Very little changes for you over the next week – with one alarming exception. As you watch for the Vorta's daily trek across the Promenade, it appears he also watches for you. Every afternoon, without fail, those violet eyes dart up to meet yours at your usual table on the upper deck. He holds the glance but briefly; just enough time to smile and nod to you. And, breathless, you nod back.

You begin to sit with your back to the wall each time you dine out for lunch. So far, there have been no further interruptions by uninvited guests, but all the same you fear being caught off-guard again.

After two weeks, you begin to relax, thinking perhaps it was an empty platitude after all. Vorta have so many other more important things to worry about than going on dates, you rationalize; he was probably just entertaining himself by playing with you during a moment of free time. It seems the type of thing Weyoun would do, if he noticed someone taking a special interest in him. Stealthy as you thought you were being, dealing in furtive glances and sidelong stares, you really aren't that surprised to know he saw right through you. Or maybe, with those unique ears of his, he simply heard you making your judgmental comments to yourself as he strode by. Really a terrible habit. You wonder, uselessly, what he's heard you say.

The chime of an incoming transmission interrupts your contemplation. Curious, you set down your raktajino and tell the computer to put the audio through.

Your blood runs cold when you hear the velvety voice on the line.

"Ahh, Y/N! How lovely to speak with you again. I trust I did not wake you?"

"I – ah, no. I was just about to have breakfast, actually."

"Well then, please excuse my interruption. I don't intend to take up much of your time; I was simply wondering if you'd do me the honor of sharing dinner with me tonight. I do seem to recall some promises being made about your famous hasperat souffle?"

You're grateful there is no visual feed to capture your wide-eyed expression. Your first instinct is to search for excuses, and a moment of silence passes as you reach for one –

"It doesn't have to be tonight, of course," soothes the Vorta at your hesitation. "I did take the liberty of contacting your employer, I hope that's alright," – it isn't – "and he informed me that you have two days off each week, so I'm certain we can work something out if you aren't free this particular evening."

Damnit.

You have no choice but to relent: "No, no...this evening is fine, actually."

"Wonderful! Then I'll be over, oh, say, nineteen hundred hours?"

"Sure."

"I look forward to it," he concludes, the smile audible in his voice, and with a dismissive chime the call cuts out.

You lean forward and hold your head in your hands. This is not the kind of day off you were hoping for. You had reading to catch up on, friends to chat with, shop windows to peruse.

Now you have a souffle to bake.

At half past eighteen hundred hours, your quarters were clean, the table was set, and the souffle was in the oven. You'd dug out an acceptably refined cocktail dress from your closet, not having expected to be donning it at any point during this occupation, and sat yourself down in front of a mirror to apply makeup with a trembling hand.

Nineteen-hundred comes and goes. Weyoun strikes you as a very punctual man; is he late on purpose? You fiddle nervously with the hem of your dress, watching the door, your anxiety growing by the minute; your hand is halfway to the bottle of springwine you've set out when the sound of the door-chime nearly causes you to jump out of your skin.

"Come in!" you blurt, rising and smoothing out your dress.

The door slides open and in steps one dashing Vorta – who, upon entry, stops to take in his surroundings. He surveys your elegantly-decorated quarters with quiet amusement before settling his gaze on you, and, smiling, he steps forward.

"Your quarters are nearly as lovely as you are. I truly am grateful for the privilege of dining here with you tonight."

As though he didn't invite himself, you think. But as he speaks, he takes one of your hands in his and presses the back of it to his lips, and quite quickly your head empties of all thought. He holds on just a moment or two longer than necessary before releasing it as well as the gaze with which he had affixed you, which you notice is quite effective at keeping you rooted to the spot.

"Ah! Springwine," he notes suddenly, breaking the tension. You turn your attention to the coffee table where you'd prepared a bottle and two glasses. "How thoughtful of you."

He guides you to the sofa with a hand on your elbow and you both take a seat. Your anxiety begins to bubble over.

"I, uh. Hope you like springwine. I wasn't really sure what you'd prefer – springwine can be so sweet, sometimes it's a little overpowering – but it goes well with hasperat, tempers the spice a bit, you know, and I had a couple bottles lying around anyway, so I figured…"

You trail off, your babbling ceasing as Weyoun clasps a hand over the one you had just set on the bottle. You glance up to him, uncertain, but the kindness behind his smile is reassuring and you relax just an iota.

"It will be just fine. But truly, my dear, you've done enough already – at least allow me to do this."

You nod, and he softens his grip enough for you to slip your hand out of it. As he pops the cork and begins to fill the glasses, you find your thoughts drifting to worry again, to fear; the phrase "comfort woman" swirls in your mind. You wonder with increasing panic what exactly this man expects of you tonight.

Weyoun hands you your wine glass and raises his into the air, waiting for you to do the same. "A toast," he says, "to the beginning of a wonderful friendship."

You smile. You clink your glass against his. You take a sip.

The Vorta leans back in his seat and regards you pensively. "You seem...uneasy," he points out, crossing his legs. "Not at all like you were at that Klingon cafe. Is everything alright?"

You stare into your wine as if trying to find an answer there. None comes.

"...My dear."

There is a soft clink as Weyoun sets his glass down. You startle as his fingers brush just beneath your chin, guiding you to look away from your drink and into his eyes. Behind them resides – to your confusion – genuine concern.

"Please don't misunderstand me. I don't mean to pressure you into anything that would make you uncomfortable. Perhaps I was too forward – but I was certain I detected a hint of interest from you over the course of these last few weeks. Forgive me."

He bows his head in apology.

You realize you're at a crossroads. He's offering you an out – something you very desperately wanted a moment ago. However, now that the option is available to you, it seems entirely the wrong choice. Why, after all, would you have spent the entire day making sure those souffles would be the best you've ever baked? Why would you have dolled yourself up, broken out the springwine?

These are not the actions of a woman under duress.

Suddenly feeling very foolish, you scramble over yourself to correct him: "No! No, I… I am… interested."

His head jolts back up. You shrink a bit under his intense stare, but as he leans forward and takes your hands in his, his excitement begins to usurp your fear.

"I'm very glad to hear it."

A smile twitches at your lips. "I'd just… like to take things slow, you know?"

"Perfectly understandable," he accedes, and releasing your hands, he returns to his glass of wine. "From this moment forward I promise not to do anything that might jeopardize your comfort."

For the first time that night, you truly relax.

The souffle is ready in short time and the two of you while away the night chatting about this and that. You learn Weyoun cannot stand the fizziness of Bajoran ale, but – being unable to taste most things – he quite enjoys the smoothness of springwine, even if its sweetness fails to register at all. Likewise, his affection for hasperat souffle stems from its airy, delicate texture, and the strong level of spice appropriates something close to taste for him.

You're convinced you've thoroughly bored him with your menial tales of day-to-day life, the rants about your annoying coworkers and your anecdotes surrounding family recipes. But Weyoun attends it all with rapt attention, even after the two of you have polished off the entire bottle of springwine.

You're quite surprised when the computer interrupts a moment of shared laughter to announce the initialization of your nightly bedtime routine. The lights fade to sunset-orange and a short chime indicates you've entered do-not-disturb mode.

"Oh," you sigh, disappointed. "Is it that late? I didn't realize…"

"It's my fault," interjects Weyoun, standing and straightening his clothes. "I've stolen your entire night away. How rude of me!"

He offers you his hands. You take them, relishing how cold they feel against your warm skin, and allow him to lead you to the door.

"Please accept my apologies."

Staring into those smoldering amethyst eyes, you flush suddenly, realizing the vulnerable position you're in.

The kiss.

He's going to go for it. He's going to expect it, after the wonderful night you've shared – and you don't want to insult him, don't want to disappoint him, even, but you're not sure if you're ready, you haven't thought about it –

He brings your hands up to his lips. On the knuckles of each hand he plants a kiss, firm, poignant. You shudder at the contrast between his cold hands and warm breath. At his unbroken eye contact.

"...Apology accepted," you exhale.

He smiles in return. Bows his head, releases you.

"I look forward very much to our next meeting."

And then he's gone.

You sink into the sofa, suddenly drained. The background hum of the station is the only sound in your quarters now and the relative silence presses in on you like a physical presence. The empty wine glasses cast your reflection back on you – and you feel judged.

You close your eyes.

Prophets have mercy.