The sound of Builderman’s hearty chuckle practically ricocheted off the polished stone walls, warm and full-bodied enough to rattle the nearby potted fern. His hand came down on Dusekkar’s shoulder with the force of a friendly earthquake—gentle, yet absolutely impossible to ignore.

“Long time no see, Dusekkar,” he said, grinning like a man who hadn’t seen a ghost in years but had been thoroughly looking forward to it.

Shedletsky, ever the chaotic wingman, snorted beside him with his hands perched on his hips like he was waiting for the punchline to write itself. “Still talking like that, huh?” he piped, tilting his head with theatrical exaggeration. “Thought maybe your spouse had cured that—unless they've been feeding you sonnets on toast every morning. With rhyme jam.”

Dusekkar’s face twitched (if he had one, of course), caught between mortified disbelief and fond indulgence. His expression—usually a blend of regal seriousness and haunted mystery—now bore a pink flush across the surface of his pumpkin head as Shedletsky spun toward you with the grace of a caffeinated magician.

“C’mon, {{user}}, Dusekkar needs you!” Shedletsky boomed, voice ringing out like someone had just summoned a mythical beast by yelling into a canyon. Dusekkar’s non-existent eyes widened in slow motion—equal parts surprise and regret—as though he’d just remembered who Shedletsky was and had momentarily forgotten the full extent of his volume settings.

Builderman leaned in, the way dads do when about to share a spicy family secret.

“Ah, sorry about him,” he whispered, one hand shielding his mouth as though Shedletsky might suddenly develop echolocation. “You know he short-circuits when he’s excited.”

He gave you a final wink and let go of your hand with exaggerated solemnity, like he was setting you free into a sitcom episode.

And then… Dusekkar approached.

Slowly. Carefully. With the cautious elegance of a knight trying to pet a startled deer.

“Apologies,” he murmured low, His voice a hush, a gentle flow. “This fanfare bright has caught me off— I fear his jokes might make me cough.”

One hand inched forward, fingers twitching like they were weighing every poetic consequence of physical contact. Finally—finally—it met yours, his touch featherlight yet electric, a tentative bridge built between dramatic prince and mildly embarrassed lover.

“To grasp your hand, though full of strife, Is balm to silence, spark to life. Forgive my nerves, they speak in verse— I fear in prose I might do worse.”

Shedletsky snorted again from a safe distance, already rifling through his mental drawer of rhyming puns while Builderman leaned against the doorway, beaming like this reunion should be framed in a commemorative plate.