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Later, somewhat drier, warm and in Worick’s bed again, under a different set of sheets just as soft and in just as darkly muted a color as the last, Nic asks him about it. What should I call you? He signs it, slow and steady, mouths the words too, and Worick cocks his head — not like he doesn’t understand, like he’s interested. He’s watching Nic closely. Your name is funny.
Worick laughs. I don’t know. That one’s easy enough even for a hearing person to convey. “What do you think of me?”
It’s a loaded question, and Worick seems to know it, stretching a hand out to touch Nic’s wrist, stroke a thumb along the tendon. He’s good at this, Nic thinks, good at handling him. It’s hard, Nic knows, doesn’t really begrudge people who don’t want to take on the effort but feels it all the more when someone does. You bought me dinner, he signs, mouths, maybe I should call you daddy.
Bookmarked by fldld
18 May 2026