Was Crane always this charming? This handsome? This good with words? Zechariah sipped and basked and sipped some more, the vodka vanishing yet again before he knew it.

He wondered if Simon ever thought things like that. If he had fancied Zechariah an Anteros, or just another Icarus flying into his sun.

The smile slipped. Fuck Simon. He had a new man, and this man did his confessions outside of a courtroom. He topped off his glass and glanced to Crane’s, still barely touched. Was Zechariah drinking too fast? Nah.

“I am having trouble picturing this,” Zechariah said with a devious look. “These thoughts and … self-intimacy? Give me an example.”