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April 15** th**

I've been visiting Paul in hospital as often as I have been able to. At first it was for long stretches of time, as soon as I could get out of class, staying by his side until it got dark and a nurse would ask me to leave. Lately, however, I've just been around for an hour or so to check up on him, and bring him updates, a kiss and a little fun. He's not able to move around much, but he still has the same needs as any other male, and I would be lying if I said the whole hospital setting didn't inspire my mischievous side. It's something about the very proper and grown up nature of hospitals. I get the feeling that people are not meant to have a nice time here, but I can at least help my boyfriend out. Also, it's kind of public, and kind of not, so I can let my imagination wander and he neither can't, nor won't complain. I've been getting a lot better at not pricking him with my teeth, even though he's more than a mouthful, and sometimes he gets carried away and shoves me down, making me almost choke. But I've been getting a lot better at that, too.

Sometimes I take my schoolwork with me, and I tell him about what I'm writing about until he falls asleep. He can't offer much input, but he's good with encouragement, and he knows a trick or two about keeping my confidence up. I'm making sure to moderate myself a little when explaining how well I'm actually doing. Don't want him to worry too much. Whenever I try to talk about racing, however, he goes silent.

Today, I find the mood in the room somewhat different from usual. Firstly, he's got his boxers on even though I know he's caught my scent coming down the corridor, which is unusual. Secondly, he has this confused, concentrated scowl on his face, his phone pushed up almost against his snout as he reads the screen. His ears are flat against his head, and his tail lies still beside him. When he notices me, his ears merely flick, but there's no energy in that flick. I kick off my shoes and drop my books in a chair besides the bed, before climbing up next to him. I always give him a brush and quick grooming while I'm there, as it is still too painful for him to climb out of bed yet. I start with his lovely, white tail, which has not taken well to the lack of exercise, the poor food they serve here, and the lack of showers, and has started shedding. I'm beginning to see why he goes to a specialist.

"What's on your mind, sweetie?" I ask cautiously, picking at knots in the long tail fur and wondering if his groomer would consent to show up at the hospital.

"I got this mail from head office," he mumbles and shows me a long, official looking document. "If I'm interpreting this right, they're demoting me to back-up driver."

I look from his phone to his cast, and then back into his eyes. "Uhm... but you can't drive... with your-"

"That's not the point... Jesus," Paul interrupts, sharpness edging his tone. "They're putting Sal in my place, and I'm not getting it back, I just know it. They're pushing me out."

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry Paul. Can they do that?"

"According to this document," he growls and turns to me, "they're keeping me as a backup, but what that means really is that they're kicking me out of the car. I'll be a bencher, a sideliner." I want to skirt the issue, but he's already made himself annoyed, I can't pretend to be all blissful and upbeat. I'll have to weather the coming storm.

"Is it just because you're injured?" I ask. "I thought there were laws against that."

"Yeah..." he starts, but his eyes grow distant and his frown tightens. "No."

"No?" I take the phone from his paws before he cracks the screen. Something is bubbling up and he's not happy about it.

"My injury is not the reason," he says slowly. "They say they have reports and correspondences which confirm that I am responsible for crashing the car."

"You're responsible? Bullshit, I saw it. You were driving perfectly normally. Something must have come loose. It's those mechanics, I'm sure. Someone has done something to your car and-"

"It was a metal brace underneath the car," Paul mutters, and takes his paws away from mine.

"It came loose," I say, turning my ears back at the memory. "That stuff can happen." I manage to say it while not listening to myself, but of course, that stuff could happen again. "You should have a word with those mechanics. Isn't this strictly speaking Walt's problem? If he's okayed a car which later turns out was dangerous to drive then-"

"You don't get it," he sighs. "It was my fix, that I'd come up with to the car, which broke off and tore up my rears. I really shouldn't have made that fix. I knew it was unsafe."

"What?"

"We were having an issue with stability that day, you remember. After we had sex and I was called to work."

"Yeah, and you were done the same day... Paul?"

"I came up with a temporary fix." He draws another deep breath. "And afterwards, when we didn't get the replacement parts, Walt advised me to retire the car. But I couldn't. Retiring it would've meant that you wouldn't see me race... and it would've meant you and your father couldn't have come to visit the garage... I lied and said the car was ready to race. I should have waited until we could fix it properly. And now I'm second driver."

"Oh," I say, feeling my heart both melt with the warmth of his concern, and beat faster as I work up my annoyance. "You basically jury rigged it, so that you could spend more time with me?"

"I knew it wasn't ideal. I figured it'd be safe as long as I was careful. Should've kept it in fifth down the straight, but man, Tomlinson was all over my ass. He'd have won the race, if I didn't push it harder."

"Oh..."

It was a dumb thing to do, an irresponsible thing to do, a frankly idiotic thing to do. A heartachingly sweet thing to do. But he could be holding me right now, instead of having bruised ribs. He could've gone for a walk with me, if he wasn't such an idiot. He could be fucking me right now instead of being stuck in a hospital bed, hoping for me to give him head again. For the first time, I let that anger and annoyance into my usually carefully moderated voice.

"Paul. Don't ever do something like that again. Ever."

"I know..." he mutters unhappily. It's no apology.

I remember what Aiden said and decide to steel myself a little. Show him I mean business. I am not here to be stepped on; I have a say in this now.

"I mean it Paul. I was worried sick, you know. To find out that it could have been prevented if you'd just been a bit more patient. If you'd been less of a... a dickhead."

"I know, alright," he groans. "What do you want, Reece? Go back and un-crash my car?"

"You don't have to put on a show," I say, "You've already got me, I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere. Stuff like this, it doesn't do you any favours, and it just makes me afraid."

"It's just a damn broken leg and some busted ribs, Reece. It's no big deal."

"Yeah. Easy for you to say." I cross my arms and hug myself. "You crashed into a wall at over 120 mph, it didn't look like nothing back then."

He doesn't need to know about the nightmares, and the flashbacks, and the scary what-if thoughts which never quite went away. He might have been in hospital before, he might have been in accidents and come out the other end stronger and more resilient, and perhaps even with a toy from his father. But I don't feel much stronger for it. If anything, I got a real lesson that this isn't a regular job. I manage to somehow squeak out the next words, which I wasn't going to say, but make their way out, anyways.

"It is a big deal to me. I am afraid. People die doing what you did, Paul. I don't want to lose you."

I know he looks at me because he goes silent. I see in my peripheral vision that his ears splay sideways, and he looks down. Then I feel his arms around me. He pulls me closer and holds me there. It's the first time in 10 days that I've been held. I'm not any less scared. Because Paul is still a racing driver and he's still an idiot sometimes. But somehow it works this time. I'm mad at him still, but he's probably madder at himself. I'm scared of losing him, but that's nothing compared to what he must feel, he who has felt loss first hand. He's getting closer and closer to being fully healed and ready to race, and there's nothing I can do to stop that. When he gets back, he might be able to work his way back into the starting spot again. I can feel him shift behind my back and I'm being pulled into the little spoon position. He rests his muzzle between my ears, and I can feel that he's been wanting to do that for a while. I've been wanting to do that for a while. I can't focus on whatever else it was I was thinking about, as the love he feels, the love he felt when he made those mistakes, is still there, boundless and for the moment, unapologetic.

"I'm sorry Reece," he murmurs and grind against me. "I needed to hear that."

"I-I think I needed to say it too," I respond hesitatingly, and sniffle. I can't hide from the reality. I'm going to have to learn to deal with it, if I want to stay with him. And I don't feel like I have a choice. He's quickly become everything in my life, and like people who return from warzones, I don't think I could return to normal, single life after what I've seen and felt. "I think we need to get your mind onto something else, don't you. This racing stuff can wait for a little while you get better, alright?"

He says nothing for a long time.

"I'm taking you home. Right now."

"Now?" I croak with my raw voice. "R-right now?"

"I promise you, if I can help it, I'll make sure you never have to come to a hospital again for as long as I'm racing. It's not good for you."

Checking out of a hospital early is actually that simple when you pay as much as Paul does for his insurance. They've ruled out concussion anyways, so he was just lounging here, for the most part. He refuses the offer of a hospital bed at home, but I accept the wheelchair on his behalf. I want to get home too, not waste time watching him self-determine his way through the hospital with crutches and broken ribs. I walk alongside his wheelchair to the lobby. Outside, the large van sized taxi is waiting, with a wheelchair ramp down. Paul stares at me for a second with fierce eyes.

"You didn't ask for a wheelchair taxi, right?"

I stare right back at him. "Since you were in a wheelchair and all-"

"No," he says simply.

Before I can stop him, he has a paw on my shoulder, which he uses to lift himself from the chair. God, he's still strong, though. I nearly buckle under the weight of him. Even after one and a half weeks in a bed, I'm not sure he couldn't just pick me up, and put me in the taxi instead, despite him clearly choking down pain as he climbs inside. The driver is left standing awkwardly in front of his car while I join my boyfriend in the back seat, leaving the wheelchair behind.

Paul has acquired a backlog of several hundred emails from fans asking about how he's doing, so when the taxi driver adds to the list, there is no forthcoming reply from either of us. One of the things I spent a lot of time on while visiting Paul in hospital was helping him with his emails, and I'm tired of coming up with non-committal responses to people pouring their heart out to some random celebrity they've never met. It's hard to refrain from telling them to put some effort into their own lives instead.

We had been working together at that backlog whenever I had the chance, but Paul got annoyed whenever one of them mentioned his racing, which was all of them, so I asked for his log-in information in order to work through them when I got back home. But today, for the first time since I can remember, I put my phone on "Do not disturb". Today, it's all about us.

I eventually tell the taxi driver that he's doing fine and will be ready to race again soon. It's the same thing I've been reluctantly admitting to every news outlet, sports blog, freelancer and sports fan. I thought he was meant to have an agent for this stuff, because I can't answer all these questions, but he's never mentioned one. Perhaps these mails are just the tip of the iceberg, as they are all addressed to Paul's private email address. There must be a company mail somewhere which is probably bursting at the seams with the same stuff.

As I open the door to Paul's apartment, a scent of curry, chili and spices hits me like a wave. Paul comes in just after me, hopping on his left leg and wincing. When the smell hits his snout, he forgets his bad mood in an instant, and hops into the apartment ahead of me. He doesn't even take the crutches. I'll let him bounce around until he gets tired, but I'm going to put my foot down eventually, and insist that he uses them, or those ribs will only get worse.

"Heya, Paulo," a voice calls from the open plan kitchen. I come around the corner of the entrance hallway and into the kitchen, where I find Pierce, watching some pots on the stove. "And Reece, what a surprise!"

"Hey, dad!" Paul says, "Don't tell me you've made _that_chicken curry?"

Pierce looks like he's come straight from work, wearing a casual business shirt, slacks and a chef's apron with the company logo. He smiles warmly at us both.

"I made that chicken curry!" he announces like a tv pastor unveiling sight to a supposedly blind man.

Paul hops over to his father and hugs him, leaving me to carry his things into his room. I'm ashamed to admit that I feel a bit jealous. I wanted to put that smile on him, but whatever I've done this past week and a bit, it never made him smile like that. But I also feel glad, because I think it's good for him. It reminds me of my own father, and the simple but pure joy he'd find in barbecuing porkchops inexpertly. The difference here is that there's a lot of underlying stuff I'm not really meant to know about. Pierce thinks I'm a friend, while Dad knows a lot more. Also, unlike my dad, Pierce's cooking smells heavenly.

"Thanks dad," Paul says, and gives the other wolf a huge grin. "I hope you made it strong enough for him."

"If he can take the heat, he can stay in my kitchen!"

"Well, my kitchen," Paul laughs.

He goes to pull up a chair for me, but I stop him reflexively. He might be in a good mood, but I know he's still intent on hiding, and it's become learned behaviour by now.

"Don't worry, mate," I say, trying to brush the gesture off, "You're injured still. Don't exert yourself." However insignificant the gesture was, Paul was being sweet and gentlemanly, and refusing it hurts a little.

I soon find out why there was an emphasis on that chicken curry. It's like nothing I've ever had before. Intense, spicy, extremely tasty and way too much for me. I manage to finish it, but I have to refill my glass of water twice as many times as the wolves. Paul is working on his second portion, and Pierce has cracked open a beer and leaned back in his chair.

"That's dad's curry," Paul explains. "He used to make it every time I brought a new friend home. It's like some kind of ritual. I didn't get many second time visitors." He laughs. I feel like the butt of some joke between them, but he's so happy and upbeat that I can't feel bad about it.

"So, did I pass?" I smile, wincing at my sore tongue.

"I think you did," Paul says, and I can almost hear him catching himself before he utters the words 'sweetie' at the end of the sentence.

"You guys seem like good mates," Pierce says after a long swig from his beer. "How did you meet?"

I look at Paul. He looks at me, stops chewing, then looks at his dad, and chews slowly again with a thoughtful look on his face. I can see his eyes glance between me and Pierce. Now would be a good chance, I realise. His father is in a good mood. He's safe in his own home. I'm here to back him up. And on top of it all, he's injured, so any decent father, as I'm suspecting Pierce is, would feel inclined to help and protect him. I catch myself praying that he'll take the plunge. I'll cook and clean for him, I'll do his laundry and get his groceries. I'll ride him until he needs a cast for his hips as well. I'll let him use ropes if he wants, which he's confessed he's been curious about. I'll do whatever he asks me to, if he can just do this one thing. Say it, Paul. I know you can.

"Oh, you know," Paul mumbles, his mouth full. "Met at a party, got talking, that sort of thing,"

Damn it.

I poke at the remaining curry dregs on my plate for a moment and look up, giving Pierce a forced smile. I want to just blurt it out. Just drop some hint or titbit of information which would make his father ask more pointed questions. But I can't. I know he has his reasons. I know it's probably something he has to plan and talk about. But the chance was right there, and I know he saw it. I know he recognized how good a time it was, and he chose not to do it. But right now, we have company. Mask on. For the rest of the meal, Paul avoids my eyes.

After his father has left to go back to work, he slumps on the sofa, watching something bland and interior-design'y on the tv. I sit down beside him after clearing out the meal and cleaning up, stroking his fur like I always do when I've got him to myself, but my heart isn't in it today.

"When are you going to tell him?" I ask, finally, having built up the courage gradually. I know he's not going to take the conversation well just from his look.

"Tell him about us, you mean?" Paul sighs.

"I'm serious," I say tracing a paw through his slightly longer than normal chest fur, where it pokes out of his halfway unbuttoned shirt. The curry has made him warm, but I can't bring myself to rest against that warmth just yet. "It feels wrong to lie to him like this."

"We're not lying!" Paul protests. "I just have to find the right time."

"I understand, dear," I say, placatingly.

There's a long silence. He doesn't deserve an argument after all he's been through, I think to myself. I recall the multiple get-well cards I stuffed in his bag as we were leaving the hospital. Pictures of cubs and good friends and colleagues. So domestic, grown up and real. My concerns feel so petty, and infantile. We're together, aren't we, isn't that what's important? I can come over any day of the week, and maybe spend the nights here too, sometimes. Won't that be enough for now?

"You wanna watch the races tonight? Pukakohe is up next in the supercars-"

"My dad is all I've got left," Paul interrupts me, oblivious to what I'd just said. There's a twinkle in the wolf's eyes. "But he's never really been there for me. This is the first time I felt like his cub again since..."

"I'm sorry, dear," I say quickly, I know what he is about to say, and I feel worse now. "You don't think he'll see you as his son if you come out to him?"

"When mom died," Paul continues, shakily, not paying attention to my question. He swallows. I can hear his breath falter for a second. "I had nobody. Nobody would talk about it with me. Nobody could tell me about all these thoughts I had about other boys, so I grew used to hiding it. It was too easy and now it's been too long." He takes a deep shaky breath and brings a paw up to his eyes.

"It's been crazy, lately," he says with a sniffle, and smiles. "He's been so good with me since I wound up in hospital, He's been on the phone every morning letting me know about the repairs on the car. He's been wishing me well and... and... I knew he had it in him, I just never expected it now, of all times."

"Paul... I'm sorry," I whisper, but he interrupts me

"Don't worry about it, Spot," he mumbles quietly. "Do you see what I mean? Dad's all I got left. But I don't mind that. He's a good dad, when he tries to be, and I don't want to risk losing him. That's what I worry about."

"Are you afraid he will react poorly?" I ask. "He seemed like a nice guy when my friend and I were drinking with him."

"You went out... with my dad?" Paul asks. Disbelief and confusion quickly take over from his tears.

"I didn't go out with him, per say," I deflect, "But I met him at the local bar, he was hanging out with my best friend Aiden, who is openly gay by the way. I don't know if he knew but-"

"You didn't... what did you tell him?" Paul interrupts me.

"I didn't tell him anything!"

"Okay... okay, good," he sighs. "No offense, Reece, but I don't want him to find out like that."

"But Paul, you were about to out yourself on a radio show!" I interject, suddenly remembering. "Were you not going to tell your dad first?"

"Yeah, about that," he says slowly, hesitating before each word. "I've thought about it. I think I was just excited and said too much too quickly. Right then and there, it seemed like the right thing to do, you know. I wanted to believe I could have a dad who was as close as your dad was with you. But, well... I have that, I don't think... I don't think I have to."

"So, you're having second thoughts?"

"Yeah," he says, shaking his head. "No. No second thoughts. I'm not doing it. But it's a moot point. There's no radio interview to come out on."

It feels like just another excuse and I don't want to hear it. I don't mind that he decided to ditch the idea of coming out to the wide public, but this feels more like an excuse for not coming out at all. And I know he can keep making excuses for a long time if I keep pushing him. Typical racing driver.

"I... fine." I say, clipping my paragraph down to a single word, but putting a whole book of meaning into it. Paul isn't much of a reader. But everything that is now, will be, during the five next weeks while he's stuck in his leg cast. I want to let him enjoy his little vacation. I want to let him enjoy the attention he is getting from his father. I want him to enjoy the time we can spend together without being interrupted, and hopefully, he'll understand.

"So.... the race?" He perks up, I guess he probably forces it, but I can't fault him for wanting to be in a happier spot right now. I'm not exactly doing a good job bringing the mood up.

Pukakohe is also known as the boneshaker, a real bumpy track in New Zealand where we catch snippets of the first of two races. I manage to get him worked up in a proper debate on which of the drivers has the best ass to handle the pounding. Then we bet on who's going to win the race, Collins or Johnson. I have absolutely no idea who either of them are, so it's no surprise Paul gets it right in the end. But I can see his tail wagging behind him as I undress and get ready to give him head one more time. He got off easy in more ways than one, and to be fair, it doesn't feel much like I'm the loser, either.

We sleep together properly for the first time in two weeks. Paul is in no shape to fuck me, but he's so eager to be ridden that he blows in record time. As soon as he finishes in me, I lay back down and let him hold me again. I want to cum too, but his ribs are still sore, and he's not in any shape to paw me off. I could maybe let him blow me, but he's never done that before. I don't even know if he'd like it, and I don't feel like tonight is the right time to ask for something like that.

April 20** th**

It's been a little under a week since Paul got home. I've just gotten my results back from the university, and I'm sitting in his apartment, watching him play a racing game. Kinda' looks fun, but I don't wanna join. I know how I get when I play games; I'll inevitably get all competitive, make bets, and then lose them. And the news I've got to impart relies on me not setting the wrong kind of mood first.

I've not told him the results yet, but I'm going to. But just as there's a lull in our regular conversation, and I work myself up to tell him, he gets a call.

"It's Sal," he mutters, inspecting the display on his phone. "I have to take this."

I can only hear snippets of conversation on the other end, but Paul is getting loud, and then angry. His ears are flat, and his neck fur bristles. I can feel my ears instinctively flatten against my head as I listen to him.

"Breach of contract? I'm stuck in a fucking cast!" Paul shouts. "They can't do that, I... No... I know, but... Look, Sal, you have to talk to them." There's another long pause. "Well, if that's how he wants it, then you can tell him to shove his contract up his fucking ass!" Paul screams, fur bristling, before he hurls his phone to the end of the sofa. The flat monotonous voice still emerges from the speakers. I carefully crawl over to turn off his phone for him.

"They've already begun interviewing rookies," he says, flatly. "They're going to replace me."

"Replace you?" I ask hesitatingly. "Like, no more racing at all?"

"No more racing. I'm no longer a part of the team."

I lay my arms around him and hold him close to me. It's all I can do, and it's the only thing I know that might help. "Don't think of it like that, this is just a new chapter of your life."

I want to reassure him, and I hope it has any effect.

"You're no longer... uh... held back by anything," I try cautiously. "You can do whatever you want, you know."

"Whatever I want?" Paul scoffs, he taps his cast. "Anything I want, as long as it means sitting on my sofa doing nothing while my... ex... teammates are out there, winning races and climbing the ladder."

"Paul, you're 26," I say, rubbing his stomach. "You're not out of the game yet, this is just a setback. Whyllis racing was no ladder for you. It was a dead end. You know what? I'm glad you're out of that place."

"Why, thank you, Spot," Paul says sarcastically.

"Don't be like that," I say. "You've got to be attractive in the business, surely. You said it yourself, people talk in this industry. Soon as other teams find out you're out of a job, you'll have another one thrown at you, I'm sure. You've got what it takes."

I don't understand anything. None of my talk seems to be getting through. I used to get a reaction from him whenever I talked about how good he was. Now he's got his ears splayed, whiskers and tail limp and drooping, and a faraway look in his eyes. It's like he doesn't believe me.

"Right now, I don't think they would be so interested, with this thing stuck on my leg."

"Well, perhaps use this time to develop yourself, you know," I say, "Lots of spare time and all... make yourself into a more rounded wolf and all that. Read a book, learn to cook..." I can't help it, but the words just tumble out. "Perhaps telling people about us, like you promised. If only it's just your dad."

"Don't... don't go there, Spot," he rumbles, tensing up. "When the time is right. I told you."

"But think about the attention you could get. You'd get a contract easily!" I was hoping to appeal to that excitement he felt when he first had the idea, but it doesn't seem like it's working. "It could lead to something great! And you'd feel better with yourself... Trust me!"

"Spot, I don't want to talk about it... leave it," he barks viciously.

His teeth come out for a second. I've been snarled at before, but let me tell you, it's not something you can grow used to. Chills run down my back as I catch sight of his fangs, and I feel cold. His anger is still close to the surface. I should've known better than to touch a nerve I knew was exposed. I should be more submissive, like an obedient little slipper who he can just step on whenever. Fuck that, I tell myself. I should not make excuses for him. He's been too occupied with himself lately, because everything has been about him. Well, what about me? I flick my ears, and notice that he's no longer rubbing my head. Fine.

"So, you're just going to sit there and feel sorry for yourself?" I can feel my voice raising in volume. "You'll just postpone it as if it doesn't matter? For as long as you want to?"

"Spot, for god's sake, just keep your nose out of my business, alright?" His fists are clenched. "I'll deal with my own life in my own time, why don't you focus more on yours!"

He's shouting now. I've gotten up from his lap, and at those words, I get up from the sofa altogether. He's scary when he's angry, but I have to stand up, and put my foot down. I can't let it be like this.

"Fine," I spit out, bitterly. "I'll keep my nose out of your business, as you call it. I'll deal with my life. Let me know when you're ready to be a part of it again."

It's not just the anger and frustration. It's the fact that I have been dealing with my life already. I've done so much for him; I've taken risks and made sacrifices, I've cried and had nightmares because of him. And he can only think about himself. Now I've gotten a letter from my university, and when I think about it, he's never actually asked me how things have been going with my studies lately. I have been the one bringing that up. I'm not telling him now. But even as I get up and pull my jacket on, I can feel my inner voice protesting. Paul, please stop me. Stop me from doing this. Just tell me that we can talk. We can always talk. But he doesn't move from the couch as I leave.

I'm clutching my letter from the university, folded, and nestled in my jacket pocket as I step out into the overcast afternoon, and put my headset on. I have to take a few deep breaths in order not to break down and cry on his doorstep. I've not told him about it yet, the results from my assignment. Any letter that starts with the words "We regret to inform you" does not bode well. I'm imagining myself telling mom and dad, or rather, regretfully informing them that their son failed to get his degree because he was too busy, or rather distracted, playing at being a manager for a professional athlete, and caring for his boyfriend in the hospital.

The first thing I notice as I get into my own apartment, is how unfamiliar it suddenly feels. I sit down on the sofa and stare blankly into my reflection in the TV. I've barely even spent any time here lately, only popping in to sleep, shower and change clothes. Paul's apartment feels homelier than this one. And it doesn't have a weird smell of trash which I should've taken out a week ago.

I've lived here for years. Where do I even start? I have to tell my parents. Both of them. They'll have to cancel my apartment. Then there's the tuition fees which they have been paying. Should I pay them back? Should I pack? Should I try to get a job here and take over the apartment for myself? Am I even allowed to live here, even just for the summer? I don't know. Do I have to move home? Could I move in with him? No, that's definitely too soon. Why can't he just tell me to stop beating myself up over this? He might prefer to take care of his own problems by himself, but personally, I really need someone to talk to.