His endless plans and contingencies, when they're desperate and desperately optimistic like this, they always sound like if only. If only he could ace every single performance exam levied at the students, then Sir Reginald would notice. If only he could be the youngest person in space, green across the board and his flight licenses passed, then the Monocle would care. If only he could destroy every last obstacle placed in the Academy's path, then Dad would love him.

(And if only he could look like himself once more, tall and trim shoulders and normal human-sized arms and unblemished skin and the face that once plastered the magazines along hers, then maybe he could look in a mirror again. Touch Allison again.)

When Allison delivers her orders, he's still looking at her, and it doesn't even take that long before Luther nods.

Nobody else would dare. Five might snap commands for some things, for the specific realms of his expertise, for mending timelines, exerting the privilege and know-it-all-ness of being the eldest— But nobody else could hope to tie Luther down quite like this, his heart and self, his personhood, his decision-making. She's the only one. Because it's trust. It's trust and love and his best friend and the best-closest thing he has to a confidante.

"Okay," he says. "I promise."

(And even to his ears, those two words sound like an echo of the past. Numbers One and Three, their voices tinny over two cans and a single thread of string, a pinky promise and a swear.)