"Zahara."

He says the name with immense fondness.

(He's also navigating unerringly towards Valentine's apartment, without having to ask for an address.)

Ah. That would be why they’ll be in Valentine’s apartment.

...wait a minute. He knows that park.

"But enough about me. Are you hoping to stay in the restaurant industry?"

“I expect I will. For a while, at least.”

"But you must have a dream. Somewhere you're hoping to go."

“That’s planning very far ahead.”

"You're a very reserved man, you know."

He turns onto a narrow street, starts watching for the building number.

“I find if I’m secretive enough, it disguises the fact that my life is actually very uninteresting.”

"An admirable philosophy."

He sounds very sincere.

...here's the one. "On the left, here?"

Briefly, he considers telling him he actually lives a block down.

“...yes. Thank you.”

"Lovely."

He takes the turn very narrowly in front of an oncoming car, and pulls to the curb in front of the building.

"It's been a pleasure, Monsieur Teegarden."

“...likewise,” he says, sounding not at all certain of this assessment.

He’s out of the car and through the door of his apartment building in short order.

The car pulls away, and he's left to himself.

(Later, at home, Jean flips through menus of various upscale restaurants. It's not as if the boy would -- could, really -- refuse a second invitation...)

At home, for the next several days, Valentine attempts to make crépes.

The first few batches are completely inedible. He has to spit every time when he's tasting. After going through several cartons of eggs and a great deal of flour, he manages one — lacy at the edges, moist but not too thick or undercooked, firm but not rubbery, sprinkled with melted butter and strawberry and cinnamon sugar — that he can eat in its entirety.

An hour of rumination later, he loses it, but it's a promising development.

He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't.

He especially knows he shouldn't after the first time he jerks off, quick and discreet into the toilet where it can be easily flushed away, thinking about Valentine's face.

Sex work is work, but using a survival sex worker -- instead of just helping him -- and he can't lie to himself, not entirely, about what this is --

The Black Oven, Sunday, 4PM

He’s there, again, precisely on time.

Jean is forty-six minutes late on the dot, and very precisely dressed.

"Valentine! Lovely as always. You really must give me your tailor's name."

He pushes himself up off a section of low brick wall where he was trying to lean as discreetly as possible.

“I’m sure the card is buried somewhere. I’ll dig it up for you.”

"You're a fairly competent liar," Jean observes, and -- not, apparently, expecting a response -- sweeps Valentine off towards a cozy little corner booth.

“...what makes you say that?”

"Relatively few tells. Your pupils don't even dilate, did you know that?"

“Should I be offended, or flattered?”

"Flattered, certainly."

He's making a show of looking over the menu, as if he hasn't already read it obsessively.

He looks down the menu — raclette, clay pot roast chicken, rabbit tortellini — and is very quickly distracted by the fresh-baked bread now being cut for them at the table.

He barely avoids putting his hands in the way of the knife.