He pointed his index finger to the ceiling, then fluidly curled it downward toward his face, the international symbol for c’mere. Her eyes widened, and she leaned toward him like a marionette. He met her halfway, placing his index finger just under the tip of her chin and pressing his lips to hers, keeping them soft and pliant, not a chaste kiss but not a hungry one, either. Gentle, simple, just a taste.

He drew back after a few seconds, and her eyes grew even wider, thrilled at his audacity. She shifted in her chair, pressing her legs together, her lips flushed— so fucking cute. “I think I like it when you try.”

He smiled widely, resisting a strong urge to swipe this freezer-burned cheesecake off the table and give in to the passion. “God, I just want to take you home with me right now.”

She swallowed so loud it was almost a cartoon gulp. “And do what?”

“Whatever we want.”

“That sounds . . . fun.”

“Bocce ball, Mario Kart, anything.”

“I . . . like things.”

He chuckled, wondering when he started to find “dopey and inarticulate” attractive; the combination of youth, beauty, and befuddlement was working on him.

“But,” he added, and her face fell, “I probably shouldn’t go breaking promises to omnipotent alien cyborgs. I told Nik I’d come back today, and it’s getting pretty late.”

She nodded. “I could come with you, and then we could go back to Yorba Linda after.”

“Well, after we make sure everything is okay with our . . . friend, we can go back to my place and see how we feel.”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

He took it down a notch and asked, “What about Salad Fingers? Will he mind?”

“No,” she said, sadness tingeing her excitement. “No, he doesn’t care about that sort of thing.”

“Good.”

She looked at him with such a dissonant expression, such fear, such anxiety, such desperation. A look that said, I want you, even though I know you are going to destroy me.

And he could, too.

His position in the world, his influence, and everything he knew about her provided him with so many avenues to do it, through malice, selfishness, or shameless exploitation. She wanted— needed— someone to be kind to her. What she expected was another Nils Ortega.

Not an unreasonable expectation. Not unreasonable at all.

He placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed it reassuringly. But I won’t, he resolved. I can’t promise I won’t hurt you; that’s just a risk you accept when two human bodies meet. But I’m not going to exploit this situation. I’m not like Nils, and soon you’ll see that. I won’t destroy you, not unless you destroy me first.

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