The sheets were cool against Hank's back, the storm's breath leaking through the old window frames. He lay rigid as a fence post, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see. Somewhere to his left, Cole shifted — a whisper of skin on cotton, the scent of rain and man bleeding into the pillowcase between them.
Lightning flashed again, painting the room in stark silver for a single heartbeat — just long enough for Hank to catch the outline of Cole’s bare shoulder inches away, the curve of his collarbone sharp as a spur. Thunder followed immediately, rattling the bedframe beneath them. Hank counted the spaces between his own breaths, each one shorter than the last.
Cole shifted again, his elbow brushing Hank’s ribs — accidental, probably. The contact burned like a brand through the thin sheet. Hank clenched his jaw, willing his body to stay still, but his pulse hammered in his throat loud enough he was sure Cole could hear it over the storm.
"You ever think about quitting this life?" Cole’s voice was low, rough with something that wasn’t quite sleep.
Hank stared at the dark ceiling, the question hanging between them like a rope bridge over a canyon. The rain lashed against the windowpane in relentless waves. "Every damn morning," he admitted finally, the words rough as unworked leather.
Cole chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the mattress. His bare shoulder brushed Hank's again — warmer this time, deliberate. "Liar."
Hank turned his head just enough to see Cole's profile in the next lightning flash — the strong line of his nose, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. "You calling me a liar in my own bed?"
The storm howled through the eaves as Cole rolled onto his side, facing Hank fully now. Lightning flickered, revealing the smirk tugging at his mouth. "Just calling it like I see it." His voice was a rumble beneath the rain’s relentless drumming. "You’d wither up like a tumbleweed if you left this place."
Hank snorted but didn’t deny it. The ranch was in his bones, same as the ache in his knees from too many winters spent busting ice in troughs. He could feel the heat radiating off Cole’s skin, closer than he’d allowed anyone in years. The harmonica dug into his thigh where Cole had left it on the mattress between them — a silent third presence.
Cole’s fingers found it first, brushing against Hank’s leg as he plucked the instrument free. "You ever play?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.
The harmonica's metal was cool against Hank's thigh where it had been pressing — Cole's fingers warmer where they'd brushed him retrieving it. Hank swallowed hard, the taste of rain and old wood lingering on his tongue. "Not since I was a kid," he admitted, staring at the ceiling's unseen cracks.
Cole exhaled through his nose, the sound almost lost beneath another roll of thunder. His thumb traced the harmonica's dented edge with absent familiarity. "Bet you were decent."
Lightning flashed, illuminating Cole's face for a split second — eyes dark with something Hank couldn't name. The resulting thunder shook the bedframe beneath them, rattling the harmonica in Cole's grip. Hank felt the vibration through the mattress, humming up his spine.
The harmonica's metal gleamed in another lightning flash before darkness swallowed them whole again. Hank could hear Cole turning the instrument between his fingers — that same methodical touch he'd used on the foal's tangled legs. The sound was soft, but in the blackness it seemed loud as a gun cocking.
"Play something," Hank said suddenly, the words out before he could stop them.
Cole went still beside him. The rain battered the roof like a thousand hooves. "I thought you wanted sleep."
Hank rolled onto his side, the mattress springs groaning beneath him. "Storm says otherwise." His voice came out rougher than he intended, thickened by the humid air between them. The harmonica glinted in Cole's hand as lightning flashed again, revealing the faint tremor in his fingers before darkness swallowed them once more.
Cole exhaled — a slow, deliberate sound that Hank felt more than heard. Then the harmonica touched lips, and the first note quivered through the darkness like heat lightning on the horizon. It wasn't a song, just a single, wavering tone that fractured into silence. Cole cleared his throat, the bed shifting as he adjusted his position. "Out of practice," he muttered.
Hank's fingers found the harmonica in the dark, brushing against Cole's knuckles. "Try again," he said, and didn't let go.
Cole’s breath hitched — Hank felt it through their connected fingers, a tremor that had nothing to do with the storm. The harmonica lay between them, Hank’s thumb brushing the back of Cole’s hand in silent encouragement.
Lightning flashed again, painting Cole’s face in stark relief — his lips parted around the instrument, eyes half-lidded like a man bracing for impact. This time when he played, the notes came slow and low, a bluesy progression that curled through the dark room like smoke from a dying fire. Hank didn’t recognize the tune, but the ache in it settled behind his ribs like a familiar weight.
The bed creaked as Hank shifted closer, drawn by some gravity he couldn’t name. Cole’s knee brushed his thigh — warm, solid — and the music stuttered for half a breath before finding its rhythm again. Hank watched the flex of Cole’s throat as he bent into the chorus, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed between phrases.
Cole’s last note trembled into silence, the harmonica warm from his breath. Hank realized his fingers were still curled around Cole’s wrist — had been this whole time — his thumb tracing the raised veins like a blind man reading braille. Neither moved to pull away.
The storm had quieted to a steady drumbeat on the roof. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned. Cole turned his hand palm up beneath Hank’s grip, the harmonica rolling onto the sheets between them with a muffled clink.
Hank exhaled through his nose, slow as a spooked horse calming. His fingers slid into the spaces between Cole’s — callus catching on callus — until their hands were knotted tight as a well-thrown lasso. Lightning flickered, illuminating the white-knuckled grip they shared.
The harmonica lay forgotten between them, its metal cooling against the rumpled sheets. Cole’s fingers twitched in Hank’s grip — not pulling away, just testing the give, like a colt testing new legs. Thunder rumbled low and distant now, the storm rolling its weight toward the next valley.
Hank could feel the heat of Cole’s palm against his own, the sweat-slick press of skin more intimate than anything he’d allowed in years. His throat worked around words that wouldn’t come, the silence stretching taut as a barbed wire fence.
Cole broke it first. “You’re thinking too loud,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the ridge of Hank’s knuckle. The touch sent a jolt up Hank’s arm, startling as a spark from a busted wire.
Hank exhaled sharply, the sound lost beneath the storm’s dwindling growl. His fingers tightened around Cole’s — an anchor in the dark — before he tugged, slow but insistent. Cole came willingly, the mattress dipping beneath his shifting weight, their clasped hands the only point of contact until his breath warmed Hank’s mouth.
The first kiss was a question — hesitant, testing — Cole’s lips chapped from Wyoming wind and too many hours squinting against the sun. Hank answered with a press of his own, the taste of apple pie and black coffee lingering between them. Cole made a sound low in his throat, part surrender, part discovery, and Hank felt it vibrate through his ribs like a bowstring plucked.
The harmonica tumbled to the floor, forgotten, as Cole’s free hand found Hank’s jaw, calloused fingers tracing the stubble there with reverence. Hank shuddered, his grip on Cole’s hand going slack, but Cole didn’t let go — just laced their fingers tighter as his tongue brushed Hank’s lower lip, asking. Hank opened for him with a groan, the kiss deepening into something molten and unhurried.
Cole's hand slid from Hank's jaw to his throat, his thumb pressing gently against the pulse fluttering there — not to restrain, but to feel the proof of Hank's racing heart beneath his skin. Their lips parted with a soft sound, breaths mingling in the humid space between them. Hank could taste the lingering sweetness of pie on Cole's tongue, the bitter undertone of coffee, something deeper and unmistakably "Cole" beneath it all. He shuddered when Cole's fingers traced the slope of his shoulder, mapping the terrain of his body with the same deliberate care he'd used earlier on the foal's fragile legs.
The kiss deepened slowly, neither of them rushing, as if they had all the time in the world despite the storm still rattling the windows. Hank's hands found Cole's hips — warm, solid — his thumbs brushing the sharp crests of bone there before sliding around to the small of his back. Cole exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing closer until their chests met, skin to skin. The heat between them was staggering, like standing too close to a branding fire, but Hank couldn't bring himself to pull away.
Cole broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along Hank's jaw, down the column of his throat, pausing to nose at the hollow above his collarbone. Hank's breath hitched when Cole's tongue flicked against his skin — a testing stroke that sent electricity skittering down his spine. His fingers tangled in Cole's hair, not guiding, just holding, as if to ground himself against the slow, maddening descent of Cole's lips.
When Cole's mouth closed over Hank's nipple, Hank arched off the mattress with a choked curse, his hips jerking reflexively. Cole chuckled against his skin, the vibration making Hank's toes curl. He took his time there, alternating between gentle suction and the rasp of his tongue until Hank was panting, his fingers tightening in Cole's hair. Only then did Cole move lower, his lips brushing over the planes of Hank's abdomen, pausing to press an open-mouthed kiss just below his navel.
Cole’s breath hitched as his lips traced lower, the rough stubble of his jaw dragging against Hank’s inner thigh — a slow, torturous path that made Hank’s muscles quiver. When Cole finally pressed a kiss to the crease where thigh met hip, Hank gasped, his fingers tightening in Cole’s hair. The touch was featherlight, barely there, but it sent sparks racing up Hank’s spine, pooling low in his belly. Cole lingered there, breathing him in, his exhales warm and damp against Hank’s skin, as if memorizing the scent, the texture, the way Hank’s pulse jumped beneath his lips.
Then, with agonizing slowness, Cole closed his mouth over Hank’s cock, swallowing him down in one smooth, practiced motion. Hank groaned, his hips lifting involuntarily, but Cole’s hands — broad and calloused — pressed his thighs back into the mattress, holding him steady. The contrast of Cole’s firm grip and the wet, silken heat of his mouth was almost too much. Hank’s breath came in ragged bursts, his fingers flexing in Cole’s hair as Cole worked him with a rhythm that was both deliberate and achingly slow. Every flick of his tongue, every hollowed cheek, every deep pull was measured, controlled — like he was savoring the taste of Hank, drawing out every possible sensation before moving on.
When Hank’s hips twitched again, Cole pulled off with a wet sound, pressing a kiss to the inside of Hank’s knee before crawling back up his body. Their mouths met in a kiss that was all heat and shared breath, Hank tasting himself on Cole’s tongue — bitter and salt beneath it. Hank rolled them, pressing Cole into the mattress, his hands roaming over the planes of Cole’s broad chest, his ribs, the taut muscles of his abdomen. He traced every scar, every dip and ridge, as if committing them to memory. Cole arched beneath him, his breath hitching when Hank’s fingers brushed over his nipples, teasing them to stiff peaks before moving lower.
Hank’s hand wrapped around Cole’s cock, stroking him slowly, his thumb swiping over the head to gather the moisture beading there. Cole’s hips jerked into the touch, his breath coming faster now, his fingers digging into Hank’s shoulders. Hank leaned down, kissing him again, deeper this time, their tongues tangling as Hank’s hand worked Cole in slow, deliberate strokes. The friction was slick, effortless, their bodies already slick with sweat, the air between them thick with heat and the scent of sex.
Hank broke the kiss with a ragged exhale, his hand stilling on Cole’s cock as he pressed their foreheads together. "Have you ever done this before?" The question rasped out of him, raw as a fresh branding wound.
Cole’s laugh was breathless, his fingers flexing against Hank’s shoulders. "Not on the receiving end." His hips arched slightly, his cock hot and heavy in Hank’s grip. "Are you gonna make it good for me?"
Hank nodded, and his throat tightened. He slid down Cole’s body, pausing to nip at the hollow of his hipbone before settling between his thighs. The musky scent of him was overwhelming this close — sweat and hay and something recognizably "Cole." Hank pressed a kiss to the inside of Cole’s knee, then higher, his stubble rasping against tender skin as he nosed along the crease of thigh and groin. Cole shuddered beneath him, his breath catching when Hank’s tongue flicked out to trace the tight furl of his asshole.
The taste was salt and musk, the skin impossibly soft beneath Hank’s tongue. He lapped at it slowly, teasing the tight ring of muscle until it fluttered against his mouth. Cole gasped above him, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Hank gripped his hips, holding him steady as he pressed closer, his tongue working in firm, slow circles. Cole’s thighs trembled against Hank’s shoulders, his cock twitching against his belly as Hank’s tongue breached him, just barely — enough to make Cole curse, his voice breaking on Hank’s name.
Hank pulled back just long enough to slick two fingers with spit before pressing them against Cole’s hole alongside his tongue. The tight muscle resisted at first, clenching against the intrusion, but Hank didn’t rush. He kept licking, slow and thorough, until Cole’s body relaxed enough for the tip of Hank’s middle finger to slip inside. Cole’s groan was ragged, his hips lifting instinctively. Hank pressed deeper, his tongue still working in lazy circles as his finger curled, searching.
When his fingertip brushed Cole's prostate, Cole arched off the mattress with a choked cry, his cock leaking against his stomach. Hank swallowed the sound, his tongue fucking Cole in time with his finger, stretching him open with slow, relentless patience. He added a second finger when Cole’s body allowed it, scissoring them gently until Cole was panting, his thighs shaking with the effort to stay still.
“Christ,” Cole gasped, his fingers carding through Hank’s hair, not guiding, just holding on. “You’ve — ah — done this before.”
Hank hummed against him, the vibration making Cole jerk. He crooked his fingers again, dragging them deliberately over the sensitive gland until Cole's hips stuttered, his cock dripping untouched. Hank could feel Cole’s pulse around his fingers, the hot clutch of his body as he worked him open, his tongue laving over the stretched rim. By the time Hank added a third finger, Cole was writhing, his breath coming in shallow pants, his cock flushed and wet.
Hank pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Cole’s hole was pink and glistening, loose around Hank’s fingers now, clenching rhythmically as if already missing the stretch. Hank leaned down to kiss the inside of Cole’s thigh, his stubble scraping the sensitive skin. “Ready?” he murmured.
Cole nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The storm outside had quieted to a steady patter against the roof, the occasional rumble of thunder now distant enough to feel harmless. Hank positioned himself between Cole’s thighs, his hands sliding up to grip Cole’s hips — broad and solid beneath his palms. The heat of Cole’s skin was almost feverish against Hank’s fingers, the muscles there twitching with anticipation or nerves — maybe both.
Hank leaned forward, his cock brushing against Cole’s slicked entrance. The contact sent a jolt through them both — Cole exhaling sharply through his nose, Hank’s fingers tightening on his hips. “Easy,” Hank murmured, more to himself than Cole. He pressed forward slowly, the tight resistance of Cole’s body making his own breath stutter. The stretch was exquisite, almost unbearable in its intensity — Cole’s body yielding inch by inch, hot and clenching around him.
Hank paused when he was barely halfway in, his thighs trembling with the effort to hold still. Sweat beaded at his temples, dripping down the side of his face as he fought the urge to thrust deeper. “Alright?” he gritted out, his voice rough as gravel. Cole’s fingers were white-knuckled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he nodded, his jaw clenched tight.
Cole’s breath hitched as Hank pushed forward another inch, the slow stretch sending sparks up his spine. His fingers scrabbled at the sheets before finding purchase on Hank’s forearms, gripping tight as if he might float away otherwise. “Christ,” Cole rasped, his throat working around the word. “Feels like you’re —” The rest was lost in a groan as Hank bottomed out, their hips meeting with a wet slap that echoed louder than the fading storm.
Hank froze, every muscle locked tight, his forehead pressed to Cole’s shoulder. The heat was unbearable — Cole’s body a vice around him, clenching rhythmically as if trying to pull him deeper still. Cole’s thighs trembled against Hank’s hips, his breath coming in shallow pants that ghosted over Hank’s sweat-slicked skin. “Move,” Cole ground out, his nails biting into Hank’s arms. “Please.”
Hank withdrew slowly, the drag exquisite, until only the tip remained before sinking back in with equal care. Cole arched beneath him, his head tipping back against the pillow, exposing the long line of his throat. Hank bent to mouth at it, tasting salt and the faint tang of harmonica metal still lingering on Cole’s skin. Their rhythm built gradually — no frantic pounding, just deep, rolling thrusts that had Cole’s toes curling against Hank’s calves.
Cole’s breath hitched when Hank shifted angle slightly, the next thrust punching his prostate dead-on. His hips jerked up instinctively, seeking more of that sweet friction, and Hank groaned against his throat, teeth scraping lightly over the pounding pulse there. Cole’s hand shot out to grip the headboard, his fingers whitening against the worn wood with each measured stroke.
Hank could feel the moment Cole stopped thinking — the precise second when his body overtook his mind. It was in the way his thighs fell open wider, the way his heels dug into Hank’s lower back, urging him deeper. Hank pressed his forehead to Cole’s, their noses brushing, sharing each ragged breath as their pace quickened incrementally. The slide was perfect now, slick with sweat and precum, Cole’s body yielding to him like warm earth under a plow.
Cole’s hand left the headboard to fist in Hank’s hair, tugging just enough to sting. Their mouths crashed together, teeth clacking, tongues tangling — messy and perfect. Hank could taste copper where Cole had bitten his own lip, could feel the vibration of Cole’s groan against his lips when he rocked his hips just so. The bedframe creaked in protest, the sound lost beneath the wet slap of skin on skin, the ragged symphony of their breathing.
Cole came apart beneath him in silent convulsions — his back arching, mouth open in a soundless cry as his cock pulsed between them. Hank felt the hot sperm splash against his belly before he saw it, the sudden clench of Cole’s body around him dragging his own orgasm out in a white-hot rush. He buried his face in Cole’s throat as he came inside him, his teeth scraping stubble as his hips stuttered through the last few thrusts.
They lay tangled in the aftermath, the only sound their mingled breathing and the occasional drip of rainwater from the eaves. Cole’s fingers trailed absently through the cum on Hank’s abdomen, his touch feather-light. Lightning flashed — weaker now — casting their sweat-slicked bodies in silver before darkness swallowed them again.
Hank shifted just enough to pull out, the loss drawing a soft whimper from Cole. He collapsed onto his back beside him, their shoulders brushing. The sheets were damp beneath them, the scent of sex thick in the air. Cole’s hand found his in the dark, their fingers interlacing without hesitation this time.
The harmonica lay forgotten on the floorboards where it had fallen, half-buried under discarded clothes. Cole’s breath slowed gradually against Hank’s shoulder, his exhales warm and steady where his lips brushed skin. Neither spoke — the silence between them thick as honey, sweet with unspoken understanding. Hank traced idle patterns on Cole’s flank, his fingertips mapping the rise and fall of ribs beneath sweat-damp skin.
Outside, the storm’s fury had dwindled to occasional grumbles of thunder, the rain now a gentle patter against the windowpanes. The rhythmic sound mingled with the creak of bedsprings as Cole shifted closer, his knee nudging Hank’s thigh in silent question. Hank answered by tugging him nearer, their bodies aligning with the ease of puzzle pieces slotting together. Cole’s sigh gusted across Hank’s collarbone, his fingers flexing where they rested against Hank’s sternum.
"Are you okay?" Hank murmured, his voice rougher than intended. The words vibrated through Cole where their chests pressed together.
Cole’s chuckle vibrated against Hank’s skin, low and rough like a distant rockslide. His fingers traced the ridge of Hank’s collarbone, following the dip where rainwater had pooled hours earlier. “A better question —” His thumb brushed the rapid pulse at the base of Hank’s throat. “You ever had a wrangler in your bed who didn’t snore?”
Lightning flickered — weaker now — painting Cole’s smirk in fleeting silver. Hank caught the glint of his teeth before darkness reclaimed them. He flexed the arm pillowed behind his head, the other still draped over Cole’s waist. “Just my ex-wife. And her damn terrier.” The admission came easier than it should have, loosened by the warmth of Cole’s thigh hooked over his.
Cole’s fingers stilled on Hank’s chest. “The dog snored or the wife?”
Hank snorted, the sound muffled against Cole’s hair. “Both. Like a pair of freight trains.” He tilted his head back to study the water stains on the ceiling, the shapes familiar as old scars. “The dog’s name was Buford. Ugly little bastard. Bit my boot once and hung on like a damn lamprey.”
Cole’s laughter rumbled through him, warm against Hank’s side. His fingers resumed their idle tracing, this time along the ridge of Hank’s pectoral. “Sounds like you miss him.”
The corner of Hank’s mouth twitched. “I miss the quiet, mostly.” He flexed his toes beneath the tangled sheets, the ache in his knees dulled by the warmth pooling between them. Outside, a lone raindrop tapped against the windowpane like a tardy guest.
Cole's fingers stilled against Hank's chest — just for a heartbeat — before resuming their slow exploration. His palm settled over Hank's sternum, pressing gently as if measuring the rhythm beneath. "You ever think about getting another dog?" The question lingered between them, softer than the rain tapping against the glass.
Hank exhaled through his nose, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling. "I thought about it. The ranch could use a good stock dog." He flexed the arm beneath Cole's shoulders, feeling the solid weight of him. "Never found one that looked at me right."
Cole hummed, the sound vibrating against Hank's ribs. His thumb brushed a faded scar just below Hank's collarbone — a crescent moon of raised tissue. "Is this from a horse?"
Hank's fingers found the scar without looking, tracing its familiar curve. "A yearling colt," he murmured. "He got spooked by a rattler during his first saddling. Caught me with a hind hoof." The memory should've soured his mood — the weeks of aching ribs, the stench of liniment clinging to his sheets — but Cole's thumb brushing the old wound made it feel like someone else's story.
Cole's fingers drifted lower, mapping the terrain of Hank's ribs with the same deliberate care he'd used on Stubborn's tangled legs. "You got lucky," he said quietly. "A half inch deeper, and —"
"It would've punctured a lung," Hank finished. He caught Cole's wrist without thinking, holding it suspended above the scar. "Doc said I'd either drown in my own blood or die of infection." A pause. The storm muttered beyond the walls. "I told him I had horses to feed."
Cole’s fingers stilled against Hank’s ribs at the mention of morning chores. The realization hit them both at the same moment — the storm’s tantrum had stolen hours they couldn’t afford to lose. Hank’s internal clock, honed by decades of predawn routines, calculated the remaining sleep in precious minutes rather than hours.
Cole exhaled sharply through his nose and rolled onto his back, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ. Sun’ll be up in —”
“Three hours,” Hank finished. He stared at the ceiling where a crack branched like lightning across the plaster. The familiar weight of responsibility settled over him, heavier than Cole’s thigh still draped across his.
Cole’s fingers found Hank’s wrist in the dark, his thumb brushing the prominent bone there. “We could —” He hesitated, the unspoken suggestion hanging between them like the scent of sex still clinging to their skin.
Hank turned his hand palm up, interlacing their fingers. “Sleep,” he said, though the word tasted like a lie. His body hummed with spent energy, every nerve still singing where Cole had touched him. The thought of closing his eyes felt impossible, like trying to lasso the moon.
A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, reminding them both of the work awaiting at first light — fences to check, horses to feed, Stubborn’s first morning in the world. Cole’s sigh gusted across Hank’s shoulder as he shifted, their sweat-damp skin sticking then parting with a soft sound.
Hank nudged Cole’s shoulder with his chin, his breath warm against the nape of Cole’s neck. "Turn around," he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and something softer, something that hadn’t had a name in years. Cole hesitated for half a heartbeat — long enough for Hank to feel the tension ripple through him — before rolling onto his side, his back pressing flush against Hank’s chest. The fit was seamless, Hank’s knees slotting behind Cole’s, his arm draping heavy over Cole’s waist, palm splayed wide over the steady rise and fall of his ribs.
Cole exhaled sharply through his nose, his body rigid for three heartbeats before melting into the contact. Hank could feel every inch of him — the knobs of his spine aligning with Hank’s sternum, the hitch in his breathing when Hank’s thumb brushed the lowest rib. The storm had stolen the room’s heat, but the shared warmth between them was enough to chase the chill from Hank’s bones. He buried his nose in the damp curls at the base of Cole’s neck, inhaling the mingled scents of sex, hay, and the faint metallic tang of harmonica still clinging to his skin.
"Never done this before," Cole muttered into the darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns over Hank’s forearm where it wrapped around him.
Hank’s chuckle vibrated against Cole’s shoulder blades. "You’d better get used to it," he murmured, his lips brushing the nape of Cole’s neck, "if we’re gonna keep doing this." The words hung between them, heavier than the arm draped over Cole’s waist. Outside, the last raindrops tapped against the window like shy afterthoughts.
Cole’s fingers stilled on Hank’s forearm. For three heartbeats, the only sound was their shared breath and the distant groan of wind in the eaves. Then Cole huffed a quiet laugh — more air than sound — and pressed back against Hank’s chest. "You’re assuming a lot there, foreman," he muttered, but his hand covered Hank’s where it rested on his ribs, their calluses catching.
Hank nosed along the damp hair at Cole’s temple, breathing in the scent of sweat and hay. "Mm-hm. I notice you didn’t say no." His thumb traced the ridge of a lower rib, feeling the jump of muscle beneath skin. Cole’s answering silence was louder than any agreement.
They fell asleep that way — Cole’s back pressed flush against Hank’s chest, their legs tangled beneath sweat-damp sheets, Hank’s arm locked around Cole’s ribs like a living harness. The last thing Hank remembered was the rhythm of Cole’s breathing syncing with his own, the steady rise and fall of his ribs beneath Hank’s palm like the slow roll of distant thunder.
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