by Jane Davitt

"He touches you. A lot."

"Jim's a tactile kind of guy. Sensitive, even."

"You live together."

"Separate beds, man. It was six months before I saw his bare ass and that was because his towel slipped and his hands were full."

"He calls you pet names. Pet. Names."

"'Snookums' has never passed his lips once and if it ever did, I'd deal with it. Firmly."

"He'd die for you."

"So what? Ditto!"

"He brought you back from the dead."

The voice was getting strident now. Blair sighed. "I know. I know, okay? But he's filed it under 'mystical crap I don't want to think about, Sandburg, end of story'."

The voice in his head fell silent. It never won this argument no matter how much Blair helped it with subtle nudges and hints.

And it didn't matter, because the person he needed to have this conversation with was Jim, and Jim, well, Jim was clueless enough to let him do it, and once started, it wouldn't end well.

He'd keep hope alive a little longer, thanks.

But he does touch me. A lot.

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