"I'm fine." Kavinsky couldn't remember the last time that he told such a bald lie, but he needed that one, needed it loud and clear and sharp. The memory of having headed over to Al's place and coming across Connor in the hall, half-clad and damp and instantly presumptuous--and Kavinsky had let him, had encouraged it, had left from there to go and sprawl on Al's couch and watch television and just hang out with him like he hadn't just--

He felt sick, suddenly.

"I can fucking take care of myself." He tried, again, to yank his arm back, more insistent this time. "I don't need you fucking babysitting me.