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Summary
“Flattering though your opinion of me might be,” Eames said, at the time, “I don’t actually fancy twelve year old boys.”
“He’s seventeen,” Mal corrected him.
“Oh,” Eames said, and cut another look across the workshop. “Seventeen? Really?”
“Promise me,” Cobb repeated, more urgently.
“Yeah, of course,” Eames answered, still frowning over at Arthur, all elbows and floppy hair and — yes, there it was — interestingly mobile hips. “No, I won’t lay a hand on his virgin —“