I remember. Both that and my manners. I wait for him to take a seat before I extend my arm across the table. “Galen.”
He shakes my hand, watching me as if I’ll vanish if he looks away too soon. “Sab.”
“That short for something?”
“Nah, my parents just don’t like syllables.”
“Mine only liked names beginning withG.”
Sab reclaims his arm and wraps a hand around his pint glass. Draws it towards him, but doesn’t drink. “You have siblings?”
“Two brothers and a sister. Garrick, Gavin, and Gráinne.”
“Gráinne?”
“Irish. I’m from Kerry. Most of my rabble still live there.”
“Why not you?”
“Followed a girl here once and couldn’t afford the boat back.”
“A girl?” Whether he realises it or not, Sab leans closer, as though I’ve opened Pandora’s box and he can’t wait to look inside. “So you’re…pan, right?”
He did read my profile. I shrug. “I don’t pay gender much attention anymore.”
“Anymore?”
“It was different when I was a rookie at my first station. Wanted to fit in, you know? Took me a while to figure out no one really cares where I put my dick.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
“Fecking glorious, as long as I’m getting pronouns right.” I take a big swallow of cider.
Sab watches me.
My mouth.
My throat.
Even my hand as I put the glass back on the table.
I wipe my lips, trying not to get too big of a kick out of him tracking that movement too. “Can I ask you something?”
It takes a millisecond too long for Sab to bring his attention back to my eyes.
I grin.
He grins back, shy in a way that doesn’t quite fit the rest of him. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Staring. Being awkward as fuck. Je ne suis pas toujours comme ça, promis.”
“Eh?”
He cringes. “Fuck. Sorry again. I get all French when I’m nervous.”
“That was French?”
