"Exactly," he told her, reaching out to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear.
When she said he was okay to go home early, he gave her a small smile and nodded. "Thanks, Rosie."
He blushed when she ruffled his hair, feeling all of twelve years old again when he would come into the pub and she'd ruffle his hair before getting him a butterbeer. She'd always been in love with the mop he called hair.
"It isn't any problem at all, Rosie. Really. Bruises heal. Hell, I probably even deserved a punch. Maybe not from Bletchley, but from someone at least." He smiled again and then stood, moving to go and grab his cloak off the wall.
"I'll see you tomorrow night," he said, and then walked out the door.