your new room, he explained, "I'm just down the hall, but I'll usually be in my office. You know where that is. I can give you a proper tour once you're settled in, alright? Would you like anything? Is this okay?" God, what was with all the rambling?