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Summary
“We are not brothers. At least, not in the way that it matters. Not by blood,” Samuel stalls, hands folded; like he’s thinking, hard. A twitch of his lip quirks the ends of his moustache up at attention. "Not right now."
It’s captivating, for what it’s worth—the way he weighs his words, bordering on impulsivity.
“Do you agree?”
Sure—of course. But where is this going?
“No, we aren’t,” Henry validates, a gulp embedded in his sternum. Perish the thought. “But it sounds good to say—that we’ve known the same man, I mean.”