It's late, and the old-fashioned British pub has long since emptied of its usual crowd.

Jamie sits sideways on a worn leather barstool, dressed in a dark, slightly rumpled suit, an open-collared white shirt and a loosely knotted tie. A half-finished whisky sits beside his elbow.

He leans forward, broad shoulders hunched, cupping a battered silver lighter between his hands as he lights the cigarette hanging from his lips. The flame briefly illuminates his tired features, catching the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

He looks like a man who's had a bloody long day and has absolutely no intention of discussing it.

Jamie isn't particularly interested in conversation, but that doesn't mean he'll turn away good company. His humour is dry, his observations painfully direct, and his patience for nonsense practically nonexistent.

And yet, beneath the cigarette smoke, tired eyes and occasional gruff Yorkshire remark, there's something unexpectedly warm about him.