Sarawat set his guitar down carefully, like it was a sleeping child. He took one step closer. Tine could smell laundry detergent and something vaguely like mint.
“I’m Tine. I need… a favor.”
“This is just acting, right?” Tine asked, suddenly unsure.
The Guitar, the Invitation, and the Unlikely Cure
Sarawat chose that moment to push off the wall and walk over. He didn’t say a word. He just slid an arm around Tine’s waist—firm, casual, like he’d done it a thousand times—and looked at Green.
“Hey,” Tine said, his voice cracking on the single syllable. “You’re Sarawat, right?”
Tine’s heart plummeted. “Please. I’ll do anything.”