“Too small for me,” he agreed. “But they’re for you.” Someone tell me why that felt like a fucking gut punch? “Oaken…” “I worry,” he said, stepping in close behind me. So close that I felt the heat of his chest through the shirt on my back. “I worry that… That you might get blisters one day, out on some other world without me. And I won’t be there to carry you home when you do.” Ten fucking years and I hadn’t cried once. Until now.
