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Lucas smoothes the crease between Eliott’s eyebrows. “You don’t have to be sorry, baby.”
“You’re taking care of me and I’m gross and cranky and fucking depressed, Lucas,” Eliott rasps. “I kind of have to be sorry.”
For a minute, they’re both quiet. Then Lucas scoots closer and presses their foreheads together. “Okay, so you’re cranky and depressed and a little gross.” Eliott huffs the ghost of a laugh, and Lucas continues, “But of course I’m going to take care of you. I take care of you, you take care of me. That’s what we do.”