Blaine is propped up in bed the day after he comes home from the hospital. His mom promised that she would get him a milk shake, but he exploded at the suggestion of going with her. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him react like that to anything.

When she returns with the shake, she sits next to him on the bed. And tells him the most innocuous stories she can think of, mostly about something Sarah said or the day she watched their across the street neighbor try to fix his sprinkler system. She just wants to soothe him.

She wants hold him, but she’s hesitant. During the months leading up to the... incident, she’d try time and again to rub his back, or pat his hand, or hug him, like she did when Blaine was younger. But he’d shrug her off, move away, run away sometimes.

Since the... incident, it’s only gotten worse. He flinches under every touch. The doctors, the nurses, the hospital councilor, no one could touch him without seeing him wince.

But she’s his mother, for God’s sake. She needs to touch him. He’s so stoic, he’s been so stoic, no trace of her Blaine anywhere in his features.

She screws up her courage, (no mother should ever be nervous to touch her child) and she touches his hand. He doesn’t flinch, but she hears a sharp intake of breath and he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he starts to cry, (finally, finally he’s crying) he let’s her take him in her arms.