“What was it you said?” Dorothea lilts, petting Sylvain’s hair for the umpteenth time. It’s softer than usual—he’s been stealing her favorite conditioner again.

“Don’t,” he says from her lap, though the protest is half-hearted. An exercise in futility.

She straightens, clearing her throat, throwing her voice deeper as she mimics him: “‘No need to be scared, babe. I’ll be right here to hold your hand if things get too intense.’” Even for a talented actress like herself, it’s tough to achieve the particular brand of blind confidence that Sylvain pulls off so well. She leans closer so her lips are at his ear, her hand migrating down to squeeze his waist. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

He groans and rolls over so he’s facing her, his eyes a little bleary. “Give me a break, Thea. How was I supposed to know they’d have someone dressed up as the Ice Chancellor? ‘Jonah’s Adventures in Winterland’ never even aired outside of Gautier. It was a limited-time broadcast. From 1971. It’s not what I’d call standard haunted house fare.”

Dorothea lets out a facetious hum, tapping her chin. “Very curious indeed. But it’s much easier to stumble upon obscure media these days. Whoever did their research must’ve been quite thorough. And he is an unsettling character, I’ll admit.” Not quite in the realm of terrifying, at least for her. But for a six-year-old Sylvain, watching an old VHS recording by himself in the middle of a snowstorm…

“It’s those damn eyes,” he mutters to himself with a shudder. “Soulless. Even by puppet standards.” He rolls up to a seat and relaxes into the couch cushions beside her, arms folded across his chest.

She lets her head fall against his shoulder, noticing how tense he is. “This is really bothering you,” she says, a pang of guilt hitting her stomach.

“I guess? It just doesn’t—” he freezes, so focused that she can practically hear him thinking. “Wait.”

The jig is up—she knows even before Sylvain turns to her with the most accusatory look she’s ever seen. That doesn’t stop her from pulling off one final innocent tilt of the head, her tone high and sweet when she asks: “What’s wrong, Syl?”

“I’m going to get you back for this,” he rumbles, in a deep voice she usually only hears in the bedroom. No questions about how she pulled it off; he knows she has enough connections in the entertainment business. “I told you about that show in confidence, Thea.”

“And it was a very touching moment of vulnerability from you at the time,” she says, which is the truth. Silly, maybe, but wasn’t that what made it particularly poignant?

Sylvain smirks, which is reassuring. “And how quickly did you jump to plotting against me? Please tell me it was after we had sex, at least.”

She bites her lip. “Well…”

“Fucking hell, Dorothea. Before?”

He really won’t let this go, will he? “During,” she replies, pinching the back of her neck with her hand. “But I meant it all in good fun! Surely you know that.”

“Yes,” Sylvain starts, heaving a sigh. “Your pout is very convincing. Not convincing enough to let you off the hook, though.” He leans back, eyes on the ceiling. “I suppose I should be happy you like me enough to not pull any punches. And it does mean you’re actually listening…”

“Often against my better judgment,” she says, cuddling up to him. She hooks her arm into his, fiddling with the folds of his shirt sleeve. He’s so warm—the complete opposite of an Ice Chancellor. Nothing soulless about him. “I really am sorry, Sylvain.”

“Oh, you will be,” he says with a grin. “As soon as I figure out what your deepest childhood fear is, it’ll be over. You’ll never see it coming.”

She can’t help but smile back. “Bring it on, babe.” Her hand slides down to find his, their fingers intertwining. “As long as you’re there to hold my hand, I know I’ll be fine.”