“I know.” A smile ghosts over Jack’s lips: knife-sharp and honey-sweet and ten kinds of hell on the knees. And nowhere as bad as what comes next. “And you know that I do trust you, Rhysie.”

One day, Rhys promises himself, he will be stronger. One day, he will be immune to Jack. At least enough to no longer be undone by a look and a smile and an assurance.

That Jack trusts him.

That Jack trusts him.

That Jack trusts him.

One day, Rhys knows, this very thought will no longer send his mind spinning and his heart fluttering against his ribcage. And as he holds the yellow-eyed gaze of Jack’s hologram, he hopes to never live to see that day.

“If you trust me, Jack…” The words are sweet and electric on his tongue. (Imagine never tasting that again. No, that’s not living.) “Why the sudden need to look over my shoulder?”

“Ah.” A chuckle, low and throaty. “No, that’s not what I… I wanna be with you when you do it, Rhysie.” Jack closes the distance between them, hovers a holographic fingertip over the port in Rhys’s temple. Short of touch, but close enough to stir a full-body memory of biting static and soothing neon.

“You mean–” Rhys stops himself from leaning into Jack’s palm. (Why?)

“Yeah.” Jack nods. “I don’t wanna watch you kill ‘em, Rhysie.” He glances at Rhys’s mouth. A thumb follows, slowly, landing on Rhys’s bottom lip in the same instant as the finger at his temple presses flush against the port. Rhys breathes in on a soft moan; Jack exhales it. “I wanna–”