Still, the question is dangerous. Lance isn’t sure he knows what he wants the answer to be. Once, Lance wanted nothing more than Robbie’s pure, nonromantic love.

Then, when he got it, he came to think it wasn’t enough.

In the years since then, though, through the hardest and loneliest times when he’s worried he’ll never feel safety or joy again—in those moments, what he’s wanted back wasn’t a dream where Robbie wanted Lance the way Lance wanted Robbie.

No, he’s wanted the reality, where Robbie loves Lance, and the way Robbie’s love makes him feel warm and safe.

Lance buries his face in a pillow that smells just like Robbie, and fuck, maybe his heart doesn’t know the answer it wants, but his body does. Just the idea of Robbie getting into bed with him again, and this time for more than just comfort, has him whimpering and thrusting into the rumpled blankets like the teenager he was just reminiscing about. The idea of Robbie fucking him makes his ass clench and his balls tighten. Lance has never found any particular joy in being on the receiving end of anal sex; it’s something he thinks of as having learned to bear. But the idea of Robbie drilling into him…Robbie’s finger-shaped bruises on his hips…Robbie’s grunts and cries as he comes…Robbie’s cum, painting him inside with a splash of heat….

Lance lifts his hips and gets his hand under his stomach and around his cock, suddenly desperate for any touch of skin, even if it’s just his own. He folds his other arm and puts his face into the vee of his elbow, catching his own gasp as he works himself, hissing at the friction of his dry palm and then sighing as a surge of precum offers him a sweep of lubrication that makes everything more intense, driving him to a fever-pitch that has more to do with the fantasy in his mind than his own touch.

When he’s about to come, he hastily rolls onto his back and cups his palm over his cock so he can catch all of his release on his stomach and in his hand. And then he lies gasping with his eyes trained on the capsized-ship ceiling of the hayloft, dazed.

Because Robbie will be back any time, he only gives himself to the count of ten to catch his breath, and then he scrambles out of bed to clean up. He worries that a telltale scent will still linger in the air, but then he realizes that a much stronger and less pleasant smell emanates from the calf’s nest of towels.

Megan said that it would be a good sign when this happened. Still, he claps a hand over his nose and struggles not to gag as he peeks into the bathroom. The calf is looking at him with those big, innocent dark eyes.

“How can something so cute make such a terrible smell?” he asks her conversationally, and then he pulls on a pair of Johnny’s jeans and carefully goes about the task of changing out the calf’s towels and cleaning her up. He isn’t sure where Robbie does laundry, and a hose might be the better first step for the towels, anyway, so he bundles everything into a trash bag and sets it on the deck, where he sees that Robbie happens to be coming up the steps.