Blain’s voice is like velvet. “Trin.” Gentle but cloying in the heat of the day. “Look at me, kid.”
Slowly, Trin obeys. How can he not? Tiny droplets of sweat bead on Blain’s upper lip—he stares at these instead of into his brother’s eyes. It’s too hot this close together but he can’t seem to find the words to ask if Blain will move away. Trin thinks he’ll push it, say in my eyes or you’re not listening but he is, listening with his whole body. Blain rarely touches him and this hand on his neck, this cool forehead against his own, this is more than he’s ever had. Did his father ever do this? Did his mother? He doesn’t think so. He’s never felt this, this safety, this love. What’s Blain going on about? Whatever it is, I’ll do it, Trin promises silently. Whatever you want, tell me and it’s
