Doyle shifted, crossing one leg and bringing the other up so as to rest an elbow on his knee. He leaned forward, threaded fingers through Larkin’s hair a second time, and gently held the back of his head. “You don’t exist in the binary, Evie. You’re part of the human condition too. Just because you express that experience differently from the majority doesn’t mean you don’t feel the same ways. Anyone who thinks you’re monotone isn’t actually listening when you speak.”

Larkin’s skin tingled, like from a little static shock, as Doyle drew his fingers along Larkin’s throat. He latched onto that sensation, that reminder he was still alive, even when the drugs made him feel like he wasn’t, shifted onto his knees so that he was taller than Doyle, and took his face into both hands. Larkin rubbed the pads of his thumbs against the grain of Doyle’s stubble, leaned down, and kissed him. With a tender mouth and lips still tart from lemonade, Doyle’s kiss was live and in full technicolor. Larkin allowed Doyle to wrap his arms around his waist, allowed himself to be drawn close enough to straddle one leg, allowed the unhurried and curious exploration of tongues.

Doyle had selflessly opened his home and his heart to Larkin, with the expectation of nothing in return. He’d given Larkin a copy of his key. He’d made room for Larkin’s belongings. He kissed Larkin like this—like he was everything.

What kind of man did that?

A good one.

Larkin broke the kiss. His breath was a little unsteady.

Doyle stared at him, his face a mess of hopeful uncertainty.

All Larkin had to do was say yes.

Abruptly, Larkin said, “I’m going to go to bed.”

Doyle’s expression flickered, like an old television caught between channels, but then he nodded and smiled softly, lowered his hands from Larkin’s waist, said, “Sure.”

Larkin got to his feet. “Goodnight, Ira.”

“Sleep well, Evie.”