Kavinsky let out a breath of a laugh. Agency. He was barely past eighteen and he'd been here in this city, without anyone that cared, for months. But this job was agency. Dancing, going with johns, that was all his decisions, his consent.

Once he was naked, he tumbled playfully back in the bed. He pushed back the bedspread, and then wound himself in the sheet, slinking toward the edge to reach for Poison, to pull him close.

Once upon a time, a world away, Kavinsky had laid in a bed not unlike this and reached for someone else. That was different than this.