There was the proverbial calm before the storm, and then that storm seemed to be transitioning into the stage of roiling and insidious thunder. The hand that wasn't barring the door knob from the turn of Galen's hand, came up and grabbed Galen's chin, "You dare?"
His voice was as threatening as the sound of thunder, it had certainly lost it's impish charm and the sound of its boyish fascination. The nineteen year old sounded more as a man, or monster than he ever had, even when he was carving runic symbols into the flesh of whore he'd rented for a night in Paris a year before he came to the States.
If Galen had been looking into his dear boyfriend's eyes he may have perchanced a glance of a strange spark of lightening green that had flickered only for the briefest fraction of a second, "I love you. Care for you. What do I get? Not even gave the slightest hint about your plans to leave me?"