“My dear Caethari,” Velasin drawled, “I may be out of my depth and at potential risk of assassination, but never let it be said that I don’t know how to have fun. Not, of course, that you’ve actually seen me have fun yet”—a note of apology bled into the words, paired with a softly self-deprecating smile—“but rest assured, making a spectacle of myself by kissing strange men at parties is one of my foremost skill sets.”
The way I cackled. 18-year old me would say same, girl, but I’m now an old homebody who lives vicariously through chocolate Labrador fantasy men.
