He wasn't "adjusting to the ambiance." He was cooking.
"Oh, for the love of the Great Ledger," I groaned, throwing my hands up.
I turned around and marched right back into his personal space, my Star-Mark flashing a sharp, "CEO-is-Angry" orange. "Malphas! Stop posing! You're literally turning into a charcoal briquette!"
He looked at me, his eyes hooded and his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches, but he still had the audacity to try a smirk. "I'm merely... exfoliating, Seraphine. The surface air is remarkably... abrasive."
"Exfoliating? Your skin is literally hissing, you idiot!" I snapped. I didn't care about "Executive Distance" anymore. I grabbed his arm—which felt dangerously cold despite the sun—and felt the tremor running through his entire frame. The "Soul-Tether" between us gave a violent, sympathetic throb. "If you die on my watch, the paperwork for 'Inter-Dimensional Regicide' will take me a decade to fill out."
