“Brr. But, mostly, it stays so warm in here. I wouldn’t have thought that, with the rock walls.”

Robbie nods toward the wood stove humming away between the bed and the kitchen. “The power of a wood stove. I think I’ve burned ten or fifteen acres’ worth of trees this winter.”

Of course, all he’s burned is about half the hedge from one young stand that was crowding a place along the riverbank where the horses often drink. But still, his supply is running low despite his having split almost twice as much as he’d expected to need. “It’s been a long winter.”

Lance laughs again—another one of those half-involuntary sounds that reveals so much emotion, it’s like a glimpse into his heart. And what Robbie sees this time makes his own chest ache in sympathy.

“You can say that again.” He turns, staring down at his coffee, his curls so much shorter than he kept them as a kid, but still long enough to make a messy tumble when he’s just out of bed.

Admiring Lance’s bedhead, which he acquired in Robbie’s bed, isn’t doing anything helpful for Robbie’s intrusive thoughts. He sternly reminds his subconscious who Lance is to his family, how damaging his past feelings for Robbie were, that those feelings are in the past, and that even if they could be resurrected now—that is not the way to ‘take care’ of him.

And he’s promised Danny, like he’s promised himself, that he’ll take care of Lance.

“You hungry? I’ve got cereal and bread and—” He checks the mini fridge. “Yep, eggs,” he adds, feeling a little triumphant, and then tips back the lid on the foam carton and frowns. “Oh. Not ‘eggs,’ plural. ‘Egg,’ singular.” He sighs. He’d been planning to stock up yesterday, before the weather came in, but of course his trip into Dell turned into a rescue rather than a grocery run.

Lance laughs again, but he doesn’t sound remotely sad this time. Robbie decides he’s content with the pathetic state of his pantry, if it makes Lance laugh.

“Toast is okay,” Lance says, sliding back onto the barstool he left a minute before and draining his cup. Robbie reaches out with the carafe and refills it, only meeting Lance’s gaze for the briefest moment, and only because not to do so would feel unnatural. Yet, he feels like he’s stolen something by catching sight of Lance’s face, illuminated to an unearthly silver pallor by the winter sunlight, like a marble statue breathed to fragile life, his dark chestnut curls softly haloed.

Robbie’s hands are unsteady as he sets out the toaster and unwinds the end of the plastic sleeve holding the bread. It’s not Wonder, but it’s some kind of small-grocery-store equivalent, and he shoots Lance an apologetic glance as he feeds two slices into the toaster. “Nothing fancy.”

Lance puts his elbows on the edge of the counter and props his chin in his hands. “I don’t need anything fancy.”

“You sure?” Robbie keeps his tone as light as he can. “I’m pretty sure the clothes I threw in the laundry this morning are dry-clean-only. They’re probably screaming in French about the indignity of being machine-washed.”