Macnair was going to see him out. Ford sort of wished he wouldn’t, because he didn’t feel fully recovered from the embarrassment of all of this. He wanted to scramble to put his clothes on and make it as far as the other side of the door and then lean against the wall and catch his breath and try and collect himself and make his cheeks stop burning bright red, but he couldn’t do that if Macnair was going to see him out, and he couldn’t protest. This mean he was going straight from seeing Macnair at the floo downstairs to the parlor at home, though, and this was earlier than Ford had expected to be leaving, and someone might still be in the parlor at home. Having to go from holding things together for Macnair straight to having to hold things together for a sibling or for Mama was just too much — he wanted a chance to fall apart for a moment, before he had to put himself back together and think about what to do next. Especially after that moment with Macnair's hand on his.

It was good that Macnair had tossed him his clothes, at least, because that was one less thing to have to think about while he tried to collect himself enough to manage the next twenty minutes until he could make it to his bedroom at home. Ford fumbled through getting dressed as quickly as he could and swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in his throat that just wouldn’t leave. He hadn’t noticed Macnair wasn’t meeting his eye, because Ford wasn’t meeting his, either.

“Alright,” he said as he buttoned up his shirt, already moving towards the door. “I’ll, uhm, write?”

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