Jack held his breath. Was Martin truly lost?

Time stood still in wonder and hope.

Martin made an extraordinary, raw beautiful silhouette in Jack's doorway. Jack was about to ask Martin if he knew where he was going. Then Jack decided not to tell him.

Martin moved slowly into the room, blind, with tentative steps, until his knee met the edge of the bed. He felt about for the covers and crawled in.

His warm leg brushed Jack's leg.

And Martin jumped as if lit on fire. He could not have moved faster had he actually been on fire. He broke into a sudden panicked flailing of limbs, trying to scramble out of the bed. He fell off the side of the mattress in a twist of sheets onto the floor. Jack's warm chuckle followed him over the edge.

Martin thrashed on the floor, trying too hard to get unwrapped from the sheet. He spoke, embarrassed to death, "I'm in the wrong room."

Jack's voice, already deep, dropped in desire. "I don't think so." He reached down. His strong hand closed on Martin's arm. "Come back to bed."

Martin's head waved side to side. "Let me go. I didn't mean--"

"You never lose your way, Martin," said Jack. "Please don't run. I won't hurt you." Then he backtracked a little, "Okay, I could hurt you, but not on purpose. I swear. Come back to bed."

Martin's eyes, bright in the darkness, were wide, glassy in fear.

"I--let me go," Martin protested, but he had stopped trying to pull away. He was only talking now. "I didn't mean to come this way. . . ."