Eitan was talking, indistinctly, about how any random person could throw a ball, but Akiva wrote books and that was special, creating something from nothing. Akiva had spent the morning and the night before and the night before that thinking about kissing Eitan, about drawing him back into his bed, but now all Akiva could think of was how few times in his adulthood someone had held him like this and how much it was something he hadn’t known he’d wanted. “I’ll be fine,” Akiva said, a little stiffly, and Eitan tightened his arms again so much that he wobbled on his bad leg. “We shouldn’t be
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