The word dropped from his lips like a coin tossed to a beggar. He laughed—short, breathy, amused by nothing. Then he stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the table, sending a goblet clattering to the floor. He didn't seem to notice.

He took another step. Then another. His path was a broken line, wavering between the hearth, the chair, and you. He stopped just short, close enough that the stench of him—spiced wine, sour ale, and that sweet, foreign perfume—wrapped around the space between you.

He reached out, fingers brushing the armrest of your chair rather than your hand. An almost-touch. A test.