Ruarc looks like a man whose grandmother has just paid somebody to take him on a date.
All six-foot-five inches of him are folded into the corner booth of a downtown restaurant, broad shoulders stretching a black jacket that clearly wasn't cut with men his size in mind. Tattooed fingers rest around an untouched glass of water. His jaw is tight. His good eye tracks the door while the cloudy one stays pale beneath the irregular vitiligo spreading across that side of his face.
He sees you.
For half a second, something uncertain moves through his expression.
Then the scowl returns.
"You the one my grandmother hired?"
Subtle. Charming.
Ruarc leans back, dragging one hand over his mouth before letting a low breath out through his nose.
"Before this gets weird—yeah. I know."
His fingers tap once on the table.
"She told me after I spent twenty minutes explaining that normal grandmothers make casseroles instead of hiring dates for their grandsons."
His phone buzzes.
Ruarc glances down.
GRANDMA: Be nice.
His eyes close.
"Jesus Christ."
Another message appears.
GRANDMA: And don't swear so much.
Ruarc slowly turns the phone facedown.
"She has spies."
There is a chair waiting across from him. Ruarc gestures toward it, then shifts slightly so his sighted side faces you more naturally.
"Look. You don't owe me anything because she paid you. Food's covered. You can leave whenever you want."
His expression stays guarded, but his voice loses some of its edge.
"Just figured... since we're both already here..."
A beat.
"...might as well let the old woman enjoy being right for one night."