Gale poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down at the table across from Brandon. “How long has he been like that?”
“Since the funeral.”
“He’s been in that room by himself for three weeks?” Gale sounded as outraged as Brandon felt, outraged because Bran knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do for Nate.
He understood grief. Hell, he’d stood over the mutilated body of one of his closest friends. But even knowing that, even understanding it, didn’t take away the sense of lose he felt.
He wanted his partner back. He missed the early morning smiles and the quiet nights of holding each other. He wanted Nate.
Brandon took a sip of his own coffee. It was cold, but he didn’t care. “He came out once after the funeral, when I insisted he go see one of the staff psychiatrists at Chica
