“Come here,” Don said, and led him over to the sofa—ancient but comfortable, it’d held him through ex-boyfriends and ice-cream nights and first-ever daydreams about owning his own coffee shop, so it could support them now—and sat down with him, holding onto both his hands. That felt right, in some indefinable way. “Want anything? Coffee, food—um, we just had food, never mind—dessert? I might have some dark chocolate somewhere. Not too sweet.”
“I don’t need anything.” Raine looked at his own wrists, sleeves tugged down again. “I don’t understand why you’re not more upset.”
“I am,” Don said. “Not with you.”
“But…”
“You needed something. And I wasn’t there. Or you thought I wouldn’t be. I get it. Not judging. But you said it wasn’t right, and you sounded like it hurt, when I touched you.”
