[ Another one of those soft twists takes root in his chest when he feels Mace's nose track across his forehead, like the softest of these touches hits harder than the big ones. Too keyed into every little thing, too hyper-aware of a few centimetres' stretch of skin.

God, does he understand not trying to form bonds. He didn't have the excuse of a dying sun to keep him from it, though.

One night and a Plan-B, and fuck that hurts him for some reason he can't put a name to. Maybe it's I always wanted to be a dad. Are you a father? I'm not.

And following it, the sudden overwhelming surge that rises up in him like high tide threatening to fill his throat with salty sea water: he has to get Mace the fuck out of here so that he can finally have kids.

It's still in his breath, in his slow exhale after the question. He shakes his head, and that low raspy drawl slips out of him, quiet and honest. ]

Told you I'd have left already, back at the cabin. I'd have left anyone. I don't... get attached to people. There's no point. I'm done with...

[ Something he can't name, and he shakes his head instead of finding the right noun. ]

I haven't since... Not since my mom died, my first year of grad school. Just flings, after that. Nothing real.

[ So much for no more maudlin. ]