Chapter Text
“These are amazing!” While one volunteer accepted the tray from Dion, another peered closer at the uniform squares of cake spread across it like a frosty meadow. Just basic white cake topped with vanilla frosting, but kissed with luster dust to give it a snowy sparkle. Each square was decorated with a cluster of sugared berries and a single white chocolate snowflake for extra festive flair. The volunteer server, Emma, seemed to almost be twitching with a desire to pull out her phone and capture the memory. “You put as much care here as you do into your bakery.”
“Everybody deserves the same quality dessert,” Dion said, holding out a second tray: identical to the first, but with chocolate cake underneath the snowscape buttercream instead.
As the first server swept off with the vanilla cake, Emma happily took the chocolate. “That is just what Joshua says when he helps out!” She followed her comrade out of the kitchen, to the waiting tables of food trays, letting the sounds of eating and merriment into the kitchen before the door swung shut again. First round taken care of, he turned back to his workstation, and its surprisingly tidy setup of baking apparatus.
“As much as we appreciate having you here for the busy solstice season,” Clive said, glancing over his shoulder while pausing in his dusting chocobo meat with salt, “I still don’t understand. You want to earn some extra money, right?”
“Correct.” Dion poked at a stick of butter, nodding to himself that it was sufficiently softened. “Clearly that is not why I am volunteering here. But there is that holiday bake-off soon…”
“Yes, win some money there, like you always do. Especially if it’s a gift for my baby brother.” Clive shoved his pan of seasoned meat into the oven, along with the vegetables he had already prepared and set aside. That done, he stepped closer to the sink to wash his hands. He moved mechanically, but still with the fluidity of one who had done this countless times; Clive was as familiar with the shelter’s kitchen process as Dion was his own bakery. “Though I don’t know how much he would want a gift that requires quite so much saving.” He crossed the kitchen, pausing for a few words with one of the other cooks, nodding toward Dion as he passed by. But then he froze, eyes snapping wide as he backed up, turning on Dion. “Wait… wait, just what expensive item is it you’re getting him?”
“What?” Dion was so surprised by Clive’s sudden reversal he nearly added the entire bottle of vanilla, quickly righting it. Volunteering at the Hideaway, Dion had anticipated plenty of overprotective big brother moments regarding his boyfriend and intentions with said boyfriend, but stress over a holiday gift was new! Was he worried they would get each other the same thing? Dion turned to offer a reassuring smile and smooth over whatever he might have said wrong. “Oh, it is a unique item, I don’t think—”
Clive was suddenly there right in front of Dion, like an apron-clad apparition. Dion jerked backward, bumping into his work table and setting bowls to wobbling but mercifully not falling. “Clive?” It was only the complete lack of anger on Clive’s stunned face that kept Dion from worrying overmuch.
“A special expensive gift?” He leaned closer; at this proximity, Dion was reminded that the brothers really did have similar blue eyes. “You have my blessing. Please, tell me more.” And with that, Clive stepped back, danger apparently passed. Now he looked more like… well, like a puppy, easing the tension in Dion’s shoulders further.
Not that Dion had been concerned; it was just Clive. His friend and now temporary coworker. Dion completely understood, for he loved Joshua as well. After all, it was the big brother’s role to be protective – especially after spending their childhood in and out of the hospital, constantly worried for Joshua. But gifts were certainly an odd thing to feel protective over.
Thoroughly puzzled, Dion tugged his phone out to scroll through countless pastry glamor shots, before finding the right picture and handing it over to the now-happy chef.
The metamorphosis of Clive’s expression as he stared at the screen was almost comical to behold. The smile that had grown on his face froze into a rictus of feigned joy before oh-so-slowly falling away, brows furrowing. By the time he lifted his eyes, he looked as baffled as Dion felt. “What is this?”
“An authentic, antique hand-cranked mixer. I only need to win second place to afford it.” Dion took his phone back, glancing down at the old cast iron contraption that looked part kitchen tool, part torture device. It was so strange. Joshua would love it. “What did you…” He jerked his head up as realization slammed into him all at once – rather like when removing one pan from the bottom sent the entire stack clanging down on him – staring at Clive’s now awkward and rather red face. “Oh.” His blessing, he offered. “Oh.” He supposed he really should have known. Had he been with Joshua longer than he had, it probably would have occurred to him right away. “You were expecting a ring.”
“I am sorry,” Clive said with complete sincerity, grimacing as he turned back to his waiting pan. He peeked into the oven to check on its current contents, cooking for all of a handful of minutes. “I am really sorry.”
“No, no… it’s all right.” Swallowing, Dion returned to his own station, where butter was still waiting to be creamed. He really should have another cake in the oven by now.
“I haven’t ruined everything, have I?”
“Of course not.” He should have used the mixer, but Dion simply grabbed a spoon. Baking was safe, baking was comfort. “Why would that ruin anything?”
“It happens!” Clive protested. “People get scared away.”
“I am not scared that easily.” Dion let Joshua’s face occupy his mind, feeling himself relax further as he remembered. That frustrating baker that used to make winning such a challenge. The heat in his eyes as he glared at the one always snatching first prize from under his nose, and the passion when he finally found something to bake he truly enjoyed. He was so passionate about everything he did, even playing a child’s board game – a copy of which they had purchased together for their six month anniversary, to play whenever they liked. Such excitement for every baking artifact he acquired, anxious to share its entire history. How equally excited he was with every dessert of Dion’s that gained popularity.
“Hello?”
“What?” Dion shook off his musing, returning his attention to his ingredients, sifting through his mind for the most recent conversation. “Yes.” He set the butter aside to get started on the dry ingredients. What had he been saying? “I sold my bakery as its popularity hit its peak and moved to another country, mostly to be near him. I will not be so easily panicked.”
“Good,” Clive said with a relieved sigh.
“Just surprised.” Dion finally turned back to Clive, crossing his arms as he observed him. Should not moving things too quick be something the big brother actively wanted to avoid? “It is a little soon, is it not?”
“Yes.” Clive had started in on chopping more vegetables. “Much too soon. But, I don’t know…”
Dion just tilted his head, still not really understanding, but figuring this was much better than the other way around. Clearly he had Clive’s support, as well as Uncle Byron’s very enthusiastic approval. Not knowing how else to respond, Dion gave a half-grunted noise of agreement. He did not even know what he was agreeing to. Much too soon, but I don’t know. It was a good statement to agree with.
“So you are not averse to the idea, then?” Clive said, unwilling to let his misunderstanding go. Most people, after such an error, would want to move on and forget about it as soon as possible.
But Clive was not letting go, and Dion did not need time to ponder. “No.” Perhaps they had not been together long, but Dion supposed Clive had a point. Was that his point? Sometimes you just knew. Sometimes you walked into an animal shelter and the perfect pet was immediately obvious. Other times, the perfect partner walked into a baking competition and it was just as obvious. Even if you initially wanted to strangle each other. “I would not mind spending my life with him. But I—”
“Okay, how about a deal.” Clive was suddenly there again, gripping Dion and pulling him away from the cake batter he really did need to finish. “You said the second place prize would be enough for your antique mixer, right?” His eyes really resembled Joshua’s with their earnest zest. Dion found himself wishing Joshua were there.
“Correct.”
“Then do that! If you come in second, buy that hideous thing. He’ll love it.”
“That is what I thought,” Dion said slowly, waiting for the deal part. “Okay?”
“If you come in first, buy a ring instead.” He was actually grinning, and the mischievous spark in his eyes made the resemblance uncanny.
Dion could only helplessly laugh. Yeah, he should have seen that coming. “I almost always come in first!”
“Oh no. Really?” With a laugh of his own. Clive clapped Dion on the back and left once more. “Oops. Sorry about that.”
“Hmm.” Finally the ingredients were coming together into a batter, and Dion prepared another sheet pan. “And if I place third? Or not at all?”
“In a local holiday bake-off? Well then, you deserve his reaction to whatever you can manage to afford.”
“Hey, I need some more food out here.” Instead of a server, Cid himself pushed his way into the kitchen with a scowl like a thundercloud. But not for long; the shelter’s owner lit up at the sight of one of the other cooks setting aside a ready tray. “Wonderful!” He glanced over at Dion as he popped the cake batter into its waiting oven. “Dion, lad! Your cakes are a hit. You spoil us.”
“Glad to hear it.” Like Clive, Cid was imposing and gruff, but also oozing charisma and leadership. Dion rather liked them both, and this warm and inviting homeless shelter they ran. Cid ran, rather, while Clive cooked. Dion had yet to even meet their mother, but apparently her irritation at her eldest's less than illustrious career was delicious. And their family knew delicious.
“The cake just went in,” Dion said, scooping up some serving bowls of biscuits and nutty rice. “I can leave it unattended for a moment.”
“Thank you, lad!”
“Unattended,” Clive was muttering as the pair headed for the kitchen door. “I am capable of keeping an eye on cake.”
His further protests were cut off by the swing of the door as Dion ventured into the dining area with his bowls, setting them onto the table where he could find room. I need some more food out here, indeed.
“See?” Cid nodded toward the crowds hunched over their meals on the checker tablecloths, nearly every single one bearing a dessert plate with varying quantities of cake left.
Pleasure curved Dion’s lips as he took in the sight. If a lump formed in his throat, well… Clive’s fault. He had Dion’s emotions on high alert.
The dining room was thoroughly decorated for the season. Strings of orange and yellow lights dangled across the ceiling, along with paper garlands of little suns strung together. Candles flickered from the tables like they didn’t have a plethora of fluorescent lights glaring down on them. The warm, cozy look was a stark reminder that he was not at home; the Light Festival was the same holiday across the Twins celebrating the impending return of longer days, of family and food, gifts and charity. But each country had its own way of celebrating, with Sanbreque favoring a more solemn affair and decorating with pure white. Rosaria was rather more carefree, and focusing on the sun and fire, red and orange and yellow featuring prominently in its décor.
From harsh and white to cozy and warm. If that wasn’t a good metaphor for Dion’s move…
Not that he had negative memories of at least the decorative aspect of the past. A childhood of strings of white lights turning his bedroom ceiling into a night sky, white paper dragons and silhouettes of Greagor on his dresser. All the good food and pastries, plus Great-Aunt Eleanor’s fruitcake adding some much-needed color. Which was about all it added. And was probably still somewhere in Dion’s childhood home… Given that she never baked, he had always felt certain her fruitcakes had been gifts from her great-aunt.
Nodding to the friendly greetings he received from the folks eating – a variety of men, women and children simply fallen on hard times, all as deserving of properly decorated cake as any influencer that stepped into his bakery for glamor shots – Dion returned to the kitchen and his waiting oven.
He baked a couple more as the night wore on, helping out with service where he could. Now awkward, Clive mostly kept to his cooking, though he did shoot the occasional curious or even giddy look in Dion’s direction when he thought he wouldn’t be noticed.
At long last, well past the hour Dion the early bird would have been asleep, he bid everybody a good night and grabbed his warm wintry blue coat from its peg. Back through the dining hall, now with only a few stragglers still eating, holiday lights unplugged or snuffed out to leave only those overhead. One fluorescent lamp was beginning to flicker, but knowing Cid, it would be repaired or replaced by morning. Dion made his way to the door, bracing himself before shoving it open to let in a blast of cold air. His breath instantly formed puffs of steam as he crunched over icy ground, in a hurry to reach the bus stop before it was too late.
As he kept a close eye on the ground, wary of slippery patches, Dion could not help but fondly remember when the unpleasant white crust had been fresh new-fallen snow just last week.
“Did you ever eat snow as a child?” Joshua, flakes still falling gently around him, squatted down to grab a handful of the fresh powder.
“Yes, of course.” Dion sincerely hoped Joshua did not make the very obvious and very childish but perhaps mandatory comment on the hue of said snow. “Who hasn’t?”
Joshua looked up at him with a pleased smile. “Did you know it was the Northern Territory tribes that, millennia ago, first mixed snow with fruit juice as a treat?”
Dion knew very well how ice cream originated, but he simply gave Joshua one of his interested-in-learning expressions. While his beloved rattled on about snow treats spreading and evolving, Dion also scooped up some snow to investigate. He held it close, as if ready to take a bite, then flung it at Joshua, who was surprised enough in his precarious squat to fall over with a grunt, history lesson coming to an abrupt end. Smirking, Dion moved closer to see if any assistance was needed, only to receive a faceful of snow for his chivalrous efforts.
“Hey!” Dion rose to his feet, wiping his face off, laughing helplessly. “That was unkind, Rosfield.”
“You’re one to talk, Lesage.” Joshua pushed himself upright, sharing in Dion’s laughter. “If we did not both have work bright and early tomorrow, I would suggest a snow day.”
“But alas, pastries are essential during even the most foul of weather,” Dion said, earning yet another chuckle. “We shall get together for more fun in the snow at a later time.”
As Dion turned his gaze to the dark, overcast sky, he realized a few flakes were falling. He tugged his phone out to stare at, as if mesmerized by the photo of himself and Joshua posing during the finale of Valisthea’s Sweet Meet that made up his home screen, app icons carefully arranged around their faces. He really needed to get started on his entry for the upcoming bake-off… He knew he needed to, but he sent Joshua a quick message about the possibility of spending time together tomorrow. Phone in hand, Dion finished the treacherous journey to the bus stop, still in time for the final bus of the night. For the rest of his wait, and the ride home, he kept a close eye on his phone, but it remained still.
A quick purchase of some more eggs and molasses at the nearby all-night store, a walk to the studio apartment that he was told was much cozier than the one in Sanbreque, and the fastest shower in the history of plumbing. Still he did not hear back. Forcing down the worry – Joshua was a big boy with a busy job and was allowed to have a life outside his boyfriend – Dion turned out his light and went to bed.
The morning, at least, brought some good news. Sort of. Joshua was forced to regretfully decline the invite, with an army of crying emojis, but at least Dion had heard from him.
But why did the worry that had settled into his gut not abate?
Dion prodded at a cookie, satisfied that it was sufficiently cooled, the aroma of molasses and spices muted now but still intoxicating. It was the scent of childhood: of holidays at grandparents’ for other kids, browsing bakeries for Dion. And as nice as it might have been to have warm family meals together, Dion did not regret his memories of nose pressed to bakeshop windows, observing the confectionary displays in wonder, before heading inside. And he could choose whatever treats he wanted, for the more Sylvestre’s child spent on frivolities, the better that reflected on his status.
The batch of gingersnaps had baked perfectly, of course; flat and crackled and crispy. But one could not judge a cookie by its cover, and Dion popped one into his mouth, nodding to himself at the burst of spicy flavor and the crunchy texture. Satisfied, he dumped the rest into the food processor to pulverize into crumbs.
In honor of Dion’s new home, he wanted to make something warm and sunny. In honor of his new beloved, he wanted to make something inspired by history – and what dessert had endured more longer-lasting popularity throughout Valisthean history than lemon tarts? Joshua made small ones in his bakery from a recipe taken directly from olden times, using his now-ubiquitous honey sweetener. They were among his best-sellers, so why not honor everyone with their favorite historical treat? While Dion would not normally make a cookie crumb crust rather than a traditional tart shortcrust, the holidays called for seasonal flavors, and said spices paired well with citrus; not to mention there was just something extra appealing to everybody’s inner child using actual cookies. A ginger lemon curd would make up the filling, with thin candied lemon slices shingled on top for decoration. He had acquired a variety of lemons, ranging from pale yellow to pink, to lend an ombre color to his dessert. It would serve the purpose of evoking the sunrise they were celebrating, but also give the effect of dragon scales as was his own tradition.
Overall, he was pleased with his idea for this bake-off. Once the buttery gingersnap crumbs were pressed into a tart pan, he set to work zesting some lemons. All the while, his eyes kept flicking to his phone, but it had remained perfectly still.
Which was fine. They spent most of their days off together, but they both had lives and things that came up. Just because Joshua was busy, even as fresh snow was falling outside his window, did not mean anything was amiss.
With his recent success with his business, without the constant stress of affording his medication while keeping the family bakery open, Joshua had seemed healthier than ever lately. He was always his exuberant, beautiful, healthy-colored self when they spent time together. The occasional cough still rattled through him, but did not seem to be as productive as it used to be. He was fine. And if he weren’t, he would…
Well. He probably would not say anything.
But he was fine. Dion could not worry about his busy lover just because he happened to be unavailable today. Dion needed to practice, and his toasty kitchen was the perfect place to be on a chilly day.
He also really should be worrying about Clive’s ‘bargain’… but he wasn’t. Perhaps the suggestion of proposal filling him with excitement rather than anxiety was a sign that it was meant to be, and not too soon? Or maybe he was still in the denial stage, and panic would come later? He didn’t think so, anyway, it still felt… right.
He had promised himself to drop the incredibly cheesy cake half metaphors from their big bake-off, but maybe there really was something to that. He knew exactly what their wedding cake would be. Perhaps they could switch sides, and Dion would make a beet Phoenix cake, and it would be so much better.
“Focus on your curd, Lesage,” he murmured. Now was definitely not the time to be getting ahead of himself and planning wedding cakes! Into the pot went lemon juice and zest, butter and sugar, finely grated ginger root. It melted and thickened until it could coat a spoon, then eggs were carefully tempered in. The finished curd was pressed through a strainer for maximum smoothness.
Dion kept glancing at his phone throughout the process, even as he should be paying close attention to his curd or keeping an eye on the baking crust. He had not realized, after a lifetime of doing so, just how lonely it could be to bake alone in his own kitchen. Even the simple act of making curd reminded him of the choux dough from Joshua’s last visit.
“Dragon eclairs!” Joshua leaned over Dion’s shoulder to watch the dough come together as he stirred it. “As adorable as you. What will you fill them with?”
“Just your basic vanilla pastry cream,” Dion said, trying not to get too distracted with Joshua in such close proximity. “And coated in white chocolate. I thought I would stick with Sanbrequois color tradition for this one.”
“Hm.” Joshua had that critical air of one who was about to offer some sort of suggestion. Just as he opened his mouth, Dion tugged a bowl of berries closer.
“With some raspberries hidden in the filling,” Dion said. “To counterbalance the sweetness of the white chocolate.”
“Oh.” A brief flicker of irritation crossed Joshua’s face as his critique was intercepted, but soon it grew into a happy smile that they were on the same wavelength. “That sounds delicious. By the way, you have pastry cream on your nose.”
“I do not,” Dion said with a snort.
“I’m afraid it’s true.” Joshua held his phone up to take a selfie of them together, proving to Dion that, yes, there was a smear of pastry cream.
“You put that there,” Dion said.
“I did not.” Joshua leaned in to lick the cream off.
The choux dough almost burned that evening.
Dion paused with his hand half-outstretched toward his phone, drawing it back with an annoyed sigh. He returned his full attention to the tart in progress, ignoring the taunting voices of worry in the back of his mind. Everything was fine.
Worry only grew as Joshua’s messages continued in an infrequent and vague manner the remainder of the week, even after work when he normally gushed about his day and how the bakery museum was faring. It grew to the point that, on his next night at the Hideaway, he decided he needed to do something to ease his mind.
“When did you last hear from Joshua?” Dion said, sounding as casual as possible. They were in their usual evening positions, Clive working on meat and vegetables, Dion at the dessert station. Countless white chocolate stars were being piped out to chill for future cake. He had offered to try different desserts, but the cakes were popular enough, the rest of the holiday meals remaining mostly the same each night as well. Cid had leaned close and shared a laugh about sneaky kids trying to take one of each cake flavor, looking thoroughly mischievous until they were caught and informed they were more than welcome to two pieces. Dion began cutting some slices smaller, just for anybody that wanted to sample everything but perhaps did not have the stomach capacity for two entire desserts.
“I saw him yesterday,” Clive said, and Dion let out a relieved breath at his normal tone. Joshua may try to hide things, but Clive would not – not that he could lie to save his life, even if he wanted to. And he could see through his brother better than anybody; he would know if anything were amiss. “Why? Having trouble getting hold of him?”
“Yes.” Dion resisted the urge to check his phone once more. “He has been unusually busy lately.”
“I would imagine so.” Clive laughed as he fetched a basket of Cressida sprouts from the produce shelf. “The solstice was always their busier time, but this is the first holiday season since they actually gained popularity.” He fetched some bacon from the fridge, while Dion relaxed even further. Of course he was being ridiculous and worrying for nothing. “Dion…”
“Yes?” He frowned down at his latest snowflake, wondering how it could have gone so astray. Then shrugged, because snowflakes were supposed to all be unique.
“I have not caused undue stress with my suggestion for a gift, have I?”
Dion smiled to himself as he carefully piped another snowflake. Then another, allowing a bit more zaniness in its design. “Not at all. In fact, I find myself rather excited, and hoping even more that I win.”
“Good!” It was apparent from the giant sigh of relief that Clive had also been the victim of self-induced worry. “Okay. Please win, then.”
“I shall try.” Dion thought back to the sour-sweet-spicy combination of his practice tarts. He rather hoped he did have a shot at first prize once more, but one never knew; the holidays brought out the best in bakers. He would make perhaps one more practice tart, and focus on the official entry as close as possible to the contest. As always. “I certainly hope so.”
It was a familiar feeling, walking into a baking competition with his creation held carefully and confidently in his hands. Flickering candles filled the room, along with strings of orange and yellow lights, glorious paper suns, a silhouette of the Phoenix on the back wall. Even the bland cement-gray carpeting seemed extra jolly with gold confetti strewn about. Tables draped in dawn-colored cloth awaited him, already filling up with classic Light Festival treats. The scent of warm spices strongly filled the air, an undercurrent of citrus, mint, chocolate interweaving with it into a crescendo of aroma.
Dion wove his way through the clusters of hopeful bakers, clad in sweaters and other cozy attire, chatting together. The anxiety was palpable despite the festive atmosphere. The stress sugar-coated in cheer really did make it feel like the holidays.
Dion located an empty spot and set his tart down, along with his little entry name placard containing the dessert description. He stood back to admire his handiwork, pleased with the effect of his overlapping candied lemon slices. A beautiful sunrise of yellow and pink gradient fruit, doubling as scales, as intended. Beside his entry were a tower of stacked star-shaped cookies, and a cake topped with fiery sugar shards. Other treats were decorated to look like snowscapes, melting snowmen, even phoenixes of varying success. And, near the back, a single lone dragon cake with glistening white scales.
He turned away from the entries, just in time to witness a very familiar baker approach one of the other tables, box held with the same practiced ease and swagger of a seasoned competitor as Dion. He wore an oversized sweater featuring a cactuar decorated in holiday lights that made Dion cringe, and a familiar frayed red scarf. Dion blinked, resisting the urge to rub his eyes, because this could not possibly be real. No, not you…
Dion waited until the cake was safely unboxed and set up on the table before approaching. “Joshua?”
Sure enough, he startled around, widening eyes reflecting the assorted candlelight like little galaxies. “Dion?” Why was he here of all competitions, with so much suddenly at stake? Why was he wearing that horrid sweater? And why…
“Fruitcake?” Dion looked between baker and baked good multiple times, but a fruitcake it remained. Small and round, thick and glistening with fruit, the top glazed to resemble the moon. And… oh no… a candied cherry Metia beside it.
“Why are you here?” Joshua groaned. “You never said anything…”
“Nor did you!” Dion waved a hand around at the tables and bakers, the entire competition in general. “Is this why you have been ignoring me?”
“I have not!” Joshua folded his arms, which at least covered up a great deal of festive cactuar. He was pouting, though given Dion had learned soon after they met that was his neutral expression, it could have meant anything. “Well, maybe I have been neglecting you… but work has been quite busy, as well.”
Dion decided against complaining that he had worried, knowing how much Joshua hated being fussed over regarding his illness. If it made Dion sound like a crazy jealous boyfriend instead, oh well. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Obviously you do not owe me an explanation of your every waking moment. I was just surprised.” He dropped his gaze down to Joshua’s entry. The icing moon really was well done, with sculpted craters and everything. “I need to win this.”
“So do I! You weren’t supposed to be here.” Joshua groaned again, longer and softer. “I’m sorry, too. For ignoring you.”
Dion nodded absently. “You have not answered my question.”
“What?” Joshua, arms still crossed, stepped closer. His pout was much too adorable and begging to be kissed, but that would have to wait.
“Fruitcake?”
“Oh.” With a snort, Joshua joined Dion in staring at his entry. “Why not? It is an old recipe, hundreds and hundreds of years old.”
“I know! That is when most of the fruitcakes given as gifts today were made.”
“You will try mine after it kicks your ass!”
“I imagine it literally could.”
Joshua gave him a playful shove. “So I imagine we are here for the same reason?” he said, pouty lips curling upward. “Which place do you absolutely need?”
Dion hesitated for two heartbeats before saying, “Second. But preferably first.”
“Third for me.” Joshua gave him a smug look as they finally stepped away from the tables to let other entrants by. One precariously tall tower of cookies almost didn’t make it. “But yes, preferably first.”
“Good,” Dion said. “Because second place is your thing, so that is nice and in the middle of your expectations.”
Joshua’s eyes narrowed, smirk growing. “Oh, it is on, Lesage.”