Ford's stomach flipped, and not in the good way. This wasn't butterflies and mushy feelings; this was closer to nausea. He didn't know whether it was the way Macnair talked about it or the fact that he'd kissed Ford's forehead right afterwards that did it. Maybe it wasn't either of those things — maybe it was just the phrase back to normal, and the realization it brought him that this sort of thing might become normal. Perhaps he should have expected this when he'd agreed to start things up again. It wasn't as though Macnair's wife was a secret. Was this the sort of pillow talk he'd signed up for, when he'd agreed to play paramour to a married man?

Ford turned — not away, he told himself, because they could still be cuddling just as well with Ford's back against Macnair's chest, so it wasn't as though he was pulling back. Whatever he told himself, though, it was a relief not to have to be so careful about where he was looking — the sight of Macnair's bare chest below him only made the nauseated feeling worse.

"You're good at this," he mumbled towards the pillow. "It'll be fine."

---