“I thought you were a goblin,” Simon says. He’s standing in his bedroom door, holding a dinner knife like a dagger. He slept in his knit boxers—he still looks half asleep. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say. “Goblins are fit.” Simon rubs his face and walks back into the bedroom. When I get there, he’s under the duvet again. I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Are you sleeping with a full set of cutlery or just the knife?” “Don’t have a sword,” he mumbles, like that explains it. “Come back to bed.” “I wasn’t in bed.” “Don’t be a dick.”
