He walked straight into Denver’s personal space without hesitation, colliding with the solid wall of his chest and burying his nose at the base of his throat. The scent of leather and wintergreen filled his lungs, as warm and familiar as the stroke of a hand, and Lane groaned. He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his forehead against the unshaven edge of Denver’s jaw and breathing him in. Just breathing. For what felt like the first time in years, he could breathe again.
