Dean didn't have to tell Don Juan that he could be patient. He was here. Five years and some months after things had ended between them the last time. Seven years and some months since things had ended between them the first time, and Don Juan couldn't have credibly argued he'd made any significant improvements to himself in the time between the two. Anyone with a limited supply of patience would have already been long gone. Hudson had dropped an important work thing to come find him by a lake in Ireland. He was unreasonably devoted. Don Juan thought then he'll take me back next time, already presuming this time would eventually fall apart. But he hadn't changed in seven years, so what was going to be different in another year, or two, or ten? He didn't know how to change, as a person. When he felt fitful he changed his surroundings; he put himself in a different context and hoped it would do what he couldn't. Spain had been the most dramatic example, because he had felt entirely miserable with himself after ruining Elfie — but what could have been his fresh start in a new place with a new person had just ended with him ruining her life, too. He was the same person no matter where he went.

Don Juan thought I do love you, but he didn't want to say it. He didn't know whether it was worth anything. It hadn't been worth anything the last time. He hadn't said it often enough and had never been able to prove it with action.

"Alright," he said, because there was nothing else to say, even if he didn't think he could hold up his end of the deal. He shifted his head against his arm to peer back at Hudson with one eye, as though he could hide behind himself. "But you will tell me if I'm being an idiot?"

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