Being shut down so abruptly stung more than it probably should have. Ty having friends who would look after him was a good thing, objectively — so why did Tycho pointing them out feel like a personal attack? Maybe not exactly an attack, but certainly a rejection.

"I —" I'm sorry I can't make it any easier, he started to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Probably nothing he did would make it easier; what Tycho needed was less of him. What would have made it easier was if Ford had told him to leave, when he'd asked two weeks ago — go somewhere far away and heal, go away and forget about me, go away and maybe fall in love again. Ford hadn't been able to stomach the thought then and he couldn't now either. Asking Tycho to stay was selfish and pointless, but Ford couldn't imagine ever asking him to leave.

I miss you, was the other way he could have finished the sentence. Selfish again. He did, but what good would it be to say it? The only thing at the end of that road was prolonged heartbreak. He could hold Tycho, or kiss him, or take him to bed, but when they finished he'd still have to go home to his wife.

He hated this. He hated looking at Tycho and not touching him, hated not being able to say what was on his mind, hated hurting him.

"I'll go," he eventually said, tone low and head hung. Tycho was right; he had no business being here in the first place.

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