By the time they reached the chalet, the rain had mellowed into a fine mist, but Albert’s suit looked like it had been dredged from a lake. He stepped inside without a word, kicked off his soaked Oxfords, and hung his jacket on the nearest hook.

Poppy followed—well, floated—in after him, her wings shedding tiny droplets like a living crystal chandelier.

“Charming little place you’ve got,” she remarked, doing a slow loop near the ceiling beams. “Very… woodsy. I like the antlers. Do they come with a tragic backstory?”

Albert set his scotch glass down with deliberate care, ignoring her. He wasn’t about to indulge whatever hallucination his fried neurons had conjured up.

“Right,” he said briskly, “you’re not real, so I’m going to have a drink, dry off, and perhaps get some sleep before the ambulance I apparently forgot to call turns up in my imagination.”

Poppy landed lightly on the mantelpiece, folding her wings. “You’re very calm for someone who thinks they’re hallucinating.”

“That’s because,” Albert said, pouring a generous measure, “if I am hallucinating, there’s not much point in panicking. And if I’m not, then I’ve just invited a talking action figure into my holiday home, and I’ll need the fortification.”

Poppy rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she hopped down and strolled across the arm of his leather armchair, as casually as if she owned it. “You’ll figure it out eventually. You lot always do. In the meantime, I’ll just… be here.”

Albert took a slow sip, studying her over the rim of his glass. “Do you actually have to hover about in plain sight like a novelty Christmas ornament? Or is there a cupboard you can sit in until I’m ready to… process?”

Her lips quirked. “You really don’t want me gone, you just think you do. It’s like spinach. Or poetry readings.”

“I assure you,” Albert said dryly, “I’ve never once wished for poetry readings.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

A log in the fireplace cracked, sending up a flurry of sparks. Poppy’s gaze flicked to them for a moment—quick, calculating—then back to him. “You should eat something warm. That storm was cold enough to turn your insides to ice.”

He arched an eyebrow. “And what culinary masterpiece does a figment of my imagination recommend?”

“Soup,” she said promptly. “And bread. Trust me.”

Albert smirked faintly but didn’t move. “We’ll compromise. I’ll trust the scotch.”

“Fine,” she said, settling on the arm of the chair, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you when you keel over from hypothermia. It’ll be terribly awkward for me to explain to the rescue team why there’s a small, winged woman rifling through your pockets.”

Albert chuckled despite himself, then caught it halfway. He still wasn’t buying it—wasn’t ready to. But somewhere, in the quiet between raindrops, he had the strange sensation he wasn’t going to get rid of her any time soon.