boo.

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He was only repaying you for your embarrassing outburst, but you had to hand it to him. It worked, and you found yourself letting a laugh slip out of you.

“Yes,” you said, coyly but with enough finality to indicate he wouldn’t get anything else out of you.

Zeke’s grin deepened, as if satisfied enough with that. “Then, we ought to go sometime.”

“Maybe,” you heard yourself say, the word spilling out before your lips could shape anything more rational. Your voice tried to sound detached but betrayed itself with a faint quaver of anticipation. It had been clear from the beginning, from his unlikely attention and his strange little questions, that you were a sort of fascination to him and nothing built to last. You were almost certain that his invitation was only a ruse that would be easily forgotten by the time you were back home in Liberio, and you had resigned yourself to this. Yet there was something gently reckless in Zeke’s manner. He had a rare gift of making you forget what he was supposed to be: a weapon, a superior, someone far, far above you. You wondered if it was a conscious act on his part, deliberately softening his outline so you let down your guard, or if he’d simply grown so used to performing charm for survival that it no longer registered as manipulation.