Except Gabe couldn't even say that out loud. He could think it loudly, forcefully, wishfully. He could lift a hand to grip lightly at William's shirt near his waist, not quite resting on his hip. He could duck in under the tilt of William's chin so that he could say against the side of his throat, "I can be late."
Come on. William. On a grand fucking piano.
Except he could also see the measuring, weighing eyes of his senior students, the consideration of whether yet another figure who professed to give a damn was going to prove unreliable.
Gabe sagged with a sigh, his hand tugging at William's shirt, his forehead bumping against his collarbone. "I really can't," he admitted.