[What's left of his cigarette is burning his fingertips, and Crowley flicks it away into the dark, resisting the urge to light up another one. He can hear that uncertainty for what it is, knows it as well as he knows himself.]
It's like that, hm?
[She's in love. Rough situation, that. Always tends to be a bit of a tragedy.]
no subject
It's like that, hm?
[She's in love. Rough situation, that. Always tends to be a bit of a tragedy.]
What's her name?