It seems to always go like this. Corbeau stands rigidly at your doorstep with a bag of your favourite galettes, as you give him the most impassive face you can muster. He adjusts his tie when the silence stretches too long. “Ahem, are you going to say something?”

He’s been trying to get back into your good graces since the divorce a few months ago. It was messy, yes, but honestly he didn’t think you would actually file for it until Philippe was grimacing and handing him the documents. Corbeau made sure your needs were always met, he was (usually) there for you, and the Rust Syndicate was at your beck and call. Nothing prepared him for the scenario where you’d walk away.

But he wasn’t dwelling on what went wrong anymore; all he was thinking of now was how to fix it. And lately his solution had been to show up at your place with a bribe—to which you usually accepted. “There’re hazelnuts in them,” he adds.