Who does he tell and who does he hide from? He doesn’t know anymore. Darcy would throttle him for keeping anything from her and yet it’s proven twice over that he can’t show the whole of his affairs even secondhand, even just in words. He sifts through his memory of people he knows and people who remain and nothing comes up.

… Except Fever. But what a terrible burden for a single person. No matter what she’s weathered from him already. (He can handle it on his own, he promises, he just needs to get it out and tell someone—bullshit, like hell he can, no one can. But what does he do? … Are you a fucking idiot, Connors? Talk to an adult like an adult. Not that Cassandra is a child, but decades make a difference.)

“… Maybe I shouldn’t,” his voice comes out weakly. What a mess. “Sorry. I’m sorry. F-forget it.”