[ what is he doing? he crushes the letter in his hands, not wanting to see the words he wrote back when he thought — whatever he thought about hawk, a thing that feels trapped behind stone now, like the rest of his thoughts, like the rest of — whatever he came here to do. garbled yelling strains at his ears. put the letter back. no, why should he? hawk doesn't need this obvious, damning evidence that embry moore once gave a shit about him.

a weight hits his back. he hits the dresser, his hands coming up to block against the heavy wood, shaking it so hard that the lamp tips over and crashes to the floor. he flinches, whirling around to face tim laughlin, in the worst shape of his life.

panic rushes him. no, god, fuck, no. ]

Tim. Holy shit. [ he steps forward, his hands up to steady him. ] I'm — Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't — I didn't mean to hurt you, fuck, I've been blacking out and I don't know what's happening to me. Let me help you.