There is a certain constant in Layton's life—one that he is not exactly pleased about, but he supposes it can't be helped if he's to adhere to his principles. Luke takes note of it not long after he turns twelve.

It's the women. At first Luke thinks it may be just the young, unmarried, desperate girls who look up at the professor with wide, dewy eyes and silently beg to be whisked away from their dreary lives by this charming intellectual—but then he realises even the married ones glance wistfully his way, as do stunning, self-confident women with secure jobs and many other options. Quite a few of this particular breed are downright exquisite, and smart, down-to-earth, and well-mannered to boot. The professor treats them all the same: feigning ignorance to their flirting, interacting just as much as suits his purposes. He maintains connections only with those who respect his subtle turndowns.

He doesn't understand why Layton doesn't want to revisit some of these women. They're perfectly wonderful people, and it would be nice to see him less—alone. But out of all the girls they've met and rescued and journeyed with, the only one the professor has taken even a mild interest in is Katia, and that was more a curious fascination than a romantic endeavor.

Emmy, he thinks briefly. But Emmy—oh, Emmy. She was certainly the headstrong, fiery counterpart to Layton's calm, collected disposition. If the opposites attract theory flies, then they might be perfectly suited to one another, and perhaps she'd still be here now. But Emmy is too much—too young, too brash, too restless, and she'd absolutely never do. (Luke dismisses the fact that his jealousy is clearly playing into this observation.)

And then there is Claire.

Luke never quite accepted the professor's first name. Hershel. It doesn't fit him right, like it's some poor sham of a hat he inadvertently acquired from the coat rack as he left a friend's party, and Luke generally avoids using it. But when Claire arrives—he sees it. Suddenly the ill-fitting headpiece that is his name begins to take shape around his silhouette, not quite fully-formed, but there. And when he sees the tears running down Layton's cheeks in the snowfall—real tears, it's impossible, the professor doesn't cry, but here is, he can't withhold them, and they're crystalline in the brilliant lamplight—and the hat falls away, that hat, the hat, the one that has journeyed with them through the years and never dulled or worn or faded, and means so much more than he could ever comprehend; when it is removed with all the reverence in the world, that is when Luke sees Hershel Layton in all his broken glory, instead of The Professor, tall and wise and selfless and eternally resilient.

It is then that he understands why Layton does not care to devote his attention to all the girls who so determinedly chase him. There was only ever one. There will only ever be.

(Luke guiltily preserves the thought that devastation does not suit the professor. It is too much for him to consider that this stronghold has such human limitations.)

He still sometimes wishes that the man would just settle down with some nice innkeeper or restaurateur or something.