Tycho launching in with the news that he'd flirted with a man at a party and then that man had tried to kiss him was the verbal equivalent of when cats woke you up in the morning by dropping a dead rat on your pillow, as far as Ford was concerned. He couldn't even react to it, though, because now Ty was waxing romantic. Ford wouldn't have been surprised if he'd made up a poem right there on the spot — probably the alcohol was at least half the reason he hadn't. Ford's cheeks were turning red. He wished he had somewhere else to back up to, but he'd already exhausted the space available to him unless he decided to crawl across the bed.

"I'm not going to kiss you," he insisted. "I'm married." Then, a beat later and against his better judgement: "Who was this guy, anyway?"

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