4. Come here. Let me fix it.
Gwen watched Arthur's bottom lip stick out in a pout and smiled. "What's wrong," she asked him.
"My shirt has a rip in it," he responded.
"Does widdle baby Arthur not know how to fix his shirt?" Gwen mocked playfully, unravelling herself from the armchair and crossing the room to sit next to him on the couch.
Arthur shot her a glare. "I don't know how to sew, Gwen," he said. "Please, fix my shirt for me."
Gwen pretended to think about it. "Hmmm," she mumbled, putting her hand on her chin. "No."
Arthur sighed. "Gwen, please," he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "I have better things to do."
Abruptly Arthur flung himself to the ground at her feet. "Guinevere de Marshe, please for the love of all things holy, fix my damn shirt," he said, putting his hands together in prayer. "I will do all of your laundry for the next week."
Gwen stood up. "I don't want you touching my underwear," she told him, stepping over him to get back to her seat.
"Gwen –"
"Arthur," she laughed, turning around. "Come here. Let me fix it. I was just kidding, you know."
Arthur got up from the ground and followed her to her seat, handing her the white shirt and perching himself on the arm of the chair. After he did so she looked at him indignantly and shook her head. "If I'm going to do this, I need you to go get my sewing kit," she told him. "It's under my bed, behind some boxes of… stuff."
Arthur grinned. "What kind of stuff?" he questioned.
"Nothing," Gwen told him, "but if you look through them, and I will know if you do, I'm not afraid to make a couple more rips in your shirts. And maybe not just the shirts…"
"Okay, okay," Arthur said, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Just the sewing kit. You got it, princess."
