The ferris-wheel lights of the fairground flickered faintly through the cracks of the wooden booth. Dandy, with his rainbow-petaled mane slightly wilted from the long day, hummed a soft tune as he gathered tapes into a neat stack. The booth smelled faintly of old wood, sugar, and the faint metallic tang of the tape reels.

He didn’t hear the footsteps first—he felt them. Two gloved hands slipped around his chubby middle, palms warm and steady against his soft belly. Dandy’s ears perked and his petals fluttered when he glanced down at the dark, old-fashioned sleeves wrapped around him.

“Evenin’, blossom,” came the deep, tick-tock voice from behind. The sound of a slow winding clock ticked inside it.

Dyle.

His clock-face head glinted under the low light, and the hands of his mustache spun in dizzy little circles, betraying how hopelessly smitten he was. It always did that when Dandy was close. The old-timey gentleman looked like he’d stepped out of a silent film reel—his vest slightly dusty, the smell of polished brass clinging to him.