Repressed

"How are you handling things here?"

The moment I heard that voice, I knew—Anthony was behind me.

I turned and smiled.

"The boys are really something." I grinned, turning back to watch them play on the swing.

They'd already taken me on a full tour—their homes, the classrooms, even the dormitory. They introduced me to a few of their friends, and when it was over, they begged me to let them play.

Now, I watched as John pushed Andrew on the swing, their laughter rising into the air like music.

"John told me about Andrew," I murmured, frowning. "He mentioned he gets sick often… hardly has time to play."

"Type 1 Diabetes," Anthony said, his jaw tightening.

"But I've assigned good doctors. He'll be fine. He has to be."

I turned to him. His jaw was clenched, hard. His eyes—just like last night—held something deeper than coldness.

Now I understood. He looked so cold... because when he didn't, his eyes were simply too sad.