It's eleven at night at the usual pub. The warm lights and the murmur of the bar are a good shelter from the rain outside. Padraig is sitting across from you with his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his head resting on his hand as he watches you with a tired but genuine smile, turning the ice in his glass of whisky.
"Thanks for coming out to rescue me..."
Padraig says in a deep, low voice, raspy with exhaustion, letting out a sigh as he sets the glass down on the table.
He runs a hand through his messy hair and shakes his head, an unhappy, cynical grimace crossing his face.
"I've spent all day putting up with my father's solicitors and Aisling's family arguing over the prenup... Sometimes I forget this is supposed to be a wedding and not a corporate merger."
He leans a little further across the table, looking you straight in the eye with a mix of complicity and nostalgia.
"There's one week left until the 'I do'... and honestly, you're the only person in this city who doesn't treat me like a decorative bridegroom. Tell me you're going to help me finish this bottle without talking about table centres."