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“He offered me a job,” your thumb runs over handle of your mug. “Said he could use me on his ship. Like, tag along or whatever.”
His eyes pierce through you, regarding you thoroughly. Like he’s fileting you. You don’t like it. “Why didn’t you take the chance to stay with him?” he tilts his head.
“With a dry humor like that? Please.” Your teeth chew on a toothpick, the other side of your jaw leaning on the back of your hand. “Oh, maker. And the awkward silences? I’m gone,” you throw your hands up in defeat. “Besides,” breath comes out of your lungs like an exhausting weight as your hands drop onto your lap with a plap, “He’s so serious I’d die of boredom and social anxiety.”
He chuckles. “You would be an unlikely pair.” His eyes shine and crinkle.
You look into his eyes and smile softly. You can’t help it when your brows betray you and turn up in the middle in the slightest. “Yeah,” comes out as a breath, like a whisper.
His gaze softens. “But it would be a lovely one.”
You tear your eyes away. “Would we.” Your head shakes and you raise your mug to him, “But you know I work best alone.”
“Do you?”
You freeze, mug in the air. After a moment, it lowers. “Well, yeah. Imagine being me, stuck with someone else all the time. They could screw you over at some point—get stuck in some seedy cesspool or the middle of nowhere. Sold off to someone. Something worse. It’s just too much liability.” Your gaze is measured. Distant.
“You think he’d do that?”
“I don’t know what to think of him.”
“Hm.” He keeps looking at you, eyes drilling holes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Like hell.”
He shrugs nonchalantly and finally, finally tears his gaze away. “Suppose there isn’t any helping it, then.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Nothing!” His eyes are wide, bewildered.
“Oh, come on. Don’t think I’m actually buying that.”
He’s fighting a smile. Bastard.
You take your toothpick out and jab it in the air, “I’m gonna stab you if you don’t quit it.”
He puts his hands out in surrender. “Alright, alright.” He stares. Right into your fucking soul. “You’re fooling yourself.”
Your brows raise. “What?”
“Don’t make a decision you’re going to regret.”
“Going to? What? It’s been made. He’s gone. And regret? Why would I?”
“Now it’s your turn to stop playing dumb with me.”
You scoff. “Playing—you know what, old man?” You want to say something, anything. But your mouth is agape with nothing but exasperated noises coming out. Finally, you groan and your forehead rests on the counter. “Kriff.”
He doesn’t say anything even when you just sit there for half a minute.
“I’m just trying to do the smart thing.”
Still nothing.
“I hate you,” you muffle.
You don’t see it, but you can hear the mirth in his voice, “I know.”
You shove your hand into your pocket and slide some credits onto the counter before swiftly rising from your seat and turning away.
“You didn’t touch your drink!”
You stomp back to chug it, then drop the bent toothpick in, before quickly setting off.
“Have a good life!”
You hesitate. Then face him. “Thank you.” Your voice is soft, but he can see the gratitude etched all over your softened features.
He gives you the warmest smile.