[All of the food is even still warm, because Figaro is just that good. And the potato wedges even have a side of that horrible mayonnaise-based dressing that everyone around here likes, because nothing in Belobog can't be dairy-based, apparently. Gepard should be proposing marriage to him, he's brought him a handmade lunch with little notice and even went through his damned window to do it because he got stuck in a meeting. Sampo would be an incredible fake husband.]

[Gepard takes one bite of the potato wedges-- they're crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, as a good fried potato should be-- and looks like the hand of Qlipoth themself came down to bless him. It's flattering, really. And grateful is a good look on such a handsome face.]

So you could marry me but I can't call you honey? That feels unfair. I could call you dear instead. Baby? Darling? Sweetheart?

[He's got a million pet names in that awful little brain of his, Gepard. These are the mild ones, he could keep going and get to the really terrible, stupid ones. Sugarbear. Honeybun. Sugartits. The moon of his delight. Don't make him get creative.]

I don't really know what you like, so I had to make some guesses. Feel free to give me some direction. I could try to gather some intel about you, but that usually weirds people out a little bit.

[Because that's called stalking, Sampo, and it's illegal in most places. Not that that ever stops him, but Gepard might object to him stalking both himself and his family to get information about what kind of dinners he likes best, even if his intentions are benign.]