Shaking his head, Lance smiles ruefully, a little bowled over in the moment by how much he misses Danny. “When did all this happen?”

“About five years ago. Not long after you…well.” Robbie’s eyes flick to Lance’s as he trails off.

Lance bites his lip, filling in that blank without difficulty. Not long after you stormed in here, humiliated yourself, and ran off, never to be heard from again.

“Want to help me with this bale of straw? I’m going to break it up for her. It’ll be better bedding than those old towels, won’t it, little girl?”

Lance carries one end of a bale of straw that looks like it’s been collecting dust in a corner of the barn for more than one season, but when Robbie cuts the twine with his pocket knife, the interior is bright gold and smells fresh. They spread it in the stall in silence.

It’s strangely therapeutic, the quiet work of breaking the packed straw into a fluffy carpet. The strain in the air from the telling of Robbie’s story seems to have eased by the time they finish.

“Let’s get upstairs,” Robbie says gently. “I think she’s pretty cozy down here, but you and I don’t have fur coats.”

“I don’t,” Lance allows, glancing at Robbie to gauge his reaction. When Robbie arches a brow, he continues, stepping forward and running a hand down Robbie’s chest. “But you, on the other hand.”

Robbie laughs. “Are you saying I’m hairy?” He puts his hands around Lance’s waist like it’s automatic, an impulse. The thought chases any suggestion of chill from the cold space straight out of Lance’s fingers and toes, leaving them tingling.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Lance admits, and then he leans in and lowers his voice to a murmur against Robbie’s ear. “And I love it.”

“Upstairs,” Robbie orders, his voice rough. “There’s a few more things I want you to show me.”

Chapter Twenty

Robbie

“There’s so much I want to ask you,” Lance murmurs when the sky is getting dark, and the hayloft with it, since they haven’t bothered to turn on the lights. Lance’s cheek is pressed against Robbie’s chest. Robbie has been teasing one of the short curls at Lance’s temple. For several minutes, it’s been silent between them as they’ve watched the snow and the darkness lying two silent blankets down over the trees, like the whole world is being tucked in.

“Me, too,” Robbie says quietly.

Lance’s parted fingers slide through his chest hair, absently, and Robbie, now convinced Lance wasn’t teasing about having a thing for the dark body hair that has always made Robbie self-conscious, feels his already compromised heart turn over yet again.

“Maybe,” Lance says, almost whispering, “we could trade. You answer a question, and then I’ll answer one.”

“Okay,” Robbie agrees, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. Then, Lance is quiet for so long that Robbie almost thinks he’s fallen asleep.

But he hasn’t. Finally, Lance asks, “Why are you still here?”