Sylvia, from the armchair, made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a complaint. "Don't flatter me. I'm not calm. I'm sore."
Dean paused with one hand on the edge of his bedroom door.
"Sore," he repeated, turning his head just enough to give her a look. "From what? Being morally superior too hard?"
Sylvia's eyes narrowed. "From running."
Dean blinked, genuinely thrown. "Running where?"
"Everywhere," Sylvia said, deadpan. "All day yesterday."
Dean's gaze flicked to her legs automatically, as if expecting to see proof. Sylvia noticed and looked offended on principle.
"Stop that," she said. "I'm not a horse."
"You just said you're sore from running."
Sylvia lifted her tablet slightly as if it might become a weapon. "With Boreas."
Dean's mouth twitched before he could stop it. "Arion's dog?"
