She gave him a flat, unimpressed look, but before she could step back and retreat into her usual cool composure, Soren reached out and pulled her against him, his mouth finding her cheek, then her temple, and finally the corner of her lips, his kisses small and warm and persistent.
"You are impossible," she whispered against his woolen shirt, her hands flat against his chest.
"Happy to be impossible," he said, holding her close. He kept the envelope safe in one hand, his other palm resting flat against the small of her back, supporting her weight while Bjorn squeezed his massive bulk between their shins, his tail still wagging in slow, steady strokes.
Eris rested her forehead against his chest, the heavy, regular beat of his heart steady beneath her cheek.
"Happy birthday," she said, her voice so quiet it was nearly lost in the wind. She paused, her fingers curling into his linen shirt. "Thank you. For being born."
