John had regarded the morning's forecast with some initial skepticism. Winter has been more wet than snowy so far, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the predicted totals were much higher than what they eventually got. But he supposes it would only take a few inches to make traffic a mess, and the downside to typically mild winters is an infrastructure that isn't built to handle the rare outliers.

So by lunch, he's already resigned himself to a slippery walk home. It could be worse: it's only a few blocks, and they'll probably make better time on foot than they would if they called a cab. And it's not like they haven't muddled their way to the Bramford in inclement weather before. It might even qualify as romantic.

But when Martin comes into his office and suggests a different approach, John's can't deny the appeal. "Has it?" he asks, leaning back into the press of Martin's hand — a move that requires straightening out of his habitual hunch, which in turn elicits a faint crack of protest from his spine. "I suppose giving them more time to clear the pavement before we strike out couldn't hurt." He looks up at Martin with a wry smile. "Unless you'd like to make 'struggling home through inclement weather' into a thing."