Don Juan had held the cigarette out to him carelessly, his attention already focused on closing the tobacco pouch with his free hand, but then he said that. Don Juan tensed. What a devastatingly careless thing to say in a situation like this. How catastrophically romantic. That was what made it so difficult to discard Hudson's letters, at least in part; he was mimicking the sorts of epic poems Don Juan had grown up on, throwing caution to the wind and making bold declarations. I would do it again, dans chaque vie. Ready to be unspeakably stupid. Liking things he wasn't supposed to, unapologetically. Like the last two years hadn't happened, or like he didn't care. Worse: like the last six weeks of their relationship hadn't happened, or like he'd forgotten. Don Juan hadn't forgotten.

"Dean," he said, like a warning.

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