Lance imagines a shoe box or something, full of years’ worth of these poisonous little notes, and for the first time, he’s almost glad of the fire. He doesn’t realize he’s muttered the sentiment out loud until Robbie laughs again.

“I can’t really disagree. You know, losing the house was awful. But losing all of the stuff—that was more complicated. Some of it felt like weight around my neck. I don’t know how to explain it.” He shifts on the stool, frowning. “Sorry, I’m being—” He waves his hand in substitution for an actual word.

Lance looks at the card again. “Well, this deserves to be burned.” Without asking permission, he walks over to the wood stove, carefully opens the door, and shoves the card into the embers with the poker.

Robbie is watching him with his brows raised, but he looks more pleased than distressed. Lance approaches him and Robbie twists the stool around so they’re facing each other, parting his knees so that Lance can step between. He settles his hands on Lance’s hips.

“I’m sorry you lost all that stuff,” Lance murmurs, leaning into him and butting his head against his shoulder. “Especially all your parents’ stuff. Your dad’s things.”

“There’s really just one thing I strongly associated with him, honestly, and it actually made it out of the fire.”

Lance leans back to see Robbie’s face. “Yeah? What?”

Robbie smiles, but it’s not exactly a happy expression. “He had a silk handkerchief. An old-fashioned one like cowboys wore around their necks in the movies. My mom got it for him before she realized that’s not really a thing in modern-day Nebraska.”

Lance’s heart has taken on a panicked rhythm.

Robbie, apparently oblivious, strokes Lance’s hips and goes on, looking a little lost in thought, smiling fondly at the memory. “I used to keep it with me all the time. It was a little too—I don’t know, pretty? At least for me to wear. But I kept it in my shirt pocket. Sometimes, I liked to reach in and touch it there, or get it out and play with it.”

“I remember,” Lance manages, and Robbie’s eyes rise to his, as though pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah?”

Lance swallows and nods.

“I lost it a few years ago. Before the fire, that is. I was really upset at the time, but…well, at least it didn’t burn, you know? It probably fell out of my pocket or something. Maybe it’s stuck in a tree or got carried out to the river.” He shrugs and smiles lopsidedly. “Anyway. That’s the only thing that always made me think of my dad.”

There’s a lump in Lance’s throat that feels like the moon. He slips out of Robbie’s loose embrace and walks over to the sleeping area, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Lance? Are you—sweetheart, are you okay?”

Lance closes his eyes at the endearment, feeling woefully unworthy. He opens his suitcase. The scarf is folded on top, where he tucked it right before carrying his luggage into the hayloft. He turns and holds it out all in one movement before he can lose his nerve.