[ The truth is that they'd been out of orbit from the very start. The truth is that there's nothing she could have done to prevent it from happening, save putting a bullet through his heart or irons around his wrists. The obsession that blooms in him is one triggered by nothing, a thing grown from simple chance rather than cause and effect. She'd committed no crime, made no misstep. She'd just been unlucky.

But there's nothing of that, now. Just an unremarkable, gentle sort of awkwardness as he glances down to put his wallet back in its place. ]

Dove-lane. Kind of like t'e city name, y' know, Dublin —just more of a 'V' sound. [ Straightening up, he offers up a half-shrug, the kind that meets the apologetic note in her smile with something like haplessness. It's not the kind of name that's exactly common, nor the kind of name that reads the same way it looks on paper.

It's her last few words, though, that catch his attention. His smile, once tentative, seems a little more certain. ]

'M flattered. Erm— yeah, 's Irish. Accent's flattened out a bit, since, but — guess y' can still tell.