Independence Is Virtue
When Luke returned to the room, Tate was sitting on the side of the bed. Bedhead was a kind description of what was going on with Tate's hair. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and concern etched lines in his normally upbeat features. It was no wonder. Tate might have slept for an hour. When Tate looked up, a myriad of emotions crossed his face. Among them, worry and relief battled for dominance. Curiosity was the next closest contender.
"How are you feeling?" Tate asked. "I woke up to check on you. You were gone."
"I took a walk." Luke wasn't sure how much he should say, so he took his normal route—less is more.
"You left me," Tate whispered, tears glistening in his eyes. "I've lost everything, and you left me."
Luke moved forward until he was standing between Tate's legs. He pressed Tate's head to his stomach. Caressing Tate's hair, he said, "I'm not going anywhere."
Tate wrapped his hands around Luke's waist and held him there. "Promise?"