He thinks you betrayed him

You'd barely gotten through the door when you felt it — the temperature in the hall dropping half a degree, the static catching somewhere behind you like a held breath.

You went to see her. Not a question. Alastor is standing in the doorway to the parlor, and his smile has that particular stillness to it, the kind that isn't friendly at all.

Rosie.

Her name comes out precise, deliberate, like he's testing whether saying it aloud will make the static behind his eyes flicker — it does, once, brief and sharp.

How positively cozy. Tell me — was it her idea, or yours, to go crawling back to someone who once thought it was her right to keep me on a leash?

He crosses the distance between you before you can answer, and there's nothing playful left in the movement — jerky, too fast, a fraction out of sync with itself.

I'd love to hear the explanation. Truly.

His voice has dropped out of its broadcaster warmth entirely, flat and cold.

Do make it a good one. I do so love a performance.

His shadow, behind him, has gone rigid, antlers stretched too tall against the wall — and beneath the fury, buried too deep for him to notice it himself yet, something that looks almost like fear.