He was woken by a soft tap on the door and Carter’s re-entry.
Carter shut the door and leaned against it, hands in his pockets. “How are you doing?”
Lew sat up and wiped his face with his handkerchief—no convenient tissues in 1921, he’d had to get used to remembering. “Just about as you’d expect. She’s not stirred.”
A slightly awkward silence fell, probably due to both of them remembering last night. Lew craved a repeat. When had being hugged become such a big thing? He was able to answer that himself—when he had found himself in the early twentieth century, with no support network, no family, and draconian legislation preventing him openly expressing his sexuality. Alec had felt safe from the beginning and being held by him had felt even better. The other man had been right last night.
