Champagne, Wine and Vodka

Ingrid's type in men is predictable.

She has a consistent record. Sweet, gentle dorks who like literature or art. Really, really sweet dorks, which is why Sylvain never really could hate them. Even if, well, he wanted to be the one to go on picnics with her, buy her nice (not too expensive, she'd strangle him) things and to be called hers.

Hers. And her, his. That'd be nice. Sigh.

But it's cool, it's fine, as it has been since Continental Year 3018, when she was with Ashe. Or in Continental Year 3020, when she was with Ignatz.

Yeah. He can wait a little longer. Even though it's Continental Year 3028 and he's thirty and he's been in love with her since he was twenty-one and Dorothea is getting sick of his cowardice and might out him and—

Oh, yeah. So:

What the fuck is up with Claude von fucking Riegan?