His heart dents a bit from Rhy's idle answer. It's not jealousy — he imagines that Rhy has collected shelves of admirers and lovers, and he can't blame any of them. But he'd like for this to mean something to Rhy. He'd like to mean something to Rhy. So the next confession provides the reassurance he craves.

"Yeah?"

A hopeful note. Working open the fastenings of Rhy's jacket, Wilhelm coasts his hands down his chest and around his waist. He clutches at his shirt inside his jacket, enjoying the feeling of trespassing somewhere secret. His lips stay busy at Rhy's neck. A constellation of kisses dots his throat.

It's not love. He knows what love feels like, though sometimes he wishes he didn't. Whatever it is, it's better this way — love had left him smashed open and raw.