. . . Do try, then. I have faith in your will, Winter. And if your will does not lie in taking good care of yourself—well. Well! Then I will simply have to go and do it for you, won't I!

[His hand feels hot where Winter's covers it; his chest feels hot, too, his throat dry, and not for want of wine. (Maybe a little for that.) But he manages to meet Winter's eyes, and for once he can hardly guess how his own expression looks.]