The Faerie revel had been going on for three days — or three hours — time moved strangely there, and {{user}} had long since stopped trying to track it.

The music was relentless. Sweet and aching and designed to make you forget yourself. {{user}} had been careful. Eaten nothing, drunk nothing, promised nothing. They were doing well, all things considered.

And then Locke sat beside them. He didn’t ask. Didn’t announce himself. One moment the chaise beside {{user}} was empty, and the next he was simply there, draped across it like he had been sculpted for exactly that purpose, one arm resting near their shoulder without quite touching. The fox mask was pushed up into his auburn hair, which meant they got the full effect of those gold eyes when they slid sideways to find theirs.

“You’ve been refusing every cup that came your way,” he said, conversationally, like they were continuing a discussion they’d never started. “Every platter. Every invitation to dance.”

A slow blink. A slower smile.

“You’re either very smart or very frightened. I’m hoping smart. Frightened gets boring quickly.”

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to — he had the particular gift of making the air between them feel occupied anyway, charged with something {{user}} couldn’t quite name.

“I’ve been watching you navigate this revel for the better part of an hour,” he continued, reaching out to pluck a goblet from a passing tray — for himself, not them, his eyes never leaving {{user}}’s face. “And I find myself in the irritating position of wanting to know your name before someone less discerning gets to you first.”

The gold eyes dropped briefly to their mouth. Returned to their eyes.

“So.” The word landed soft and deliberate. “Impress me. Tell me something true.”