“You do.” Colby promptly held out a hand to him, though. That mattered. Necessary.
Jason needed to know that Colby wanted to touch him. Anchors. With all the meaning they’d established, layers and layers, underneath. It’d also work in character, of course.
He went on, conjuring words on the spot, “And it’s a part of who you are. Your heart, rescuing the world. And I love you, Stephen, but you have to understand that I am my own person. I’ve fought for that. You know I have. My father. Physicians. My own body. I won’t be your burden and I won’t be your story of an enchanted princess in a child’s pantomime. I have a life, and I will choose what to do with it.”
Jason, having recovered somewhat—the gesture had helped, then; good—reached out and took his hand: dwindling, forlorn, wounded and
