Rowan sipped his mulled wine and pretended not to hear the question.
In a very un-Wren-like move, Wren didn't press for an answer or tease Rowan to elicit a reaction. In fact, he didn't so much as glance at Rowan to see if he was even thinking about answering. Instead he fell completely silent while he wrung out the wash cloth and devoted his attention to the handful of freckles that had turned raw on the tops of Rowan's thighs.
Rowan didn't talk either, choosing to nurse his wine in the silence while Wren doted on him. Little by little, the sweetness spread on his tongue and watered the seed that Wren had planted in his head while they were outside.
In no time at all, he found himself feeling restless again as he watched Wren's face. His hair had slid over his shoulder in a ripple of midnight, and his downcast gaze was focused entirely on cleaning the tiny injuries that were hardly injuries at all.
