Robbie glances toward the bathroom. He can still hear the shower running. His hand lifts. His fingers graze the edge of the folder, which is so worn that it’s almost soft. Then he remembers himself, jerks his hand back, and keeps himself busy feeding the stove. He’s just closed the wood stove door when the bathroom door swings open.

There’s Lance. Lance, in nothing but a pair of worn-thin, light blue boxers that Robbie vaguely recognizes as Johnny’s from his years of taking his turn doing the laundry. Steam billows out behind Lance and he’s rubbing a towel through his wet curls. Robbie should be making sure that he’s okay, looking at him for no reason except to gauge his color and ensure that his feet are firmly on the floor and his balance is steady, and that he didn’t lose any digits to frostbite. But as Robbie looks at him, those are the last things on his mind.

He shouldn’t have needed to be told that Lance was modeling. What else could he be but someone in the business of being looked at? He’s toned with care—obviously no stranger to the gym, but there’s no bulk to him, either. He has an unmistakable six-pack, but the muscles are tight and corded against his torso, almost like they were drawn on. His arms are the same, sculpted to reveal the play of each individual muscle, but still sleek. With his hair lying wet against his skull, all of the sharp angles of his adult face are more pronounced. If Robbie had seen him like this unexpectedly, he could have thought him a total stranger.

Then, he smiles lopsidedly, and just like that, he’s Lance again. Robbie’s Lance.

“Feel alright?” Robbie asks, still crouched on the floor by the stove, but as Lance slings the towel around his shoulders like a cape and walks toward him, rubbing his arms, Robbie stands up.

“Yeah. Still cold.”

When Lance gets closer, Robbie sees the signs of lingering chill that he missed while he was struck senseless by the first sight of Lance in the bathroom doorway. His lips are pale and he’s trembling slightly.

“Well, get under some blankets,” Robbie insists. And since the only way to do that is by sitting on the cold floor or the uninhabitable couch, or getting in the bed, Robbie points toward the bed. “I’ll get the fire going a little better. And for fuck’s sake, put on some socks.”

Lance smiles again, but he goes to the dresser obediently. His towel-clad shoulders are still trembling with faint shivers, but his voice is low and playful when he says, “It’s so weird to hear you say ‘fuck.’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard you cuss before.”

“Well,” Robbie says tartly, closing the grate on the stove behind another few chunks of wood. Fire leaps up eagerly to consume the fuel, making the view through the transparent plate in the door glow like an ember. “I was probably trying to set a good example or something.”