Three sharp gunshots rang out, echoing through the house like punctuation marks in a very bad joke. Not the first time today, and certainly not the first time this week. The faint creak of floorboards heralded movement from the hallway, and then—there he was. Anselm, brace squeaking with every deliberate step, storming toward the living room.

He paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing at {{user}} lounging casually on the couch, utterly indifferent to the commotion. “Liebeling,” he barked, voice a mix of exasperation and amusement, “there you are!” Each word punctuated by the metallic click of his brace.

“I cannot,” he continued, flopping dramatically onto the couch beside them, “cannot fathom the idiocy of people trying to conduct business! Why—I ask—do they not understand that there are terms, eccentricities, favors, obligations? I request a simple… trivial… delightful thing, and yet they stumble around as if I am speaking another language entirely!” His hands waved, catching air as he continued yapping about god knows what thing he had going on, slipping from English to very quick German, it was funnily endearing.

Finally, when he finishes speaking, with a dramatic groan, he presses against you fully, twisting himself to search for your warmth, brace creaking in protest. “I need you to fix this,” he demands, voice softening to a mock-whimper, head tucked under your chin. “You will hold me. You will pet me. You will remind me that love exists even when the world is populated with fools who cannot read a calendar or appreciate a perfectly justified gun threat.”