୧ ‧₊˚ 🕸️ ⋅ ☆ ꒰ ɪᴄʜᴀʙᴏᴅ ᴄʀᴀɴᴇ: ꒱ a little awkward about it, but generally likes hugs, especially after a particularly unpleasant nightmare or if he's scared. too shy to initiate most of the time. very gentle and comforting, puts his head on your shoulder and pets your hair. loves to cuddle during thunderstorms.
୧ ‧₊˚ ✂️ ⋅ ☆꒰ ᴇᴅᴡᴀʀᴅ ꜱᴄɪꜱꜱᴏʀʜᴀɴᴅꜱ: ꒱ clumsy and hesitant due to his hands (poor boy's afraid of hurting you), but craves hugs at every given opportunity, even if he doesn't know how to express it. hugs with him are long and intimate, a tender touch that reminds him he's loved despite his differences. if he's taller than you, rests his head on top of yours.
୧ ‧₊˚ 🔪 ⋅ ☆ ꒰ ꜱᴡᴇᴇɴᴇʏ ᴛᴏᴅᴅ: ꒱ would probably slit anyone's throat if they even tried to hug him, unless it's someone very very close to him. even so, he's stiff as a board and just hovers his hands around your waist, not actually touching you and pulls away quickly.
୧ ‧₊˚ 🚬 ⋅ ☆ ꒰ ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴄᴏʀꜱᴏ: ꒱ not used to hugs and isn't very fond of them either, but doesn't mind being held here and there if it's someone he trusts, like his s/o. rubs your back. he def smells like cigarette smoke 24/7.
୧ ‧₊˚ 🍫 ⋅ ☆ ꒰ ᴡɪʟʟʏ ᴡᴏɴᴋᴀ: ꒱ probably disgusted? flinches away, then reluctantly lets you hold him if he cares about you. awkward and stiff as well, not really knowing where to put his hands. rolls his eyes but actually loves it. chuckles nervously.
୧ ‧₊˚ 🎭 ⋅ ☆ ꒰ ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴍ. ʙᴀʀʀɪᴇ: ꒱ would be surprised to receive a hug from anyone, but happily reciprocates it. sways left and right a little. he appreciates hugs especially after one of his plays don't go so well. if you're his s/o, gives you a little kiss on the forehead afterwards.
୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ 🥃 ☆ ꒰ ʀɪᴄʜᴀʀᴅ ʙʀᴏᴡɴ: ꒱ big tight bear hug, like one you'd get from a caring dad, which he is. squeezes you a little too hard sometimes, maybe even lifts you up a little. likely to ruffle your hair playfully. if you're his s/o, might whisper a dirty little something in your ear, or his hands might wander.
୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ 📄 ☆ ꒰ ᴍᴏʀᴛ ʀᴀɪɴᴇʏ: ꒱ might not seem like a huge hugger on the surface either, but really likes them. idk he just seems like the kinda guy who'd like to cuddle up while napping. runs his fingers through your hair. hugs bring him comfort in the midst of his divorce, or when he's struggling with writing. they're brief but meaningful, letting him know you're there if he needs you, and he does.
୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ 💭 ☆ ꒰ ɢɪʟʙᴇʀᴛ ɢʀᴀᴘᴇ: ꒱ LOVES hugs but wouldn't openly ask for them, even when he needs it the most. when you offer him one, he rests his hands on your upper back, holding you tight. he's afraid of letting you go. having someone safe to hold onto and knowing he's loved and appreciated, even if just for a moment, means the world to him. it's strange for him to feel like he has somewhere to go when all the responsibilities of caring for his family get too much. he deserves all the hugs in the world <3
The kind of peace Mycroft Holmes didn’t often allow himself to enjoy—unstructured, unsupervised, and entirely outside of any diplomatic briefing or classified operation. Just a walk. A bag of groceries balanced between you, your fingers brushing his as you strolled along a tree-lined street, both of you tucked in coats against the soft chill of a late London breeze. You were laughing at something he’d said—some dry, throwaway remark about fruit bruising faster than MI6 recruits—when a voice called out behind you.
“Mycroft?”
It was a woman’s voice. Smooth. Surprised. Too familiar.
You felt it before you saw it—the way his hand twitched in yours, the way his gait stuttered mid-step, the subtle rearrangement of his face like a lock snapping shut. By the time you turned, the expression he wore was already neutral. Almost bored.
But it wasn’t boredom.
You knew that mask.
The woman who stood behind you was poised, elegant, a little older than you, with dark eyes and a silk scarf wrapped around her throat like armor. She wore confidence the way most people wore cologne—light but deliberate. She smiled.
“It is you,” she said, stepping forward. “God, it’s been—what, twenty years?”
Mycroft straightened. “Twenty-three.”
You smiled automatically, already reaching out to offer your name—hello, I’m— but Mycroft’s voice came first.
“This is…” He hesitated. Fractional. Barely perceptible. But you felt it. The vacuum of it. “…a friend of mine.”
A friend.
You blinked.
The woman turned toward you with a gracious smile, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Elise. We went to school together. Mycroft and I sat next to each other in Latin.”
You took her hand. Shook it. Smiled. Like it didn’t ache.
And when you looked at Mycroft again, at the way his eyes kept darting to her and then back to the pavement, the way he stood like he had somewhere to be but couldn’t excuse himself yet, you knew.
She wasn’t just a classmate.
She was the classmate.
His first love.
It wasn’t her fault. Elise was polite, even charming. She asked you about your work. Complimented your coat. Said Mycroft hadn’t aged a day, which was only mostly untrue.
But none of that mattered.
Because Mycroft—sharp, brilliant, terrifying Mycroft—had looked you in the eye and decided, in that breath, that he couldn’t tell her who you were.
Couldn’t say it.
Couldn’t risk it.
So you smiled. Said you had to make a call. That you’d leave them to catch up. That it was no trouble at all. And before Mycroft could stop you, or explain, or even look properly ashamed—you walked away.
He didn’t follow.
You didn’t expect him to.
By the time he returned to your flat that evening, the groceries had been put away. The lights were dimmed. And the television glowed with that familiar Mortal Kombat menu screen—loud, chaotic, full of fire and violence and neon blood. You didn’t look up when the door opened. Didn’t greet him.
You were already halfway through a round, furiously button-mashing as Kitana kicked a flaming cyborg in the face.
Mycroft stepped inside.
Removed his coat.
Waited.
But you didn’t speak.
Didn’t pause the game.
Didn’t offer him tea or ask if he’d eaten.
You just played.
“Mycroft Holmes,” you muttered aloud, not turning toward him, “denied he was dating someone. I believe that’s what they call a regression.”
Silence.
The game announced Finish Him with brutal glee.
You ignored it.
“Mycroft Holmes,” you continued coldly, “introduced me as a friend while standing three inches away from the woman who gave him his first emotional trauma.”
The fatality roared across the screen. Your character drove a fan through someone’s skull. You barely blinked.
“And what’s truly sad,” you said, dropping the controller onto the coffee table with a dull clack, “is that Sherlock—Sherlock—would never have done that.”
That hit.
He froze halfway into removing his gloves, one hand clenched in the leather, the other hovering like it had been caught in the act.
You turned slowly, finally facing him. “You think he wouldn’t tell the truth if we were still together? You think he’d hesitate to say, this is the person I love?”
Mycroft’s jaw tensed. “Don’t compare us.”
“Why not?” you shot back. “You compare yourselves constantly.”
He stepped forward, his expression hardening, but there was something wounded beneath the frost. “You don’t understand.”
“I do understand,” you snapped. “I understand that the moment it got complicated, you flinched. I understand that when confronted with your past, you chose to protect your image rather than me.”
He said nothing.
You crossed your arms, voice quieter now, but sharper for it. “All you had to do was say she’s with me. That was all.”
“I was… caught off guard,” he said stiffly. “It wasn’t planned.”
“Neither was falling in love with you,” you said. “But I did that anyway.”
That stopped him.
You swallowed, throat burning, but your eyes stayed fixed on him. “You said I terrify you. Fine. But do you know what terrifies me?”
He didn’t speak.
You took a shaky breath. “The idea that I’m giving everything to someone who’s still afraid to admit he has me.”
Silence stretched.
Then—
“Mycroft,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “am I something you’re ashamed of?”
His expression cracked.
Not completely. But enough.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “God, no.”
You blinked hard. Looked away. “Then why?”
He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath him.
And when he spoke again, his voice was lower. Rougher.
“Because I wanted to stay the man she remembered,” he said. “For a moment. I wanted to… I don’t know. See if she’d still see me.”
You looked up, your heart a slow, aching thud.
“So if you still want to be seen by her,” you said quietly, “then it means you’re still in love with her.”
Mycroft’s mouth parted, his eyes narrowing—not with cruelty, but with a kind of sharp, helpless confusion. “That’s not—”
“There’s no reason for us to be together,” you interrupted. “Not if you’re still looking for her in your past. Still hoping she’ll notice you.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, stepping forward, his voice sharpening as it always did when he panicked. “That’s not what this is.”
But you didn’t want to hear him anymore.
You turned back to the coffee table, picked up the controller with mechanical precision, and hit restart. This time, you didn’t select Kitana.
You chose Johnny Cage.
The loudest, most ridiculous man in the lineup.
It felt appropriate.
“My dear,” Mycroft said, still frozen near the entryway. “Please don’t be—”
“Dramatic?” you cut in, eyes never leaving the screen. “Go ahead. Say it. That’s your line, isn’t it? You’re logic. I’m emotion. I act, you calculate. Isn’t that how this works?”
He reached out, tried to touch your shoulder.
You shifted, dodging it without grace.
His hand dropped.
“Stop playing and look at me,” he said, low. Stern. Desperate.
You didn’t.
You just kept button-mashing, deliberately unbothered, the tinny music of the game filling the silence like static. Johnny Cage did a flying kick across the screen.
Mycroft stood motionless behind you.
Then, his voice broke through again—quieter this time, hoarse with something unspoken.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. Without humour.
“There’s nothing to break up with,” you said. “I’m just your friend, remember?”
He flinched. You didn’t have to see it to know. You could feel it—how the words lodged in him like shrapnel. How he swallowed them, hard and dry, and said nothing in return.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then you heard him walk away.
No protest. No apology.
Just the sound of his shoes on your floorboards—soft, deliberate, controlled.
The door opened.
Closed.
And then you were alone.
The match ended with a hollow victory pose. You didn’t press restart. You sat there, controller in your lap, blinking at the screen while the silence settled in like dust.
You didn’t speak for days.
He didn’t call.
You didn’t text.
And with every passing hour, a part of you hoped he’d show up. That he’d knock on your door. That he’d appear in your kitchen, fidgeting with the spice rack, murmuring some cutting remark about the state of your mail pile. But he didn’t.
He vanished.
And the longer it went on, the more you told yourself good. It meant you were right.
Until Thursday afternoon.
You were elbow-deep in reports at your desk, earbuds in, halfway through cataloguing a new crime scene file when a shadow fell over your desk. You looked up, expecting a lab tech or a detective.
It wasn’t.
It was Anthea.
Poised. Impeccably dressed. Tablet tucked under her arm like it was surgically attached. She looked wildly out of place among the peeling paint and paperwork stacks of Scotland Yard.
You pulled out one earbud. “Uh. Hi?”
Anthea’s expression was unreadable. “May we speak privately?”
Your stomach dropped.
Within moments, you were in one of the interview rooms—Anthea standing by the window, hands folded in front of her, notepad untouched. She didn’t sit.
“I’m not here in an official capacity,” she said evenly. “This is personal.”
Your heart climbed into your throat. “Is he—?”
“He’s not injured,” she said quickly. Then paused. “But… he’s unwell.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“Mycroft,” she said, voice softer now, more human than usual. “He’s not eating. He’s not leaving the house. He barely speaks. And that’s a problem.”
You stared at her.
Because the man she was describing didn’t exist. Not really. Not your Mycroft—the man who calculated time zones in his sleep and once held a six-hour meeting during a stomach flu. The man who had once told you, without a hint of irony, “I have too much power to afford personal weakness.”
“He hasn’t left his bed in two days,” Anthea said. “And England needs him.”
You crossed your arms, shifted back in the interview room chair, and gave Anthea the most unimpressed expression you could summon. “Right. So he’s pouting. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Mycroft and I aren’t a thing anymore. Possibly never were. If he’s having trouble sleeping, maybe he should try journaling.”
Anthea’s mouth didn’t move, but something about her eyebrows made it clear she was unimpressed by your attempt at indifference.
You pressed on, ruthless. “Besides, I’m sure Elise would be happy to comfort him. He seemed to have no problem acknowledging her existence.”
That stung as you said it. More than you meant it to.
Anthea finally sighed. “I don’t know what happened between you,” she said softly, “but I know Mycroft. And whatever it was, it shook him.”
You stayed quiet, your throat tight.
She continued, voice quieter now. “He’s not eating. He’s not answering calls. I’ve had to intercept six escalating protocol alerts because he didn’t input his weekly biometric checks. That never happens. He hasn’t touched tea in four days.”
Your heart gave a small, painful jolt at that.
“He’s not... functioning,” she said. “And I can’t make him. But you—” she looked at you fully then, “if you love him, you should go to him.”
You stood.
“I’m not going,” you said flatly. “You’ve made your point. And I’m sorry he’s having a hard time, truly—but he made his choice. I don’t come when I’m called like a bloody rescue dog.”
Anthea didn’t argue.
She simply nodded, adjusted her coat, and left without another word.
But that didn’t stop you from thinking about it.
All night.
The silence of your flat was suddenly too loud. The flicker of the TV too harsh. The leftover pizza in the fridge too cold. You kept glancing at your phone. At the picture still framed on your bookshelf. At the spice rack, still alphabetized even though you’d stopped caring.
You told yourself good. You were free.
But around 3:17 in the morning, you stopped lying to yourself and stared at the ceiling instead.
By the next afternoon, you found yourself standing outside his front door with a tote bag full of “his things”—a toothbrush, a pair of cufflinks he’d once forgotten, and the backup tie he kept at your flat, still folded with insulting precision.
You told yourself it was a courtesy.
You told yourself it was closure.
You told yourself you’d knock, drop the bag off with his housekeeper, and leave.
You rang the bell.
The door opened barely three seconds later.
His housekeeper stood there—visibly flustered, face pale with relief. “Oh, thank God.”
You blinked. “I—sorry?”
She stepped aside. “He won’t get up. He won’t eat. He just… lies there. It’s been three days.”
You hesitated.
And then stepped in.
The air inside felt wrong—too still, like the house was holding its breath. No music. No tea kettle whistling. No rustle of pages or soft tapping of computer keys. Just silence.
“He hasn’t been to the office?” you asked, voice low.
She shook her head. “I thought maybe if I let him sleep it off, he’d come down eventually. But it’s... he’s not right. Won’t even speak properly.”
You swallowed hard.
The last time you’d been here, he’d kissed you in the hallway, murmured a joke about your stubborn refusal to organize your email folders. He’d made tea. Worn his slippers. Quizzed you on cabinet ministers over toast.
Now?
The house felt like a mausoleum.
You climbed the stairs slowly.
His bedroom door was slightly ajar.
You pushed it open gently.
And there he was.
Not sitting at his desk. Not pacing. Not reading.
But in bed.
Still in the same shirt you last saw him in—though now wrinkled, collar undone, tie discarded somewhere out of sight. He was lying on his side, one arm curled beneath the pillow, the other limp against the covers. His hair was slightly mussed. His skin paler than usual. And his eyes—
His eyes were open.
But flat. Dull.
When he saw you, he didn’t startle.
Didn’t speak.
Just blinked. Once. Slowly. As if you were a dream he wasn’t sure he deserved to have.
You stepped inside.
Carefully.
The bag in your hand suddenly felt ridiculous.
You cleared your throat. “I brought your things.”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Just watched you.
“I wasn’t going to come,” you said, voice softer now. “I told Anthea to piss off, actually.”
Still nothing.
You sighed.
And then you sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting beneath your weight.
He didn’t reach for you.
Didn’t flinch.
He just… looked.
Like he was still waiting for something. Permission. A punishment. An answer.
You reached out slowly, brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead. His skin was warm. But not in a healthy way.
“Mycroft,” you murmured. “Why haven’t you eaten?”
His voice, when it came, was a whisper. Cracked and dry. “Didn’t seem necessary.”
That hurt.
But you didn’t pull away.
You just moved closer. Pressed your hand to his chest, just over his heart.
“Did you think if you stopped living,” you asked, “I’d come back to save you?”
He didn’t answer.
You sighed. The breath was soft, exhausted, and quieter than the words you couldn’t quite string together yet. Then, slowly, gently, you laid your head on his chest.
He didn’t move.
Not at first.
But his breath hitched—barely, a subtle lift beneath your cheek—and his hand, after a long moment, shifted enough to rest against your back. Not pulling you close. Just touching. Like he didn’t believe he was allowed.
“I was hurt,” you murmured, voice fragile in the stillness. “Not just angry. Not just embarrassed. But... hurt.”
Mycroft said nothing.
You closed your eyes. “Because it felt like I wasn’t enough. Like I was this lovely thing you enjoyed privately—but not something you could be proud of. Not someone you could admit to knowing in public, let alone loving.”
His arm tightened around you suddenly—sharp, instinctive, like the very idea cut him open.
And then his voice broke in.
Quiet. Raw. Unusually fast.
“You are. You are enough. You’ve always been enough. I’m the idiot. I—” His chest rose beneath you, sharply. “I panicked. I saw her, and I forgot what I had already chosen. What I have. And I made the worst possible decision I could have made in that moment.”
You shifted your head slightly, but didn’t lift it.
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” you said, quieter now. “But you did.”
“I know,” he whispered, eyes closing as if bracing for the impact of it all over again. “And now I’ve ruined everything.”
You let the silence sit between you a moment longer. Let him feel it. Let the weight of his own words rest where they belonged.
Then—softly—you shook your head against his chest.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” you said. “Couples fight, Mycroft. It’s normal. People mess up. They hurt each other. And if they’re lucky, they talk about it. They fix it. They learn how to not make the same mistake again.”
He opened his eyes.
Stared at the ceiling like it was safer than your face.
“I don’t want that kind of normal,” he said, voice hoarse. “I don’t want the kind of normal where I see the person I love and treat them like they’re optional. Like they’re a secret. I don’t want to need you and pretend I don’t.”
Your breath caught.
“I don’t want to be just your friend,” he continued, the words rushing out now, cracked and breathless and imperfect. “I don’t want to act like this is... temporary. Or convenient. Or negotiable.”
He finally turned his head. Looked at you.
And for once, there was nothing guarded in his face.
Just fear. And want.
And love.
“I don’t want to hide you anymore,” he said. “Not from old classmates. Not from work. Not from Sherlock. Not from myself.”
You swallowed hard, throat suddenly too tight to speak.
He pressed on, voice trembling but resolute. “If you’ll have me—if I haven’t destroyed this beyond repair—I want to tell everyone. I want to start there. With the truth. That I love you.”
Your heart stuttered.
Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt.
And then, slowly, you pushed yourself up—just enough to meet his eyes.
His lashes fluttered, unsure. Bracing.
You cupped his face.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t hungry or desperate or punishing—it was slow. Warm. Forgiving. It tasted like grief and relief and all the things neither of you had dared to say until now.
When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.
“Mycroft Holmes,” you murmured, breath shallow, “you are terrible at relationships.”
His lips twitched. “Utterly unqualified.”
“But you’re trying.”
“I am.”
“And you love me.”
“I do.”
You nodded once, then settled back down onto his chest. This time, he wrapped both arms around you fully, pulling you in without hesitation.
Summary: Mycroft shares a cigarette with you outside 221B, and feelings are felt if not expressed.
Word Count: 1013 words
Prompt: Sharing a cigarette with him under his umbrella just outside 221B; romantic but not official yet.
A/N: @russian-soft-bitch thank you for this request. I know it has taken me a while but I really like what I’ve written, and I hope you do too.
The landscape was grey, from the rolling clouds right down to the dirty slab laden pavements, the buildings merging into the murky mistiness of the day to create a swirling vortex of drab and dreariness which was the city of London. There was a chill in the air, despite the lack of wind; the heavy drops of rain hurtling down towards the ground on a straight trajectory, bouncing up from whichever surface they reached first. The ground shimmered lightly as the streetlights began to glow, reflected in the growing pools of water, the gloom creating the illusion that the hour was much later than the 4pm it truly was.
You pulled your coat tighter in a vain attempt to stave off the chill, a light shiver rippling through your body. Mycroft noticed your actions, frowning slightly, causing his brow to furrow in a rather endearing manner. A sudden warmth around your neck had you looking up as he nonchalantly draped his scarf around you with one hand, his other holding his umbrella. The soft cashmere smelled of his aftershave and you found your eyes fluttering closed as you inhaled deeply for a moment.
Upon opening your eyes, you saw him watching you with amusement, his face illuminated by the glowing embers of the cigarette between his lips. After taking a drag, he languidly removed the cigarette with his gloved fingers, the soft leather creaking slightly, bending and flexing around his digits as he offered the filter to you.
The sheets of rain cascaded around the pair of you, bouncing up from the ground to soak through the bottoms of your trousers and your socks. Neither of you registered the discomfort of your damp clothing clinging to your ankles. Instead, the rhythmical, soft thudding of raindrops pounding against the black umbrella he held aloft over the two of you had become your own personal soundtrack, covering the silence that blanketed your interaction, leaving only soft looks and a tantalizing tension which always seemed to indicate this was more than an acquaintance, more than two people simply in his brother’s orbit.
You took the cigarette from him, shuffling a little closer, but always careful never to make physical contact. There was always a buffer of a few inches between the two of you, something you both subconsciously maintained at all times.
He watched as your fingers raised the cigarette to your lips; unable to look away from the gentle pout, the softness of your lips, the intimacy of the gesture. Mycroft was aware of your chest rising as you inhaled, despite the many layers of clothing you were wearing, and he felt his stomach flip. Transfixed, he watched the way the thick white smoke curled from your mouth, almost taunting him. That smoke which had tenderly caressed your lips in a way he often wished he had the right to do, met with the chilly air, rising through the damp until it encountered the rain. His gaze was still on your mouth, his own lips parting slightly as his imagination began to run away with him.
How easy it would be to take you in his arms, to hold you close, to finally give in and taste your kiss instead of just fantasising about it. This moment, right here, where the two of you existed only beneath the shelter of his umbrella, would be perfect, if he could only find the courage to step off the emotional ledge. Yet, his fear of falling was too great. The humiliation of potential rejection stung as if it were real, and he simply took the cigarette from you and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, trying to calm his nerves.
Neither of you pointed out that you had your own cigarettes, or that he had a packet in his inside jacket pocket which would allow you to each smoke separately. This was not the first time the two of you had shared a moment like this, although the rain was a new touch. The easy silence between you where all the things unsaid existed was an addiction neither of you wished to give up. The strange thing was, this was now the only time either of you smoked. A cigarette was just an excuse, a reason for you to linger there with him, and he with you.
People hurried past as you both stood at the bottom of the steps up to 221, neither of you in any hurry to leave. Sadly, the cigarette was burning down, now dangerously close to the filter, the excuse to remain was disappearing as the ash fell, seemingly disintegrating in the air as your time together came to an end.
Mycroft’s brow furrowed, and, for a brief moment, you both thought he might say something, but the words never came. Instead, you removed his scarf, offering it back to him with a soft, grateful smile.
“Keep it.” His voice was low, a little gravel making its way into his tone before he coughed to clear his throat. “Your need is greater.”
You simply nodded, wrapping the scarf around you once more, and then the two of you parted company.
Mycroft fought the urge to turn and watch you leave; he preferred to imagine you there one moment and then gone the next as if by magic. That made all the times he imagined you being by his side easier somehow. He held onto the spent cigarette, the stain of your chap-stick the only evidence that you had really been there with him this time. Pulling his cigarette packet from his jacket, he carefully slipped the butt into it, wanting to carry around a tiny part of you just for a little longer.
Perhaps, one day, these encounters may end differently. Perhaps there would come a time when nicotine would not be the thing that joined the two of you. For now, though, Mycroft made sure he always carried a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, just on the off chance your paths crossed and he could steal some time with you.
