The phone felt hot in Christopher's hand, like it was burning with the poison of that text. Cameron stood there, the easy calm from the library gone, his face pale again. That look… Christopher had seen it before, it's the same look on trauma victims.
"Sit down," Christopher said, his voice quieter now. He guided Cameron to the sofa, then went to the kitchen. He didn't ask. He just made tea, the way their mother did when anyone was upset. Chamomile, honey. When he came back, Cameron was looking out the window, staring at the city lights, but he wasn't seeing them.
"Here." Christopher pushed the mug into his hands. "Drink."
Cameron's hands were steady, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the cup. "They're not just going to go away, are they?"
