It’s hard to realize he’s leaning into that touch, just so. The barest, near-imperceptible difference, something in his stare relaxing.

It never takes much, surprisingly. His airs are all smoke and mirrors.

“Well,” he starts, smiling when he sips on wine that tastes to his cursed tongue like vinegar, “that makes this easier, then.”

In the space between them, he turns his palm over, green glow low in the dark like something spent. Or dying, maybe.

“Pretty sure the damned thing’s fading.”