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Robby finally piped up: "Kind of a shame, though. Guy seemed like your type."
Jack felt himself wanting to bristle, quickly controlling it. Because what the fuck. They'd been entirely wrapped up in each other in the year since Pittfest, Robby finally going to therapy, letting them get more serious than the fuckbuddy deal they'd had going before that. Jack had thought things were going well. "I have a type?" he challenged, raising his eyebrows.
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"Explain this to me, man," Jack said, softer. So much of being with Robby was getting him to talk about what was in his head, kicking and screaming the whole way.
Robby went a little wild-eyed, like he might just bounce and head back in for his shift. Jack kept his gaze steady on him, using his expectant officer face, which seemed to make Robby settle. "I just—I wanted proof," he finally said. "So I can look down and see it. So even when it's over, I'll know I had this. That it was real and mine."
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