It’s hard to reconcile that Lance—a painfully thin slip of a thing, all wild brown hair and big blue eyes, his head barely coming to Robbie’s chest—with this Lance. The eyes are the same, even if the open expression has been replaced by something unfocused and distant. But otherwise, Lance is transformed. He’s still slender, but no one would call him scrawny; he has the long limbs and elegant proportions of a dancer. He’s probably six feet tall or even just a hair over, based on how close he seems to stand to Robbie’s six-foot-two. And, though his clothes are wrinkled and his jacket has a big tear in the sleeve, even Robbie can tell they’re designer quality.

But though the outward changes in Lance are stark, Robbie can plainly sense there’s more to it than Lance having simply grown up. The more glances Robbie steals across the cab, the easier it is to see the physical traits of the boy he knew, now grown into a young man.

But the boy from across the creek had a warm energy that filled a space, a smile that could endear the coldest heart, and a basic sweetness that Robbie had never seen rivaled before or since. There’s only been the merest glimpse of him today, when Robbie pulled Lance into his lap after he collapsed in the hallway in the courthouse. As his fluttering lashes lifted, on the verge of unconsciousness, he had the same look on his face that Robbie remembers from the very last time they saw one another—like Robbie could see straight into Lance’s when he looked him in the eye, every feeling and hope boldly on display.

There’s hardly an echo of that boy’s bright presence in the shuttered young man presently sitting in Robbie’s truck.

The truck’s rear tires suddenly lose their grip on the snow and veer sideways, so that for a second the truck is coasting down almost perfectly perpendicular to the road. The entire view out the windshield is the slope of the ditch and the old barbed wire fence stretched between hedge posts, frosted with snow like Christmas tree garland.

Lance makes a low, alarmed noise. Without thinking, Robbie takes his hand off the gear shift to give Lance’s shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze before putting both his hands on the wheel, guiding the steering column slowly back to the right while gently massaging the brakes.

The brief touch fills him with a buzzing energy, even though all Robbie felt was his own coat under his palm and the suggestion of a hard curve beneath. Still, he’s strangely aware that all of the warmth emanating through the fabric came from Lance.

When the truck eases back to forward-facing on the road, Robbie looks over. “Okay?”

Lance is semi-plastered against the door, one hand braced on the dash. He slowly relaxes his limbs, giving Robbie a flustered smile. “I forgot what these roads are like in the snow,” he admits.

Robbie blinks, a little taken aback by the sudden light of his grin. He rubs his beard and smiles wanly in reply, looking straight ahead while he gives himself a moment to gather his thoughts. “Should be about two days of this,” he says eventually, wondering how obvious his uneasiness is—if Lance will know, like a horse would, that his calmness is a facade.