Sitting on the floor while Tycho ran his thumb over Ford's lips and talked about poetry was incredibly hot. There was a not insignificant part of Ford that wanted to push Ty back to the floor and climb on top of him again to pick up right where they'd left off. Aside from how attractive this little interlude was, it also brought a lightness to Ford's chest.

He doesn't mean it, Ford told himself. The words sounded romantic, but that was just how Tycho was. He was dramatic about the littlest things, and he wrote poetry all the time. He probably said that to everyone he made out with. Maybe it was even true; maybe Tycho saw poems in everyone's eyes. Regardless, it didn't mean anything, and Ford would do well to keep that right at the front of his mind. This was not a grand romance. This was, in all likelihood, the beginning of a casual hook-up.

(If he didn't play his cards right, it could also be the end of their friendship).

"How am I supposed to let you stay?" he countered. He reached up to catch Tycho's hand and pulled it away from his face just enough that he could kiss the inside of the other man's wrist. "None of the things I want to do to you are quiet."

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