The One That Got Away by Madeleine Urban, Rhianne Aile

they only do this every other year.”
    Images of Trace half-naked and sweaty swam through David’s mind.
    Pushing them firmly aside, he got up to pour himself another cup of coffee, reaching for the sugar with his right hand out of habit and yelping.
    “David,” Trace whined, “have some respect for the half-asleep, would you?” He shifted to look over at the other man and then frowned.
    “Where’s your sling?” he asked suspiciously.
    “Ahh, well…,” the blond stammered nervously. “I sort of got it wet in the shower. It’s still in the bathroom. Right after breakfast I was going to put it in the washer.”
    Trace raised an eyebrow and squinted his eyes in disapproval. “Sit your ass down, mister,” he ordered as he stood up and headed back to the bathroom. Looking around, he found it in the floor against the cabinet; he’d missed it when he’d taken his shower. He wrung it out best he could and took it straight to the dryer before heading back to the kitchen to cross his arms and shake his head at David.
    David bit his tongue to keep from defending himself. He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake. If he wanted to go one night without the blasted sling, he could do it. Purposefully avoiding Trace’s gaze, he couldn’t tell if the brunet was angry or disappointed, but either way, he felt like he had to explain. “I tried to keep it dry, but the soap slipped and….” He couldn’t very well tell Trace why the soap slipped or what he was doing at the time. Fuck, he was an awful liar. “I tried, honestly.”
    Sighing, Trace walked over. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked in concern. “I would have helped. That’s why I’m here, David. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m mother-henning you. I’m just worried.”
    Running his fingers through his hair, David massaged the knotted muscles in his neck. “I just feel so blasted useless. I can’t even do up my own jeans. I appreciate everything you are doing. I guess I’m just feeling too dependent.”
    “All right,” Trace said soothingly, moving to lightly pull David’s hand away and replace it with his own fingers, rubbing at the twisted tendons. “It’s only been a couple weeks, and you can’t just start using that shoulder again so fast. But we’ll work on getting you better, okay?”
    “Okay. Hmmm,” David hummed. “That feels really good.” David swayed closer, his forehead coming to rest on Trace’s shoulder as the strong arms wrapped around him to massage his neck. It was true that he was tired of being weak—tired of being limited—but he wasn’t tired of Trace being around. In fact, he was getting sort of used to it.
    “Your neck’s a mess, probably from favoring your shoulder,” Trace murmured. “And not wearing your sling won’t help, either,” he poked gently. “I know you’re sick to death of it. I don’t remember you ever being laid up this long before.” 

    “Guess it just comes from getting old,” David laughed, relaxing even further into the incredible touch. “When I was younger I fell a lot harder than that, stumbling around drunk, and never got hurt once.”
    “I told you before; you’re not old,” Trace disagreed, kneading the softening muscles with his fingers, looking down at David with a soft smile. How David could be so self-deprecating and self-confident at the same time was a mystery to him.
    David sighed. “I think it was the birthday.”
    “This past birthday?” Trace asked, frowning. He’d taken David to a weekend series of baseball games, and they’d had a great time. Was the rest of it not so great?
    “None of my other birthdays have bothered me, but forty-five…?
    That was the year my dad had his heart attack. He lived another ten years, but he was never the same.”
    Trace was quiet for a long moment. “That’s not going to happen to you. Not as long as I’m around,” he said seriously. “I’ll make you exercise with me and eat better.” He sounded determined. “Gotta