He can't answer him like this. Can't think to want to, not when he has every single bit of this man where he wants him, where he needs him. It's so easy, he thinks in some offhanded way, to bring forth every little reaction he could possibly want. York has always been liberal in that respect, yielding to every little touch, every flick of a tongue or press of fingertips against heated skin, every little taste he takes for himself to make this man just a little bit more his without even so much as leaving a bruise behind.

Though. There will always be time for those. Time and again he'll claim this body to the depths he chooses, marked and owned and just short of never being able to belong to himself again.

The thought swirling around in that fractured mind – the loss, the I missed you paired with the memories he can't just put on a shelf, can't shove away just so they'll hurt a little less even though he's gotten what he'd missed so much, they're lost on him. The nightmares, the sleepless nights spent soothing a man he can never see his life without now that he's made a place for himself in it, he's aware of those. But the thoughts behind them, the absence, none of it's been explained away, and Evan has to wait. He won't ask – he'll never pry that deeply – because Taylor has to come to him on his own time. On his own terms.

One hand slides up, over the planes of the other man's chest to curl lightly around the side of his throat. A small comfort, a silent shhh, be still passed through the motion as fingertips trace over the line of his jaw. As they catch some of the wetness that has spilled from his lashes and stains his cheeks, and he only takes him deeper. Relaxes his throat and swallows around him, slow, sweet. Yielding.