Larkin couldn’t remember when he’d allowed himself to be touched like this. Noah, of course, but when was the last time it’d felt like acceptance and not a means to an end? It wasn’t a hug that conveyed apology or jealousy or lust. Doyle’s hug was simply a hug, and Larkin was so fucking traumatized that—that sometimes—even his aversion to touch couldn’t overpower that single-most desire all humans craved. To be loved.
