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‘Right now, a migraine.’

‘Would you like a Panadol?’

‘I’d like you to be quiet.’

Not gonna happen.

‘You know what’s funny?’

‘I’m sure you’ll tell me.’

‘A retriever is technically still a dog,’ I laugh.

Walker is not amused. ‘Do you ever shut up?’

‘No.’

He studies me for a moment, and in that moment seemingly decides the best way forward is to barter. ‘Four questions, that’s all you get.’

‘Six.’

‘Five.’

‘Deal.’

He huffs at that, mad he agreed too quickly. I smirk, point to me.

‘What are you retrieving?’

‘A part to help build something.’

‘To build something?’ I scrunch up my nose. ‘What’s being built after death? And why?’

‘A… machine that helps with transportation. And because man’s lust for power exceeds the grave.’

‘And what about your lust?’

Walker raises his brows. I feel my cheeks heat.

‘For power,’ I add belatedly.

‘Power is futile without the freedom to wield it,’ he says, adjusting his cuff. Huh. Very moody. Very dark and brooding.

Now, for the most important of my questions. His answer will shape the rest of our evening and possibly our entire new dynamic.

‘Have you seen the first two seasons, or do you want me to go back to the start?’

‘I’m not here to watch your brain-rotting fodder, I’m reading,’ he says.

I suppose we’ll just gloss over the subject of where he’s reading.

I shrug and continue watching the show. Continue missing my mouth when I throw my trail mix. Continue accidentally hitting Walker instead until finally⁠—

‘Stop that,’ he snaps.

‘Why do you care, it goes straight through you?’ I throw one through his torso to prove a point. Where it fades and then reforms.

He looks down at himself, disconcerted. ‘It hurts my feelings.’