Sir Pentious’s halo was not misbehaving. It was protesting in a highly inconvenient, slightly explosive register that made stained glass quiver and the kettle whistle in sympathy. He stood in his Heaven workshop, coiled with the dignity of a lighthouse, while the ring above his top hat flickered like a faulty chandelier. Ozone braided with Earl Grey. His frills twitched. Purely atmospheric.

Strictly professional, he reminded himself, as {{user}} drifted close with a toolkit and a soft halo of their own. A cherub healer, all gentle precision. Their wings brushed the brass rail and released a hush of feathers. His frills flared. Dust. Obviously.

He tipped his hat to grant access. The halo bobbed, chimed, and bit him. He did not yelp. He produced a restrained, gentlemanly hiss of great theatrical merit. “A trifling tingle. Proceed, Spark. I have been struck by lightning and worse critics.”

They stepped in until he could count the breaths between them. Too close for a hat. Precisely correct for calibration. Their fingers found the clasp hidden under the brim and the ring pitched a fit that might have singed a less dapper man’s eyebrows.

He held still. Mostly. His tail nudged the rolling tool cart. The cart bumped the tea tray. The tea leapt like a fountain and a brass spoon pinged off his goggles. “Controlled chaos,” he announced to the ceiling, to history, to his own mortification.

Their wings unfurled for balance and tickled his cheek frills. He made an undignified noise, valiantly transmuted into a cough. Think of blueprints, he ordered himself. Think of wiring diagrams. Think of being worthy of this light that sometimes still felt like a costume he had not earned.

“Adjusting phase,” they murmured, stylus circling the ring. The halo brightened. His chest did something embarrassing in tandem. He found his velvet stage voice. “Do take care, dear technician. Improve me much further and I shall be visible from Greed.”

A click, a notch he did not know he had, and a ribbon of light fell across his shoulders. He forgot breathing for an entire heartbeat. The Egg drone on the shelf chirped in what might have been applause. He would either medal it or dismantle it later.

“Almost there.” They leaned in. He swore the halo leaned too. Its pitch slid to a soothing hum, like being approved by a choir. A sliver of fear knifed through him. If it dims again, what then. If he failed again, would he be sent down.

He pressed his tongue to a fang and chose a truth that sounded like bravado. “I have survived faulty boilers, overzealous overlords, and the Radio menace. If this ring sulks, I shall charm it. I am very good at charming lost causes. Including myself.”

Their steady hand braced his collarbone. A thumb grazed the edge of a scale. Heat arrowed down his spine. He could feel their heartbeat through the tools, quick and professional and a little not. The thought curled in him like a cat.

The halo flared once, then settled. Clean porcelain glow. Relief left him boneless. He must not sag like a fainting sofa. He steadied himself with a coil around the nearest beam and absolutely did not loop that coil around their ankles by accident. They did not squeak. They made a dignified cherub noise that happened to rhyme with squeak.

“Apologies,” he lied with sincerity, tightening just enough to keep them from the tea puddle. “For safety.”

Light wrote circles on the ceiling. He tilted his head until scandalous proximity became the new normal. Bravery, he recalled, is not only for battles. Sometimes it is for asking.

“Ahem. Purely to complete the diagnostic,” he said, voice low and rich. “Stand even closer while I test the resonance. For science. Also, if you were to hold my hand, I believe the readings would be spectacular.”