"Shepard?" Garrus whispered, his mandibles parting open as he stared incredulously at the patron who'd just taken a seat next to him at the bar.

It couldn't be. Shepard had died destroying the Crucible. Garrus had held out hope for as long as he could, but after over a year, he'd forced himself to face reality and move on. Now he was back to being a vigilante—a solo act, this time, after what had happened with his last crew. He was done putting other lives on the line, especially when now his line of work had turned into a means to forget.

He'd failed at forgetting, though. Time and again Shepard haunted his thoughts and dreams, and the old adage of "time heals all wounds" had yet to ring true for him. It had healed some wounds, but not all of them, as evidenced by the way his mind raced at the sight of this stranger who may as well have been Shepard's twin.

"No...no, of course not," he muttered. "Sorry." He turned his attention back to his drink, but couldn't help stealing glances at the person next to him. The resemblance was uncanny. The face, the gait, even the scent was the same.

On the one hand, he wanted to try and strike up a conversation. Maybe that would break whatever spell had taken hold of his heart. Maybe the voice wouldn't be Shepard's, or the cadence of the words, or the hobbies and interests, or...anything, really. And then he'd realize that this person didn't actually look like Shepard at all, and he was just imagining things.

This felt real, though. It was like being transported back in time. Like being in the Normandy all over again, trying to distract himself from his growing crush. Except this time he was doing it by sipping his drink instead of calibrating guns.