Oh god or gods or monolithic horror-creatures or whatever in fuck it was that ran this city. Agate had been caught out. "This is not what it looks like," he told the Medium, setting his jaw and glaring up at the younger man.

Obviously not: if Agate were indeed responsible for a kissing booth it would not look like it had been formed in the mind's eye of an eight-year-old. Usually the creature masquerading as a blonde held a certain eye for class and so any kissing booth of his own devising would be overwrought, just like the rest of him!

Or maybe he was just playing up the charm and incredulity of the inelegant cardboard monstrosity he could be found kicking his heels up behind.