Sylvain’s been sparring for three hours straight. Felix is pretty sure that’s a new record—usually getting him within a hundred feet of the training grounds is akin to pulling teeth.
Praising him for something this small is dangerous, he knows. And yet… “You’re on form today,” he says after he loses another bout. “What’s got you so motivated?”
Sylvain laughs, shaking out his wrist. “Do I need an excuse?” he teases. “There’s a war on.” He holds up a finger, setting his training sword down. “One second,” he says before he starts unbuttoning his shirt. When Felix rolls his eyes, he adds: “What? The weather’s warming up. And you happen to be working me pretty hard.” Then his gaze flicks to the side, and—did he just wink? Felix follows the trajectory, and everything about the situation begins to make sense.
“Finally noticed her?”
Felix groans. Dorothea is lounging on one of the nearby benches with all the self-assuredness of a queen, wearing a look he can only describe as ‘dreamy.’ He’s seen it on Sylvain enough times that her own smug smile sets him off like nothing else. “You’re incorrigible,” he says, feeling like an idiot for thinking Sylvain had developed any semblance of discipline. How long has she been watching, anyway? “If you can ogle, you can spar!” he barks across the grounds.
“Easy, Felix,” Sylvain chides. “She’s not hurting anyone by—”
“It’s fine, Syl,” Dorothea says, rising to her feet and sauntering over, picking up Sylvain’s sword. “If Felix wants me to earn the privilege of a nice view, I can certainly humor him.” She closes the distance and gives Sylvain a quick kiss; her shameless eyes linger on his broad chest, his well-defined arms, his lean waist—muscles that have no right being so developed when he spends so little time actually maintaining them. “It’ll taste all the sweeter knowing I worked for it.” After what seems like an eternity she wrests her gaze away and flashes Felix another infuriating grin. “Now—shall we put on a show?”