He isn't used to this craving, this insatiate memory of the taste of someone else's skin, this need for more and more and more of another person. Nobody in Hasmal had been worth that kind of space in his mind. Even Travis had been an acquired taste. But he remembers Kit's scars already, remembers the dusting of silverblack hair under his fingertips, remembers the weight of him in his hand and against his tongue, and the reality is so very much better.

He reaches forward to help Kit work, his own hands uncharacteristically hurried, and forces patience as he takes him in hand to stroke him.

"Tell me," he murmurs, "how you missed me."