How simple it was for Hudson to extend the invitation. An hour or so. And then? Don Juan supposed he would head to the same floo address he always had before, walk into the same parlor, sit down at the same dining room chairs where he'd shared breakfasts or dinners? And then would they have a somber conversation about the gravity of what Hudson was proposing and the consequences that would ensue when it all went wrong? Or would Hudson lean forward and put his hand on Don Juan's knee while he said something entirely too heartfelt? Would they kiss in lieu of asking any of the difficult questions? Slip back into the way that things had been before, as though there had been no interruption at all? No drinking binge. No frustrated nights where Don Juan had tried and failed to explain to another man how he wanted to be touched, held, fucked — unable to articulate what was missing in it, except that it hadn't been Hudson. No Elfrieda Yaxley, no duel, no Spain, no Valencia Delgado. Just the pair of them doing it all over again, se káthi zoí. Impossible, however intoxicating the idea might have been. Don Juan knew this kind of allure: too bright, too perfect, too captivating. A glittering facade covering a million pitfalls, any of them ready to collapse and bring it all crashing down to violent jagged ends. Yes, Don Juan recognized what Hudson was offering him, even if Hudson didn't: this was a drug, no better than opium.

"I can't come to your house," he said firmly. He ground his cigarette out on a paving stone. "We should probably get back in."

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