"Where have you been for the last sixteen years? Of course I tell everyone. If you've got it, fucking flaunt it." It was no secret Clint wasn't shy or discreet about his sex life. That hadn't changed in him dating Lincoln either because Lincoln wasn't shy. He was a model and had a hell of an exhibitionist streak to them. They had done orgies, public sex, nudist beaches, skinny-dipping. It was all serious fucking fun too, though now things had shifted a little. Clint was finding that sex without Lincoln didn't do it for him as much as it used to, and he was pretty sure there was something poignant in that. He just had to work out what the fuck that was. "You can't rush your fucking feelings, kid. That's where you run into all sorts of fucking shit. Trust me, I've witnessed it time and time again. I don't date guys, I fuck guys. I date Lincoln."

He raised his eyebrows a little and put the milk on the counter top. "Nick Matheson? Hung, then. Like a fucking horse. He didn't get the nickname Italian Stallion for the way he talks. A week? You've known this kid a fucking week and you want to ask him out. Hold up, Romeo, or you'll get your heart broken and then I'll be to fucking blame because you came to me to ask about shit, and I'm the blame for everything anyway. Dancer? That mean he wears tights? A Matheson in tights. If that wasn't fucking cradle robbing, I'd be wanting to check that out myself."