Don Juan helped himself to the wine and poured a glass for Hudson, then settled in at the kitchen table to watch him work. What was the phrase he'd used once jokingly early in their relationship? Delightfully domestic? He'd been poking fun at Hudson then, but there really was something both soothing and charming about watching Hudson going about routine tasks like this in his home. Just coexisting, without pretense, without performance. When Don Juan was with anyone else in an environment like this he was always trying hard to be suave, and they almost certainly were too. Moments like this, where he was presumably seeing Hudson at ease and fully himself, were hard won. There was an intimacy to something like this that was distinct from and perhaps more rare and precious than the sort achieved through sex.

"I decided to write to her," he admitted eventually, as he swirled the wine in his glass to let it breathe. "The — my daughter."

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   Dean Hudson