"I don't like you right now."

You had found his weakness: fighting games. He had won every game the two of you had played, from War– which he denied having cheated in very unconvincingly– to Trivial pursuit– admittedly, that was your bad. He was good at word games, math games, turn-based RPGs, but what he did struggle with was any instinct-related games or button mashers. That was muscle memory; he needed to either be familiar with the subject matter or be able to see what he was doing to be good. He had neither here. You had never thought the thing to do him in would be fighting games, but you were hardly complaining.

You could barely understand him over the rushing of your own blood. "Oh," you coo, barely able to contain your mirth. "I'm so sorry. Do you need a bottle, baby?"

He did not move his eyes from the screen. "Rematch."

"Are you sure?" You cracked your knuckles. "I mean, I'm not sure if you can handle it again; if I beat you any harder you might start bleeding."

He laughed, clearly peeved. "I can handle it. Rematch."

"What for?" You stretched your arms above your head, crossing them behind your head as you settled back into the couch. "I won."

"It was a fluke."

"Sure." You propped your feet on the coffee table, crossing your ankles. "I'm afraid the world may never know; I have nothing to prove to you and I will remain undefeated, thank you."

You were thoroughly enjoying his quiet frustration. He did not get emotional much; it was a sight to behold. "How are you meant to prove that you're better than me at this game with only one data point?"

You bring a finger to his lips, shushing him. "I don't need to prove anything, sir. You know why?"

"I–"

"Because I won, yeah," You smiled sweetly at him. "I will be the best at this game if I have to kill to keep that spot."

His face dropped. In an instant, you were back to being a subject of scrutiny.

You felt your shoulders rise. "Kidding," you laughed nervously. "Hyperbole! Exaggeration!"

"Why do you joke about that?"

"About what?"

"Murder." He set the controller down. "Why is that funny to you?"

You fiddled with your own, defensive. "I dunno." You tapped one of the buttons rhythmically, knowing full well it did nothing in this game. "I mean, why do we joke about most stuff? Because it's funny, I guess." You sighed, nervous. "If you're trying to trap me again it isn't going to work, sir."

He blinked. "Trap you?"

You glanced over at him, immediately breaking contact; as much beauty you found in his eyes you could not deny how odd they made you feel. "You ask me a lot of questions. Not normal relationship-building questions, but ones about murder and how I think and things like that. You get that's odd, right?"

He brought his knees to his chest, continuing to stare at you.

You went on. "I get the feeling you aren't a trusting person." You twirled a piece of hair around your finger absentmindedly. "I get the feeling that ever since we've met you've suspected me of something, and while I admire the dedication and paranoia involved in pursuing that suspicion this far, it's not exactly the basis of a strong relationship." You chose not to look at him. "If you're suspicious of me, I'd rather you just told me why so we could get on with it; it's upsetting, going after someone who's so openly suspicious when your neck's out for them, especially when they're not even willing to give their name." You chuckled dryly. "I mean if you wanted to know something about me I'd rather you just asked, you know?"

It took him a second to reply. "You're clever."

"You sound surprised."

"I don't mean to insult you," he clarified "but you're unusually alert for someone pursuing a romantic relationship if I understand your meaning right."

You took a deep breath. "You kissed me and I didn't protest, resist, or reprimand you," you said. "I thought my intentions were obvious."

"You misunderstand." He set his head on his knees. "Typically, if one is in– or pursuing– a romantic relationship with someone, they become somewhat blind to the subject of their affections' faults, and if they are able to identify them, that typically doesn't happen for at least three months. You do not exhibit this trait, which is smart, but unusual."

You crossed your arms, feeling shamefully childish for your accusation. He had a way of doing that, of making you feel as if he was somehow better than you without doing anything particularly impressive. You did not consider yourself a competitive person, but he stirred something in you that made you want to prove that you and he were equals. "So you're admitting it?'

"Admitting what?"

"That you suspect me of something. You admit it."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Well," he sighed, "you don't make much logical sense; rather, the way you treat me doesn't."

You were unsure how to feel about that. "Explain."

"I'm not an approachable person." He looked back at the television. "The fact that even after all that you've been made to do you go through so much trouble to spend time with me is strange."

You were sure you were fully red by now, more out of embarrassment than anything. "Is not."

"Oh, but it is." He smiled; for what, you were unsure. "The first thing I asked you to do when we met was for you to eat what you gave me first so I was sure it wasn't poisoned. That's strange no matter how you choose to interpret it. And yet you chose to spend more time with me."

"So what?"

"Frankly, I thought you knew something."

You put a hand against your face, trying to cool down and regain your senses. "Like what?"

"I wasn't sure."

"Do you still?"

He considered it. "Partially." He bit at his nails again. "I doubt it, but I'm not sure, yet; I'm accounting for my missing a sign because I like you as much as I do."

Your face was not cooling as fast as you would like. "I don't believe you." You were proud of how steady your voice was; this conversation was twisting your insides into knots. "You're smart enough to tell."

"Maybe," he conceded, "but I believe myself to be a partial judge; I can't be sure what's real and what I'm filling in on my own right now, so as soon as I'm used to you, I can make a more accurate assessment." He gestured to the television. "Now, can we start another round? I promise I won't hold it against you if I beat you."

You started the round automatically, more desperate to get on with minimal damage to your pride than to maintain your winning streak at that point. "Was this all just to throw me off my game?"

"No." He had learned from the last round, had become much more formidable. "I'm fairly sure I could fluster you in ways that wouldn't upset you as much."

"Sure."

He stuck his tongue out absentmindedly, focused. "You're doubting me."

"I am, yeah." You leaned forward, your grip around the controller iron. "You need to have talked to people in order to know how to fluster them."

"Not true." He mimicked your movements. "I may not be the most social person in the world but I people-watch enough to have a general idea of what I'm doing."

"Is that so?" You spammed one of the buttons. "Well, Casanova, how does one sweep one off one's feet?"

He annoyingly dodged your attack. "Say something vaguely provocative very close to their ear that is related to something they have already discussed."

You laughed. "Sure. Do I get a demonstration?"

"Of course." He was about an inch away from falling off the couch. "Give me a minute."

The two of you, it seemed, were evenly matched. He was less aggressive this time, taking longer to let you come to him before springing some trap you could have never seen coming. He was startlingly quiet, a stark contrast with your steady stream of swears.

You did not know when he got so close to you, but there he was, shoulder to shoulder with you as the two characters on screen danced around each other.

"I think it's funny."

Your eyes did not move from the screen. "What is?"

"That you want to know my name." He lunged for the attack; you dodged just in time. "I think it's funny."

"It's not."

"Isn't it?" You did not feel him looking at you, but you could hear his voice lower. "I have a theory about that, actually. I was hoping for your input on the matter."

He had definitely moved closer; you could hear his breathing now. "And what's your theory, sir?"

He leaned in, mumbling into your ear. "I believe," he said, breath tickling your ear, "that you want to know so that when I'm pleasing you later you know who to beg for."

Your mind went blank.

He sat back where he was, completely unfazed. "I won."

You were unsure which part of that surprised you more: that he apparently had the ability to talk like that or that he had managed to get the words out without losing his cool. You could never dream of doing something like that, let alone in the heat of a game like that.

Your mouth did not appear to be capable of moving.

"Figures." He leaned back, setting the controller on the coffee table. "You're clever, observant, passionate; these are all good qualities, enviable qualities. However, there is one difference between the two of us which I believe you would find useful in your professional life." He looked up at you, now staring at him with wide eyes and a face bathed in red. "You lack composure, and that's why I can fluster you so easily."

"You have game?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"Since when have you had game?"

"What do you mean?"

Your heart was racing. "This isn't gonna work if you have game! I don't have game; that shit's unfair!"

He snickered, ever the sadist. "What does that mean, to have game?"

"You know," you scrambled for the words, "to be cool! Suave! Charming and charismatic!"

"I see." With every word, his smile grew. "And you're calling me all these things?"

"Yeah!"

"You sound surprised."

"Well, yeah!"

He sighed, clearly pleased with himself. "I'm not completely obtuse, you know; I would consider myself quite resourceful."

"You son of a bitch— you've been holding out and," you realized, your astonishment taking a hard right into disdain, "you fucking cheated!"

"I did no such thing." He did not even bother trying to hide his amusement. "It is, in fact, impossible to cheat in a video game; the rules, as you may have realized, are all coded into the game." He talked over your protests. "What you are identifying is my use of psychological warfare to win, which was not only not a rule established by you or the game, but is completely separate from the game itself; ergo, I could not have and did not cheat."

"The fuck you didn't!"

"If you're so sure that I cheated you are free to point to the rule that says that I can't use that sort of tactic to win." He went back to picking his fingernails. "Until then, you can either admit that I've won and we can try doing something else with the knowledge we are generally the same level of skill at this game, or we can play another round and figure out definitively that I can and will wipe the floor with you."

You covered your face with your hands. "You're horrible."

"Astute observation. Pick."

You crossed your arms. "I don't have to be better than you, cheater."

"Okay." He smiled brightly. "Then what would you like to do?"

"I dunno." You propped your feet up on the coffee table. "What do you wanna do?"

He pursed his lips. "I'd like to keep aggravating you, but I don't have a particular thing in mind that we could do."

You crossed your legs. "If neither of us have anything better to do, I'll ask a question. Why is all your stuff in German?"

He deflated slightly. "What do you mean?"

You pointed to his work corner: piles of files he had brought and proceeded to line up around a free outlet as an impromptu cubicle. "All your files are in German. All the stuff you do on your computer is also in German; I saw when I brought you food. Why's it all in German?"

"Because this particular job is based in Germany."

"But are you from Germany?"

He shrugged. "I've been."

"You know German?"

"I do."

You leaned against your hand. "Can you even send stuff out from here? I'd imagine international postage is expensive."

"I don't have to." He set his head on his knees. "That's not what my job entails."

"What does your job entail, then?"

"If you don't want me to try getting you to admit to things that could get you in trouble, you can't either."

"Boo." You held your arms up, stretching. "Well, can't blame me for trying."

"I can give you something to call me if you want." He watched you softly. "An alias, or a nickname."

"What's the point in that?" You relaxed into the couch with a lazy sigh. "It'll feel weird for you and weird for me if I call you something that isn't your name."

"Not necessarily." He leaned back so that your shoulder laid side-by-side, leaning into you slightly. "People in relationships call each other all sorts of stupid things. It'd be like that."

You smiled teasingly. "Would you like me to call you something, sir?"

He nodded. "I feel weird about you calling me sir all the time."

"Okay." You cracked your knuckles. "Are we going for a nickname or a pet name?"

"Whichever."

"Well, let's see." You closed your eyes, thinking. "Boss?"

"Absolutely not."

You grinned. "Got it, boss." You buzzed your lips. "Mister?"

"No."

"My liege?"

"Keep trying."

"Wise one?"

"Maybe we should try pet names."

You snorted. "Sure." You started again. "Babe and/or baby?"

He paused to consider it. "Better than anything so far, but no."

"Darling?"

"Could you use that in a sentence?"

"Listen, darling—"

"You sound like a cowboy."

You rolled your eyes, putting your hands up in surrender. "If I said my darling would it be better?"

He thought about it, nodded. "Marginally. That's a possibility."

"Okay." You smiled. "How about love?"

He blinked. "Love?"

"Yeah."

"Just the word love?"

"Well," you scoffed, "If it's too short for you–"

"Oh, that's not it." He pursed his lips. "I just don't think I've heard it before. Could you use it in a sentence?"

"Love," you smiled, "this is a total pain in the ass."

His eyes softened. "I like that one."

"What, love?"

"Yes."

You nodded. "And will you also respond to 'my love' or is that too far?"

"No, that's good too."

"So it has been decided." You gave a thumbs up. "From now on, I'm calling you love and or my love from this point onwards. And occasionally bitch, but preferably less than love."

He smiled. "Works for me."

"Cheers." You slipped out from under him, going to the kitchen. "I'm eating. Requests?"

"No." He watched you leave.

This was not going to last. That was probably what motivated him to go out of his way; at some point, this whole thing was going to end in a violent explosion. Even then, he could sense it. This, by all accounts, was a fleeting fantasy, dream-like in its impermanence and its spledor. Either you would grow tired of this, of him, or you would get too close and he would have to disappear entirely before you learned too much.

He shut off the television.

At the very least, it was a nice memory to have. If only for this long, he could be your love.