“I don’t argue with idiots. They’ve got way more experience,” Eve
read aloud, looking up from the tablet where she was scrolling through the news.
The slogan on Elion’s T-shirt screamed against the dull military grayness around them, begging for
color—or at least a shot of irony.
“So, what do you think? Better than the one with the cat?”
“It’s as deep as a banker’s pocket after another financial crash. Seriously, where do you even find
this stuff? Some ancient joke manual? Or the bottom drawer labeled ‘Don’t open unless you’re
desperate’?” she shot back, giving him a flat look, though her tone gave her away—she was enjoying
this more than she cared to admit.
“Knew you’d love it. Face it—you’ve got a soft spot for my sense of humor. It’s one of those things
that bonds us, even if you’ll never say it out loud.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I never said that, and I’m not about to start. Wearing ridiculous
shirts doesn’t make you a philosopher. At best, you’re the king of bad jokes.”
She reached for her coffee, hiding a smile behind the cup.
“I can see it written all over you. You don’t have to say a word. They’re practically screaming,
‘Elion, you’re a genius.’ I’m no Socrates, but you have to admit… there’s some truth stitched into
this masterpiece.”
Eve slowly raised an eyebrow and stared at him until his grin widened.
“All you’re seeing is exhaustion from another night shift. Nothing more. Honestly, sometimes I
wonder if you think at all before you put something on. That thing’s less a fashion choice and more
a walking provocation. Wonder what the general’s gonna say about it.”
“John’ll love it! He’s got more chill than you give him credit for. Besides, it’s a T-shirt, not a
political manifesto. Come on, own it—you like my style. It adds to my charm.”
