Bastien’s eyebrows go up just a tic, eyes amused for the span of a long pause. A moment of silence for a dozen flirtatious responses, murdered by the fact that Bastien likes Ellis too much and too genuinely to tease—for Byerly’s sake, not because Ellis couldn’t take it.

“I will win,” he says deliberatively, “one personal fact. Your choice. It can be very small.”

He rights one of the chairs with his foot. The muscles in his abdomen don’t hurt yet, not really, but he can tell where they will.

“And in the unlikely event that you win, you can choose your own prize.”