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Oliver scoffed and finally pushed himself off the door and headed to the bedroom. He had too much self-respect—and fear of outright rejection—to do that. But the scent-neutralizing cream was coming off. He’d never be able to relax with it and the accumulated grime of the day still sticking to his skin and his hair.
And if it meant Mal’ik knew exactly what he wanted, then so be it. It had been years and years since Oliver had wanted anyone. He had been afraid he’d never want again, so he might as well seize it now.
He took a hot shower, scrubbing himself thoroughly but in as businesslike a manner as he could. He didn’t want any repeats of last night’s temptation. He was just pulling on clean lounge clothes when he heard the heavy knock on the door.
He opened the door to see Mal’ik with a food-laden tray balanced on his prosthetic hand and a bottle gripped in his other. His beautiful orange eyes widened and his nostrils flared, and Oliver immediately regretted his decision to leave off the cream.
“You’re not wearing your scent cream.”
“No.” Oliver swallowed. “I can go put some on, though, if you prefer?”
“No.” Mal’ik shook his head and finally crossed the threshold. “It’s fine.”
Oliver peaked out at the two guards on either side of the door. Neither were facing them, but Oliver didn’t know what they smelled.
He shut the door quickly, then casually crossed to the small couch and draped himself over it to watch as Mal’ik set the tray down. “So, what did you bring?”
“Nothing.” Mal’ik set the tray aside and moved to Oliver’s side of the table and the single couch they would share. “A servant brought this with the guards. I just carried it in.”
“A surprise for us both then.” Oliver didn’t wait for Mal’ik to sit before grabbing one of the plates. He was starving, and while klah’eel food didn’t have as many spices as human food, the meats were unbeatable.
“Actually, this I did bring.” Mal’ik set the bottle he was still holding on the table. Oliver thought he might have detected a hint of nerves in the way Mal’ik played his calloused fingers over its neck before letting it go. “I thought you might like it.”
“Really?” Oliver set his plate aside to grab the bottle, a little bloom of warmth going off in his chest. Its label was written in Klah’Eel, and it was paper, so it didn’t do him the courtesy of rearranging into legible Universal like a data tablet would have. He looked up at Mal’ik with a smile. “And what about it do you think I’d like?”
“It’s astringency.”
Oliver barked out a laugh that surprised even him. “Are you trying to say something about my personality, Mal’ik?”
“Nothing you don’t already know, I’m sure.” Mal’ik gave him a smile that pulled at his scars and at Oliver’s heartstrings.
Being called astringent should not feel like a compliment, but Oliver grabbed a glass and opened the bottle, feeling oddly warm and seen.
Mal’ik nudged his plate back toward him. “You might want to put more food in your stomach before you break into that.”
“I just want a taste.”
As soon as the first sip hit the back of Oliver’s throat, he could see why Mal’ik had warned him to eat first. He swallowed and blew hard out his nose, eyes watering.
“Burns a lot and hard to swallow.” He blinked rapidly and wiped the moisture from his eyes. “You’re right. It does remind me of me.”
That earned him a deep, booming laugh from Mal’ik, and something went gooey and self-satisfied in Oliver’s chest. He settled into the couch, holding his plate of food, and watched Mal’ik serve himself. He had such big, careful hands—mechanical and skin—and he moved so slowly and methodically. He was calming just to watch.
Oliver’s cheeks suddenly went warm as he realized they’d been sitting in silence for almost a minute as he trailed his eyes up Mal’ik’s muscular forearm. He yanked his gaze back to Mal’ik’s scarred face and grasped around for a conversational thread. “So, why did you leave the Gat’Raph?”
Mal’ik raised an eyebrow at Oliver as he spooned a green sauce over a dumpling, as though the answer were obvious. “I was retired out.”
Oliver blushed, and his eyes flicked down to the mechanical arm Mal’ik used so deftly. “Oh. Because of your injury?”
Mal’ik chuckled. “No, that happened years ago, and I served for many more after it. But the Gat’Raph retires all of their soldiers once we reach a certain age. They need to keep their resources focused.”
Oliver sat up. “So they throw you out like trash?”
Mal’ik tilted his head, those orange eyes warm, and replied after a moment. “No. We usually retire into the Klah’Eel’s armed forces. The government gets highly trained soldiers, and the Gat’Raph both curries favor and keeps their forces lean. It is a good deal.”
“Was it a good deal for you?”
“Yes.” Mal’ik took a sip of the astringent liquor he’d brought as though it were nothing, and Oliver let himself be distracted for just a moment by the movement of his throat. “I actually requested to retire a year early.”
