“You what?” Zechariah asked, homing in on the blush with a self-satisfied smile.

Crane ate; Zechariah drank. What better time to drink than a night to celebrate? Crane seemed far more inclined in person than he had in his letters, even. Nervousness, rather than polite disinterest as he let his mind wander to that shipwreck that got away.

Also, Crane absolutely wanted children. And to meet his mother, and extended family. He was Catholic – he could take a flogging, right?

There was a confused crinkle of his brow when Crane referred to Zechariah as the morsel, but he did not catch it quickly enough to clarify.

Then Crane’s face burned. Zechariah hid his smile behind another sip, though not well. It lingered even as the glass met the table once more.

“I see. And under what conditions does a Catholic flog himself?”