Neal lets Tim go, starts to step back. And then it hits him. The wave of tangled feelings from Tim, the overwhelming isolation behind them. He catches himself, one hand grabbing the kitchen counter as the emotions of a whole building of the displaced wash through him. It feels good, makes him feel anchored and real and strong in a way he can’t articulate. God, Tim’s presence is like a swirl of neon in the middle of the apartment, bright and mesmerizing.

“Malcolm,” he mumbles.