Lance rolls over so his head is on Robbie’s thigh and grins up at him. “Will it make me vain if I say ‘both’?”

Robbie pulls a shocked face. “Lance Taylor, are you admitting that you know how pretty you are?”

Still grinning, Lance bats his lashes, which should be ridiculous, but instead makes Robbie feel a tingle of interest between his legs. “I don’t know,” Lance says then, laughing. “But I love self-portraits. I guess because I can make all the decisions. The light, the angle, the expression on my face. Maybe it wouldn’t be so appealing if I was better at telling other models what to do while I shoot them. I even did a whole series of self-portraits, and it’s probably the closest thing I have to a success. My turn.” His smile fades. “Why isn’t Johnny here with you?”

Robbie feels his smile slip away, too. He shrugs. “He’s off having adventures. Can’t blame him, can I?”

Lance’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know. Can you?”

Puzzled, Robbie just looks at him, uncomprehending.

“Does he know about the whole inheritance thing?”

Technically, it’s a second question, but Robbie rubs his jaw and nods.

Lance presses his lips together. “Then you definitely can blame him.” He looks at Robbie cautiously from under his lashes. “That makes it your turn.”

The moment feels too heavy already. All of the questions Robbie still has, he doesn’t think the link between him and Lance could bear without breaking. So, he pushes Lance into the blankets and kisses him until they’re both smiling again.

“I’ll save my turn for later,” Robbie says.

The two days since their ride in the woods have passed in a blur of talking and sex, with brief pauses for food and longer ones for sleep. They trade questions, but Robbie is too afraid of breaking the soap bubble they seem to be inside, spinning and afloat, to ask anything too serious. So, instead, he now knows that Lance doesn’t like tea, except when he’s sick, and that the gym he’s a member of in Chicago is called Fit Place, and his favorite kind of cookie is a ginger snap.

And he knows more serious things, too—like the story of the first photograph Lance sold, and that Lance has a penchant for stealing things, little things. He gives them back, sometimes. Of course, Robbie already knew something about that.

“Danny used to call you a magpie.”

Lance, who’s been sprawled over Robbie’s chest with his face next to his heart, in what seems to be one of his favorite positions, pushes himself up, giving Robbie a fairly solid blow to the solar plexus in the process. While Robbie gasps, Lance looks down at him with narrowed eyes, apparently unrepentant. “You remember that?”

Robbie’s grin turns into a softer smile. “I remember everything, sweetheart.”

They look at each other, Lance’s expression changing so fast, like it can’t settle between worry and affection and happiness and uncertainty. After a moment, he slowly lowers himself back to Robbie’s chest. “Magpie. Well, that’s a nicer word than other people have used.” Then, after a few long moments pass, he adds, “You haven’t asked me when I have to go to court.”