He'd like to show you something, if you don't mind snuffling and the occasional sneeze (the cape he's learned to deal with; but cape plus horse work is a mountain he has yet to climb). If you can get past that, if you don't mind how he nicks your tissues—you don't? Fantastic.

He'll take you inside, then, just past the pile of coats next to the door and straight on through a hall. In the back of his mind he's thinking we should sort those one of these days but he doesn't explain it to you. It's not like you'd care, besides; it's not you missing your new denim jacket because the poor thing's been smothered by a yellow raincoat which somehow crawled atop it at last week's barbecue. Long story, trust him.

He'll turn and hush you and pause just outside the room at the end of the hall, and you'll feel a rush of nervous excitement because sometimes you think you know bits and pieces of his heart. And sometimes you think that if he would show you everything that you'd be able to claim something more than just those assumptions. From the room there comes a noise that's soft and deep and strong, tickling the bottoms of your ear drums, a noise that is instantly recognizable as guitar strings.

He'll smile, now, privately and lovingly, and stand a bit straighter, motioning to you, as if his shift in expression and posture explains his reasons for showing you this. In a way, it does. You lean sideways onto the edges of your feet.

That's Billy there on the edge of the bed, white cotton towel around his waist and the guitar on his lap. He's hunched attentively over the strings. Light from a bedside lamp illuminates the shower water that still clings to his shoulders. The floorboards creak with your weight, and Billy looks up.

Dom is alone in the hall. He watches the hall curiously for a moment before disappearing inside. Billy says, "Hey," and sounds as he does at his happiest moments.

(And the catch is: he'll let you decide what it is you've seen.)