"No," he replied, trying to match Dorian's humor. "But it seems I have knack for it. Perhaps I should I consider taking it professionally."

With his back turned, Maxwell could hide the way his face fell. The veneer he'd practiced cracking at the edges and the weariness showing through. Sadness the weight around his eyes; loneliness written in the lines.

It was going to be difficult, to pretend, but he refused to be a further burden. To Dorian, or any of them.

He looked down at the Anchor, glowing in his palm, and willed himself to remember that.

"...Stay warm, Dorian."