[Koby makes a quiet, noncommittal sound, setting his own (empty) glass on the table before crossing to the bed, climbing onto it and tucking his legs up under himself, the way they have a thousand times before, gossiping about Hawk or the crew or politics that he doesn’t fully understand. It’s a different room, now, but it feels the same – albeit with a constant, steady, warm pulse of empathy and grief and affection, poured like it’s limitless between the pink of his presence and the buttery yellow of Tim’s.]

Maybe you would. But… [He trails off, eyes dropping, reaching out to toy with the lace trim on one of the many pillows.] But I think believing the best of people is a good thing, not a weakness. It’s not something you should cut out, Tim, like a disease or something. It’s one of the best things about you.

[Still looking downward, mouth twisting in something bittersweet, wry:] If we all start holding each other at arm’s length, this place is going to be even more miserable than it already is. I’d rather let people get close and get hurt by it than keep my heart on ice forever.

[A pause. Then Koby pats the bed, gently, smiling sadly over at Tim.] Come and sit for a little. I won’t tell anyone if you want to cry about it for a while. I might even join you. I’m good at crying.