Chapter 11Henry woke to the chatter and leap of rain, and an odd full-body shiver of awareness, resurfacing, being alive. He sat up in bed—in Theo’s bed—and glanced around; he couldn’t recall his dreams, for once. He was alone in the bedroom, but he did not feel alone.
He felt, in fact, as if he’d slept well. As if he’d been safe, and comfortable—for the first time in God knew how long—and not only comfortable but wanted.
Theo had kissed him. Theo’s lips had claimed his. Theo’s hands had stroked along his back, his shoulders, his stomach. Theo’s fingertips had reached up to caress the nape of Henry’s neck and had become an anchor, a steady North Star, a revelation.
Henry, sitting in Theo’s too-small bed, surrounded by rain and snug stone walls and an utter lack of dust because Theo had
