“You’re my mate, which means you’re my weak point.” “Oh, fuck you, Ian, if one more fucking person calls me weak tonight —” “I didn’t say you were weak,” he snapped, finally turning to glare at me. Or try to glare. It didn’t work as well as usual, and it dawned on me why he’d been trying not to make eye contact: he couldn’t hide whatever unnamed feeling that was, lighting his pale blue eyes with something that shook me down to my boots. “You make me weak,” he said quietly.
