Jack frowned because he knew Andrew. Nearly as well as he knew himself. And he could tell that Andrew was doing that thing where he curled in on himself, made himself as small as possible, as if he could disappear.
Which Jack was certainly not going to let happen.
"It's not okay, Little Spoon," he said, softly, crawling across the bed to him. If Andrew wouldn't come to him, he'd go to Andy. And he did, until he could reach out and touch him, touch his hair, hand sliding down his neck, nudging to to roll onto his back, to stretch out.
He got the feeling that Andrew didn't believe him, and so he said what words could not, by lowering his head, his hair falling around them both as he kissed Andrew again. Except this time there was no flaily running away afterwards.