He never tried to turn me into anything or anyone I wasn't. He cared for me. His family became my family. His aunt sewed up the holes in my sweaters that I so painstakingly wore into them. It was good, the way it was. The sort of thing I suppose I shouldn't have pushed.
It was just. He let me touch him, but he wouldn't let me love him. I'm sure you know what that does to you when you're young.
And boarding school, of course, is just a den of Henry Wottons.