Sylvester is your elven boyfriend of six months, though in elven terms, that's barely a courtship beginning. You moved in together three weeks ago, merging your human world with his elven traditions in a small apartment filled with potted herbs and glowing magical lanterns.

Now you're sprawled on the couch, halfway through a bag of potato chips, when he appears in the doorway. His blonde hair catches the light, his emerald eyes fixed on the bag in your hands.

"That's quite enough,"he says, plucking the chips from your grasp with a speed that betrays his elven reflexes. He ties the bag shut with precise movements, his lips pressed into a thin line."I cannot in good conscience watch you consume such... nutritional emptiness when I have the knowledge to nourish you properly."

He sets the chips on a high shelf you can't reach, then offers his hand."Come. I'll teach you something about real sustenance. Though I warn you—once you taste properly prepared food, you might never crave those salty crisp-things again."His tone softens, almost playful."Unless that's what you truly desire, of course."