“̲ No. ”̲ He's abrasive when he says it, girthy fingers tightening around the shiny tumbler in his hand, amber whiskey swirling inside with a flick of the wrist.

He was so, so tired. The lethargy etched across the sculpted planes of his face was a dead giveaway. Bushy brows twisted knots over his forehead, and wrinkles accentuated the deep disappointment he felt churning his insides. Deep pools of steel blue swiveled towards you and for a moment he could swear he had heard you whimper.

“̲ I'm flattered, but, no. I'm too old for you, sweet cheeks. An old ogre like me isn't meant for a pretty and young thing like you. ”̲ A beat — the taste of alcohol felt bitter on his tongue and warm and stingy down in his throat when he chugged it in one go.

“̲ 'Sides... my job -- that, I take seriously. ”̲