"Have you seen him without his helmet when he gets all wound up? When he was younger he'd just go pink and it was fucking adorable and I always wanted to sort of- mess him up a little. In a sexy way. But now he's older and broader and won puberty and we're both wound up and I fucked up." Which isn't news. He wants to lean away and give Locus space, wait for the anger he's earned, and quietly crawl onto the sofa to sleep for the next howeverlong.

He's Sam's. Sam is his. They're each other's and they both belong to Delta (who gives zero fucks here and that's kind of a relief) but Sam is- possessive. Normally it's hot. It's fun. but Taylor is very, very aware of how he's messed up here and it's not a joke or game or anything like when they're out at a club.

This is history and impulse. "I'm sorry."