Irrationally, for a moment, his brain tells him the anger he can feel from the other side of the bed is his fault. That he’s gone and screwed up again - broken a promise, overstepped - feelings he hasn’t had in a long time. It’s irrational.

At least he knows that much now.

“The locals are better,” he says, a quiet thread of hope finally back in the words. “The people from Trench. They really do like us, for once. No one… gives any of us a second glance for being anything other than a Sleeper.”

They don’t care his arm is metal. They don’t care Will has a boyfriend. Or that people are more color than pale paper white.

That’s a step up. At least.