( ɭเ๏ภђєคгՇє๔. )

   Swivels around in chair and chinhands, bats ‘em eyelashes.

   ❝ Jealous of the Nordion’s L’Oreal shampoo, Sigurd? ❞

   What in the name of the Twelve—?!

  ❝ Ares? ❞  The name rolls off his tongue out of reflex as if nonchalantly responding to his wife’s call.  Except it is not Grainne.  Nor would any knight act inordinately acclimated with him.

   He glances back, his back stiffening and pulling away some from the tight hug, bewildered on how the stranger knows of his son like a person when he’s not even a year—or two?—old.  His mind draws a blank, but coerces himself to speak evenly despite the confusion.

“eyyy @fatefulguardian !  did you hear that?  your boy told me our sons love each other’s company!  ...which one of us three won that bet again its been 10 years—”