Stop. 'Stop calling out for me,' he thought to himself, as his hand clenched tight into a fist, willing him not to speak. If he spoke, Fletcher would find him, and though he thought it unlikely, perhaps the man would get the picture and leave.
It was quite unlikely.
This fact was proven when the man dropped down in front of him. Though he did not see it, he knew he had, having heard him drop down. He sucked in another breath, but this one sent waves through him, breaking his reserve. A whimper cracked from the back of his throat and his head slipped from his palm, allowing his fingers to drift into the strands of his hair, as he bowed his head.
"Why are you here?" He asked, his voice small and barely recognizable, even to himself.