There’s another moment of confused, doe-eyed blinking, until Koby realizes that it – almost might’ve sounded like a rejection. He’d meant I know how it is and I understand transactions and give-and-take and bartering and bargaining and I don’t want you to kiss me unless you want to. But he’d also meant don’t stop, and it’s those words that tangle up in his throat, coming out in more of that stammering, fumbling, red-faced and looking up at Quentin like he’s the sun, like he’s some cardinal true north, like – some other nautical metaphor.

But what matters is:] I-It’s wanted! I mean, you’re – wanted. [Earnest now, wide eyes and glasses slipping down his nose, rising up and resting both hands on Quentin’s thighs. There’s the jolt of heated realization that seated, Quentin is only slightly shorter than Koby is standing, the consciousness that there’s that much of a difference in their size, and there’s teeth in that lower lip again, a hitch of breath, a flicker of eyes lower. Just for a second, just – imagining. That night, in the club, in the hot, thrumming, liquor-fueled horde had been dizzying, overwhelming, too quick, over too soon, but this is different. This is clear heads and that smile, and Koby stands up fully, moves his hands to rest lightly on Quentin’s face. Fingertips brushing his loose, blood-caked curls, smoothing them back from the bruises on his cheekbone, his neck, looking down at him with a smile that’s very nearly shy.]

I don’t want to go anywhere else. [Quieter, thumbs smoothing over a smear of dust, wiping it away from Quentin’s cheek.] I want you to stay here. If you want to. [It’s a cautiously opened door, nudging through to – wherever this may go, whatever might happen. It feels different, in the sober light of day, without the sugar and sweetness of the nightclub. Not better, not worse, just…different. Koby tilts his head, feels the too-loose shoulder of his robe start to slip again. Lets it, cradling Quentin’s face.] Do you want to stay?