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A cold bump works when it fits how the target sees themselves. You, a stranger, slot neatly into their confirmation bias like a key into a lock, then turn yourself over, belly-up. You offer just as much as they can convince themselves they deserve. It doesn't matter even slightly what's realistic.
My sights that evening were on a man who, against all odds, hoped his thoughts merited someone to listen to them. Hope, in these circumstances, is perfect — it holds a stronger drive to find evidence than mere belief. I offered him a sheltered mentee, wide-eyed at insights the masses allowed to sail over their heads. I offered a thinly-closeted youth to a man whose paper marriage had been tainted from the start by the contact-stain of his own misogyny.
In short, he liked me well enough when I asked him open-ended questions, and even better when I warmed to the idea of travelling with him. I would learn a lot, he said.
"You're a smart young man, Finley," he used the name I gave him, "A mind like yours should never be afraid to seek answers."
But Finley was afraid, of course. He needed coaxing, nurturing, to come out of his shell. He took the compliment bashfully, as if how "smart" he seemed weren't a direct measure of how impressionable he was. He did that to the best of my ability, anyway — which, while considerable, is not without its weaknesses.
I don't blush easily. It's one of my flaws. I can avert my gaze and stumble over words, ducking my head to hide in soft blond locks as if what I am concealing is a rush of blood and not its absence. But a hint of colour beneath the skin would really sell it, and it irritates me that I can't will this into being. Ciara suggests I "let some of my nerves show through," but she misunderstands the problem. (Ironically, I only have myself to blame there.) I am not nervous. The truth I thread into my lies is entirely different from hers. In any case, I haven't found my own way to produce that particular force multiplier yet, and it remains outside my toolbox.
Fortunately, I can summon plenty of other physical tells. They each function precisely as well as the target's willingness to believe them.
The next time we saw each other, my guru was willing to believe that my half-suppressed smile held an anxious optimism.
"You look happy," he said as I brushed the backs of my fingers against his, "I'm glad."
In a sense, he was correct. I was happy, to the point I could practically feel my pupils dilate and the conductivity of my skin increase as I looked at him. These, so I gather, are some of the same physical symptoms as falling in love. It was a nice feeling, at any rate. A feeling I enjoy more than almost—almost—any other.
Things were going exactly as I'd planned them to.