Herc was going to move to Zurich in a week, and Carolyn had reluctantly agreed to let him take her to the opera one last time, as a parting gift of sorts.

That was how she found herself enduring over three hours' worth of Puccini's Turandot, irritation surging inside her as she fought against an unexpected and definitely unaccountable lump in her throat.

Blast Puccini and his ridiculous arias. And blast Hercules too, for she suspected him of choosing this very opera with the specific purpose of making her emotional.

"So, did you like it?" he asked as he walked her to his car, and she had to take a moment to collect herself, lest she gave away her momentary lapse into sentimentality.

"I did not dislike it entirely," she conceded at last, summoning her best no-nonsense attitude. "Though I can't pretend I understand what it was about."

"As much as it pains me to bring up the subject, I must say the answer is quite obvious."

"You can actually say the word," she scoffed. "I'm not going to recoil in horror, you know."

He let out a somewhat weary sigh. "Unless it's addressed to you, I take it."

"I thought we were talking about the opera."

"That we are," and she fancied she heard another sigh. "The story is quite simple, really. A decent chap tries to win the affections of the woman he loves. But she won't have him, so he's prepared to give up on her, regardless of his own feelings."

"And yet, she changes her mind?"

"In the opera, yes."

They had reached the car by then, and Herc was searching his pockets for the keys. Dash it all, thought Carolyn, and stopped him by placing her hand on his forearm.

"I'm no princess, Herc," she warned him, feeling both pleased and annoyed when he smiled in response.

"That is well, for I do not pride myself on being a prince."

She rolled her eyes at the soppy statement, but allowed him to kiss her nonetheless.