"I do write fabulous copy," he said, reaching out a hand, Brian's palm hovering just inches from the tense line of Max's spine. Letting out a breath, he touched his fingertips to the fabric of Max's coat, the touch light enough that Max could ignore it, if he wanted to.

In his playpen, Gus babbled to himself, a string of syllables that the kid was working his hardest to turn into words.