His anxiety is palpable.
He glances from me to Nazeera, his eyes lingering on the weapon slung across her chest. “So, uh, why am I here?” he asks her. “Because I really, really don’t want to be here.” His eyes dart to me. “No offense.”
My eyes widen a fraction.
“I need help,” Nazeera says, gesturing to the house. “I have no furniture.” She nods to me. “The girl needs clothes.” She points at the kitchen. “I have no groceries. I didn’t have enough time to pull anything together before she was discharged, and I ended up buying a pack of sponges, a single orange, and a wedge of cheese. I’m drowning.”
The stranger takes this in, shoves his hands in his pockets, nods for a long moment, then says—
“Nope, bye.”
And pivots toward the door.
Nazeera is fast; she physically catches him by the back of his collar, reeling him back into the room.
He cries out in protest.
“Winston,” she insists. “Today is your day off—”
“Exactly,” he says, wrenching away from her. “I’m supposed to be sitting on the couch, alone, judging people on television from the privacy of my own home. Ideally, there’d be ice cream involved.”
Nazeera frowns. “What people on television?”
He sighs dramatically. “The local network puts on these tragic family-friendly theatrical shows and the musical numbers are campy and horrible. The dancers wear so much polyester—”
“You’re bailing on me to watch some crappy public programming channel?” She cuts him off in outrage. “Are you serious? This is a high-priority security issue—consider it a duty to your nation—”
“No, thanks,” he says, and takes a step back, adjusting his sweater as he looks around. “I don’t want to be here with you in your depressing, empty house and your gun necklace and your pet serial killer.” He glances at me again. “Seriously, no offense. I’m sure your parents are very supportive of your lifestyle.”
His indifference is shocking.
“But I really need your help,” Nazeera says. “I have to buy a shit ton of things and everyone else is busy or unauthorized to assist. I was going to ask Kian but he doesn’t have clearance at this level.” She tilts her head, thinking. “Hey, do you think we can borrow Adam’s truck?”
Winston scowls.
“Why don’t you ask James?” he says. He takes off his glasses, using the hem of his sweater to clean the lenses as he looks around, grimacing. “He loves projects like this.”
“No way,” she says. “James can’t know I’m struggling. He’s not on the team. He’s a nonbeliever.”
Winston rolls his eyes. “James would kill for the chanceto light a scented candle in this place. He’s wanted to buy you a lamp for years. You’re the kind of monster who turns on all the overhead lights, and you don’t even care that you’re using light bulbs with the cold color temperature of a hospital. You have terrible taste—”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me finish,” Winston says, holding up a hand. He takes another second to polish his glasses before putting them on. Then, with a flourish: “You have terrible taste.”
Nazeera gasps.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “That was a complete sentence. I meant what I said.”
“Whatever, asshole,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I have great taste.”
“In fashion? Maybe.”
She physically recoils. “Maybe?”
“If you’re going to hang out with aliens, absolutely. Wear the silver fringed patent leather trench coat.”
She gasps again. “You told me you loved that coat!”
