Stephen had been pacing himself with little Miss Sweet Pea.

He was used to reading people in seconds-clocking their tells, calling their plays before they even made a move. Yet, she was hard to pin down as a woman, and he knew women. He knew all their pathetic little tricks. Anaya, however, was just what he would call an annoying ghost. There was no flirtation, no tension, no effort. She was either tucked behind the group, skimming the edges of conversation, or just never around long enough to register her presence. She was disgustingly polite in a way that was far too measured, mild, maybe even calculating.

Years of leadership had taught him to clock those avoidant ones. People-pleasers in polite packaging, nodding, smiling, always agreeable on the surface but slipping away when it mattered most. They froze. They deflected. They let you down. In his line of work, that kind got people killed in the air. You needed someone who could hold the line when the shit got real – not someone blinking at you with scared eyes, unsure whether to speak or run. And Anaya? She reeked of that same quiet vanish-when-needed instinct.

It wasn’t just irritating. It was dangerous.

If he was being honest, she didn’t bother him too much, at first. After all, she was nobody important.

He had been quite vocal that foreigners had no place in these charity groups. So she’d kept her distance, and he ignored her contributions. But then something started to grate. Her silences weren’t just silent – they were calculated, like she was ignoring him. With the others, she was too polite, too controlled, always hovering at the edge of the frame like she didn’t belong in the picture.

Maybe ghosting was just obedience taken too far.

That’s probably why he had decided to needle her on every occasion so the game of charades could end and everyone else would finally see she was not little Miss Sweet Pea.

They had just come back from another hike with the youth group. This was a popular event organized by the charity group especially at this time year. It had been humid as hell. Everyone had been dripping sweat and stripped down to their base layers, their shirts clinging and shoes muddied. Most of the volunteer crew had cleared out.

Anaya was still in the gear room, shelving ropes and emergency kits in the half-dark. Her short black hair, sweaty and curled under in that backwards bob, stuck to the back of her neck. Her skin had the rich, warm tone of butterscotch and her cheeks were still flushed from the sun. She was awkwardly elbowing, the first-aid kit into a shelf that was clearly too full.

Stephen first watched from behind the counter, arms crossed, his lean frame blocking most of the light His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves shoved up, chest and forearms streaked with dust and sweat. A faint sunburn edged along his sharp cheekbones. He debated saying something about the mess she was making. He’d have to fix it later anyway.

She flinched a little when she turned around and finally noticed him standing off to the side, observing her.

“Okay, I’m done. See you next week.” The words came out too fast. Too clean.

He caught it like a red flag.

“I don’t know who you’re seeing next week, but it won’t be me.” His voice sliced the room in half. It was rude as a slap, delivered like that on purpose. Her shoulders stiffened, and she stifled whatever she wanted to retort as she dropped her eyes to the floor, making for the door almost immediately.

“I’ll be on my boat,” he added casually. “If you’re interested, there’s a spot.”

Her brows knit slightly as she glanced up, looking around the room as if he may have been talking to someone else. In that moment he noticed, unbidden, a pair of eyes warm and bottomless, like dark caramel. They were soft, way too soft.

He blinked that thought away.

“That was not a request, by the way,” he added, still deadpan but delivered again as smooth as a knife.

“Okay.” Her voice was barely audible. She looked like an agouti caught in headlights waiting to be struck by the approaching vehicle.

“It was an invitation” he said, more slowly this time, like a teacher spelling things out for a distracted student.

Still, she hesitated. One foot stepped backward, hand groping lightly for whatever was behind her. Those almond-shaped eyes darted between his own penetrating stare and towards the door.

“I don’t give those out to everybody,” he added, gesturing vaguely between them and waiting for a flicker of recognition.

Nothing was forthcoming.

She nodded and made her way clumsily to the door. As she did, he caught the faintest whiff of vanilla or maybe they were marshmallows. Or was it a big plate of fudge? He felt a strange heat run across the skin on the back of his neck and rubbed it away this time vigorously.

“I wasn’t trying to get invited,” she said quickly, her voice half-breath, half-embarrassed stumble.

Fucking unbelievable. What a little pest.

“Jesus, I know that,” he snapped. “That’s why you’re invited.” He exhaled like if he had been holding his breath all this time. He felt his jaw slacken as he ran his hand over his face. He was exhausted by his patience.”

“Is this another one of your bad jokes?” she managed.

His expression tensed. “What’s wrong with my jokes?”

“Nothing. I… nothing.”

He arched a brow and heard himself nearly bark, “Look, do you want to come fishing with me or not?”

She didn’t blink. “Okay. Yes. Sure.” Short. Quick. Trying to close the door on the moment.

Fine. At this point, he wanted it over too. The ache in his legs, the grime on his skin, the irritation simmering just below the surface – it was all catching up with him.

He grabbed a scrap of paper from the counter, scribbled the directions to the marina, and handed it to her like a principal dishing out detention.

“I eave at 0700 hours,” he said. “With or without you.” It almost sounded like a joke, except it wasn’t.

He was many things – funny wasn’t one. But punctual? Oh he could be deadly.

She moved past him, and again that scent – definitely vanilla. He felt his stomach lurch, a little pitch pilots knew too well. Except he wasn’t in the air this time. He pressed a hand flat against his gut, like grounding the sensation, watching her go.

If he was the one laying the trap, then why did it feel like he was walking straight into it?

 

∞

CV Sankars is a Trinidadian writer, artist and designer. This story is taken from The Invitation, a zine recently presented at UN|FOLD, a small publishing fair for DIY/micro-publishers, zinemakers, and artists experimenting with print media, which was launched in 2024 by Alice Yard in collaboration with SPEC* and which held its latest edition in August 2025 at Granderson Lab, Belmont, Port of Spain, Trinidad and Tobago.