lina🍂 @nak4m8to - Tumblr Blog

Dec 3, 2025

Breaking the Reins

Pairing: Rancher! Kim Mingyu x F. Reader

Wordcount: 50.5K

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Quickie - Semi Public Sex (twice) - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Soft Dom! Mingyu - PIV - Unprotected Intercourse - Praise (Yes, he uses 'good girl')

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

The bus doesn’t so much arrive as it gives up.

It hisses to a tired stop beside a curb that looks like it hasn’t been repainted since the last century, and for a second, you just sit there with your hands buried in the straps of your duffel, watching dust drift across the windshield in a slow, lazy sheet. The driver calls out the town name—soft, drawled, almost bored—and a couple of people stand and stretch like they’ve got somewhere to be. You do too. It just isn’t somewhere you can say out loud.

You step down into air that smells like pine and sun-warmed asphalt. There’s no ocean here, no damp salt on your tongue, none of that sticky, crowded heat you’ve been living in for months. The sky is vast in a way that makes you feel both smaller and safer, blue pulled tight over jagged mountains that sit on the horizon. Not the kind of mountains you grew up seeing in postcards. These are closer. Real. Their shadows over the town look protective rather than threatening.

Your pulse stays where it is. You wait for it to sprint—wait for the familiar headrush of panic, for your skin to go cold, for your ears to ring with imagined footsteps behind you. But the street is quiet. Not dead quiet, not eerie, just… slow. A car passes with a dog’s head out the window. Somewhere, a doorbell rings. A bird calls from the trees. A cow lows in the distance, so far away it sounds like it might be part of the wind. A man in a faded cap crosses the road with a cup of coffee, nods at you like you belong. You don’t.

You shift the duffel higher on your shoulder and walk. Your shoes scrape on gravel. Every few steps, you glance over your shoulder anyway, because your body doesn’t know how to stop doing that. It does now out of muscle memory, out of survival. Out of the kind of fear that doesn’t vanish just because the scenery changes. You keep your head down, hat low, sunglasses on, even though the sun is mild. You are a shadow wearing a name that isn’t yours.

Just keep moving. Just one night. That’s what you told yourself when you bought the bus ticket. That’s what you told yourself every time you crossed a state line, every time you slept in a seat with your arms wrapped around your bag like a life vest. One night to reset. One night to breathe. Then you’d be gone before anyone could notice you were there.

Transit town. That plan feels tidy in your mind until you see the motel. It’s a squat building at the edge of Main Street, the neon sign blinking VACANCY like a half-hearted promise. The kind of place with flower boxes on the windows and an ice machine that probably hasn’t worked in a decade. There are two pickup trucks in the lot, both covered in dust. A porch swing sits outside the office door, creaking lazily in the breeze even though no one’s sitting in it.

You pause on the sidewalk. You don’t want to go in. Going inside means saying a name. It means producing cash. It means being seen by a person who might remember you if someone ever asks—Did you see a woman come through here? Brunette, about this tall, nervous? But you’re tired. You are so tired you feel hollow in your bones. Like if you take one more step without stopping, you’ll split open and pour yourself onto the ground. So you go in.

A bell jingles when you push the door open. Behind the counter, a woman in wire-rimmed glasses and a cardigan sits despite the mild day. There’s a mug in her hand that says World’s Best Grandma and a crossword half-finished beside it. She looks up and smiles like she’s been waiting for you in a way that is purely polite and nothing more. “Afternoon, hon. Looking for a room?”

Your throat feels dry, tight like you’ve swallowed sand. You force your mouth to shape the words you practised. “Yes. Just for a night.”

“Sure thing. Passing through?” There it is—that little question that always feels like a hook in your ribs. You nod. Make yourself look casual. “Just passing through.”

She doesn’t ask where you’re headed. She doesn’t ask where you came from. She just pulls a ledger toward her, taps a pen against it thoughtfully. “We’ve got a single upstairs or a double on the ground floor. Single’s cheaper.” Cheaper wins. Always.

You slide folded bills across the counter—money that feels too thin, too fast to disappear. You hate how aware you are of every dollar. You hate how much you hate needing to count. Your last job used to pay by direct deposit. Now you feel each note leaving your hands like a small amputation. She peels off the bills, counts them, and hands you a key attached to a wooden block with a faded number branded into it. “Upstairs, end of the hall. Breakfast is coffee and toast in the morning if you want it. No charge.”

You swallow, nod again. “Thank you.”

She tilts her head, looking at you a second longer. Your skin prickles. Then she smiles softly. “You look like you’ve had a long road.”

Your breath stutters. You don’t know what expression you’re wearing, but it must be something honest, something that makes her say that. You exhale softly. “Yeah. I… yeah.”

She doesn’t push. She just nods as if that’s the whole conversation. As if she understands every human who walks in here is carrying something invisible. “Well, get some rest.”

You take the key and head back outside. Your room is exactly what you expected: a narrow bed with a floral quilt, a little table with a lamp that hums, and a bathroom with a shower curtain that smells faintly of bleach. There’s a window at the far end that looks out on the mountains. You put your duffel on the bed and stand there for a while, breathing.

No one followed you in. No one is outside your door. No car has slowed in the parking lot. Your hands are shaking anyway. You turn the deadbolt twice. Then you drag the chair from the tiny table over to the door. The legs scrape on the linoleum, loud in the quiet room, and the sound makes your stomach coil. You wedge it beneath the handle like you’ve done a hundred times, like it’s a ritual more sacred than prayer. Only then do you let yourself sit on the edge of the bed.

Your phone stays off. It has stayed off for weeks now. The battery is a useless brick, SIM card removed and wrapped in tissue at the bottom of your bag. You don’t check messages. You don’t scroll. You don’t search for anything that can ping your location. You try not to think in straight lines. That’s the worst way to remember.

Your body is still running on the leftover adrenaline that got you here. It’s a jitter behind your ribs, an electric ache under your skin. You should sleep. You should collapse. Instead, you drift to the window and stare out.

You don’t know the names of the mountains. You’ve never cared about names for things like this before. But something about the way they cut into the sky makes a quiet feeling bloom low in your chest, unfamiliar and almost painful in its gentleness. You didn’t know quiet could sound like this. Back there, quiet was never safe. Quiet meant listening. Quiet meant waiting for the footstep in the hall, the shift of a door, the click of a bottle on a counter. Quiet was a warning that something was about to break. Here, quiet is almost… comforting.

You force yourself to unpack only what you need: toothbrush, a change of clothes, the tiny travel deodorant you bought at a gas station three towns ago. You lay your ID on the table face down, because even looking at the plastic makes your stomach twist. You don’t want to see that name again. You don’t want to see that face. You take a shower that lasts too long just because hot water feels like a luxury you almost forgot. Then you sit on the bed with wet hair, wrapped in the motel towel, and eat the granola bar you’ve been rationing since yesterday. You count the cash you have left. You count it twice.

The number doesn’t change, but the second count still feels better, like maybe if you look hard enough, money will multiply out of pity. It doesn’t. Two nights. Maybe three if you stretch it, if you don’t eat much, if you don’t need anything unexpected. You stare at the ceiling and whisper to yourself, “Three days.” Then softer: “Two.” Then: “Maybe one.”

You close your eyes. You sleep with your sneakers still beside the bed within reach. You sleep with the chair wedged under the handle like a guard dog.

Dreams come in flashes you don’t want to name. Hands. A voice. A hallway that feels too narrow. You wake up before dawn with your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest. It takes a full minute to remember where you are. It takes another full minute to notice the quiet is still quiet. You breathe into your palm until you stop shaking.

The chair is still wedged beneath the handle. No one touched it.

Outside, the sky is beginning to pale. The mountains are turning purple and gold like they’re waking up too. The sight is so beautiful your throat goes tight again, but not from fear this time. Something else—something you forgot you were allowed to feel.

You rinse your face, tuck your hair under your hat, and look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Your eyes are too alert for this early hour. Your skin is a little sallow from the road. There’s a bruise blooming under your jaw that you keep covering with your collar and hoping no one sees. You don’t look like a woman who came here for vacation. You look like someone who fled. You grab your purse and head out before the office even opens, because being in a room too long makes you feel trapped.

Main Street at sunrise looks like an old movie set: brick storefronts with peeling paint, a hardware store with saddles hanging in the window, a diner with a neon coffee cup sign already lit. Pickup trucks line the curb. Someone is sweeping the sidewalk in front of a feed store, slow and unbothered. You keep your head down and walk like you belong here, even though every muscle in your body is still coiled. First stop: the grocery store.

It’s small, maybe four aisles, old linoleum, a bell over the door like the motel’s. The produce section is tidy, apples stacked in pyramids, local honey in jars with handwritten labels. A teenage cashier with freckles and a ponytail smiles at you like she recognises you, even though she doesn’t.

You hover by a bulletin board near the entrance. Job ads are pinned in crooked rows: hay for sale, babysitting, church bake sale, tractor repair. Nothing that says I will hire a woman with no references and no past. A middle-aged man stocking shelves notices your slow scan and asks, “You lookin’ for somebody?” The question is kind, casual. It still makes your breath hitch.

“Work,” you say. Keep it simple.

His brow furrows thoughtfully. “Uh… we’re full up. But you could try the diner? Marla sometimes needs a hand.”

“Thanks.”

His smile is easy. “Good luck.”

You nod quickly and escape with a loaf of bread you didn’t plan to buy but do, just to look normal. Next: the diner.

The bell jingles again. Everything in this town has bells. Maybe to announce people coming in. Maybe because people don’t sneak here. Maybe because no one has anything to hide. A woman behind the counter wipes the counter down with a rag and looks up. Her name tag says Marla. “Morning. Sit anywhere.”

You take the stool closest to the exit by instinct. When she pours coffee into a chipped mug, your hands shake as you add cream. “Passing through?” she asks, and you almost laugh because it seems to be the town’s only question. “Maybe,” you say.

She studies you briefly, not unkindly. “Well, you’re welcome all the same.” You swallow a sip of coffee that tastes like it’s been brewed a thousand times, and all of them were for you. You clear your throat. “Do you have any openings? Someone at the grocery store said you might. I can wait tables, wash dishes, anything.”

Marla’s face softens in apology. “I’d love to, hon, but my niece’s doing weekends now, and I can’t afford another body unless I know I can keep them on. Town’s quiet this time of year.” Quiet.

You nod, pretending it doesn’t deflate you. “I understand.”

She doesn’t stop there. She lowers her voice a little, friendly conspiratorial. “Try the post office board. Sometimes folks stick real jobs up there. Or the bar later, if you don’t mind a bit of noise.” Noise isn’t what scares you. Noise is manageable. It’s silence with teeth you don’t trust. “Thank you.”

She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, a gesture so maternal it almost unspools you on the spot. You leave money for the coffee you barely drink and walk out with the sun on your face.

The post office board has more of the same. Yard work. Fence repair. A notice about a lost black lab. Someone needs help fixing a roof, but it’s clearly for a man who can lift two-by-fours without flinching.

By late morning, you’ve done three loops of the town, pretending your feet are restless instead of desperate. You buy a cheap apple at a fruit stand. You smile at strangers. You keep your head down when a truck slows to turn, not because it’s suspicious but because your body doesn’t know how to interpret not suspicious.

You find yourself outside a bakery without remembering how you got there. It’s a narrow place with old white paint and windows fogged from warmth. A small chalkboard sign out front reads: FRESH CINNAMON ROLLS — HOT COFFEE — ASK ABOUT PIE

The smell hits you like a tidal wave. Butter, sugar, yeast—home. Your stomach twists painfully. You haven’t let yourself eat like a human in weeks. You push the door open. No bell this time. Huh.

The bakery is alive: a few small tables, sun spilling in, a glass case full of pastries that look like they were made by someone who loves feeding people. Behind the counter is an older woman with a braid going silver down her back. She wears flour on her apron and wrinkles around her eyes. She looks up and smiles. “Well, you look hungry.”

The bluntness makes a laugh escape without permission. “I am.”

“Sit. I’ll get you something to start.”

Before you can protest, she’s already moving. She pours coffee, slides a plate with a warm roll in front of you, and when you instinctively reach for your wallet, she shakes her head. “First one’s on the house.” You blink at her. “I can pay.”

“I’m sure you can. But you don’t have to for that.” Her voice is calm. “Eat. Then talk.” You don’t know why your eyes burn.

You focus on the roll instead. It’s too good. It tastes like Sundays and safe kitchens and mornings you don’t have to earn with fear. You eat half of it before you even think to slow down. The woman watches you without staring. She wipes her hands on her apron and leans her elbows on the counter. “You’re not from around here.”

You shake your head. “Just… passing through.” There it is again. The safe line.

She hums softly, not buying it but not challenging it either. “Passing through usually doesn’t look like an empty stomach and a blur behind the eyes.”

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to breathe evenly. “I’m looking for work,” you say, because you need the conversation to stay on familiar ground. “Anything. Cleaning, serving, I don’t…” You stop when your voice wobbles. The woman’s gaze stays steady. There’s a weight to it. Not suspicion. Attention. “Name’s Nora,” she says.

You hesitate, then give her the name you’ve been wearing all week. It feels foreign in your mouth. “I’m… I’m staying at the motel.”

Nora nods once. “We don’t have an opening here. Not one that pays real money.” The words sting even though you braced for them. You nod anyway. Then Nora tilts her head a little, like she’s listening to something you can’t hear. Like she’s hearing the between-the-lines you didn’t say. “You willing to work hard?”

You give her a look that’s probably too intense. “Yes.”

“You mind getting dirty?”

“No.”

“You mind early mornings?”

Your mouth twitches. “I’m already awake.”

That makes her smile properly. “Alright then.”

She reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a napkin, and smooths it with her palm. She takes a pen from behind her ear. “There’s a ranch out past the old highway,” she says, writing as she talks. “Big one. Been here longer than I’ve been alive. Three owners these days. Always busy. Always needing hands. They don’t hire just anybody—so don’t go in there expecting it to be easy—but if you’re serious about work, it’s the best shot in this county.”

The word “ranch” lands in your mind. A ranch means land. Animals. Long days. A place that probably doesn’t ask too many questions as long as you show up and do your job. A place far enough from town that you might be able to breathe without flinching at every passing truck. You watch her pen scratch lines and arrows on the napkin. “Take County Road 4 till it forks,” she continues. “Go left at the old windmill. You’ll see their gate before you see the house. Tell whoever you meet that Nora sent you. They’ll know I wouldn’t bother them without a reason.”

She slides the napkin across the counter. Your fingers hover over it like it might burn. “Why are you helping me?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Nora’s brows lift slightly. Then her face softens into something that looks like memory. “Because I’ve been tired in strange towns before,” she says simply. “And because you don’t look like trouble. You look like someone who needs a roof and a chance.”

Your throat works. “I don’t have experience. With… ranch stuff.” Nora waves a hand. “Ranch stuff can be taught. Work ethic can’t.”

You stare down at the napkin again. The directions are plain.

For the first time since you ran—since you threw clothes into a duffel with shaking hands—you feel something other than fear trying to take root in you. Hope is a dangerous thing. It makes you picture futures your body isn’t sure are allowed. But it’s there anyway, small and stubborn. You fold the napkin carefully and tuck it into your pocket. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Nora studies you one last time—like she’s taking stock, like she sees all the scars you’re hiding, all the pieces you don’t know how to say out loud. Then she just nods and says, “Eat the rest of that roll. You’ll need the energy.” You do.

Outside, the morning has warmed into a slow gold afternoon. The mountains still sit on the horizon, huge and steady and unconcerned with whatever you’re running from. The town keeps moving at its own gentle pace. You turn toward the motel to grab the rest of your stuff, the napkin heavy in your pocket.

Transit town, you remind yourself.

But as you walk, you catch yourself glancing back once—at the bakery window, at the mountains beyond it, at the road that stretches out past the old highway. And you don’t feel your heart clawing in your chest. You feel it… waiting.

Like maybe, just maybe, something is waiting with it.

You spend exactly ten minutes staring at the motel bed, then you pack your life back into your duffel.

The clerk offers you coffee and a polite smile. You take the coffee, decline the small talk, and step out into the morning sun before you can talk yourself out of any of it—out of the ranch, out of the job hunt, out of the fragile little hope that’s been gnawing at you since Nora drew those crooked lines.

The bus stop looks smaller in daylight. The bench where you sat yesterday is empty now, just a strip of fading paint and gum. There’s no bus coming. Not for hours, maybe not till tomorrow. You’re not checking the schedule.

County Road 4 starts where Main Street ends, a strip of cracked asphalt that bleeds into open land. From there, the mountains look closer, like you could walk straight into them and disappear. You start walking.

The first mile isn’t so bad. The road is mostly flat, the air still cool. Your boots crunch on gravel at the shoulder. Grass rustles quietly in the ditch. Every now and then, a truck passes, slow enough that you can feel the driver’s curious gaze skim over you before they continue on. You keep your eyes forward, shoulders squared, thumbs hooked in your straps so they don’t see your hands shaking. Nora’s directions loop in your head like a mantra. Take County Road 4 till it forks. Left at the windmill. You’ll see their gate before you see the house.

You don’t know how far “till it forks” actually is. The napkin doesn’t have miles on it, only arrows and her cramped handwriting. After the second mile, your legs start to ache. After the third, the sun has climbed higher, and your hoodie feels like a mistake. You keep going. You’re not going back to the motel. You’re not going back, period.

A pickup truck appears behind you sometime after you pass a field of hay bales. You hear it before you see it, the low growl of the engine rolling along the road. Your whole body tenses. Old instinct tells you to dive off the shoulder, to hide, to make yourself small and invisible. You force yourself to breathe. It’s just a truck.

It slows as it comes alongside you, tyres crunching on gravel, and a man’s voice calls out through the open window. “You alright there?” You glance over, ready to fake a smile and a “fine, thanks,” then keep walking. But the driver is old—late sixties, maybe—with a tan that’s more leather than skin, a wide-brimmed hat, and kind eyes crinkled at the corners.

He does not look dangerous. You hate that that’s your metric now. “Road’s long to walk in those boots,” he adds, nodding at your feet. “Where you headed?”

You swallow and adjust your grip on the strap. “Out past the highway,” you say carefully. “A ranch.” His brows go up. “You mean Longview?”

You blink. You didn’t even know it had a name. Nora hadn’t said. “I… I think so,” you murmur. “She just said a big ranch out past the old highway.” He huffs a little laugh. “That’d be them. I’m goin’ that way with feed. Hop in the back, if you want. Save you a few blisters.”

Your gaze jerks to the bed of the truck: dusty, lined with feed sacks and a couple of empty buckets. From there, you’d be in plain sight. No locked doors. No closed windows. The idea of getting into any enclosed space with a stranger makes your stomach clench, but the back… You measure the distance with your eyes. Flat land. Open sky. If you needed to, you could jump. You hesitate long enough that he softens his voice. “Name’s Bud,” he says. “Been drivin’ this road longer than you’ve been breathin’. Figure Nora sent you, from the look of you.”

Your breath catches. “You know Nora?”

“Everybody knows Nora,” he answers. “She’s got a good nose on her. She trusts you enough to send you up to Longview, I trust you enough not to steal my ol’ truck. That seem fair?”

You don’t know what to do with trust said that plainly. You force yourself to nod. “Okay.”

He jerks his thumb toward the back. “Watch your step.”

You climb up carefully, fingers gripping the side of the truck, heart banging more from the decision than the effort. The bed is warm under your palms, dust sticking to your jeans. Bud checks his mirror to be sure you’re settled, then eases back onto the road.

The wind hits you as soon as you’re moving, whipping strands of hair out from under your hat. You sink down between the feed sacks, fingers curled around the metal edge, and let the town slowly unspool behind you. It’s strange, watching it shrink.

You’ve never left somewhere without looking over your shoulder in dread. Now you look back with something else tangled up in it. The bakery sign. The motel roof. The little strip of Main Street you memorised in case you ever had to describe it to… to anyone. Then the last of the houses fall away, and it’s just land.

The road stretches ahead in a narrow strip, bordered by fields and scattered trees. Fence posts march alongside in steady lines, wires glinting in the sun. Cattle dots the distance, dark shapes moving slowly through the green. A hawk circles overhead, its shadow sliding over the ground. You breathe air that smells like dirt and something green and alive and think, wildly, that you could get used to this if given half a chance.

After a while, the truck slows and then stops at a fork in the road, just like Nora said. To the right, the asphalt continues straight toward the mountains. To the left, the road narrows and the old highway sign leans at an angle, half swallowed by weeds. Bud leans out his window and points. “Left’s your turnoff. Gate’s a few miles down. I’ll be goin’ through it myself.”

You blink. “You work there?”

"Nah,” he snorts. "I just take their money for feed. But they’re good folks. Busy. Might be rough around the edges, but they look out for their own.”

The phrase their own makes something twist in you. “Thank you,” you say, voice low but earnest. He waves you off like it’s nothing and starts forward again, taking the left fork. The pavement gives way to a harder, packed-dirt road that jostles you in the back. Dust rises in soft clouds behind the wheels. You clutch the side of the truck and squint ahead.

You see the gate before you see the house, exactly like Nora promised. It appears out of the shimmer of heat: tall wooden posts, heavy metal bars, a sign welded across the top in thick letters: LONGVIEW RANCH

Beyond it, the land seems to roll on forever. Pastures stretch out in every direction, bordered by long runs of fence that gleam in the sun. You see a cluster of buildings farther in—a big house, smaller cabins, barns with open doors. Trucks are parked in wide dirt lots. You spot horses moving along a rise in the distance, riders on their backs just silhouettes against the sky.

The truck slows to a stop beside the gate. There’s a keypad on a post, worn from use. Bud puts the truck in park and twists around to look at you. “End of the line, miss.”

You climb down, legs a little rubbery from the ride. Your boots hit the dirt, kicking up a puff of dust. Up close, the gate’s even bigger, the bars cold under your fingers when you reach out to touch them. You suddenly feel… very, very small. It’s not just the size. It’s the scope. The sense that this place has existed for decades before you and will exist for decades after. That the problems you carry are, to this land, something inconsequential. Bud keys in a code, the kind of sequence his fingers know without his eyes. The gate shudders, then slowly swings open with a low groan. He grins at you over his shoulder. “Good luck to you,” he says. "Remember—work hard and don’t spook easy. They like that.”

“I’ll try.”

He tips his hat and drives on through, following the dirt track up toward the cluster of buildings. You hesitate just outside the gate, watching the path curve away, looking back once down the empty road as a last escape route. Then you tighten your grip on your duffel strap and step forward. Longview Ranch swallows you in.

The road is rutted but solid beneath your boots. On either side, pastures spread out in waves of green and brown. In one, a herd of black cattle moves slowly, tails flicking, heads down. In another, a few horses graze, ears flicking toward you as you pass. Fences crisscross the property, creating a patchwork grid that looks chaotic at first glance and then, the longer you look, perfectly deliberate.

Closer in, you start seeing people. A pair of hands moves along a fence line, hammering in new posts. A woman in a baseball cap and braid leads a horse toward a barn, talking to it under her breath. A guy in a faded tee throws sacks of feed into a wheelbarrow like they weigh nothing. No one stops to stare at you. They glance, note the stranger walking up the drive, then go back to what they’re doing. It unnerves you more than open curiosity would.

Finally, you approach the main cluster: a sprawling two-story house with a wide porch, flanked by outbuildings and a row of smaller cabins. A dog lies in the shade near the steps, tail thumping lazily as you get closer. You don’t know where to go. You’re hovering at the base of the porch steps when a voice calls out from your right. “Hey! You lost?” You turn so fast your duffel swings.

A man is walking toward you from the side of the house, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with an open, easy grin that hits you like sunlight. His hair curls a little at his forehead, and there’s dust smudged across his cheek, but it does nothing to dull the brightness of him. He looks like he lives outside and laughs often. Sunshine in human form.

You take a breath. “Uh, maybe,” you admit. "I’m looking for… whoever’s in charge.”

His grin widens. “Well, that depends on who you ask.” He sticks out a hand. "I’m Seokmin.”

You shift your duffel and shake his hand, his palm callused and warm.

You give him your name, the one you’ve been using. It feels less foreign this time. Less like a temporary lie and more like something you might grow into. “Nora at the bakery sent me,” you add quickly, because her name feels like a talisman. "She said you might be looking for help.”

Seokmin’s eyes light up. “Oh, Nora.” He nods approvingly. "If she sent you, that’s a good sign. She doesn’t vouch for just anybody.”

Your shoulders loosen a millimetre. “I don’t… I don’t have ranch experience,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can make them sound better. "But I can work. Anything you need—stables, cleaning, cooking, whatever. I just…” You don’t want to say, I just need somewhere to be. He seems to read it anyway. “Okay, okay,” he says, hands up in mock surrender. "You don’t have to give me your resume out here in the driveway. Come on. We’ll see what the bosses think.” The bosses. Plural.

Seokmin gestures for you to get up the steps and onto the porch. The boards creak under your weight in a familiar, comforting way. Up close, you can see little details—boots lined up by the door, a hat hanging from a hook, a faded horseshoe nailed above the frame. A place people come home to. He knocks once and pushes the door open without waiting for an answer, looking back at you with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he stage-whispers. "They bark more than they bite.” You aren’t sure that makes you feel better.

The inside of the house smells like coffee, leather, and something savoury from a kitchen you can’t see. The front room is large, with a worn couch, a coffee table covered in magazines and papers, and a big, scarred wooden desk shoved near a window. The desk is currently occupied by a man with a phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, one hand flipping through a stack of papers, the other typing on a laptop. He looks up as you come in. Sharp eyes. Dark hair. An energy that crackles quieter than Seokmin’s but no less intense. “Cheol,” Seokmin says. "Got someone for you to meet.” The man—Cheol—holds up a finger, still listening to whoever’s on the line. “No, we need those contracts by Friday or the whole thing falls apart,” he says, voice calm but firm. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Send ‘em to my email and to Mingyu’s. Thanks.” He drops the phone back into its cradle and exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose before focusing on you.

“Sorry,” he says. "You’re—?”

You give your name again, feeling suddenly conscious of every wrinkle in your clothes, every smudge of road dust on your skin. Seokmin jumps in before you can stumble over your next sentence. “Nora sent her,” he says. "She’s lookin’ for work. Says she’s not afraid to get dirty.”

Cheol—short for Seungcheol, you assume now—leans back in his chair and gives you a quick once-over. It’s not leering, not assessing in that way. It’s practical, like he’s checking if you’ll fall apart at the first sign of trouble. “You ever worked on a ranch before?” he asks. You shake your head. “No. But I’ve worked… other jobs. Long hours, on my feet. I learn fast.” He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “You got any problem with early mornings?”

"No.”

"You got any problem with bein’ told what to do?” That one makes your jaw tighten, just a little. You’ve had problems with it before. But not like this. Not in a context where what to do meant what to be, what to say, who to see, how to breathe. You swallow. “Not if it’s fair,” you say carefully. "Not if it’s about the job.”

Seokmin’s mouth quirks like he likes that answer. Seungcheol studies you another beat. Then he shrugs, like he’s already halfway moved on to the next problem. “We always need hands,” he says. "But it’s not up to just me. Mingyu’ll want a say.” You latch onto the first part. “So… there might be a place?”

"Maybe,” Seokmin chimes in. "We’ll see.”

Before you can ask who Mingyu is, another presence fills the doorway behind you. “What might we see?”

The voice is deeper than you expected. Calm, low, with a gravel edge that vibrates straight down your spine. You turn, slower this time, like bracing for impact. The man standing in the doorway might as well have stepped out of the mountains. He’s taller than Seokmin and broader through the shoulders, wearing a worn tee and jeans that have seen better days. A baseball cap shadows his eyes, but you can see the line of his jaw—sharp and set—and the dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. There’s dirt on his forearms, a smear of something dark across his shirt. He smells like sweat and dust and sun. He takes you in with one long, unhurried look. It feels like being put under a microscope. Your fingertip goes numb around the strap of your duffel.

Seokmin brightens. “Perfect timing,” he says. "This is—” he glances at you for confirmation, then says your name. "She’s lookin’ for work. Nora sent her up.”

The man—Mingyu—doesn’t look at Seokmin. His gaze stays on you, heavy as a hand on your shoulder. “Work,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. You force yourself not to fidget. “I can do whatever you need,” you say, because silence feels worse. "I know I don’t have ranch experience, but I—”

He cuts you off with a small shake of his head. “Have you ever handled livestock?”

"No.”

"Ridden a horse?” Your cheeks heat. “No.”

"Driven a tractor? Worked a fence line? Fixed a busted pipe in the middle of a field in the rain?”

You open your mouth, close it. “No,” you admit, quieter now. He nods once, as if that confirms exactly what he thought. “Then we don’t need her,” he says, speaking to Seungcheol now as if you’re invisible. "We don’t have time to babysit someone who’s never seen a saddle up close.” The words hit hard, colder than you expect. You stand a little straighter.

“I said I can learn,” you insist. "I’m not asking for special treatment, I’m asking for a chance.”

His eyes flick back to you, dark and unreadable. There’s something there under the flat assessment—annoyance, maybe. Or something sharper that flashes and disappears before you can name it. “You got references?” he asks. Your mouth goes dry. References. You could give him names. You could give him numbers. You could also quietly hand him the thread that leads straight back to everything you’re running from. You shake your head. “Not… not ones you can call,” you say.

His jaw ticks. “So no references, no ranch experience, no idea what this job is actually like.” He clicks his tongue softly. "We’re not a charity.” You feel your throat close around a surge of panic. This was a bad idea. You were stupid to come. You were foolish to hope. You should’ve just kept walking to the next town, the next bus, the next—No. You are so tired of running on empty and calling it safety. You plant your feet.

“I know I’m asking a lot,” you say, voice shaky but louder. "But I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m not picky, I’m not scared of hard work, and I will do whatever you tell me to do if it keeps a roof over my head.”

Somewhere behind you, Seokmin shifts. “We are short-handed,” he offers. "Since Hana started doin’ more horse work and Tess cut her hours, the bunkhouse chores have been a mess. She could at least help around there while she learns the rest.”

Seungcheol nods, eyes back on a page he’s pretending he’s not reading. “And Nora doesn’t send us dead weight,” he adds. "Last one she sent stuck around three years.”

Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. He’s not cruel, exactly. But he’s not kind either. He looks at you like you’re a problem he doesn’t have time for. A complication he didn’t ask for and doesn’t want. You see it in the way his eyes snag on the bruise half-hidden by your collar. Or how his throat moves when you say you have nowhere else to go. He sees more than he wants to. You don’t know it for sure, but you feel it.

“We don’t know anything about you,” he says finally. "You say you’ll work hard? So does everybody who walks up that road.”

"How many walk?” you ask before you can stop yourself. "It’s a long road.” The corner of Seokmin’s mouth kicks up. Seungcheol lets out what might be an amused breath. Mingyu’s eyes narrow, just a little. “You think mouthing off is gonna help your case?”

"I think being honest will,” you shoot back, then wince because that sounded sharper than you meant. You take a breath, try again. "Look. I know I’m not ideal. If you had a line of people with more experience and clean resumes and references, you’d pick them. I get that. But you don’t.”

You gesture vaguely toward the window, toward the endless pastures and fences and animals you don’t know how to handle yet.

“You said you’re not a charity,” you say. "I’m not asking you to be. I’m offering you my time, my effort, my everything in exchange for a paycheck and a bed. If I screw up, you can fire me. If I can’t learn fast enough, you can send me away. But if you don’t give me a chance, I’ve got… nothing.” The last word lands too heavy. You hear the wobble in your voice, hate it, but can’t pull it back.

The room goes quiet. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticks. Outside, a truck door slams. The ordinary sounds of a life you’re not part of yet. Seokmin is watching Mingyu now, not you. So is Seungcheol. It occurs to you that, for all his talk about not being the only one who decides, Mingyu’s opinion clearly carries weight here. He looks pissed about it. He drags a hand down his face, like he’s trying to wipe away the argument.

“Cheol,” he says finally, not taking his eyes off you, “you really want someone green as spring grass out there? She’ll slow us down. She’ll get hurt.”

"Then don’t put her on a bull,” Seungcheol replies dryly. "Start her with bunkhouse work. Stables. She can learn. We did.”

Mingyu snorts. “We grew up on this land.”

"You weren’t born knowing which end of a cow is which,” Seokmin chirps. "Remember when you tried to milk the bull?”

Mingyu shoots him a look that could cut wire. “I was six.”

"Still counts.”

The banter loosens something in the air, a pattern older than you, older than this argument. You stand there, heart pounding, trying not to sway on your feet. Mingyu exhales, long and slow, like the fight is leaking out of him whether he wants it to or not. He looks at you again. Really looks.

You know what he sees: road-worn clothes, worn-out boots, a duffel that’s too light for someone who plans to stay, eyes that haven’t slept well in longer than you can remember. You don’t know what he makes of it.

“Two weeks,” he says abruptly.

You blink. “What?”

"You get two weeks,” he repeats, voice clipped. "Trial basis. You do what you’re told, you listen more than you talk, and you don’t touch a damn horse without someone watching you. You show up late, you slack off, you cause problems, you’re gone. Got it?”

Your knees go weak with relief so fast you’re glad you’re already standing near a chair. “I won’t let you down,” you say, the words rushing out. "I promise, I—”

He holds up a hand. “Promises don’t mean much out here,” he says flatly. "Work does.”

"I’ll work,” you say. You wish you could show him your hands, all the small scars they already carry from other lives. "I’ll prove it.”

He studies you for another heartbeat, then turns away, already heading for the door. “Seok,” he calls over his shoulder. "Show her where she’s stayin’. Get her a list of chores from Tess.”

"On it,” Seokmin replies gleefully.

Mingyu reaches the doorway and pauses just long enough to glance back, eyes skimming over you one more time. His mouth twists into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Welcome to Longview, Rookie. Don’t fuck up.” Then he disappears through the door and out onto the porch, leaving the taste of the nickname in the air. Rookie.

You’re not sure if it stings more because of how he said it… or because part of you desperately, stubbornly wants to prove you can be more than that.

Seokmin moves like he’s already decided you’re staying.

He walks you off the porch with a light clap of his hands, the kind people do when they’re excited about the shape of the day. The house falls behind you. The yard opens into dirt paths packed down by years of boots and hooves. You keep your duffel close, still half expecting someone to stop you and say, Actually, no, sorry, we changed our minds. But no one says that.

Seokmin points things out as you go, narrating the world like a tour guide who’s too enthusiastic for the size of his audience. “Barn’s over there—big red one. Tack room attached on the left. Don’t go in the tack room without one of us for the first week, okay? Horses can be… opinionated.” He says it with a grin, like horses are just moody roommates. Like being afraid of them isn’t something that could live in a person.

“Bunkhouses are past the corrals. Main bunkhouse for the guys on the right, girls on the left. You’ll be with the women.”

The path curves between two low buildings. The men’s bunkhouse has a porch crowded with boots, a couple of shirts hanging off a railing like someone abandoned them mid-laugh. The women’s bunkhouse is smaller, neater, with a pot of something green struggling to live in a cracked terracotta planter. A place to sleep. A door that isn’t a motel door. A roof that isn’t temporary by default.

Seokmin knocks once and swings the women’s bunkhouse door open. “Alright, ladies!” he calls, voice bright. “We got a new face!”

The room inside is warm, cluttered, lived-in. It smells like detergent and coffee and something citrusy—somebody’s lotion, probably. Four bunks line the walls in tidy pairs, with curtains pulled halfway around some of them. There are posters taped up, boots lined neatly by the door, a table crowded with mugs and a half-finished deck of cards. Three women look up at once.

The first one is sitting cross-legged on her bunk, hair in a braid that looks like it could survive a hurricane, sleeves shoved to her elbows. She has the kind of face that wears mischief like a crown.

The second one is leaning over the table, folding shirts, calm as a lake. She looks older—late twenties maybe, early thirties—and there’s a quiet steadiness to her, a groundedness you feel immediately.

The third one is perched on the edge of a bunk with one boot half on, chewing gum and looking like she was born with a smirk.

Your nerves flare. New places usually mean new rules. New people mean the urge to shrink, to make yourself smaller so you don’t trigger anything unpredictable. But the women don’t look at you like a threat. They look at you like something interesting just walked in on a Tuesday.

“Ohhh,” the braided one says, pushing to her feet. She’s shorter than you expected, compact muscles and sharp eyes. “Is this the stray Nora sent up the road?”

Seokmin laughs. “Don’t call her a stray, Hana.”

Hana. She steps closer and sticks out a hand without hesitation. “I’m Hana,” she says. “Welcome to Longview.” You take her hand. Her grip is firm, warm. Hana studies your face for about half a second, then nods like she’s already decided you’re fine. “You’re cute,” she announces. “We’ll keep you.”

The woman at the table snorts softly. “Don’t scare the poor girl. She just got here.” She wipes her hands on her jeans and walks over, offering you a smile that makes your shoulders loosen a fraction. “I’m Tess,” she says. “Bunkhouse mom, whether I like it or not.”

You almost laugh. The title fits her immediately. There’s a sense of I will make sure you eat and sleep and don’t break yourself in half rolling off her like warmth.

“Riley,” the gum-chewer announces, hopping down from her bunk. She doesn’t offer a hand—she offers a shoulder bump, like you’re already friends. “You like trouble? Because I’m trouble. That means we’re probably gonna get along.” You blink at her. Riley grins wider. “Kidding,” she says, not kidding at all. “Mostly.”

Seokmin claps again, as if to reset the room’s energy. “She’s on a two-week trial. Mingyu’s rules. Be nice.” Riley rolls her eyes so hard you think she might see her own brain. “Of course it’s Mingyu’s rules.”

Hana groans dramatically. “He’s in one of his moods again, huh?” You hesitate, still not sure what is safe to say. “He… wasn’t thrilled.”

The way Riley’s face softens for a split second is so fast you almost doubt you saw it. “He never is with new people,” Tess says gently. “Don’t take it personal. It’s a him thing.” Hana jerks her thumb at herself. “Also, he hates when Seok brings home strays. Ugly side effect of being the middle brother with stress issues.”

"Hey!” Seokmin protests.

“You literally brought home a goat once,” Hana says.

“It was lonely!”

Riley bursts out laughing. You don’t mean to, but a sound sneaks out of you. It feels strange in your throat, like using a muscle you forgot existed. Hana catches it and smirks. “See? Already improving the vibe.”

Seokmin points around the room. “Okay. Rookie—” He winces at his own word like he remembers Mingyu said it. “—uh, okay, you. Pick a bunk. Tess’ll show you the rules. I gotta go back out.” He starts toward the door, then pauses, looking back at you with that bright, earnest face. “Seriously,” he says quietly enough that only you hear. “You’re gonna be fine.” You don’t know what to do with that, so you just nod.

He leaves. The door shuts behind him. For a breath, it’s just you and the girls. Then Hana snaps her fingers. “Alright. First things first. Boots.” She crouches by one of the bunks and pulls out a spare pair—worn but clean, a little scuffed, loved hard. “These should fit close enough. If not, we’ll swap. You can’t work in those flimsy city shoes. Horses will eat you alive.” You stare at the boots, then at her. “I don’t want to take—”

"You’re not taking,” Tess cuts in gently. “You’re borrowing. We keep spares for anyone who needs them.”

Riley pops her gum. “Plus, if you don’t take them, Hana’s gonna whine about it all day. And I like peace.” Hana flicks Riley’s forehead. “Liar.”

The air feels… easy. Ordinary. Like your arrival isn’t a disruption, but a continuation of something they’ve done before. You accept the boots.

Tess leads you through the bunkhouse like it’s sacred ground. “Showers are in the back,” she says. “Hot water lasts about twenty minutes if you don’t hog it. We do a loose rotation. If you’re about to pass out, say it. We’ll bump you up.”

"Laundry room’s behind the shed. We take turns. Don’t leave your stuff in the washer unless you wanna find it folded on your bed by a mildly annoyed Hana.” Hana makes a face like she is deeply offended by the accuracy.

“Curfew’s not strict,” Tess adds. “But dawn work is. You wanna go into town at night, fine. Just don’t miss morning feed.”

Riley leans against a bunk, grin sharp. “And if you go into town with me, you won’t miss morning feed because I won’t let you sleep in anyway.” You don’t know if she’s joking, but the confidence of it makes your chest feel less hollow. Hana points to an empty top bunk near the window. “That one’s open. Right by the vent. Warm in winter, cool in summer.”

You set your duffel down carefully at the foot of it. It feels surreal to claim space. Like a trespass. Like permission. Tess watches you with something kind in her eyes. “You hungry?” The word itself almost knocks you over. Hungry. Like you’re allowed to be a body with needs instead of a survival strategy. “I—”

Your instinct is to say no. Always no. No need, no burden, no footprint. But the roll from Nora is still warm in your memory. And Tess is already reaching for a loaf of bread on the table, cutting thick slices without waiting for your answer.

“Sit,” she says. Not a command in the way you fear. A command in the way someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders without asking. “Eat. We’re doing lunch anyway.”

Riley slides a jar of peanut butter toward you. “Trust me, bunkhouse rule: you don’t turn down food unless you want Tess to stare you into compliance.” Tess gives her a look. “It’s a gift.”

"It’s a weapon.”

You sit. They talk while you eat. Not interrogating. Not prying. Just talking like people who live together and fill the silence with stories because it’s comfortable, not because they’re trying to trap you. Hana tells you about a horse that kicked Vernon in the shin last week and how Mingyu didn’t even flinch, just muttered “deserved” and kept saddling. Tess mentions the next cattle shipment coming in and how Seungcheol’s been stressed because of contracts. Riley tells you there’s a coffee shop in town that makes a latte so strong it could wake the dead, and how she intends to prove that to you personally when your feet stop wobbling. You laugh more than you mean to.

At some point, Hana tosses a casual line like she’s discussing the weather. “Cheol’s gonna hate that Seokmin brought somebody home again. He pretends he doesn’t care, but he does. Big brother stuff.”

You blink, coffee halfway to your mouth. “Cheol is your brother?" “Yep. Unfortunately.” Riley whistles. “Don’t tell her unfortunately. Tell her your brother runs this place like a mob boss who also cries at dog commercials.”

Hana throws a napkin at her. “Shut up.”

You stare. Hana’s eyes narrow, amused. “What?"

"Nothing. I just… didn’t realise.” Tess smiles at your expression.

“Yeah. Blood ties here are messy but good. And if you’re wondering: Mingyu’s not related to them by blood. The three of them grew up together. Seokmin’s like Cheol’s right hand. Mingyu’s… Mingyu.”

The pause is affectionate enough to make you brave. “What does that mean?” Riley leans forward like she’s sharing a secret. “That means he’s grumpy and hot and thinks feelings are a conspiracy.” You choke on your coffee. Hana cackles. Tess sighs with the patience of a saint. “Ignore her. He’s just protective of the ranch. New people make him prickly. He’ll thaw.”

You don’t say what you’re thinking—that the way Mingyu looked at you felt different than “prickly.” Like he’d already pinned you to the wall in his mind and measured every part of you. You just nod.

The afternoon passes in a blur of small kindnesses. They show you where to keep your toiletries. Hana gives you an extra hoodie because yours is thin, and the mornings get cold. Riley digs through a drawer and hands you a pair of gloves with a grin. “You can’t blister up on day one. That’s illegal.” You try to protest. They ignore you.

By the time the door opens again and Seokmin sticks his head in, you’re already sitting on your bunk with your boots on, feeling like a person who belongs in a room full of women laughing. “Ready for your grand tour?” he asks, eyes bright.

“Yeah.” You follow him back outside.

The ranch isn’t just big. It’s a kingdom.

Seokmin takes you through it with a kind of casual pride that makes the scale hit harder. You pass the main barn and he points out the stalls, the tack room, the feed storage, the medicine cabinet. He shows you the corrals, the hay shed, the equipment yard where tractors sit like sleeping beasts. Your head spins trying to take it all in.

“Okay, so feeding schedule,” he says, handing you a clipboard already marked with neat lines. “Morning feed is 5:30. Evenings at 5. It’s rotation-based. This week, you’re with Tess and me. Mostly basic stuff. I’ll show you.” He walks you to a row of feed bins, explains which scoop goes where, which animals get what. He doesn’t slow down to coddle you, but he doesn’t rush you either. You like that. He treats you like someone who can learn. Like someone who won’t break if the world is too fast.

The first stall you muck, your back protests immediately. You’re awkward with the pitchfork, clumsy with the wheelbarrow. You lose your grip twice. Your boots sink into the straw and manure in ways that send a ridiculous thrill of horror through you. Seokmin just laughs. “Welcome to the glamorous life.”

You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. “How do you… Do this every day?”

"We’re all a little insane.”

He’s not condescending. He doesn’t sigh when you mess up. He doesn’t take the tools out of your hands. He just shows you again. And again. And again.

By mid-morning the next day, you’re sweating through your shirt and your arms feel like rubber. But… you’re still standing. Still working. Still pushing through the unfamiliar. Every time you glance up, you feel eyes on you. Not Seokmin’s. Not the girls’. Mingyu’s.

He isn’t close enough for you to talk to. He isn’t close enough to even count as “hovering.” Half the time, he’s a shadow leaning on a fence line beyond the corrals. Another time, he’s in the driver’s seat of a truck, window down, gaze pinned somewhere that you can feel even when you’re not looking. Later, you spot him on the porch of the big house, arms folded, watching the barn like it’s an old habit. It unnerves you. The constant inspection. The way he looks like he’s waiting for you to trip, to fail, to prove him right. You don’t let it show. You don’t shrink. If anything, it lights something stubborn in your spine. You straighten your shoulders, adjust your grip, and push harder. Let him watch. Let him see. You’ve been watched by worse. You swallow the thought before it can bloom into something messy.

By the time lunch comes, your hands are tingling, and your thighs ache from crouching and lifting, but there’s also a dull kind of pride sitting in your chest like a coal that hasn’t decided whether to catch fire. You did work you didn’t know how to do yesterday. You’re doing it today.

Seokmin walks you toward the shade of the barn overhang where a cooler sits. “You okay?” he asks, and you realise he’s not asking to be polite. He’s asking like he means it.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m just… tired.”

He grins. “Good tired or bad tired?”

"Good tired.”

"Then you’re doing it right.” He hands you a water bottle and a sandwich. “Eat. Tess will kill me if she finds out I didn’t feed you.”

You bite into the sandwich like your life depends on it. Maybe it does. Across the yard, Mingyu is tightening a saddle girth. He doesn’t look up. But you feel him.

The next couple days only get fuller.

Seokmin takes you through the rest of the essentials in quick, careful layers: how to carry hay bales without blowing out your back, how to open gates so cattle don’t spook, how to check water lines, how to clean tack without ruining leather.

You mess up. You drop things. You fumble knots. You forget which bin is which and have to correct yourself. You keep trying anyway.

By the third morning, your body is running on sore muscles and overcaffeinated determination. Hana shows up halfway through feeding rounds, braid swinging, and takes over part of the line with ease. “So you’re who the guys call Rookie,” she says, voice teasing.

Your ears heat. “I didn’t pick the nickname.”

She snorts. “None of us do. Mingyu thinks he’s funny.”

You glance toward the paddock like he might magically be standing there. Hana catches it. “He’s around. Always. Like a ghost with opinions.” You can’t stop the laugh that escapes. Hana pauses, looks at you like she’s checking something. Then her face softens a fraction. “You’re doing good.” You blink. The simple praise hits strange. It makes your throat tight. “Thanks.”

She doesn’t linger, just tosses you a carrot for the horse she’s leading and disappears into the next stall with the confidence of someone born into the rhythm. You’re slowly becoming part of that rhythm.

At night, the bunkhouse is noisy in the best way. Riley tells stories that get wilder with every retelling. Hana makes fun of Seokmin for being incapable of subtlety. Tess reminds everyone to drink water, eats in slow deliberate bites like she’s teaching you that meals don’t have to be rushed. You listen more than you talk. Not because they demand it. Because it feels good to just… be near people. People who aren’t waiting for you to slip. That night, you lie in your bunk, muscles aching, listening to crickets outside the window. The walls creak softly in the wind. Someone snores two bunks down. Riley laughs in her sleep like she’s in the middle of a dream that doesn’t care about anyone’s dignity. You stare at the ceiling in the dark. For the first time in longer than you can remember, your body isn’t braced to make itself invisible if footsteps come in the hall.

There is no hall. There is no chair shoved under your door. There is no listen, listen, listen for the moment something goes wrong. Your heartbeat stays slow. You let it. You drift to sleep with that faint buzz of belonging humming under your ribs like a new muscle learning how to exist.

On the fourth day, Seokmin throws you into the deep end of “town.” “We’re out of a few supplies,” he says that morning, flipping keys around his finger. “Feed supplements, some gloves, maybe a new hose. You wanna ride into town with me?”

Ride. The word makes you flinch before you interpret it. Then you remember. Truck ride. Not horse. You nod quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”

Riley wolf-whistles from the bunkhouse porch. “Don’t bring her back with a Seokmin tattoo, okay?”

Seokmin turns pink. “Riley!”

"I’m helping you flirt.”

"I don’t need help flirting!”

Hana lifts a brow. “You absolutely do.”

Tess waves a hand. “Leave him alone. Go get what you need.”

You climb into the passenger side of Seokmin’s dusty truck and try not to look too overwhelmed by the interior. There are empty coffee cups in the console, a pair of work gloves on the dash, and a tiny plastic dinosaur wedged into the air vent like it lives there. Seokmin catches you looking. “Vernon put that in here. Says it’s for ‘emotional support.’” You laugh softly.

The ranch fades behind you as the truck rolls down the dirt drive. It’s weird to see the gate from the inside now. Like it’s not a boundary keeping you out, but a threshold you’re allowed to cross.

Town is the same as it was in your first loop when you arrived, but it feels different now that you’re coming from somewhere. You’re not wandering anymore. You’re not drifting, looking for a crack in the world. You have a purpose. Seokmin keeps the windows rolled down, elbow hanging out like he belongs to the road. He greets everyone with easy familiarity: a wave at the hardware store guy, a shout to someone loading hay, a grin at a woman outside the diner. People wave back. They look at you, too. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. With the quiet acceptance of small towns that notice everything and still decide a person might be worth letting in. You end up at the feed store first. You follow Seokmin inside, clipboard in hand, trying to look like you know what you’re doing.

The bell jingles as you enter. It makes you smile a little now, because you’re starting to understand bells here are not warnings. They’re welcomes.

While Seokmin cheerfully argues with the store owner about prices, you wander toward the shelves of gloves, comparing sizes with no real metric besides what feels right. You pick out two pairs and turn—And stop. Because there’s a girl behind the counter at the far end of the store, you don’t recognise her from your first visit through town. She’s leaning against the register with her hair up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a bored look on her face like she’s already done twelve hours here and is planning to do twelve more. She’s pretty in a quiet, tough way. Not trying for it. Not needing to. Seokmin sees her at the same moment and goes a little… louder. Not by much. Just enough that you notice.

“Mae!” he calls. Mae’s eyes flick up. She takes one look at him and lets out a slow, unimpressed breath. “Seokmin.”

"How’s your day?” he asks, sliding into his brightest grin. Mae deadpans. “Longer now.”

You bite your lip so you don’t laugh out loud. Seokmin doesn’t seem deterred. If anything, he shines harder. “I brought backup this time.” He gestures to you. “This is—” he says your name. “She’s new at the ranch.” Mae looks you over with a steadier, sharper gaze than most people in town have given you. It’s not unkind. It’s… measuring. Then she nods once. “Hey.”

"Hi,” you say. Mae’s eyes return to Seokmin like a magnet. “What do you want, Seok?”

"Just supplies.” He leans an elbow on the counter like he’s trying to look casual. It comes off adorable. “And maybe—” he lowers his voice slightly, grinning—“maybe you could come by tonight? We’re doing a thing. Little welcome dinner. You could—”

"No.”

The flatness of it makes you blink. Seokmin pretends he doesn’t flinch. “Not even for five minutes?” Mae sets a receipt stack down with a soft click, expression unmoved. “Seokmin.” He blinks at her, hopeful anyway. She sighs. “You’re sweet. But no.”

And then she goes back to her register like that’s the end of the conversation. Seokmin stands there for a second, still smiling, but it falters at the corners. You step in gently before the awkwardness grows teeth. “Do you still carry those electrolyte blocks for the calves?” you ask, holding up a box in your hand. “He said you might.” Mae’s expression shifts. Not much. But enough to show she appreciates competence. “Third aisle. Bottom shelf.”

"Thanks.” You turn and walk away before Seokmin can spiral. In the aisle, you let yourself grin. Seokmin appears beside you a moment later, still pretending he’s not wounded. “She hates me,” he mutters. “She doesn’t hate you,” you say, low enough he’s the only one who hears. “She just doesn’t play along.”

He glances at you, surprised. “Yeah?”

"Yeah.”

That makes him laugh a little. “You sound like you know her already.” You shrug lightly. “I sound like someone who sees you trying your best.”

He looks at you for a second longer than the joke deserves, like he’s clocking the sincerity. Then he rubs the back of his neck and says, “I am trying my best.” The words are so honest you almost choke on your own tenderness. You hand him the electrolyte blocks. “Then keep trying.” He grins again, real this time. “Okay.”

On the way back out of the feed store, Mae gives you a nod—tiny, almost imperceptible. It feels like a second sliver of hope, different from the first. You climb back into the truck with Seokmin, bags in your lap, and watch town slip past the windows. On the way out, you pass the bakery. Nora is out front in her apron, sweeping flour off the steps. When she spots you in the passenger seat, she pauses. She smiles. You can’t stop yourself from lifting a hand in a small wave. She waves back in a way that feels like I knew you’d find your way. You look forward quickly, blinking too hard.

Seokmin doesn’t comment. He just drives. When the ranch comes back into view, it doesn’t feel as impossible anymore. It still makes you small in the face of it. But now that smallness doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like beginnings. As you roll back through the gate, a familiar figure stands near the corrals, arms folded, cap low. Mingyu. He doesn’t approach. He doesn’t speak. But his gaze finds the truck, finds you through the windshield, tracks you all the way as Seokmin parks near the barn. The attention prickles your skin. Seokmin hops out, slamming the door with his hip, oblivious to the silent exchange. You clutch your bags and follow him around the hood.

Mingyu is still there, talking to one of the guys—Wonwoo, maybe—while keeping half his focus on you like you’re a slow-moving variable he hasn’t accounted for yet. You set your jaw. You’re not here to be a variable. You’re here to be useful. You head toward Tess, who’s waiting by the shed with a list, and you don’t look at Mingyu again.

When you walk into the women’s bunkhouse that night with Riley’s shoulder bumping yours and Hana yelling about showers and Tess asking if you ate enough, the place feels a little less like shelter—and a little more like home.

You wake up before your alarm, heart already pounding against your ribs. For a second, in the dark, you don’t remember why.

Then your eyes find the faint glow of your phone screen on the crate by your bunk. Sunday. Two weeks to the day since you stepped off a dusty old truck in front of Longview’s gate with a napkin in your pocket and nothing else that looked like a plan. Two weeks. Trial’s up. You stare at the ceiling, listening to the soft chorus of the bunkhouse: Riley’s little sleep-hum, Tess’s slow, even breathing, the occasional rustle from Hana’s bunk as she rolls over. Outside, the crickets are still singing, stubbornly ignoring the human concept of weekends.

If they tell you to go today, you have nowhere else to run. You picture yourself walking back down that long dirt road with your duffel, through the gate, past Nora’s bakery, all the way to the bus stop. You picture the bus carrying you away from the mountains and back into the haze of nowhere, new town after new town, until something catches up or you run out of money again. You can’t do that again.

You roll onto your side and stare at the outline of your boots under the bunk. You worked. You did everything you could. You woke up before dawn, stayed out after sunset, learned to shovel shit and haul hay and read the moods of horses you’re still half afraid of. You’ve got bruises on your knees and blisters turning into calluses on your palms. You’ve fallen in the mud twice, gotten kicked in the thigh by a gate, nearly lost your hat to the wind, and still showed up the next morning. If that’s not enough, you’re not sure what else you have to give. The alarm buzzes softly against the floor. You slap it off quickly before it can wake anyone else. Tess’s voice comes from across the room, low and sleepy. “You up?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?” You wish people around here would stop asking that. It makes lying feel worse. “Just… thinking.” Tess hums, a soft, knowing sound. “Don’t overthink it. Do the work. Same as you’ve been doing.” Easy for her to say. Tess isn’t on trial. You take a breath. “Right.”

You climb down the ladder, the wood flooring cool under your bare feet. Your muscles protest the movement, little stabs of soreness up your legs and across your shoulders, but it’s a familiar ache now. One that feels like proof. Riley rolls over as you lace your boots, hair sticking out in every direction. “Is it Judgement Day?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. You snort despite yourself. “Something like that.” She cracks one eye open. “You’re fine,” she mutters. “If they try to fire you, I’ll steal the truck. They’ll forgive you to get it back.”

“You can’t drive a stick,” Hana’s muffled voice comes from somewhere under a pillow. “Not with that attitude,” Riley fires back. Tess laughs softly as she slides off her bunk. “See? You’ve got backup.” It’s not backup in any legal way. But it’s the kind that matters.

Dawn spills pale light across the yard as you and Hana make your way to the barn, breath puffing in the chilled air. “So,” Hana says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Big day.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“He’s gonna make a show of it,” she warns. “He always does. Don’t let the grunting get to you.”

“The grunting?” She nods solemnly. “Mingyu’s native language is ‘hmm.’ You’ll see.” You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch.

The barn is still shadowed, dust motes caught in the first rays pushing through the gaps in the boards. You fall into the feed routine on muscle memory: scoops measured, bins marked, paths walked. Tess joins you midway through, tying her hair up as she moves. When you step out of the feed room, balancing a sack on your shoulder, you almost collide with a wall. Not a wall. A chest. Mingyu.

He’s blocking the doorway, hat low, arms loose at his sides. The early light catches the edge of his jaw, the stubble dark there, the line of his throat. There’s mud on his jeans and a faint smear of something across his sleeve, like he’s already been up for hours. Of course he has. He glances down at you, then at the feed sack. “Heavy?” he asks. You tighten your grip. “No.”

He grunts. A soft, uninterpretable sound. Hana passes behind you with her own sack, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Mingyu steps aside. Not enough that you can pretend he isn’t watching, but enough that you don’t have to brush against him as you pass. “I’ll be with you today,” he says. You almost drop the feed. “What?”

“Your trial’s up.” He says it like you could’ve forgotten. “I wanna see what you’ve actually learned.” So this is the evaluation. Not a meeting. Not a sit-down. No clipboard. Just him. In your shadow. All day. You nod, trying not to let your nerves show. “Okay.”

He eyes you for another long beat, then jerks his chin toward the stalls. “Well? Don’t stand there. You’re burning daylight.” You move.

You fall into the rhythm because you have to. Because stopping will only make it worse. You muck stalls with more focus than you’ve ever had in your life, trying to remember everything Tess and Seokmin showed you: how to angle the fork, where to pile the dirty straw for the wheelbarrow, when to swap tools so your hands don’t cramp. Mingyu follows. He doesn’t hover close enough to trip you. He doesn’t give you instructions. He leans against the stall doors, crosses his arms, and watches. Sometimes he nods once, barely perceptible. Sometimes he grunts—a short, sceptical hmm that Hana warned you about. Once, when you nearly step too close to a horse’s hindquarters, he snaps, “Watch his back leg,” and your whole body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted.

You didn’t see the twitch of his muscle. You adjust. You apologise to the horse under your breath. Mingyu doesn’t comment.

As the morning wears on, other people drift in and out. Wonwoo appears with a coil of rope over his shoulder. “Hey, Rookie,” he says, easy. “You done with that rake?” You hand it over automatically, the nickname sliding over you less like a bruise and more like a glove. You don’t realise it at first. Not until Hana snickers from two stalls down. “Look at you,” she calls. “Already part of the furniture.”

Later, Vernon whistles low when he sees you haul a bale of hay with less struggling than last week. “Damn, Rookie,” he says. “They ship you here pre-built?”

“No,” you grunt, adjusting your grip and shoving the bale into place. “They just keep making me lift things.”

Dino wanders by while you’re scrubbing buckets and kicks one gently with his boot. “You got the short straw, huh?”

“I like clean things,” you say, only half lying. He grins. “Then you and Tess are gonna get along just fine.”

All the while, Mingyu shadows you. He doesn’t talk much to the others. When they joke, he huffs a sound that might be amusement, might just be breath. At one point, he reaches past you to adjust a halter you’ve buckled wrong, his fingers brushing yours. “You don’t want this slipping,” he mutters. “They spook easily enough as it is.” His hand is warm, callused. You pull yours back, nodding quickly. “Got it.” He steps away without looking at you, like the contact didn’t register. It registered for you.

By lunchtime, you’re sweating, sore, and halfway convinced you’ve blown it six times already. Tess corners you by the water trough while you fill buckets. “You’re fine,” she says, not a question.

“You don’t know that.” She glances over your shoulder toward where Mingyu stands by the fence, talking low with Seungcheol. The two men are a mirror of each other’s focus: one slightly looser, one wound tight. “He wouldn’t be spending his whole day on you if he’d already decided to cut you,” she says. “He’d let you finish the trial and then tell Seok to handle it.”

You follow her gaze. Mingyu’s expression is hard to read from this distance, but his posture is all contained energy. He listens to whatever Seungcheol is saying, then shakes his head once, slowly. Seungcheol claps a hand on his shoulder, says something you can’t hear. Mingyu’s eyes flick to you. You look away first.

Afternoon takes you out of the barn and into the fields. Mingyu tosses you a pair of work gloves and jerks his head toward the fence line. “Come on.”

You jog to catch up, your shorter stride half-running to keep up with his. The sun has climbed higher, the cold edge gone from the air. Dust curls around your boots with each step. He hands you a bucket of metal tools—pliers, staples, odd little pieces of wire. “You know what we’re doing?” he asks. “Fixing the fence?”

“You think it’s broken?” You blink, adjust your grip on the bucket. “I… don’t know.”

He stops, plants the heel of his boot against the bottom of a fence post, and gives it a shove. It holds firm. “You don’t just fix things because they might be broken,” he says. “You look. You listen. You check.” He nods toward the run of wire. “Walk it. Tell me what you see.” Your anxiety spikes. You’re not used to being asked to assess anything. You’re used to being told what’s wrong and how it’s your fault. You swallow. “Okay.”

You walk the fence, eyes scanning the posts, the wire, the ground. You look for things that feel off. Disturbed soil. Sagging sections. Places where the wire is bent or loose. Three posts down, you find a stretch where the wire is pulled away from the post, the staple half-rusted, the tension off. You point. “Here.” Mingyu joins you, following your gaze. He grunts. “Staple’s loose,” he says. “Good.” Good. You try not to glow at the word.

He shows you how to pull the wire tight and set a new staple without snapping it. Your hands fumble at first, but you find the rhythm. He doesn’t grab the tools away when you struggle. He waits. He corrects your grip once, twice, tapping your wrist with a fingertip. “There. Again.”

You do it again. You work your way down the fence line like that, side-by-side, you finding the weak spots, him watching. Occasionally, he asks, “Why that one?” and you force yourself to explain your thinking instead of shrugging. By the time you circle back toward the main yard, your shoulders ache in new places, and your brain feels wrung out.

Mingyu stops near the gate and looks around, taking in the unfixed fence, the barn, the pens, and the yard. You wonder if you’re part of that inventory now. “Go wash up,” he says. “Family dinner’s at six.” Family dinner. Tess mentioned something about it in passing—Sunday nights at the big house, everyone cramming around whatever table space there is, food loud and plentiful. You didn’t let yourself imagine sitting at that table. Not when you might be gone by morning. You hesitate. “Is this…?”

“Your evaluation’s done,” he says flatly. The words hang there between you, heavy.

“And?” you push, because apparently you’ve lost your survival instinct somewhere between stall mucking and fence inspection. His mouth twitches at the corner, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns and walks toward the house, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering.

You shower in record time, scrubbing dirt off your skin until the water runs mostly clear. You drag on clean jeans and a soft shirt Tess handed you last week with a brusque, “It doesn’t fit me anymore. Take it.” You leave your hair down for once, damp around your shoulders, because your fingers are too unsteady to wrestle it up.

In the bunkhouse, Hana is pulling on a sundress over leggings, muttering about the weather. Riley is trying to decide between two pairs of earrings, neither of which are remotely practical for ranch work. Tess eyes you as you stumble in. “Breathe,” she says, folding her own hair back. “It’s dinner, not a firing squad.” You wish you believed her.

The three of them flank you on the walk to the big house, talking about something else entirely—a calf that tried to eat Hana’s braid, Vernon’s terrible country playlist. You float beside them, heart trapped somewhere in your throat. The porch is already crowded when you get there.

Wonwoo sits on the steps, elbows on his knees, talking quietly with Dino. Vernon leans against a post, scrolling through something on his phone. Seokmin hovers by the door, running a hand through his hair every thirty seconds like that might tame it. When he sees you, his whole face brightens. “There she is!” he announces. “Our maybe-long-term-roommate.”

“Stop calling her that,” Hana says, smacking his arm. “It’s bad luck.” Seokmin grimaces. “Right. Sorry.” Your palms dampen.

Inside, the house smells amazing. Something roasted, something baked, the warm, yeasty scent of bread, the faint sweetness of a dessert you can’t identify. The big dining table in the main room is extended to its full length, chairs pulled from everywhere to circle it. The sideboard is already lined with dishes—bowls of potatoes, platters of meat, salad, and cornbread.

You hover by the doorway, uncertain where to stand. Seungcheol moves around the table, setting out extra plates with an efficiency that speaks of years of doing this. He’s out of his usual work shirts, wearing a clean button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks up, catches sight of you, and gives a short nod. It feels like approval. Or at least acceptance. “Alright,” he says, voice carrying easily over the chatter. “Grab a seat. Mingyu?” You turn.

Mingyu is standing near the head of the table, chair pulled back but not yet taken. His hat is off, dark hair a little mussed. He looks more tired than usual, a faint line between his brows. He scans the room, eyes briefly skimming over each face. When his gaze lands on you, it sticks. Your pulse jumps.

The room quiets, the way rooms do when people sense something about to happen. You feel every eye shift to you, then to him, then back again. He exhales through his nose, like he resents having to speak this much. “Two weeks ago,” he says, “Seok dragged someone off the road and into our mess.” A few people chuckle. Seokmin makes an offended noise. “Hey!” Mingyu ignores him. “No ranch experience. No references. Didn’t know which end of a pitchfork was up.” His eyes stay on you, giving the words weight. “Said she’d work harder than anyone if we gave her a chance.”

“We don’t do charity,” he continues. “We don’t have the time. Out here, you pull your weight, or someone else has to carry it for you. And I don’t like carrying more than I have to.” A ripple of amusement moves around the table. You want to disappear. He lets the silence stretch just long enough that your stomach flips. Then he shrugs, one shoulder sharp and deliberate. “Rookie can stay,” he says. “She pulls her weight.”

For a second, the words don’t register. Then the meaning hits you all at once. Stay. You can stay. The rush of relief is so intense you sway where you stand. Hana’s hand comes to the small of your back, steadying. Riley whoops loud enough to rattle the windows. “Hell yeah!”

Seokmin throws both arms in the air like his team just won the championship. “I told you!” he yells at no one in particular. “I told all of you! You owe me five bucks, Vernon!”

Vernon groans. “We weren’t actually betting!”

“We were in my heart.”

Dino thumps you on the shoulder. “Congrats, Rookie.”

There it is again, the nickname. This time, it doesn’t sting. It lands somewhere softer. The way they say it now—it’s not a jab at what you don’t know. It’s a marker of where you started and how far you’ve come. A way of pulling you into the circle without demanding you forget you’re new. Even Tess smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Told you,” she murmurs. “Work counts here.”

Seungcheol steps closer, plate still in his hand. “Glad you’re staying,” he says simply. You blink. “You are?” He nods, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “You keep the others in line. That’s worth a lot.”

Hana snorts. “Nobody keeps Riley in line.”

“She tries,” Riley says, flinging an arm around your shoulders. “That’s what counts.”

Someone claps. Someone else pounds on the table. Mingyu just sits down at the head of the table and reaches for a serving spoon like he didn’t just change your entire life with one sentence. The nerve of him.

The impromptu celebration folds itself into the existing tradition of Sunday family dinner. It’s not fancy. It’s not planned. But it feels like more than any birthday or anniversary you’ve ever had. People cram into every available chair, and some end up perched on the arms or sitting on the floor near the coffee table with plates balanced on their knees. The noise level rises with every minute: laughter, overlapping conversations, cutlery clinking. You end up wedged between Riley and Tess on one side of the table. Across from you, Seokmin has somehow wound up directly opposite an empty chair that stays empty for an uncomfortably long time.

Until the front door opens again. You glance up automatically. Mae steps into the room, hair loose from its bun, a simple dress softening her sharp lines. She looks… different away from town. Less guarded. But her eyes are the same, scanning the room, taking in the chaos with a single raised brow. Seokmin almost drops his fork. “Mae,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. She gives him a flat look. “You sound surprised. You invited me.”

Hana leans toward you, whispering behind her hand. “Riley and I cornered her at the coffee shop and told her she’d be a coward if she didn’t come. You’re welcome.”

“She used the word ‘coward’ like, twelve times,” Riley adds. Mae rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “I said I’d stop by,” she says. “I never promised to stay.”

Seokmin looks personally attacked. “You’re staying.”

“We’ll see.”

She slides into the empty seat opposite him with a grace that suggests she’s more in control than anyone else in the room. He immediately straightens his shirt, suddenly aware of himself in a way that makes you bite back a grin. You catch Mae’s eye for a moment. She inclines her head slightly. “Hey,” she says. “Heard you made the cut.” You flush. “Apparently.”

“Nora said you would.” The warmth that blooms in your chest at that is ridiculous. Before you can respond, another voice cuts through the noise. “Who left their truck halfway across the driveway?”

The room parts a little to make way for a woman carrying a tote bag stuffed with colored folders. She’s in black jeans and boots, a soft T-shirt under an open flannel, hair scraped up into a messy twist that’s already slipping loose. There’s chalk dust on her sleeve and crayon marks on the side of her hand. You don’t need an introduction to guess what she does. “Evie,” Hana crows. “You’re late.” Evie huffs, dropping her bag near the couch. “I was grading spelling tests. Apparently, ‘hippopotamus’ is everyone’s favourite word to ruin this week.”

Tess stands to grab another plate. “You made it just in time,” she says. Evie steps toward the table, then stops when she catches sight of Seungcheol coming in from the kitchen with a dish of roasted vegetables. Her spine straightens. His jaw sets. The temperature in the room drops two degrees. “You’re blocking the doorway,” she says, chin lifting.

“It’s my house,” he shoots back.

“It’s also my shin you’re going to bruise if you drop that pan,” she replies. “Move, Cheol.”

He shifts sideways with a put-upon sigh. “You could say ‘please,’ you know.”

“You could not park like an idiot,” she tosses over her shoulder as she squeezes past him. A few ranch hands exchange looks that scream, “Here we go.”

Hana smirks. “Children,” she mutters to you, pleased. Evie drops into a chair near Hana, across from Vernon. “Who’s the new one?” she asks immediately, looking at you. You wipe your palms on your thighs. “I’m—” Hana finishes before you can. “This is Rookie.”

Evie’s eyes sparkle. “Already got a nickname, huh? Brave of you to stick around.”

“She’s staying,” Riley announces. “Officially. Mingyu said so. We’re celebrating.” Evie raises her glass of water. “To Rookie, then,” she says. “May the kids at school never learn from my example of stubbornness.” Across the table, Seungcheol snorts. “Too late for that,” he mutters. Evie glares at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Despite the bite to their words, there’s a thread under it—familiarity, history. They know exactly which buttons to press and exactly how far they can push them. You tuck that away, curious. Seokmin leans over, stage-whispering. “Evie teaches at the school. Third grade. She thinks she runs this town.” Evie points her fork at him without looking. “I heard that.”

“See?” he whispers, eyes wide. “Psychic.”

Laughter ripples around the table. Mingyu doesn’t join in, exactly. But you catch him watching the scene with his head slightly tilted, like he’s cataloguing it. The noise. The teasing. You, bracketed by Riley and Tess, cheeks pink from attention. At one point, his gaze meets yours. You look away too quickly, staring hard at your mashed potatoes.

The food is better than anything you’ve eaten in months. Maybe years. Roast chicken, potatoes mashed with butter and cream, green beans with almonds, fresh bread still warm from the oven. Someone made a peach cobbler that sits on the counter like a promise for later. You eat until your stomach protests, and still Tess nudges another roll toward your plate. “One more,” she says. “You’ll burn it all off tomorrow anyway.”

People keep toasting you in small, silly ways:

“To Rookie not quitting after Vernon almost ran her over with the four-wheeler.” “To Rookie for not crying when the calf peed on her.” “To Rookie for figuring out which faucet doesn’t scream in the bunkhouse.”

Each one is ridiculous and true in its own small way. You laugh until your cheeks hurt. There’s a moment where you catch yourself leaning back in your chair, a full plate in front of you, chatter on all sides, warmth tucked into the corners of the room like extra blankets. You realise you’re not worrying about who’s coming up the driveway. You’re not listening for footsteps in the hall. You’re… here. In this house. At this table. A place set for you like it was assumed from the start. Your throat tightens suddenly. You take a sip of water to hide it.

Across the table, Mae watches you with an expression that’s hard to read. Then she glances at Seokmin and sighs. “You picked a good one,” she says to him quietly, like maybe she didn’t mean to let it out loud. Seokmin freezes. “What?”

“Don’t make it weird,” she warns, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with that and ends up laughing too loudly, which of course makes it weird anyway.

Evie and Seungcheol start bickering over the correct way to teach fractions. Riley and Dino argue about which movie they’re going to force everyone to watch later. Hana gets into a heated discussion with Vernon about whose music taste is worse. Tess shakes her head fondly, collecting empty plates as she can reach them. At the head of the table, Mingyu has gone mostly quiet again, chewing slowly, listening more than he speaks. He doesn’t add to the toasts. He doesn’t tease. But when you glance his way, you catch the smallest shift in his expression. Pride, maybe. Or relief.

Later, when the dishes are stacked, and the cobbler is half demolished, and people have drifted into smaller clusters—some to the porch, some to the living room, some to the yard—you slip outside alone for a breath of air.

The sky is a deep velvet, pinpricked with stars. The mountains are dark shapes on the horizon, familiar now instead of looming. The yard hums with low conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the porch. You sit on the steps of the big house, elbows on your knees, hands clasped. The word stay rolls around your brain like a new language. You can stay. Not forever. You don’t let your mind go that far. But longer than two weeks. Long enough to unpack your duffel without feeling superstitious. Long enough to learn the names of every horse and calf. Long enough that maybe the shadows at your back start to loosen.

The front door opens behind you with a soft creak. You don’t have to turn to know who it is. Mingyu steps out onto the porch, footsteps slow. He pauses for a moment, like he might turn back, then walks to stand at the rail beside you. You keep your gaze on the dirt. He leans his forearms on the wooden railing, staring out at the dark yard, shoulders loose for once.

For a long time, neither of you says anything. Crickets sing. Someone laughs in the bunkhouse yard. The air smells like dust and the last traces of dinner. Finally, he says, “You did good today.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in promises,” you say softly. He huffs, just a breath. “I don’t.” You wait. “But I believe in what I see,” he adds. You turn your head, watching him in the dim porch light. His profile is sharp, eyes on the horizon. “And what do you see?” you ask before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t look at you.

“Someone who didn’t quit when it got hard,” he says. “Someone who learned. Who listened. Who didn’t ask for special treatment.”

“You made it sound like you didn’t want me here,” you say. It’s not an accusation. Just a truth. He finally does look at you then. His gaze is steady, dark. “I didn’t,” he says honestly.

The bluntness makes you flinch. He sees it. “New people are trouble,” he continues, voice low. “They change things. They leave.” His jaw flexes. “I don’t like change much these days.” You don’t know what to do with that, so you just sit with it.

“But,” he says after a moment, the word dragged out of him, “you’re here. And you’re staying. So… we’ll deal with it.”

Somehow, that’s the closest you’re going to get to I’m glad you stayed tonight. You nod. “Okay.”

He studies you one last time, then straightens. “Don’t let Riley keep you up all night,” he mutters. “You still work in the morning.”

You almost smile. “Yes, boss.” He grunts. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you then?” He hesitates. “Mingyu,” he says. Then, with a small, reluctant twitch of his mouth, “And you’re Rookie.” It settles into your skin like something claimed. “Rookie,” you echo.

He nods once, satisfied, and steps back through the front door, letting it swing shut behind him. You sit there on the steps for another minute, feeling the word settle in your bones.

Rookie. Not runaway. Not trouble. Not fraud. Rookie.

When you finally head back to the bunkhouse, the crickets are still singing, the mountains still watching. The chair is still by the bunkhouse door, but it’s there to hold boots, not to wedge under a handle. You crawl into your bunk, Riley’s soft snoring above you, Hana muttering in her sleep, Tess’s silhouette a calm shadow in the dim. You close your eyes.

For the first time, you don’t count the days until you have to leave. You count the chores you’ll do tomorrow. And the days after that.

You can stack hay now without almost passing out.

You can haul feed without losing your grip, muck two rows of stalls before the sun clears the barn roof, and find a loose fence staple in a run of a hundred posts in half the time it took you before. Your palms are callused, your back strong, your body different in ways that don’t show in a mirror, but you feel every time you bend, lift, breathe.

Chores, you’re getting the hang of. It’s the horses that are the problem. You remind yourself they are just animals. Just big, muscled, flighty, thousand-pound animals with hooves that could break bones and eyes that see everything.

The first time one of them snorts behind you, you nearly jump out of your skin. “Easy,” Tess says, hand closing around your elbow. “He’s just saying hi.” You eye the gelding in question—broad chest, dark mane, ears flicking. He eyes you back, unimpressed. “He’s huge,” you mutter.

“You’ll get used to it,” she assures you.

You’re not. You can curry comb with only mild terror now. You can lead a calm horse by the halter if someone else is close enough to grab the rope if you mess up. You know to watch ears and tails, to listen for the shift in weight that means a kick is coming. But riding? You’ve been avoiding that like it’s a cliff edge.

You’re good at avoidance. You used to avoid whole days, whole conversations, whole truths. It works for a while. There’s enough to learn on the ground that no one pushes it. Mingyu doesn’t mention it, at least not to you. Hana handles anything that involves actual saddles and reins. Seokmin focuses on your strengths—feeding, mucking, fence work, inventory. You tell yourself maybe they’ll just forget you don’t ride. It’s a stupid thought. Everyone here rides.

It catches up to you one afternoon. You’re in the smaller corral, helping Hana brush down a bay mare named Juniper. The horse is patient, tolerant, only swishing her tail occasionally as flies buzz near her flanks. You’re starting to relax, your strokes longer, smoother, your mind drifting.

The gate creaks. Something in you goes rigid before you even look. The mare feels it. Her ears flick back, muscles tensing under your hand. Your brush catches on a knot. You stumble a step, foot landing too close to her back leg. In the same instant, a shadow moves at the fence line—a hand on the rail, a weight shifting. You realise you’ve turned your back on her, and panic spikes. You freeze. Actually freeze. Your body goes tight as if locking in place can keep everything from shattering. Your breath stutters, lungs refusing to pull in air.

The mare’s head jerks. She dances sideways, hooves clattering against packed dirt. Not a full-on spook, nothing dramatic by ranch standards, but to you it feels like the ground just dropped out from under your feet. Hana moves fast, hand firm on the halter, voice low and soothing. “Hey, hey, easy, June. You’re okay. She’s okay.”

You backpedal too quickly, heel catching on uneven ground. You go down on your ass, the shock of impact rattling up your spine. Dust puffs up around you. For a second, you can’t breathe at all. Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside. Hana glances back at you. “You alright?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. I just—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she says, calm. “You stepped where she couldn’t see you. She got startled. You’re not hurt?” You flex your ankle, your wrist, and check yourself automatically. “I’m okay.” Emotion sits high and hot in your throat anyway. Embarrassment. Fear. A tiny shard of something older—memories of being too close to something unpredictable and bigger than you, no exit, no control.

You push to your feet, dusting off your jeans with hands that still tremble. “I’m okay,” you repeat. Like saying it louder will make it true.

Hana studies you for a heartbeat longer, then nods. “Take five,” she says. “Get water. I’ll finish up with June.”

You want to argue. You want to prove you can bounce back. But your chest is tight, and your head is spinning, and for once you don’t push through. You duck under the fence, step out of the corral, and head for the nearest trough, breathing hard. You’re halfway across the yard when a familiar voice calls out. “Rookie.”

You stop. Of course he saw. Mingyu is leaning against the fence that borders the main arena, arms folded, expression unreadable. His hat shades his eyes, but you can see the set of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth. “I’m fine,” you say automatically, before he can ask. He doesn’t. “You scared her,” he says instead. You bristle. “I know. I didn’t mean to—”

“Doesn’t matter if you meant to or not,” he cuts in. “Intent doesn’t change where her hooves land. You don’t walk up behind them like that if you can’t read ‘em yet.”

Shame burns hot in your chest. “I thought she was calm.”

“She was.” His tone isn’t cruel, just blunt. “Until you got tense enough to make a stone nervous.”

You flinch. He sighs quietly. “You alright?” he asks, softer. There it is. The question everyone here keeps asking. You look past him, toward the mountains, eyes stinging. “I’m trying,” you say.

It’s not an answer. It’s the only one you have. He watches you for a long beat, then pushes off the fence. “We’ll fix it,” he says, like it’s simple. Like fear is a broken board or a loose staple. “You can’t work here and be afraid of horses forever.”

You stiffen. “I’m not afraid.” He raises a brow. You sigh. “I’m… working on it.” He gives a noncommittal grunt.

You turn away before you say something stupid. Your feet carry you toward the water trough, toward the bunkhouse, toward anywhere that isn’t under his steady gaze. You don’t see Seokmin watching from the barn door, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu, wheels turning.

The next morning dawns as usual: dark, cold, full of chores.

By mid-morning, you’ve fallen into the familiar rhythm—feed, muck, scrub, repeat—and your heart rate has mostly returned to its new normal. You’re hauling a stack of folded saddle pads out of the tack room when Seokmin appears in the doorway, blocking your way with an exaggerated flail. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says. “Perfect. I need you.”

You blink around the stack. “For what? I still have stalls left.”

“Hana can finish,” he says breezily over his shoulder. “Hana, you can finish, right?” From somewhere in the barn, Hana calls back, “Depends. Do I get to watch her suffer?”

Seokmin grins. “Yes.”

“Then yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s ominous.”

He plucks the pads from your arms and tosses them onto a nearby bale. “Come on.” You follow him, suspicion growing with each step. He leads you out to the main arena: a wide, oval pen of packed dirt, bordered by a sturdy fence. A couple of riders are working a pair of horses at the far end, but Seokmin steers you to the quieter side, where a chestnut gelding stands tied to the rail, saddle already on, reins looped neatly. The gelding flicks an ear toward you, chewing absently on his bit.

Your stomach drops. “Nope,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.” Seokmin bites back a smile. “Meet Milo,” he says. “He’s the chillest thing on four legs. We put kids on him at the fall festival.”

“You put children on that?” you demand, pointing.

“Everyone loves Milo.” Milo blinks slowly, unbothered. The ground under your feet feels suddenly very far away from anywhere safe. “Seok—”

He steps closer, hands up in the universal trust me gesture. “Listen. We’ve been putting this off. You’re doing great on the ground. But we can’t keep you in the kiddie pool forever. You’re part of this ranch now. That means at some point, you’re gonna need to sit on a horse.”

“Sit on a horse,” you echo faintly. “You make it sound like sitting on a couch.” He grins. “Okay, fair. It’s like sitting on a couch that moves. But Milo’s basically a couch.” You stare at him.

Your chest tightens the way it did yesterday in the corral—only this time there’s no spook, no horse dancing sideways, no concrete trigger. Just the possibility. Just the thought of your feet leaving the ground and trusting something else to hold you. No. Your mind flashes images out of order: hands on your shoulders pressing you somewhere you don’t want to go, a locked door, no way out. Your heart spikes. Seokmin’s face shifts instantly, all joking wiped clean. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “Hey. Look at me.”

You drag your eyes up to his. They’re soft. Steady.

“You’re safe,” he says. “You can say no if you really want to. I’m not gonna make you do anything. But I think you can do this. And I think you’ll feel better when you’re not afraid of it anymore.”

You swallow hard. Those words land too true. You’ve spent so long being forced, you forgot what it feels like to choose something scary. You glance at Milo again. He blinks. You exhale shakily. “Okay,” you say. “Okay. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

Seokmin beams. “Deal.”

He leads you to the mounting block—a sturdy wooden step that helps riders mount. Standing beside it, he pats Milo’s shoulder. “First things first,” he says. “We’re not even getting on yet. Just touch him. Get used to how high he is.” You place a tentative hand on Milo’s shoulder. His coat is warm under your palm, the muscle beneath solid but not tense. His skin shivers once in response to a fly, but otherwise he stands still. Seokmin moves behind you, close but not crowding. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now step up.” You hesitate, then climb onto the mounting block. Milo seems even taller from here. The ground feels farther away than it has any right to. Your hand tightens on the saddle horn. Your legs want to lock.

Seokmin steps closer, one hand hovering near your hip like a safety rail. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’m right here. We’re just gonna swing your leg over. I’m not letting you fall.” Your throat is dry. You nod.

“On three,” he says. "One… two…" You move on two. You grab the horn and swing your right leg over the saddle, scrambling a little, your boot catching for a second before going over. For a brief, terrifying moment, you feel off balance, weight tipped too far. Panic claws at your ribs.

Seokmin’s hand lands solidly on your hip, steadying you. “Easy,” he says. “Breathe. You’re up. Look at that.” You settle, both legs on either side of Milo, boots in the stirrups. Your hands clutch the horn like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the planet.

The world looks… different from up here. Wider. More exposed. If Milo moved right now, you’re not sure you wouldn’t just fall straight off.

Your breathing comes in short, sharp pulls. “I don’t like this,” you say, voice thin.

“I know,” Seokmin says. He moves in front of Milo, taking the reins lightly, his other hand reaching back toward your knee. “Hey. Hey, Rookie. Look at me.” You drag your eyes away from the ground and up to his face. He smiles, gentle. “You’re doing great,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere. Milo’s not going anywhere. We’re just gonna stand here. That’s it. You’re allowed to just… sit.”

The pounding in your chest eases a fraction. Seokmin keeps his hand on your hip for balance, thumb resting lightly, not moving. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “Now, heels down a bit. Yeah. Like that. If you lock your legs, you’ll bounce. Let your knees be soft. Trust the saddle. It’s not going anywhere.” The instructions come in a calm stream. You latch onto them.

He takes a small step back, then forward, leading Milo in a slow, tiny circle. The horse plods obediently, unhurried. You cling to the horn and the idea of not dying. You barely notice you’re moving at first. Then you feel the shift under you—the sway of Milo’s shoulders, the rocking motion of his walk. Your instinct is to stiffen, but Seokmin’s hand on your hip reminds you of the earlier instruction. Soft knees. Trust.

“You’re okay,” he says again. “You’re doing it.”

You are. You’re riding a horse. Sort of.

Your whole body is tense, but you’re not falling. Milo chews his bit lazily, unimpressed by your internal crisis. You almost start to believe you can do this. And then Seokmin steps closer to adjust your posture. “Here,” he says, moving behind your leg. “You’re tipping forward. Think chest up. Hips under you.” His hand slides from your knee up to your hip, gentle but firm, guiding your pelvis back a fraction. The motion is surprisingly intimate—not in a way that feels wrong, but in a way that sends a weird little shock up your spine. He’s all business, focused on your balance.

“There,” he murmurs. “Feel the difference?”

You do. You feel more secure. Less like you’re about to topple face-first into the dirt. You also feel eyes burning into your back. You glance toward the fence—and nearly jump out of the saddle. Mingyu is standing at the gate to the arena, one hand curled around the top rail. He must have been there longer than you realised, because his hat is pushed back slightly and his expression isn’t neutral. His jaw is locked. His gaze is pinned on Seokmin’s hand on your hip.

Heat floods your face. You hadn’t thought about what this looks like. You hadn’t thought about anything but not falling. But seeing Mingyu see you like this—perched awkwardly on a horse, Seokmin’s body close to yours, his hand holding you steady—sends a flush of something sharp through your chest. Something that feels suspiciously like guilt even though you’ve done nothing wrong. Seokmin notices your distraction and follows your line of sight. “Oh,” he says. “Hey, Mingyu.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer. He pushes off the fence and strides into the arena, boots kicking up small puffs of dust. Up close, he looks bigger somehow. Broader. The line of his mouth is thin, his eyes darker than usual. You swallow, fingers gripping the horn tighter. Milo flicks an ear, sensing the shift in energy. Mingyu stops a few feet away, gaze flicking briefly to your face, then back to where Seokmin’s hand still rests on your hip. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice flat. Seokmin blinks. “Teaching Rookie to ride,” he says, like it’s obvious. “She did good until you walked in. Now she looks like she’s gonna faint.”

"I’m not gonna faint,” you mutter, even as your vision feels a little hazy. Mingyu ignores you. “You don’t have time for this,” he says to Seokmin. “You’re supposed to be helping Vernon with the feed delivery.” Seokmin looks momentarily guilty, then defensive. “He’s got Wonwoo. They’ll be fine. She needs to learn sometime.”

"Not from you,” Mingyu says. The words are sharp enough that even Milo flicks his tail. Silence folds around the three of you. Seokmin frowns. “What’s your problem?” Mingyu’s jaw works, like he’s biting back about ten things he wants to say.

“You’re not watching her feet,” he says finally. “If Milo shifts, she’s gonna lose her balance and eat dirt. And you’re standing on the wrong side to catch her.”

"I’m fine,” you protest, though you’re suddenly very aware of how high up you really are. Mingyu steps closer to Milo’s other side, hand coming up to rest on the gelding’s neck. His presence is steadier than the fence. His eyes flick to yours, holding. “Take your foot out of the stirrup,” he says.

“Why?”

"Just do it.” You do. Your boot slips free. Immediately, you feel less anchored. Panic flares. Mingyu’s hand flashes out to your calf, fingers circling firm, stabilising you. “See?” he says to Seokmin, not looking away from you. “She’s not ready for you to half-ass this while you crack jokes. You step away for one second and she goes down.”

The unfairness of that hits you. “I wouldn’t—”

"You don’t know what you’d do,” he says, not unkindly. “You’ve been on a horse for ten minutes.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows he’s right. You hate that his hand on your leg makes you feel… safer, somehow. Seokmin’s cheeks flush, whether from the criticism or something else. “I wasn’t half-assing it,” he says, defensive. “I’m just trying to help.” Mingyu’s jaw clenches. “And I said I’ve got it.”

There’s a beat where Seokmin looks between the two of you—your white-knuckled grip on the horn, Mingyu’s steady hand on your calf, the way your whole body is vibrating with barely controlled nerves. His shoulders drop a fraction. “Fine,” he says, stepping back, hands up. “You want to play horse whisperer, knock yourself out.”

He pats Milo’s shoulder lightly. “You’re in good hands, Rookie,” he says to you, softer, then tosses Mingyu a look that’s equal parts fond and annoyed. “Try not to scare her more than the horse already does.”

He leaves the arena, dust swirling in his wake. You watch him go, guilt and gratitude tangled up in your chest. Mingyu waits until the gate clicks shut behind Seokmin before he shifts his grip, hand sliding from your calf to your ankle, then letting go once your foot is securely back in the stirrup. “He was helping,” you say quietly.

“He was distracting,” Mingyu counters. You bristle. “Distracting who?” His gaze flicks to you, heavy. You feel the answer in the way he looks away just as quickly. He clears his throat.

“If you’re gonna ride,” he says, voice a little rougher, “you’re gonna do it right. And you’re gonna do it with someone who actually knows how to keep you on the damn horse.”

"Seokmin knows how to ride,” you protest. “He knows how to ride,” Mingyu agrees. “He doesn’t know how to teach you.” He nods toward Milo’s ears. “He didn’t see when June almost kicked you yesterday. I did.” You blink. “Okay, so what, you’re just gonna—”

"Yes,” he interrupts. “From now on, if you’re on a horse, I’m there.”

The absolute certainty in his tone makes something in you bristle and something else relax at the same time. You’ve had men lay down rules before. You’ve had them use I’m there as a threat, a leash. This feels… different. Like a promise he’s making to himself as much as to you. You chew your bottom lip. “You don’t have to—”

"I’m not arguing with you about this,” he says. “You wanna stay here, you learn to ride. You wanna learn to ride, you do it my way. Or you stay on the ground and never ask to be out in a storm or on a drive.” The thought of being left behind when everyone else rides out—of standing at the fence, watching them go, useless—makes something twist in your gut. You don’t want that. You don’t want to be dead weight. You want to belong to the whole picture, not just the parts that keep your boots on the dirt. “Okay,” you say. “Teach me, then.”

For a moment, something unspoken passes between you: his stubbornness, your fear, his guilt for wanting to keep you off the back of any horse that could throw you, your determination to prove you won’t shatter. Then he nods once.

“Sit up,” he says, slipping instantly into instruction. “You’re slouching. Heels down. Don’t choke the horn. It’s not going anywhere.” You adjust. He steps back, but not far, his hand still hovering near your knee. “We’re gonna walk the rail,” he says. “Just like you did with Seok. But this time, you’re gonna feel what Milo’s doing instead of clenching like you’re on a rollercoaster.”

"I hate rollercoasters,” you mutter.

“Then good thing this isn’t one.”

He clicks his tongue softly and Milo steps forward. You tense automatically. “Breathe,” Mingyu says. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Match him.”

You focus on the rhythm of Milo’s walk: the gentle sway, the steady four-beat pattern. You let your knees move with it instead of fighting. Dust swirls lazily around his hooves. Mingyu walks at his shoulder, close enough that if you pitched forward, he could catch you. You can feel his presence like a second gravity. “Better,” he murmurs after a lap. “You’re not a statue anymore.”

"Feels like it,” you say. “You’ll get there.”

You circle the arena again. And again. Each time, the panic spikes a little less at the first step. Each time, Milo feels less like a looming threat and more like… a big, moving couch, just like Seokmin said. A couch with opinions, but still. Mingyu corrects you in small ways:

“Don’t stare at his neck. Look where you’re going.” "Relax your hands. You’re not trying to strangle the reins.” "If you feel him tense, don’t freak out. Ask him what’s wrong. Shift your weight. Be ready, but don’t freeze.”

You want to roll your eyes at ask him what’s wrong—like horses can answer—but then Milo’s ears flick at a sudden shout from the other end of the arena and his stride shortens for a second. You remember the instruction, bring your heels down, steady your hands, breathe out. He settles. Mingyu makes a low sound that, this time, you recognise as approval. By the time he tells you to halt, your thighs are trembling and your butt hurts in ways you didn’t know it could, but you’re… okay. Still in the saddle. Still breathing. Alive.

He steps closer, hand coming up to the horn for a moment as you ease your foot out of the stirrup and swing your leg over. This time, you don’t wobble as much. When your boots hit the dirt, the ground feels weirdly solid and strange all at once. You pat Milo’s neck with a shaky laugh. “Thank you for not murdering me,” you whisper. He snorts, as if offended you ever doubted him. Mingyu watches you, expression unreadable. “Again tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow?”

"You think you’re done after one lap around the arena?” His mouth quirks. “That was lesson one. You’ve got a long way to go, Rookie.” The nickname, spoken here—inside the arena, with your boots dusty and your heartbeat finally slowing—feels like something new all over again. Not a jab at your lack of experience. A marker of this new achievement, too. You swallow, nodding. “Okay.”

He nods once more, satisfied, then slaps Milo’s shoulder affectionately. “Good boy,” he mutters to the horse. Then, to you, “Go cool off. Drink some water. Don’t let Riley talk you into anything stupid tonight. Your legs are gonna hate you in the morning.”

"They already hate me,” you say.

“That’s how you know you’re learning.”

As you walk out of the arena, leading Milo beside you, you glance back over your shoulder. Mingyu is standing in the middle of the ring, hands on his hips, watching you go with that same intent focus he’s had since the day you arrived.

Only now, under the scrutiny, there’s a glint of something else. Responsibility. Reluctant pride. A claim he made out loud: If you’re on a horse, I’ve got you.

Riding becomes part of your days the way early mornings and coffee already are.

You don’t know exactly when it shifts from extra thing Mingyu is forcing you to do to something with a slot in the rhythm of the ranch. It just… happens. Somewhere between the third and tenth morning you find yourself tugging on your boots and automatically wondering which horse he’ll pick today. He never makes a big announcement. He just appears.

Sometimes it’s at dawn, leaning in the doorway of the barn, nodding toward the arena before the others are even fully awake. “Ten minutes,” he says. “Finish your coffee.” Sometimes it’s mid-afternoon, when chores quiet down and the sun hangs heavy over the pens. “You done with that?” he asks, nodding at your pitchfork or your coiled hose. “Arena. Now.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re ready. He assumes. You’re not sure if that annoys you or steadies you. Maybe both.

Milo becomes your usual partner in crime. Occasionally he swaps you onto another horse—June, when she’s in a good mood, or an older gelding named Scout—but it’s mostly Milo’s sturdy shoulders under your saddle as you learn what your body is supposed to be doing.

Mingyu is strict. He doesn’t coo or coddle. He doesn’t give you gold stars for trying. “You’re leaning too far forward,” he says. “You’re telling him to hurry and you don’t even mean to.”

"You’re clenching your thighs like you’re trying to crack a walnut. Relax or you’re gonna be sore for a week.” "If you keep staring down, you’re gonna steer him into the fence. Look where you’re going, Rookie.”

But he is patient. Painfully, stubbornly patient. He repeats the same corrections day after day, never sounding surprised that you need them again, only mildly annoyed at gravity and probably your center of balance. “Heels down,” he says for the thousandth time. You let your heels drop. “Good. Now shoulders back, not rigid. You’re not on trial. You’re just sitting.”

"Feels like a trial,” you mutter. He snorts. “Jury’s still out.”

He walks beside you most days, hand sometimes on Milo’s neck, sometimes hovering near your knee. When he does ride alongside you, he’s a steady presence at your flank, posture so natural it makes you want to scream. How is it possible for someone to look like they were born on a horse? You struggle not to stare. You struggle not to stare at him more than you struggle with the reins most days.

The touches start small and necessary. A hand on your calf when your foot slips in the stirrup. Fingers brushing your wrist as he adjusts where you’re holding the reins. The flat, warm weight of his palm against your knee when he stops Milo with a quiet “whoa” and keeps you from pitching forward. You tell yourself they don’t mean anything. They don’t, to him. They’re corrections, tools. He’s not thinking about your pulse tripping along under your skin. You are.

Then there are the bigger touches.

“You’re crooked,” he says one afternoon, squinting up at you from the ground. “I am not crooked.”

"You absolutely are. Your left hip’s ahead of your right. Scoot back.” You try. You wiggle in the saddle, trying to reset yourself, but end up feeling more off-balance. He sighs, steps closer. “Stop. You’ll just throw yourself more out of line.”

He plants a boot on the lowest rail of the fence and hauls himself up so he’s almost level with the saddle. His height does the rest. Suddenly he’s right beside you, chest nearly level with your shoulder, one hand braced on the pommel. The other finds your hip. His fingers spread over bone and muscle, firm and sure as he nudges your pelvis back an inch, then another. Your breath catches. He’s not rough, but he’s not tentative either. He moves you like he moves tack—confident he knows what he’s doing. “There,” he murmurs, voice close to your cheek. “Feel that? Your seat’s under you now, not sliding.” You feel something, alright.

You nod, words lost somewhere between your sternum and your throat. He doesn’t seem to notice the way your heartbeat has kicked into a sprint. Or if he does, he doesn’t comment. He just adjusts your other hip to match, thumbs pressing gently, and then slips back down to the ground like nothing happened. You spend the next five minutes trying to remember how reins work.

You fall on a Wednesday. It’s your own fault, technically.

The air is sharp with the promise of changing weather, wind gusting across the arena and rattling the boards. Milo is a little livelier than usual, ears flicking at every new sound. “He feels different,” you say, nerves prickling. “He’s just reading the wind,” Mingyu replies. “You’re fine. If he speeds up, don’t yank his mouth. Sit deep. Ask him to come back to you.”

Ask him. Like that isn’t the most abstract instruction on the planet. But you try. You circle the ring, heels down, shoulders back, remembering every bullet point he’s drilled into you. Milo’s walk turns into a jog for a few strides, but you manage to breathe through it, steady your hands, bring him back. You’re proud of yourself. Too proud. You’re thinking I’m getting this when a tarp next to the arena snaps loud in the wind. Milo startles. Not a huge spook. Not a rear. Just a sudden leap sideways, a jump forward, his body tensing under you like a spring. You do exactly what you’re not supposed to do. You tense up, lean forward, and grab for the horn. Your weight shifts too far over his shoulder. Your right foot pops out of the stirrup. The world tilts. You slide. For a second, everything slows.

You see dirt rushing up toward you, feel the empty swing of your leg, hear Milo’s quickened breathing. Panic spikes white-hot in your veins. Someone shouts your name. Strong arms clamp around your waist. The impact you braced for doesn’t come. You hit something else instead—someone else—and it knocks the breath out of you. You and Mingyu go down together in a messy tangle of limbs, but he takes the hit, rolling under you, his body absorbing the worst of it. You end up sprawled half on his chest, half beside him in the dirt, hat askew, heart beating so loud you can taste it. Milo trots a few steps away, then stops, snorting indignantly.

For a moment, there is no wind, no ranch, no sky. There is only the solid thump of Mingyu’s heart under your palms and the heat of his body pressed along yours. Your fingers are curled in his shirt. His arm is banded tight around your middle, having pulled you close on instinct. His other hand is braced in the dirt behind your shoulders, keeping you from smacking your head. His cap has flown off somewhere, dark hair mussed. His face is inches from yours. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. The small scar near his brow. The way his pupils are blown wide, adrenaline turning his gaze almost black. You try to breathe. You get something like a gasp instead. His chest rises under you, fast, then slower as he forces his lungs to cooperate.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough, like he’s been yelling even though he hasn’t. The world narrows down to the question. Are you? You do a quick inventory. Bruised knees, maybe. Scraped palms. Pride in tatters on the arena floor. But alive. Held. “Yeah,” you manage. “I—yeah. I’m okay.”

You realise you’re still lying on him. You realise he realises it at the exact same moment. The air between you shifts. His gaze flicks to your mouth for the tiniest, traitorous second, then back up. You feel your own eyes do the same to his without permission, landing on his lips, on the breath you can feel against your cheek. For one dizzy, impossible heartbeat, you imagine closing the distance. His fingers flex on your waist.

Then he lets go like he’s been burned. “Get up,” he mutters, already moving you off him. The loss of contact is a shock in itself. He rolls to his feet in one smooth motion, brushes dirt off his jeans with hands that aren’t quite steady. You push yourself upright more slowly, dust clinging to your palms, your knees. Mingyu retrieves his hat, slaps it against his thigh, and jams it back on his head like he can hide under the brim. “You good?” he asks again, but the edge is back in his voice now. You nod, cheeks flaming. “I’m sorry,” you say. The apology feels too big for the situation and not big enough at the same time. “I panicked.” He exhales sharply. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.” The bluntness stings. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.

“You said he’d be fine,” you add, immediately regretting how accusing it sounds. Mingyu scrubs a hand over his face. “He was fine,” he says, calmer. He nods toward Milo. “He just hopped. You turned a hop into a disaster because you locked up.” You flinch.

“Congratulations,” he says, “that makes you normal. Everybody eats dirt at some point.”

“You’ve fallen?” He snorts. “Rookie, if you ride long enough, the question’s not ‘have you fallen,’ it’s ‘how many times and did anyone see.’” His mouth twitches. “Unfortunately for you, I did.”

You stare at him. The tension in your chest loosens by a thread. “You saved me,” you say quietly. He shrugs, looking away. “You were falling in front of me,” he mutters. “I wasn’t gonna let you snap your neck on my watch.”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. Maybe it’s the memory of his arms locked around you, the solid certainty of his grip. But something in you responds to the my in that sentence. “Thank you,” you say. He nods once, still not meeting your eyes. “You done for today?” he asks.

You should be. You’re shaken, humiliated, your brain ping-ponging between near-fall and near-something-else on the ground. You look at Milo, at the saddle, at the dirt. You think about fear, about running, about all the times you’ve taken one bad moment as proof you should never try again. “No,” you say, surprising both of you. “I want to get back on.” His head snaps up. “Now?”

"If I don’t, I’ll think about it all night,” you admit. “And then I won’t get back on at all.” He stares at you for a long, unreadable moment. Pride flickers across his face before he can kill it. “Alright,” he says. “Back on, then.”

His hands are all business as he brings Milo back, checks the girth, reins the horse in closer. When he helps you mount this time, his touch is still steady, but he keeps more distance between your bodies—like getting that close to you again is a nuisance he doesn’t want to repeat. You notice. You file it away.

You ride three more slow circles without falling. It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. But it’s you, on a horse, after hitting the ground, and it feels like some quiet miracle.

Everyone else seems to notice something you don’t. They’re not subtle about it. At dinner that night, you squeeze onto the bench between Tess and Riley, legs pleasantly aching, adrenaline finally worn down to a hum. Your hair is still damp from your shower, curling slightly around your face. There’s a dull bruise already staining your knee under your jeans. “Heard you had a date with the dirt,” Vernon says as he passes you the mashed potatoes. You groan. “Who told you?”

"We have eyes,” Hana says. “And also Dino was pretending to practice his roping and watched the whole thing.” Dino raises a hand from the other end of the table. “You bounced,” he says cheerfully. “But like, in a tough way.”

"Thanks,” you mutter. Riley nudges your shoulder, eyes gleaming. “More importantly,” she says. “We heard about the catch.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “What catch?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “The Mingyu-shaped crash pad.” Your ears go hot. “Nothing happened.” Tess gives you a look. “You’re bright red,” she says mildly. “So something happened.”

"He just… didn’t let me die,” you sputter. “That’s his job.”

"Yes, but did he have to roll with you?” Riley asks. “Did he have to cradle you?” Hana adds, hand over her heart. “Did he have to look like a romance novel cover while doing it?” Riley finishes.

“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off, stabbing your potato with unnecessary violence. Down the table, Seokmin leans back in his chair, watching you with a little smile. His gaze flicks briefly to where Mingyu sits, and his smile grows when he catches him pointedly not looking at you. Mingyu keeps his focus on his plate like it’s a contract in need of signing.

Later in the meal, the conversation shifts. It always does, swirling around work and town gossip and whatever nonsense Vernon and Dino have gotten up to. Tonight, it lands squarely on Evie and Seungcheol, which is always good entertainment.

“Did you fill out those field trip forms I gave you?” Evie asks, spearing a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. Seungcheol chews slowly, pretending not to hear her. Evie narrows her eyes. “Cheol.” He sighs. “I looked at them,” he says. “And?”

"And some of those questions are ridiculous.” He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Why do you need to know if every kid’s grandma has a favorite color?” Evie’s stare turns lethal. “Those are reflection prompts for the kids,” she says tightly. “The actual permission slip is on the back, which you’d know if you ever read anything all the way through.”

"I read contracts all day,” he protests. “I’m not reading about little Timmy’s favorite dinosaur.”

"It’s not about Timmy’s dinosaur, it’s about getting them to think about—”

"If the forms are that important, why didn’t you just bring the kids out without me?”

"Because we need your liability waiver, genius,” she snaps. “And your precious insurance paperwork. And maybe I didn’t want to risk having thirty eight-year-olds trample your fence line without warning.”

Hana leans toward you, stage-whispering. “I give them five minutes before one of them throws food.” Riley hums. “Three,” she whispers back. Tess just shakes her head, lips twitching.

“I’m just saying,” Seungcheol continues, “you could have explained it better instead of dumping a stack of papers on my desk and yelling about ‘childhood experiences.’”

"I did explain it,” Evie fires back. “You were on your phone. Like you always are when I talk about anything that isn’t cattle weight or feed costs.”

"Because we own a ranch.”

"Because you’re emotionally constipated.”

A chorus of oof travels around the table. Seungcheol sets his fork down very carefully. “Excuse me?” Evie doesn’t back down. “You heard me.”

For a moment, the air crackles. They’re both flushed—him with annoyance, her with righteous indignation that somehow still looks good on her. They’re leaning in, eyes locked, completely focused on each other. If either of them took half that intensity and pointed it somewhere other than an argument, you’re pretty sure this table would catch fire. “Just kiss already,” Dino mutters under his breath, not quietly enough.

Hana chokes on her drink. “Chan,” Tess hisses. Evie and Seungcheol both swing their glares toward Dino, united for one brief second in their outrage. “What did you say?” Evie demands.

“Nothing,” Dino says quickly. “Just… pass the salt?”

Nobody believes him. But the spell breaks. Evie huffs, stabbing another piece of chicken. Seungcheol shakes his head and picks up his fork again. “I’ll sign the damn forms,” he grumbles. “Bring your kids. Just warn me before they unleash hell.”

Evie lifts her chin. “They’re eight, not demons.” He gives her a pointed look. “Debatable.” She throws a napkin at him. Everyone rolls their eyes and smiles into their plates. You do too.

You catch Mingyu watching them, expression somewhere between tired fondness and please don’t make me be in the room when this explodes. His gaze slides to you then, like it can’t help it. You look away, pretending to be very interested in Riley’s story about Vernon’s failed attempt at baking bread. But your skin prickles. Because you can feel it—the way something between you and him shifted out there in the arena. How it’s still shifting, even now, under the surface of your work and his gruff orders and your attempts to act like it was just a riding lesson.

You wonder how long you can pretend it’s only the riding you’re learning to trust.

Longview feels different at the end of a long week.

Like something electric. Anticipation, maybe. You can feel it humming under everyone’s skin all day—louder jokes in the barn, music blaring from the guys’ bunkhouse while they shower, Hana yelling through the open window that if Vernon steals her good boots again, she’s stapling them to the floor. You’re halfway through braiding your hair when Riley slaps a palm on your bunk and declares, “We’re making you pretty.”

“I’m already pretty,” you protest, even though your stomach flips. “We’re making you bar pretty,” she corrects. “Different scale.”

Tess snorts from where she’s folding laundry. “She’s fine as she is.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Riley says. “I said we’re upgrading. It’s her one-month-iversary. We’re celebrating properly.”

Hana appears with a swipe of mascara and a wicked grin. “And by properly, she means we’re going to get you drunk enough to dance and sober enough to remember it.” You laugh, but there’s a flicker of something else underneath.

A month. You’ve been here a month. Longview isn’t a transit stop anymore—not in your chest. It’s stalls at dawn, coffee in cracked mugs, Milo’s warm shoulder under your palm, Mingyu’s voice saying “heels down” so often you hear it in your sleep. It’s laundry on the lines and Nora’s bread on the counter and family dinners where your chair is just… there. You didn’t think you’d get a month of anything like that again. “Okay,” you relent. “Make me bar pretty.” Riley whoops in triumph.

Hana digs out the skirt she convinced you to buy in town—dark, soft, a little shorter than you’re used to. Tess insists on one of her tops, a black thing that drapes in all the right places and shows a hint more skin than you usually dare. They argue over earrings. Riley wins. By the time you’re standing in front of the bunkhouse mirror, you barely recognise the woman staring back. She’s still you—same eyes, same scar half-hidden at your jaw, same bone-deep caution. But there’s colour in her cheeks and gloss on her mouth and something wild in the way she’s standing, weight on one hip like she has a right to take up space. “Damn, Rookie,” Hana says, low. “Look at you.”

“Mingyu’s gonna have a stroke,” Riley adds cheerfully. Your stomach does something stupid. “He won’t care,” you lie. They give you a synchronised sure, Jan look.

The bar in town looks different tonight than the first time you saw it. Then, it was noise and neon and unknowns you didn’t have the bandwidth to face. Now, arriving with a convoy of trucks and familiar voices spilling out into the gravel lot, it feels less like a threat and more like a little pocket of the world you’re allowed to share. Music thumps through the walls, low and pulsing. The place is packed: locals, travellers, ranch hands from other spreads. Trucks lined up under the string lights, cigarette smoke curling in the cool air. Above the door, the same faded sign buzzes faintly. “Alright, children,” Tess says as everyone piles out of the trucks. “Ground rules: we all get home in one piece, nobody gets in a fight, and if anyone vomits in my truck, they’re mucking stalls for a week.”

Riley salutes. “Yes, mom.”

“Stop calling me mom.”

You fall into step with Hana and Riley, your boots crunching on gravel. Behind you, you hear Seokmin’s loud laugh as he hooks an arm around Seungcheol’s shoulders, teasing him about looking like someone’s dad in his nicer shirt. Mingyu’s heavier footsteps are unmistakable, steady and unhurried. You don’t look back.

Inside, the bar is all dim lights and bodies moving in a loose, happy press. The air smells like beer and fried food and perfume, the floor sticky in places, the walls crowded with old photos and rusty license plates.

Mae is behind the bar. You almost don’t recognise her. She’s in a simple black tank and jeans, hair pulled up, tattoos on her forearms visible. She’s moving fast, pouring, laughing, sliding bottles down the counter with enthusiastic precision. The second she spots your group, her mouth quirks. “Look what the cows dragged in,” she calls. Seokmin beelines for her like he’s been magnetised. “Mae.” His voice goes softer, warmer. “You look—”

“Busy,” she cuts in, grabbing a bottle. “What do you want?”

“Your heart,” he says, without missing a beat. She rolls her eyes. “On tap or bottled?” The guys snicker. Hana groans. You bite back a grin. “Two pitchers of beer,” Seungcheol orders smoothly, sliding in to spare Seokmin from himself. “And, uh—” he glances at you, Riley, Hana, Tess “—whatever they want.” Mae’s eyes sweep over you, taking in your outfit, your slightly self-conscious posture. “First drink’s on me,” she says. “Happy one-month, Longview.”

Warmth floods your chest. “Thanks.” She taps the bar. “Don’t let them corrupt you too fast.”

“Too late,” Riley says, already reaching for the shot glass Mae plants in front of her.

“One each,” Mae warns, sliding three more shot glasses your way. “Two each,” Riley corrects, immediately flagging down another. “We’re celebrating.” You down yours, coughing a little at the burn, and feel the heat bloom in your chest, loosening edges you didn’t realise were still clenched. Mingyu hangs back a few steps, the slide of his gaze quick but thorough. He takes a beer when it’s passed to him, nods at Mae. “You good?” she asks him.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Try having fun,” she suggests. His mouth twitches. “We’ll see.”

You don’t mean to end up on the dance floor so fast. It just happens. The music shifts into something with a beat, and Riley yelps, “Oh my God, I love this one!” She grabs your hand, and suddenly you’re in the middle of it—lights spinning, bodies moving, heat on your skin. Hana’s beside you, hips swaying, arms thrown up, hair whipping. Tess is more restrained but still smiling, muttering, “I’m too old for this,” even as she taps her foot and lets Riley spin her. You’re stiff at first. Self-conscious. Hyper-aware of your own limbs. Then the chorus hits. Riley whoops. Hana bumps your hip. “Loosen up, Rookie!” she hollers over the music. “Nobody’s watching!”

That’s not true. You know it’s not true. But for once, it doesn’t send your heart into your throat. You close your eyes, feel the bass under your boots, the air brushing your bare legs as your skirt swings. You let your body move—not gracefully, not perfectly, but honestly. Shoulders rolling, hair sticking to your neck, laughter coming more easily. When you open your eyes again, you catch a glimpse of the bar. Mingyu is there, half-leaning against it, beer in hand, talking with Wonwoo and Dino. His cap is off, hair messy from the day, the collar of his shirt open. He looks relaxed, in that coiled way he has, like even at ease he’s ready to move. His gaze is on you. Not on the crowd. On you.

The song ends, another one starts. At some point Riley staggers back from the bar with a tray of shots, grinning like she’s discovered oil. “Anniversary round!” she shouts, thrusting a glass into your hand. “For bravery and bad decisions!”

“You’re going to kill her,” Tess says, but she takes one too. You clink the tiny glass with theirs and toss it back. The second burn is easier. It slides into the first, warmth spreading through your stomach. When you step back onto the dance floor this time, you’re buzzing. From the shots. From the music. From the way Mingyu’s gaze keeps finding you no matter where you move. You feel it like a touch between your shoulder blades, low on your spine, tracking every sway of your hips. Every time you glance over, he’s still there. Sometimes he’s pretending to listen to Wonwoo. Sometimes Seokmin is talking his ear off. But his eyes… They stay you.

And for the first time in years, instead of making you want to shrink, that look makes you want to see what happens if you lean into it. You let your movements slow down. Smoother. Your hips roll a little deeper with the beat. You shrug one shoulder, let your hair fall over your face and then toss it back. Your hands skim down your own sides as you turn, skirt swishing high on your thighs. You’re not dancing for the room. You’re dancing because his eyes are on you and, with the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, it feels… good. Powerful. Like claiming the body you live in instead of just hauling it through the day.

Hana whistles. “Okay, Rookie,” she laughs, pulling you closer. “I see you.” Riley cackles. “Someone’s gonna combust,” she sing-songs. You risk another glance toward the bar. Mingyu’s jaw is tight. His grip on his beer bottle looks like it might snap glass. He’s not even pretending to follow whatever joke Dino just told. His eyes track the line of your thighs, the way your top clings when you lift your arms, the tilt of your mouth when you laugh at something Hana says. Seungcheol leans in, shoulder brushing Mingyu’s, lips moving near his ear. You can’t hear what he says over the music. You see the effect. Mingyu’s mouth flattens. His gaze sharpens. He shakes his head once, like he’s telling himself something you’re not privy to. Seungcheol just gives him a knowing look and claps him on the back, moving away to intercept Evie, who has just walked in with murder in her eyes for whoever left copies jammed in the school printer. You don’t hear that conversation either. Because there’s suddenly someone behind you. A chest at your back. Hands too close to your waist. You stiffen, the good kind of heat evaporating. You turn and find a stranger.

He’s tall, maybe your age or a few years older, in a worn ballcap and a T-shirt with some local beer logo on it. He smells like cheap whiskey and cologne, grin easy and just a little too confident. “Couldn’t help noticing you out here,” he says, leaning in close so you can hear him. “Dance with me?” You take a half-step back, trying to keep it light. “I’m with them,” you say, nodding toward Hana and Riley. “Just having fun.” He takes that as encouragement, not a boundary. He moves with you as you shift away, matching your steps, closing the space you opened. “Looks like you were dancing for everybody,” he chuckles. “Don’t mind if I enjoy the show.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say, louder this time, placing your hand flat on his chest. A polite barrier. He doesn’t stop. He slides in closer, your palm pressing against him as he moves anyway, his hand brushing your hip like he has the right. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, breath too hot against your ear. “Don’t be shy.” Your heart starts to pound for a different reason. “I said no,” you repeat, trying to sidestep. His fingers curl around your wrist. Not gently.

The music keeps thumping, people keep moving, but in the small circle of space around you, everything narrows to the feel of that grip—too tight, too familiar, memories ripping up through your chest like weeds.

You yank your arm back on reflex. The hold tightens. “Don’t be like that,” he says, smile slipping. “You were practically begging for attention out here.” You open your mouth—to protest, to shout, to do something—but you don’t get the chance. A solid weight slams between you. Your arm is yanked free, not roughly, but decisively. The stranger is shoved back a step as a larger body shoulders him away from you.

Mingyu. He’s suddenly there, filling your vision, standing squarely between you and the stranger, his frame a wall shielding you. “She said no,” he snaps. You’ve never heard his voice like that. Not raised, exactly, but sharp enough to cut. The stranger sneers. “Who the fuck are you?” Mingyu doesn’t answer. He steps into the guy’s space, shoulders broad, hands loose at his sides. You see the tension in him, coiled and ready, the same kind of readiness he carries on a horse when something spooks—focused, lethal.

“Walk away,” he says. “Now.” The guy shoves his chest. Everything happens too fast after that. Mingyu’s fist comes up in a blur, catching the stranger square across the bridge of his nose. There’s a sickening crack, an explosion of movement—chairs scraping, people shouting, Mae swearing. The man goes down hard, hands flying to his face, blood spilling between his fingers. You gasp. The room’s energy whiplashes from fun to dangerous in a heartbeat.

Someone yells. The bartender nearest Mae reaches for the phone. Another guy steps in front of his friend, glaring at Mingyu, but doesn’t move closer—something in Mingyu’s face making him think twice. “Mingyu,” you breathe out in horror. He doesn’t look at you right away. His chest is heaving, nostrils flared, eyes locked on the man groaning on the floor like he might get up and try again. He won’t. Thank God.

“Out,” Mae snaps, suddenly in front of the bar, hands slammed on the counter. Her eyes blaze at both men equally. “Cheol, get them out before I have to mop up their teeth.” Seungcheol is already moving, muttering under his breath, pulling Mingyu back by the arm. “Come on,” he growls. “That’s enough.”

The stranger is hauled to his feet by a friend, nose crooked and bleeding, yelling something about “psycho cowboys” and “lawsuit” that no one really listens to. You just stand there. Shock pins you in place. You stare at the blood, at Mingyu’s knuckles, at the way his jaw is clenched so tight you think he might crack a tooth.

You should say thank you. You should say what the hell. You’re not sure which wins. You reach out, fingers brushing his forearm. “What the hell was that?” you demand, voice breaking on the last word. He finally looks at you. His eyes are dark. Wild. “He grabbed you,” he says, like that’s the beginning and end of the story.

“I had it,” you snap, even though you didn’t, not really. “You can’t just go around breaking people’s faces.”

“Watch me,” he snarls.

The bar’s noise starts to creep back in around you—music turned down, people whispering, someone swearing in the bathroom about the blood trail. Hana and Riley hover a few feet away, eyes wide. Tess moves closer, but stays back just enough to give you space. Your wrist throbs where the stranger’s hand was. You’re shaking now—for a different reason. Fear, yes. But also anger. At the guy. At the way your body remembers being grabbed like that. At Mingyu for exploding instead of… something else. “You didn’t have to hit him,” you insist.

“He didn’t have to touch you,” Mingyu fires back. You stare at each other, breathing hard. Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he says. “We’re done. Mingyu, outside. Now.” Mingyu doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m taking her home,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re done drinking,” he says. “You’re done dancing for idiots who don’t understand the word no.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you snap. “I can finish my drink and—”

“You’re cut off,” he says, voice low and hard. “You’re leaving. With me.” The command hits somewhere low in your stomach, a tangled mess of fury and something hotter. “Oh, absolutely not,” you say. “I’m not some calf you can just drag into a trailer—”

He doesn’t argue with words. He just moves. One second you’re standing on both feet; the next, your world flips. A strong arm hooks behind your knees, another clamps around your thighs, and you find yourself hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “Mingyu!” You pound at his back, more scandalised than actually hurt. “Put me down!”

“No,” he grunts. The bar erupts into laughter and catcalls.

“Get it, Longview!”

“Damn, Rookie, you pulled the boss!” Riley shrieks, half hysterical, half delighted, before Tess smacks her arm.

“Chan, stop filming,” Hana hisses at Dino, who’s absolutely trying to get his phone out. Mae glares over the bar. “If you two are going to screw up my Saturday night, have the decency to do it outside,” she calls. Seungcheol is torn between exasperation and amusement. “I’ll settle the tab,” he says. “Go. Before someone calls the sheriff.”

You wriggle, but Mingyu’s hold is iron. The world bounces with each step he takes, his shoulder pressing into your stomach, arm locked over the backs of your thighs to keep you from kneeing him in the face. This close, you can smell him—sweat and soap and beer and something distinctly him underneath it all. It’s infuriating. It’s dizzying.

Outside, the night air hits your flushed skin, cooler than the bar, stars bright above the parking lot. He strides toward the trucks. “Mingyu, I’m serious,” you warn. “Put me down or I swear to God—” He stops. For a second, you think he might listen. Then he simply adjusts his grip and keeps walking. “You can swear at me from the truck,” he says. He drops you onto the passenger seat with less gentleness than usual but more than anger would allow. The door slams, vibrating the frame. He stalks around the hood, muttering something vicious under his breath.

You’re panting, hair mussed, skirt bunched around your thighs. “You can’t just manhandle me like that,” you snap the second he climbs in. He turns the engine over, jaw still tight. “You weren’t listening,” he says. “And I wasn’t about to let you stay in there so some other asshole could try his luck.”

“I said no,” you shoot back. “I can handle myself.”

His hand slams against the steering wheel, making you jump. “Can you?” he demands, finally looking at you. His eyes blaze in the dashboard light. “Because from where I was standing, you were shaking so hard you could barely talk.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s not your call to make,” you whisper. Some of the heat drains out of his face, replaced by something else—guilt, maybe. He drags a hand down over his mouth, breathing hard. “He grabbed you,” he says again, voice rougher now. “I saw your face, Rookie.”

You swallow. “That doesn’t mean you get to break someone’s nose,” you say. “Or throw me over your shoulder like a caveman.”

“Maybe not,” he allows. “But I’m not apologising for getting you out of there.” You glare out the windshield, furious at him, at yourself, at the way your body betrayed you in front of a stranger. “It's not your job to protect me from everything,” you mutter.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I’ll sure as hell try.”

The words hang there, too much and not enough. You don’t know what to do with them. He puts the truck in gear and pulls out of the lot. Gravel crunches under the tyres. The bar recedes in the rearview, neon shrinking to a smear of light in the dark.

The first part of the drive is silent. You watch the road, the way the headlights carve a tunnel through the night. The fences flash by, familiar silhouettes. Your breathing slows, the adrenaline shifting from sharp edges to a steady buzz. His hands on the wheel are tight, knuckles pale. His jaw is still working. You’re both wound so tight you might snap. “He didn’t matter,” you say after a while, voice low. “He was just some guy.”

“That’s the problem,” Mingyu says. “Just some guy. Thinks he can put his hands wherever he wants. Thinks ‘no’ is a maybe.”

“You punched him because you were jealous,” you accuse, because it’s easier to poke that than admit how much the rest of what he said affected you. His hands tighten on the wheel. “I punched him because he touched you,” he says. Then, after a beat, “And yeah. Because I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous,” you say. “You barely talk to me unless I’m falling off a horse.”

“I talk to you,” he mutters.

“‘Heels down’ doesn’t count,” you shoot back. He huffs a humourless laugh.

The truck slows. Mingyu turns off the main drive, pulling onto a side track that leads out toward the back pastures. There’s no house here, no lights—just a narrow strip of dirt and the vast dark of the fields on either side. “What are you doing?” you ask. He puts the truck in park and kills the engine. Suddenly, the world is nothing but soft ticking metal and the sound of your own heartbeat. He turns in his seat to face you fully. In the dim cabin light, his face is all hard lines and shadow, eyes searching yours. “I talk to you with my eyes,” he says quietly. “You just never look long enough to hear it.”

“What are they saying, then?” you ask, because the alternative is to shatter. He reaches up slowly, thumb brushing the faint red marks on your wrist with a gentleness so at odds with the memory of his fist that it makes your throat ache. “They’re saying I hate seeing you scared,” he murmurs. “They’re saying I hate that you think you gotta prove yourself, constantly.”

His thumb slips lower, tracing the pulse fluttering under your skin. “They’re saying I wanted to rip his hands off you,” he adds, voice rougher now. “Because when you dance with someone, it should be because you chose him. Not because he dragged you.” Heat rolls through you, hot and cold at once. You swallow, eyes locked on his. “And who,” you ask, “exactly, am I choosing?”

The question hangs there, fragile and dangerous. His gaze drops to your mouth. When he looks back up, something in him has given in. “Tell me to drive you home,” he says. “Tell me you’re mad at me. Tell me you never want me to touch you again.” You don’t. You lean across the console instead.

The kiss crashes into you the way the bar noise did earlier—loud, overwhelming, everything at once. His mouth is hot and hungry, tasting like beer and anger and something softer underneath that you’ve been pretending not to see. Your hands find the front of his shirt, balling fabric between your fingers, pulling him closer like you’re trying to erase the last few inches of air between you.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, low and rough, and then he’s cupping your jaw, thumb against your cheek, tilting your head to get a better angle. His other hand slides into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to make you gasp. "Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "You have no idea what you do to me, Rookie."

You climb over the console on instinct, desperate to close the distance. Your knee clips the horn. It blares. You both jerk, then burst into breathless, incredulous laughter against each other’s mouths. "Smooth," you gasp.

"Shut up," he mutters, already hauling you fully into his lap, one big hand spanning your waist and guiding you down. You straddle him, the steering wheel at your back, the top digging into your shoulder blades. Suddenly, there’s nowhere that isn’t him—thighs braced under you, chest solid against yours, breath mingling in the small, dark cab.

Your skirt hikes up as you settle, bunching around your hips. His jeans are rough under your thighs, the heat of his body bleeding through the denim. His hands grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of you. There’s no hesitation in the way he handles you—strong, sure—but there’s nothing trapping about it, either. He moves you like he’s done this a thousand times in his head and is terrified of getting it wrong in real life.

He drags his mouth from your lips to your jaw, to the edge of your throat, each kiss a little rougher than the last. When he finds the spot just below your ear, he bites lightly, and your whole body jolts. "You okay?" he asks, voice ragged against your skin. "Tell me if you’re not. Tell me to stop and I will. I mean it."

You nod so fast your hair brushes his face. He pulls back an inch, eyes dark, jaw tight. "Use your words, Rookie."

"I’m okay," you manage. "I want this. I want you." Something in his shoulders drops.

"Good girl," he murmurs, so soft you barely catch it. Heat rolls through you, sharp and sweet all at once.

His hands slip under the hem of your borrowed top, fingers skimming your back, your ribs, tracing the edge of your bra. Your spine arches without your permission, chest pressing against his. His thumbs make slow, almost worshipful passes along your sides, learning every line. You fist your hands in his hair, tugging a little. He groans, low and filthy, and his mouth slants back over yours, kiss turning messier, wetter. You taste him, feel him, lose track of where you end and he begins.

He slides one hand down, over the curve of your hip, along your thigh, fingers splaying against bare skin where your skirt has ridden up. He squeezes once. "You have any idea what it did to me, watching you dance?" he mutters into your mouth. "Knowing every asshole in that place was looking at you when you were—" he cuts himself off with a strained laugh, breath catching as your hips shift. "Jesus."

You shift again on purpose this time, rolling your hips down against him, testing. The sound he makes is half curse, half prayer. "Don’t—" he says, fingers tightening. "You keep doing that and this is gonna be over fast."

"Maybe I like you a little desperate," you whisper, surprised by your own boldness. His eyes flash. "Careful, baby," he says hoarsely. "You’re gonna find out exactly how desperate I am." He proves his point. His hand slides higher along your thigh, up, up, dragging your skirt with it. The air in the truck feels too hot. You grab at his shoulders, at anything, as his fingers map out slow, maddening paths on your bare skin; He pauses just shy of where you want him, thumb pressing into the tense muscle of your inner thigh, holding you open without forcing, making you feel every inch of the distance between almost and there. "Mingyu," you whisper, hips shifting restlessly.

"I know," he murmurs, voice low and frayed at the edges. "I’ve got you."

His hand slips higher, knuckles grazing the edge of your underwear, testing how far he can push. The contrast of his rough fingertips and the soft lace of your panties makes you jolt, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your throat. He swallows it with a kiss, his mouth hot and greedy on yours as his fingers start to explore. He ghosts his touch along the edge of the fabric, tracing the line where it meets skin, but never quite giving you what you’re aching for. He draws lazy shapes, circling slowly, feeling the way your muscles tense and shiver. "Here?" he breathes against your lips, adjusting the angle of his touch by a fraction, until his fingers pass through your folds. Your answer is a sharp inhale and your nails biting into his skin.

"Yeah," he says, more to himself than to you. "There."

He settles into a rhythm—small, focused circles over your clit that send heat unfurling low in your belly. Every time you gasp, he chases it, refines it, like he’s cataloguing what works and what doesn’t. He alternates pressure, speed, angle, paying attention to every twitch of your hips, every little stutter in your breathing.

"You feel what you’re doing to me?" he mutters, voice rough, the heel of his other hand pressing briefly against your lower back as if to keep you from floating away. "Look at you, falling apart in my lap."

Your head drops to his shoulder, forehead pressed to his neck. It’s too much and somehow still not enough—you grind down against his hand without meaning to, chasing more, chasing the friction he’s giving you and his hardness you can feel against you through his jeans.

The sensation builds, tight and bright, your thighs trembling around him. He slips two fingers easily into the heat of your core, your slick walls greedily enveloping the digits. He murmurs praise against your skin as he curls them inside, words blurring together—that’s it, good, just like that, let me see you—and each one winds you tighter. His touch is firm but responsive, adjusting the instant you flinch, doubling down when you moan. You’re panting now, breath hot against the window.

"Mingyu," you gasp, fists clenched in his shirt. "I—oh my God—"

"Too much?" he mutters, words almost lost against your skin. You try to ride it out, to let him take you over the edge with just his hand, but the need spikes past what he’s giving you.

"It’s not enough," you pant. His answering curse is muffled against your collarbone. His fingers ease out of you, not abandoning but shifting, rolling over your clit. "Okay," he mutters, breathing hard. "Okay. You want more? You’re gonna get it."

You feel him fumble at his belt, his zipper, movements clumsy for the first time since you’ve known him as he frees his cock. He’s not smooth here. Not practised. He’s a little frantic, a little shaky, and somehow that makes it worse—in the best way. You’re dimly aware of the cold air against your core where he pushes your skirt even higher. There’s something obscenely intimate about how much you’re still wearing, how little has to move for everything to change.

He pauses, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours as he rasps out: "Tell me no, and we drive back, and forget this happened." You cup his face in both hands, forcing him to really see you. "I’ve spent so long having things done to me," you say, words tumbling out. "I want this. I’m choosing you."

His eyes close briefly, like the words physically hit him. When he opens them, there’s no distance left. "Okay," he whispers. "I’ve got you." He slowly guides you down onto his cock.

The first push of him inside you drags a shocked sound from your throat, a stretch that borders on too much and somehow not enough. His jaw is clenched, eyes squeezed shut as your walls flutter around him. "Breathe, baby," he grits out. "You’re so—" he breaks off, sucking in air through his teeth.

"I’m okay," you whisper, voice shaky. "Move, Mingyu. Please." He exhales a broken laugh. "You’re gonna end me," he mutters.

He starts slowly, careful, like you’re made of glass and he’s trying not to break you. Each push of his hips lifts you, settles you, finds a new angle that pulls soft sounds from your throat. The steering wheel digs into your back when you lean too far, the horn threatening right under you if you shift wrong. The absurdity of it bubbles up between the moans and curses—you on his lap, half-dressed, hair a mess, windows fogged, in the middle of his land like the whole world has shrunk down to this truck cab and the way you fit together.

You rock with him, following his lead, then finding your own rhythm. His hands help, guiding you down onto his cock after each lift of your hips, coaxing, not forcing. Every time you gasp his name, his grip tightens; every time you bury your face in his neck and bite his shoulder through his shirt, his hips jerk up harder, his breath catching. "That’s it," he groans. "Just like that. You feel that? That’s us, Rookie. That’s you and me."

The words should embarrass you. They don’t. They catch in your chest, lodge there, drive you higher. The heat builds fast, too fast, coiling low in your belly. The world outside the truck disappears; there’s only the frantic creak of the seat as he fucks you, the sting of his stubble on your throat, the salt of his skin under your mouth, the way his voice sounds when your walls grip him deeper. "I—" you start, then lose the sentence on a harsh inhale.

"You close?" he rasps, one hand leaving your hip to slide up your spine, pulling you flush against him. You nod helplessly, forehead pressed to his.

"Look at me," he says. You force your eyes open. His are blown wide, pupils swallowing the warm brown, sweat beading at his temple. He looks wrecked and reverent and a little bit undone.

"Come on, Rookie," he whispers. "Let go for me." You do.

It hits hard, all the tension and fear and want you’ve been carrying snapping at once. You break apart around him, a strangled sound torn from your chest as everything goes white-hot and weightless. He holds you through it, arm banded tight around your waist, forehead pressed to yours, grounding you with little words you barely register.

When you start to come back to yourself, you realize his hips are still moving, slower now, as if he’s trying not to lose it before you’re fully with him. You kiss him—messy and half-formed, all gratitude and need—and that seems to be what finally tips him over the edge. He shudders beneath you, his rhythm faltering, a soft, wrecked curse spilling against your mouth as he follows you over and spills his seed inside of your, grabbing at your hips like he has to hold on to something.

You slump against his chest, forehead tucked under his jaw, arms still looped around his shoulders. His hands rest on your back, large and careful, stroking slowly up and down like he’s not sure how to stop touching you without spooking you. He presses a lazy kiss into your hairline, another under your ear, softer now, almost apologetic. "You okay?" he asks again, voice hoarse but gentler at the edges. You breathe him in and let your weight settle fully on his lap. "Yeah," you whisper, surprising yourself with how true it feels. "I… yeah."

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing for a second, like he’s bracing for you to bolt anyway. You lift your head enough to look at him. He looks wrecked. And beautiful. And very, very real. "You’re still an asshole," you say, because your brain needs somewhere to put all of this. His mouth curves, small but unmistakable. "Yeah," he says quietly. "But I’m your asshole tonight."

Your cheeks heat. You don’t argue.

You just stay there, skirts and denim and skin tangled, letting your breathing sync with his while the truck ticks and cools around you, the night pressing close on all sides and the ranch waiting, somewhere ahead in the dark.

You wake up to the sound of Riley’s snore and the taste of Mingyu still in your mouth.

For a second, you don’t know where you are. All you remember is heat and cramped space and the feel of his hands locked around your hips as the truck windows fogged—Then the bunkhouse ceiling snaps into focus, and shame and want hit you at the same time. You’re in your own bed. In your own clothes. The walk back from the trucks is a blur—you remember him helping you down, smoothing your skirt, both of you suddenly quiet in the way people get when they’ve done something they can’t take back.

You remember him saying, “Get some sleep, Rookie.” Like you hadn’t just come apart in his lap. You roll onto your stomach and groan into your pillow. One-time thing, you tell yourself. It was adrenaline, alcohol, almost getting grabbed, his stupid face, your stupid heart. A storm, that’s all. Storms blow over.

Liar, something in you whispers. You shove that voice down and drag yourself out of bed.

The kitchen in the big house is already busy when you walk in.

Tess is at the stove, flipping pancakes, hair tied up in a messy knot. Hana leans against the counter, scrolling through her phone. Dino is pouring himself orange juice as if it were a life-saving elixir. Seokmin is sitting on the table instead of at it, telling some overdramatic story about Vernon almost driving into a ditch last night. “It was not a ditch,” Vernon protests. “It was a shallow depression.”

“You screamed,” Seokmin says.

“The truck bounced.”

“You grabbed my arm and yelled, ‘tell my mom I loved her, ’” Seokmin insists. Dino chokes on his juice. You slip in, grab a mug and pour coffee.

Everyone looks… normal. Relaxed. No one is staring at you like they know you fogged up Mingyu’s windshield with your body heat. You exhale slowly. Hana bumps her shoulder against yours. “How’s the head?”

“Not as bad as I thought,” you say. “Not sure if that’s a good sign.”

“Rookie handled her liquor,” Riley crows from the doorway, shuffling in with lion’s mane hair and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged under her eyes. “Proud of you.”

“You nearly fought the jukebox,” Tess reminds her. “It skipped Watermelon Crawl,” Riley says. “That’s criminal.”

The kitchen door swings open. Mingyu walks in, hair damp from a quick shower, clean shirt pulled over broad shoulders. His knuckles are bandaged. His gaze sweeps the room once, automatic, count-the-heads, check-the-vibe, then catches on you. You force your face into something neutral and take a heroic sip of coffee.

“Morning,” Tess says. He grunts what might be a greeting.

“How’s your hand?” Dino asks, eyes wide.

“Fine.”

“You really tagged that guy,” Seokmin says, half-admiring. “Never seen so much blood in a bar that wasn’t from Riley’s line dancing.”

“Hey!” Riley protests. Mingyu ignores all of them. He goes for the coffee, passing directly behind you. For half a heartbeat, his arm brushes your back, a barely-there touch through your clothes—but your whole body lights up like someone plugged you into a generator. You grip the mug tighter.

He pours his coffee, moves to the other side of the table, and sits down like nothing is wrong. You try not to stare. You fail. There’s no sign on his face that anything is different. No smirk, no awkward cough, nothing that screams I had you in my lap last night, remember? He looks exactly like he always does at breakfast: tired, focused, somewhere between amused and done with everyone’s shit. You tell yourself that’s good. You tell yourself your chest stinging a little at that realisation is stupid. Normal. It’s all normal. If you pretend hard enough, maybe it’ll feel true.

You move through the day like you’re playing a part. You muck stalls. You help Tess with inventory. You check on Milo, stroke his nose, breathe in the familiar smell of horse and hay and leather until your heartbeat calms. You avoid being alone with Mingyu. You fail at that, too.

In the tack room, you reach for a bridle hanging on the wall at the same moment he does. Your fingers brush over worn leather and then over his knuckles. You both jerk back like you touched a live wire.

Outside, when you’re hauling feed, Vernon tries to grab the heavier sack from you. “Here, Rookie,” he says. “You’ll blow out your back.” Before you can answer, a sharp voice cuts across the yard. “She’s got it,” Mingyu snaps. You and Vernon both look over. Mingyu’s expression is hard, jaw set. He’s leaning against the fence line, clipboard in hand, pretending to check something off. Vernon raises his hands, backing off. “Okay, man,” he says slowly. “Didn’t realise there was a waiting list for sacks.” You lug the feed past him, cheeks hot.

Later, Wonwoo stands a little too close behind you at the workbench, talking you through how to mend a broken latch. It’s innocent—just his hand guiding yours, voices low. Mingyu appears in the doorway like he was summoned by the ghost of jealousy. “Wonwoo,” he barks. “You done with that gate yet?” Wonwoo straightens. “Almost.”

“Then maybe work on the gate instead of crowding the newbie,” Mingyu growls. You bristle. “He’s not crowding me,” you say. Mingyu’s eyes flick to you, something tight and unreadable in them. “You’re supposed to be on feed, Rookie,” he says. “Not tinkering.”

“She’s learning,” Wonwoo points out, frowning.

“She can learn when the work’s done,” Mingyu shoots back. “There’s feed sitting, and last I checked, the cows don’t give a shit about latch theory.”

Tension crackles. Wonwoo’s jaw tightens, but he steps back. “Yes, boss.”

You want to say something cutting. You want to call Mingyu out for acting like a dog who’s just found out he has teeth. For no longer acting like last night didn’t happen, but like he has no idea what to do with it. You don’t. You grab the feed schedule and march out into the yard, muttering curses under your breath, trying to ignore the way every cell in your body is vibrating with awareness of him.

Mingyu can’t sleep.

He sits on the edge of his bed in the big house, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. The room is dark except for the lamp on the dresser, casting long shadows across the floorboards.

He can still feel you. That’s the worst part. Not the split skin on his knuckles when he punched that guy. Not the weight of Seungcheol’s stare in the bar or Mae’s unimpressed glare. Not even the faint ache in his jaw from clenching it all damn day. You. Your weight on his lap. Your hands in his hair. Your voice saying I’m choosing you. He drags his palms down his face. Idiot.

He shouldn’t have lost his temper at the bar. He knows that. He’s not proud of that part—not the blood, not the crunch, not the moment when he wanted to keep hitting long after it was done. It felt too familiar. Too much like a road he’s already walked down—or tried to. He sees flashes of memory he doesn’t usually let himself touch: rain on a windshield, headlights too bright, a laugh in his passenger seat that he will never hear again. Flowers on a grave he avoids like it can hurt him any more than it already has. He’s built this life out here to keep moving. To keep his hands busy enough, his days full enough that there wasn’t room for anything else. Not grief. Not hope. Certainly not you. And yet. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are. The way your face looked when that guy grabbed you—fear and fire, both at once. The way your mouth tasted in the truck. The way you’d said please, like you didn’t know how much power that word had over him.

He’s furious with himself. He’s furious at the part of him that feels… not guilty. Not about you, anyway. He’d expected shame when it was over. Guilt. Maybe something like betrayal, like he’d done something disloyal to a ghost. Instead, there was this gut-deep relief.

And then, afterwards, when you were breathing hard against his neck, and he was holding you—he’d felt something else he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. Want. Not just the sharp, physical kind, though there’d been plenty of that. The quieter kind. The kind that looks like mornings and coffee and your boots next to his by the door. The kind that scared him enough, he almost pushed you off his lap and drove you back to the bunkhouse without another word. He didn’t. He let himself have it. Just once, he told himself. Just this.

He looks at his hands now, flexes his fingers. There are scars on them—rope burns, old cuts, the small, pale mark on his pinky finger where he used to wear something he hasn’t taken out of the drawer in two years. He doesn’t deserve this; he knows it. Not you. Not the way you looked at him in the truck, eyes blown wide, giving him trust you shouldn’t waste on someone who’s already proved he can destroy things he loves just by existing near them. He knows that. He believes it. He also can’t stop thinking about the way you sighed when he touched just right, the way you clung to him like he was something safe instead of something dangerous. He wants that again. He wants you again. Craves it, like a thirst. He presses his thumb into the old pale groove on his finger until it hurts. “Get over yourself,” he mutters.

Maybe he can thread the needle. Maybe he can give in to the wanting without letting it become something bigger. No promises. No future. No lies about forever. You’re a grown woman, not a girl he can wreck with a careless word. You wanted him. You said so. Maybe you want the same thing he does: heat and relief and something that makes the nights less long. He can do that.

He can give you his body and keep everything else locked up where it belongs. He can take yours without touching the parts that hurt. He can keep things simple. No strings. Nothing real. Just sex. Just you. He lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and repeats that until he almost believes it.

You try to stop it before it starts. You fool yourself trying to draw lines—but wanting doesn’t take orders.

Late one night, you’re closing up the barn, last to finish, checking latches and lights. The sky is clear, stars bright. Your body is pleasantly sore. Your head is finally quiet. You turn to leave and find Mingyu leaning against the doorframe. “You missed a light,” he says, nodding toward the far stall. “I was getting to it,” you lie.

He grunts, pushes off the frame, and crosses the distance in a few long strides. You tense, expecting an inspection, a lecture about routines and safety. Instead, his hand catches your wrist. Not hard. Not like the stranger’s. Just enough to stop you. “We’re okay?” he asks quietly, eyes searching your face. “You’re not… scared of me now?”

“If I was scared of you, I wouldn’t have climbed into your lap,” you say before you can think better of it. His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

Silence stretches between you. You can taste the memory of his mouth. You can feel the ghost of his hands. Your body leans toward him like it remembers before your brain catches up. You shouldn’t. You do. You step into him.

The kiss feels inevitable. It’s different from the truck. Less frantic. Less jagged. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as if he can’t quite believe you’re here, letting him do this again.

It’s like the floodgates open after that.

A brush of fingers in the tack room when no one else is around, your hands meeting on the same bottle of liniment and staying tangled a beat too long. You slipping into the shadowed part of the barn during a lull and finding him already there, leaning against a stall, arms open like an invitation. His mouth on yours, pressed up against the cool of the wood, his hand cupping the back of your neck, your fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, both of you pulling away only when someone calls your name from the yard. You start to recognise the creak of the big house’s back stairs at midnight. You lie awake in the bunkhouse, listening to your roommates’ breathing settle, heart pounding in your throat. When you’re sure they’re out, you ease off your bunk, pull on a hoodie over your sleep shirt, and slip outside. The air is cold. The stars are bright. The big house looms a little darker at this hour. You almost turn back.

Then the back door opens without a sound. He’s there. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair mussed, eyes watching you. “You shouldn’t be sneaking around like this,” you whisper as he lets you in.

“You’re the one sneaking,” he murmurs, bracing one hand on the wall beside your head, caging you in. “I’m just answering the door.”

In his room, the walls remember him—work shirts on the back of a chair, dusty boots lined up by the door, the faint smell of leather and detergent. The bed is too neatly made, like he doesn’t sleep much in it. You forget about that once he pushes you down on it.

The nights are a blur of heat and whispers, of his mouth mapping your skin, your fingers drawing new constellations on his back. Sometimes it’s quick and rough, the kind of relief that leaves you limp and laughing into his shoulder. Sometimes it’s slow enough that it almost scares you, the way he looks at you like he’s seeing something he doesn’t think he has any right to touch.

You never stay until morning. You always slip out while the stars are still high, padding back to the bunkhouse on bare feet, heart thudding, telling yourself this is nothing. No strings. Just chemistry. Just two people taking what they can, while they can. You almost believe it.

But then, a calf gets sick. She’s too small, all knobby knees and big eyes, breathing too fast in the straw. You and Tess have been taking turns checking on her for hours, warming milk, coaxing her to drink, rubbing her sides to keep her circulation up. By the time it’s close to midnight, Tess is swaying on her feet. “Go,” you tell her. “I’ll stay a little longer.”

“You sure?” You nod. “You’ve been at this longer than I have. I’ll call if she does anything weird.”

Tess hesitates, then squeezes your shoulder. “Text if you need me,” she says. “She’s a fighter. Like her babysitter.” When she’s gone, the barn feels bigger. Quieter. You sit in the straw beside the calf’s pen, hoodie pulled tight around you, listening to her breathing, petting her soft, stupid head.

“You’re gonna be fine,” you murmur. “You have any idea how much trouble you’re causing?” She blinks at you. You smile, tired. You don’t hear the footsteps at first. “Rookie?” His voice is low, softer than usual, threading through the dim. You look up. Mingyu is in the doorway, shoulders filling the frame even in shadow. He’s in a dark sweatshirt and jeans, hair mussed, eyes tired. You stand too fast, straw sticking to your knees. “You scared her,” you whisper, nodding at the calf.

“I scared you,” he counters. You shrug, heart jittering. “What are you doing here?” He steps in, letting the door swing shut behind him. The barn light overhead hums, casting everything in a warm, muted glow. “Tess said you stayed,” he says. “You shouldn’t be out here alone this late.” You roll your eyes. “What, is the calf gonna mug me?”

He doesn’t smile. He crouches by the pen, big hand reaching through the slats to rest on the calf’s side. His touch is gentle. The calf huffs, but doesn’t shy away. “How’s she doing?” he asks.

“Better than earlier,” you say. “Her breathing’s slowing down. She finally took the bottle just before Tess left.” He nods, watching the rise and fall of her small ribs. “You did good,” he says quietly. Something in your chest loosens. You sink back down beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his. For a minute, it’s just the three of you in the soft, straw-scented quiet.

“You didn’t have to come check,” you say after a while. He huffs. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway.” You don’t ask why.

Silence settles again, thicker now. You’re too aware of the way his thigh is a few inches from yours, of how the barn seems to have shrunk around you. You glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Something passes between you—unspoken, familiar, heavier every time you let it. You swallow. “This is nothing, right?” you blurt. His jaw tightens. “Is that what you want it to be?” he asks, voice slow. You should say yes. You should say absolutely. You look at his mouth instead. “It’s what it has to be,” you say, which is not the same. His eyes close for a second. When he opens them again, there’s a decision to be made. “Then that’s what it is,” he says quietly. “Nothing.” He reaches out, thumb brushing a piece of straw from your hair, touch lingering at your temple. “Come here,” he murmurs. You go. He kisses you there in the straw, beside a half-sleeping calf. It starts soft—his mouth a slow question, his hand cradling the back of your head—but it doesn’t stay that way. It never does.

You swing a leg over his lap as his hands find your hips, thumbs pressing just hard enough to make you shiver. The kiss deepens—heat rising, breaths tangling, the world narrowing to the press of his chest against yours and the way your heartbeat kicks when he nips at your bottom lip.

“Door’s locked?” he asks against your mouth. You nod, already breathless. “I locked it when Tess left,” you whisper.

“Good girl,” he says. You don’t know how he keeps making that sound like praise and not a joke.

His hands slide up under your hoodie, palms spanning your waist, fingers tracing the familiar path along your ribs. You arch into him, chasing every brush of his skin on yours. Outside, the wind bumps against the barn walls. Inside, all the noise is you and him. He slows you down. That’s the main difference tonight. In the truck, everything felt like a landslide. Now, he treats you like you have all the time in the world, even though you both know you don’t. His mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, to your neck, to the hollow of your throat, tasting, marking, worshipping.

Clothes shift. Not all the way off—too cold, too exposed—but enough. Your hoodie bunched around your ribs, his sweatshirt pushed up, his jeans undone, your leggings tugged down. The contrast of covered and bare feels weirdly more intimate than full nakedness would.

He turns you gently. You let him, trusting the way he guides you like you trust his hands on the reins. He eases you forward until you’re braced against the smooth, worn top rail of the pen, the calf snuffling curiously a few feet away. Your fingers curl around the bars, knuckles white. Behind you, his body is a wall of heat along every inch of your back, chest hovering just off your spine. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles into the dip of your lower back. “If you want to stop, you say it,” he murmurs, leaning in so his chest ghosts your spine. “Any time. I mean it, Rookie.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “I know,” you whisper.

“Look at me,” he says. You blink, confused. He shifts, one hand leaving your hip. You feel him bend, reach, then he’s angling you a little, guiding your chin with one broad hand. There’s a smooth metal panel set into the stall gate—something reflective enough that, in the barn light, you can see a hazy version of yourselves: your flushed face, his broad shoulders behind you, his eyes locked on yours. “Here,” he says, voice low. “Keep your eyes on me.”

The barn disappears. The calf does too. There’s only the reflection—the two of you folded together, your breaths fogging the metal, his gaze steady and intent on your face as he settles behind you. You feel the head of his cock nudge at your entrance, slow and careful, one hand steady on your hip. When he finally pushes into you, your breath catches, fingers biting into the rail. The stretch has you gasping, your eyes wide with surprise. His grip on your hips tightens. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

He stays there for a beat, letting you adjust, forehead close to the side of your head so in the warped shine you can see his expression—jaw tight, eyes dark, fighting for control. You inhale, exhale, easing back into him.

Only then does he start to move. Every slow roll of his hips is deliberate, unhurried, angled just right so that each glide hits that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle. His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening there as he pulls you back into him, keeping you upright. He presses his mouth to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, dropping an endless line of kisses on every inch of exposed skin he can reach—soft, reverent little touches that contrast with the deep, steady push of his thrusts.

“Say my name,” he whispers, breath hot against your jaw. You do. “Mingyu.” He shudders. “Again.” You obey, his name breaking a little more each time as heat builds low and heavy in your gut. In the reflection, you can see how wrecked you look—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes blown wide and fixed on his. It’s slower tonight, but no less intense. If anything, the pace makes it worse—in the best way—drawing everything out until you’re half-sobbing against your own knuckles on the rail, your body arching back into him, your reflection so clearly wanting him that it scares you a little. He watches your face, not looking away even when his own expression twists, even when his control frays. His free hand leaves your stomach, sliding lower, fingers tracing over your thigh before slipping between your legs. You suck in a breath as his fingertips find your clit, stroking you in small, sure circles that match the rhythm of his hips. The added pressure makes your vision blur.

“I want to see you come,” he murmurs in your ear, voice rough. “Right here. With me.” It’s too much. It’s exactly enough. You fall apart with your eyes on his in the metal, your walls clenching around him, sound caught in your throat. The world narrows to the feel of his arm banded around your waist, his hand working you through it, his voice rough in your ear, saying that’s it, I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you as you come undone. He doesn’t last much longer. Maybe it’s the look on your face in the reflection. Maybe it’s your voice saying his name like a prayer, dragging him over the edge with you. He buries his face in your neck when he comes, breath stuttering, a low, unguarded sound tearing out of him that you’re pretty sure no one else has ever heard.

Slowly, he eases away, careful even now. You tug your clothes back into place with shaking fingers, suddenly aware of the chill again. He turns you gently, big hands framing your face, tilting your chin up. You expect a joke. You expect distance. Instead, he kisses you. Soft. Chaste, almost, compared to everything that just happened. It feels like the most intimate part of the whole night. “You okay?” he asks quietly. You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.” His thumb brushes your lower lip.

“This is still nothing,” he says softly, like he’s trying to convince both of you. “Right?” You swallow, the word tasting like a lie before you even say it. “Right,” you whisper. He searches your face for a long heartbeat, then nods once, stepping back. “Go get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll sit with her for a bit.”

You look at the calf, then back at him. You want to stay. You want to curl up in the straw with both of them and watch his face in the barn light until morning. You don’t. You force your feet toward the door, every step a quiet ache. You shove your hands in your pockets and start the walk back to the bunkhouse, heart full and hollow at the same time. This is nothing, you tell yourself. No strings. No promises. Just sex in trucks and barns and midnight rooms. But as you glance back and see the soft glow of the barn light with him still inside, everything in you knows the truth you’re not ready to name: You’re already tangled.

You feel the weather turn in your bones before you see it.

All afternoon, the sky sits low and heavy over Longview, clouds stacked bruise-dark over the mountains, wind coming in sharp, restless gusts. Horses are jumpy. The dogs pace. Even the air tastes metallic, like the world is holding its breath. “Radar looks bad,” Seungcheol says at dinner, phone in hand, frowning at a weather app that never quite matches reality out here. “Storm line’s shifting south. We’re gonna get the worst of it.”

"Could use the rain,” Tess mutters. Mingyu just nods, jaw clenched. “Check the low spots on the fence before dark,” he says. “Move the herd closer in. I don’t want them anywhere near the ravine if it blows through hard.” You volunteer to help without thinking. He looks at you for half a second too long. “You and the girls secure the barn,” he says instead. “Tarp the feed. Make sure nothing’s gonna blow loose.” You bite back the urge to argue. This is not the time. You do as you’re told: hauling tarps, double-tying knots with Tess, securing loose tools while Hana calms horses and Riley curses at the wind trying to peel the hat off her head.

By the time you’re done, the first thunder rolls across the hills, low and distant. You wedge the barn door shut and feel it in your ribs.

The storm hits in the middle of the night. You jerk awake to a crack so loud it feels like the sky splits open right over the bunkhouse. Rain hammers the roof. Lightning flashes under the curtain, turning the room white for a heartbeat. “Shit,” Riley mutters under you. “That was close.”

Then, faint but unmistakable under the roar of rain, comes the sound that makes everyone on a ranch move: Yelling.

You throw your legs over the side of the bunk, boots already within reach because you’ve learned. Hana is doing the same. Tess is halfway to the door in a t-shirt and jeans, braiding her hair as she goes. “Fence?” she says, voice sharp. “Fence,” Hana confirms.

You grab your jacket, shove your arms through damp sleeves, and run. The world outside is chaos. Rain slashes sideways, stinging your face. Thunder rolls so close it shakes the ground. In the sudden bursts of lightning you see silhouettes moving fast—men swearing, horses skittering, the big yard flooding with water.

“Rookie!” You turn toward the shout. Mingyu stands by the barn, hat gone, hair plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off his jaw. Behind him, Seungcheol and Seokmin are already saddling horses, hands moving quick and efficient despite the storm. “Section of the north fence is down,” he yells over the wind. “Cows are pushing toward the ridge.” Your stomach drops. The ridge means bad footing, broken ground, a creek that can swell into a death trap in a storm like this. “What do you need?” you shout back.

Lightning splits the sky, turning everything stark and bright. For a second you see the herd in the distance—a dark mass against the flashes, moving in the wrong direction. Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. “You’re staying here,” he says. “Help Tess and Hana keep the barn secure. Coordinate on the radios. We’ll bring them in.”

"Like hell,” you shout. He stares at you, rain running down his face, eyes fierce. “Your riding’s not there yet,” he snaps. “I am not fishing you out of a ravine tonight.” Rage and fear slam together in your chest. “I’m not asking you to fish me out,” you fire back. “I’m asking you to let me help. I can ride enough to be useful. I know the land better now. You said I pull my weight—let me prove it when it actually matters.”

Seokmin appears at Mingyu’s shoulder, cinching his saddle tight. “She’s not wrong,” he yells. “We’re short bodies. If we don’t turn them fast, they’re gone.” Seungcheol swings up into his saddle, scanning the dark. “Give her a mount you trust,” he calls. “Keep her with you. We don’t have time to argue.” Mingyu looks like he wants to fight all three of you and the sky at once. Lightning flashes again. You see the decision happen in his face. He swears, low and vicious. “Fine,” he bites out. “You don’t leave my side. You don’t try to be a hero. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. You understand me, Rookie?” Your heart is pounding, but your voice is steady. “Yes.” He points at you, eyes blazing. “Say it.”

"I’ll do what you say,” you repeat. It tastes like surrender. It feels like trust. He yanks Milo’s saddle off a rack and throws it on with a speed that would make your trainer-self faint. Minutes later you’re in the yard, foot in the stirrup, rain soaking you through as you swing up. Milo snorts, shifting under you. “Easy, boy,” you murmur. Your voice shakes. You settle anyway. Mingyu is already mounted, larger horse dancing sideways a little at a flash of lightning. He brings his gelding close, leans in. “If at any point you feel out of control, you yell for me,” he says, low and fierce. “I don’t care where we are. You yell. Got it?” You nod, throat tight. He looks like he wants to say more. Instead, he just clicks his tongue and kicks his horse into motion. You follow.

The world beyond the barn is a different planet. Wind claws at you, trying to peel you out of the saddle. Rain stings your eyes, blurring everything beyond a dozen yards. The ground is turning to soup under Milo’s hooves; each step requires more balance, more trust. Mingyu leads, Seokmin close on his right, Seungcheol veering off toward the south side of the pasture, shouting orders into the radio clipped to his vest. “Get Vernon and Wonwoo on the east flank,” he yells. “Dino with me. Keep ’em off the creek!” Your adrenaline spikes. But as you ride, the lessons kick in. Sit deep. Don’t choke the horn. Let your knees be soft. Look where you’re going, not where you’re afraid you’ll fall. You focus on Milo’s movement under you, on keeping your heels down, your body in the centre, your breaths timed with his strides.

The herd is a dark, shifting mass ahead, bunched near the broken fence. A section of posts has splintered under the force of the wind or a fallen branch; wire dangles useless. Beyond, lightning illuminates the uneven rise of the land, the faint gleam where the creek is already swelling.

The cattle are panicked. You can hear it in their lowing, see it in the way they crowd together, some already drifting toward the slope.

Mingyu’s voice cuts through the storm. “We push them back to the inner paddock,” he shouts. “Keep them away from the low ground. Don’t chase—pressure and release. Use your bodies, your voices. Don’t rush them into a stampede.” Seokmin whoops, half to pump himself up, half to cut through the noise. “You hear the man! Let’s go!” You fan out.

You end up on the left flank, a little behind Mingyu, Milo’s ears pricked forward, your heart in your throat. You’ve done smaller pushes before, in daylight, on dry ground. This is another animal entirely.

A clap of thunder hits right overhead. Milo flinches. So do you. You almost lose a rein, fingers slick with rain. Then you hear Mingyu. “Breathe, Rookie!” he yells. “Talk to him!”

You suck in air. “You’re okay,” you tell Milo, voice wobbling. “We’re okay. Easy.” You loosen your death grip on the reins a fraction, letting your seat and legs speak more. Milo snorts, but he steadies, picking his way forward as you angle him toward the edge of the herd. The cattle move in a single file, rippling away from your approach. You keep your eyes up, watching where you want them to go, not the jagged rocks you’re afraid of. Lightning throws the world into stark relief. You see, clear as a photograph, several cows nosing toward the top of the slope, where the mud is already starting to slough away. “Left side!” you shout, voice cracking. “They’re going for the ridge!”

"Take ’em!” Mingyu bellows. “You’ve got it!” You don’t have time to question him. You put your leg on, angle Milo between the cows and the drop. Your pulse roars in your ears. You shout, wave your arm, make yourself big, the way Mingyu taught you. The nearest cow tosses her head, eyes rolling white. For a second, she looks like she’s going right over the edge anyway. You push a little closer. “Hey!” you yell into the wind. “Move it, come on, go, go!” Milo feels your intent and shifts with you, cutting off the path just enough that the cow snorts, turns, shoves back into the herd instead of into the dark. It works.

You barely have time to feel it. The ground gives a little under Milo’s hind feet as a wave of muddy water surges down from the slope, carving a new rivulet. He slips. The world tilts. For one insane, endless stretch of time you’re weightless, your body sliding sideways out of the saddle, nothing beneath your left leg, your boot scraping out of the stirrup. You grab for the horn and miss. The scream sticks in your throat. A hand clamps around the back of your jacket and your belt in the same instant. A flash of powerful muscle under you, a second horse right up against Milo’s side. You’re yanked upright with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you. Mingyu. He’s so close his knee is almost under your thigh, his horse jammed right against Milo to give you something solid to crush into.

“I told you not to try to die in front of me,” he snarls, breath hot against your ear—even through the rain. You cling to the horn, chest heaving.

“I—I’m good,” you manage, even though your heart is beating like a trapped bird. He doesn’t let go of your jacket until he feels you sit back, heels finding the stirrups again. His hand lingers one second longer than necessary at your waist, a silent I’ve got you, you don’t have time to unpack. Then he pulls his horse away, running back to bark orders at Dino, who’s chasing a small group veering toward the creek.

For a moment, everything blurs. Rain. Noise. Cattle. You lose track of where everyone is, of which direction the house lies, of anything beyond the next step, the next shout, the next animal you need to keep from sliding into danger. This is where all those drills matter.

At some point the herd splits—Seungcheol whistles and drives a dozen toward the lower paddock, Seokmin and Vernon cutting them off at the gate. Wonwoo and Dino peel away to deal with another pocket. A knot of six or seven cows bolts left, away from the main mass, toward a rocky outcropping and a tangle of scrub. Mingyu is on the far side, trying to turn the bulk of the herd. There’s no time to wait. You veer after the strays. “Rookie!” someone shouts behind you. You don’t check who. You breathe, sink deeper into the saddle, and push Milo into a trot.

The ground is bad here—uneven, studded with rocks—but Milo is sure-footed. You give him his head, guiding but not fighting, keeping yourself centred while he does the work. The cows barrel toward the rocks. You angle wide, then cut in at an angle, blocking the path to the worst of it. Your voice comes out hoarse but loud over the thunder. “Hup! Move it! Turn!” You wave your arm, make noise, use every trick Mingyu and Seokmin have hammered into you over the past weeks.

For a terrifying second, they ignore you. Then the leader baulks at a flash of lightning on the slick stone, swings her head, and shoves back toward the open pasture. The others follow. You chase them, keeping yourself between them and the bad ground, pushing on the side, releasing when they pick the right direction. It’s messy and far from textbook, but it works. By the time you manage to shove them back toward the others, your legs are shaking, your teeth chattering, your throat raw from yelling.

Mingyu appears out of the rain, driving another group in. He sees you. Sees the cows you’ve brought back. You catch the flicker of surprise, then something like pride, before his face hardens back into business. “Gate!” he bellows. “Open the damn gate!” Hana and Tess haul it wide on the inner paddock as the herd finally surges through, hooves churning mud, bodies jostling. One by one, in ones and twos, they come in. It takes hours. Or it feels like it.

By dawn, the storm is staggering away across the plains, muttering thunder like an afterthought. You’re soaked to the skin, mud up to your knees, fingers pruned and raw. Your muscles shake every time Milo stands still for more than a minute. The herd is clustered in the inner paddock—wet, miserable, but alive. You help with the final count, moving through the fog of your own exhaustion as Seungcheol ticks numbers off on his clipboard, double-checking tags. “We missing any?” Vernon croaks, voice shredded. Seungcheol squints at the list, then at the cattle. “Just the steer that busted his leg last week,” he says. “Everyone else is here.”

Relief sweeps the yard. Someone whoops. Someone else laughs hysterically. Riley leans against a fence post and slides down it, sitting in the mud, utterly unbothered. “We did it,” she says, giddy. “Holy shit. We actually did it.” You lower yourself out the saddle and pat Milo’s neck, whispering thanks into his damp mane. He nickers, blowing warm air over your frozen hand.

“Hot showers, now,” Tess declares. “If any of you track this mud into my kitchen, I swear to God—” Her threat dies as she looks around at all of you, bedraggled and shivering and grinning like lunatics. Her mouth softens. “You did good, kids,” she says quietly. Hana limps over and bumps your shoulder with hers. “You look like hell,” she says fondly.

“You smell like it,” you shoot back. Riley flings an arm around your neck from behind. “You were amazing,” she crows. “Dino said he saw you cutting off those strays like you were in a movie.”

You flush. “I almost ate dirt,” you admit. “You didn’t,” Seokmin says, leading his horse past. “That’s what counts.”

You feel Mingyu before you see him. He walks up leading his gelding, hair dripping, shoulders heavy with a fatigue that goes deeper than the night. His gaze runs over the herd, the fences, the mud, the people. Then it lands on you. You brace for a lecture. For I told you not to go left, or you almost fell, or don’t ever break formation like that again. What you get instead is a short, rough nod. “Good work,” he says. “You kept those cows off the rocks.” The simple praise hits harder than half the thunder tonight. You blink. “I—thanks,” you manage. He grunts.

“Rookie can ride in a storm now,” Seungcheol adds, lips quirking. “I’ll stop telling Evie you’re our liability.”

"You told Evie I’m a liability?” you yelp. He smirks. “She called back-up insurance yesterday. She’s been worried about you.”

Evie, who has just arrived in rain boots and a borrowed coat from Hana, smacks him in the arm. “You say that like I’m the only one with a heart,” she says. Mae shows up a little later with coffee in thermoses and a box of day-old pastries from the bakery, shoved into Seokmin’s hands with a muttered, “Nora said you’d all look like drowned rats. She wasn’t wrong.”

You all crowd under the eaves of the big house, steam rising off your clothes as you peel off jackets and accept mugs. There’s laughter, and groaning, and the kind of quiet you only get when everyone in the room just did something hard together and came out the other side. You sit on the step, fingers wrapped around hot metal, watching the herd huddle against the wind. Home, a treacherous little voice whispers. Not a stop. Not a hiding place. Home. You don’t shush it.

Later, showered and in dry clothes, you slip into the small office off the kitchen. The storm knocked out the internet and half the cell reception, but the sat phone sits in its cradle, steady and alien among the ranch clutter. It’s usually for emergencies—vet calls, weather updates, real disasters. Your hand shakes as you pick it up. This is an emergency of a different kind. You punch in a number from memory you wish you didn’t have. It clicks, hums, connects. Your lawyer’s voicemail picks up first—urban background noise faint in the distance. On the second attempt, she actually answers, sounding surprised. “Hello?” You take a breath.

“Hi. It’s me.” You say your name quietly, the one no one here really uses. “I’m… I’m okay.” That feels important to say. “I’m somewhere safe.”

You glance out the office window. Through the glass, you can see the yard: the muddy tracks, the patched fence, the faint figures of Seungcheol and Mingyu checking the lines again just to be sure.

“I want to move forward,” you say into the phone. “With the divorce. Whatever we have to do to finalise it. I’m working now. I have a place to stay. I can sign whatever you need, send whatever you need.”

There’s a pause. “Are you sure?” she asks gently. Once, that question would’ve made you crumble. Now you think of the storm. Of Milo under you, steady. Of your hands not letting go. Of Mingyu’s shout and grip and grudging good work. Of how it felt to count yourself as part of we when Riley said we did it. “I’m sure,” you say. She doesn’t ask where you are. You’re grateful. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll move things along. There may be… resistance on his side. But if this is what you want, we’ll push for it.”

Fear curls in your gut at the mention of him. But for the first time, it’s threaded with something else. Resolve. “It is,” you say. “I don’t want to run anymore. I just… I want it to be over.” She promises next steps. Paperwork. Timelines. Things you barely absorb. When you hang up, the office is very quiet. You set the sat phone back in its cradle, fingers lingering on the plastic.

Outside, the sky is clearing in streaks of pale blue between torn clouds. The mountains gleam, washed clean. In the paddock, the herd shifts and settles, steam rising from their backs in the cold morning air. Mingyu crosses the yard below your window, head tilted back, scanning the fence line. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s waiting for the next disaster. Just… taking stock. You could leave, you think. You could take the bus back to nowhere, papers in hand, name still the same but unbound. Instead, you rest your palm flat against the cool glass, fingers splayed, as if you can feel the mud and wood and sky through it. You don’t know how long you’ll get here. You don’t know what will happen when the past catches up.

But for the first time, you’re not only thinking about surviving. You’re thinking about staying.

The sat phone rings in the middle of the afternoon.

You’re halfway through mucking stalls when Seungcheol’s voice cuts across the yard. “Rookie!” You look up, shovel mid-swing. He’s standing on the porch, shoulder braced against the post, the chunky phone in his hand. “It’s for you,” he calls. “City number.”

Your heart drops straight into your boots. You wipe your hands on your jeans, pass the shovel to Hana with a muttered “Sorry, two seconds,” and cross the yard, every step feeling too loud. The phone looks wrong here—ugly plastic, stubby antenna, all hard edges in a world of wood and dust and sun. You take it from Seungcheol carefully, like it might bite.

“You okay?” he asks, brow creasing. “Yeah,” you lie. “Probably just… family stuff.” He nods, not prying. “You can take it inside if you need privacy,” he says. “Signal’s better in the office anyway.” You swallow. “Thanks.”

You slip down the hall, heart banging, and duck into the small office. You close the door most of the way, leaving it just shy of latched, needing the illusion of air. You lift the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

"Hi,” your lawyer’s voice says, tinny but familiar. “It’s me. You okay to talk?” You exhale, sinking onto the edge of the desk chair. “Yeah.” Not really. “What’s going on?” Papers rustle on her end. “We’ve filed,” she says. “The petition’s in. The judge signed off on temporary orders. He’ll be formally served within the week.” The words make your throat close. Served. You picture your husband’s face—surprise, then anger, then that flat, dangerous calm that always came right before… You grip the phone tighter. “What does that mean for me?” you ask.

“It means the clock’s ticking,” she says. “If he doesn’t contest, this can move relatively fast. If he fights, it’ll take longer. But either way, the process has started. You’re not stuck in limbo anymore.”

You stare at the wall. The phrase not stuck feels almost as unreal as the storm did the night before. “Will he know where I am?”

"No,” she says firmly. “Everything’s going through my office. The orders specify no contact. If he tries to find you, we’ll deal with it. But I can’t pretend there’s zero risk. You knew that when you left.”

You nod even though she can’t see you. “I know,” you whisper. “I just… I want it over. I want to sign whatever I have to sign and be done being his wife.” The word wife tastes sour. “You’re doing the right thing,” she says. “You got out. You’re building something new. That’s not nothing."

“I’m working on a ranch,” you say, a little dazed. “I’m actually… okay. Mostly.” She laughs softly. “You sound different,” she says. “Stronger. Hold on to that. I’ll call when I know his response.” You hang up with your heart in your throat and relief and terror knotted tight in your chest. You’re still staring at the dark screen when the floorboard outside the office creaks. You look up. Mingyu stands in the gap. His expression is… blank. That’s worse than anger. “How long have you been there?” you ask, voice too quiet. He doesn’t answer that. “‘Done being his wife,’?” he says instead, quoting you back to yourself. "That’s what you said?”

Your blood runs cold. He pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps inside. The office feels smaller instantly. “How much did you hear?” you manage.

“Enough to know you left out a pretty important piece of your story.”

You set the sat phone down very carefully, like if you moved too fast, everything would shatter. “I was going to tell you,” you say.

He laughs once, but there’s no humour. “When?” he asks. “Before or after the divorce went through?” You flinch. “It’s complicated.”

"No,” he snaps, taking another step closer. “It’s pretty simple. You’re married.” Silence rings between you. “Technically,” you say, hating how weak it sounds. “On paper. I left him. I’m getting out. You heard that much.” He braces his hands on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “Did you think that didn’t matter?” he demands. “Did you think I wouldn’t care that the woman I’ve been—” he cuts himself off, chest heaving. “That you still belong to someone else? Legally. Practically.”

"I don’t belong to him,” you spit. “I haven’t in a long time.”

"Except you do,” he fires back. “In every way that counts with the law. You signed those papers. You wore the ring. You knew exactly what you were when you climbed into my truck.” Your vision blurs.

“You want to talk about what I knew?” you say, voice shaking. “I knew I was running for my life. I knew if I didn’t leave that night, I might not get another chance. I knew I had to get far enough away that he couldn’t find me. I did not know I’d end up here, or that I’d be in your lap, or that—" your voice cracks; you swallow it down. “I’m trying to fix it.” He hears none of that. Or he refuses to. “You had plenty of chances to tell me,” he says. “Plenty of nights sneaking into my room. Plenty of mornings riding next to me. You could’ve said, ‘Hey, by the way, I’m still somebody else’s wife.’” You wince. The word wife cuts hearing it from his mouth. “I was scared,” you say. “Of him. Of losing this. Of how you’d look at me if you knew.”

"Like this?” he asks, voice dangerously soft. He talks about the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re a stranger, like you’re a bad call on a long list of bad calls. “I didn’t lie,” you whisper. “I just… didn’t tell you everything yet.” He snorts. “That’s not the defence you think it is.”

You feel something in you snap. “You are not seriously turning this into a morality play,” you say, anger finally finding you. “You, mister ‘no strings,’ mister ‘this is nothing.’” His eyes flash. “This is different.”

"How?” He straightens away from the desk, closing the remaining distance between you. You can feel his anger like heat. “Because I started to trust you,” he growls. “I started to—” he stops, teeth clenched.

You don’t breathe. “To what?” He shakes his head, jaw working. “Doesn’t matter.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve kept it where it was meant to stay. A distraction. A body. Something I could walk away from.” You flinch like he struck you. “Wow,” you say. “Glad to know what I am to you.”

"You’re someone else’s wife,” he spits, the cruelty landing before he can stop it. “And I’m the idiot fucking her.” The words suck the air out of the room. You stare at him, mouth open. For a second, he looks like he wants to take them back. He doesn’t. You swallow hard. “Don’t you dare reduce me to that,” you whisper. “What am I supposed to call it?” he throws back. “Because that’s what it is. That’s what we’ve been doing. That’s what I’ve been doing. Another bad decision I get to live with.” Your heart lurches. “Another?” you echo. His jaw tightens. “Forget it.”

"No,” you say, voice sharpening. “You don’t get to throw that out there and then act like I’m the only one with a past.” He looks away, muscles tense. You step around the desk, refusing to let him retreat. “You want to talk about trust?” you demand. “You never talk about your past. You never talk about anything real. You hide behind orders and grunts and ‘heels down, Rookie.’ You have a whole graveyard behind your eyes, and you won’t even let anyone know where it is.” His gaze snaps back to you, wounded and furious. “You’re deflecting,” he says. “Classic.”

"I’m asking why my papers matter more than whatever ghost you’re clinging to,” you shoot back. “Because that’s what this is, right? You’re pissed I didn’t give you the full horror story on day one, and also pissed because you started feeling something you promised yourself you wouldn’t. So now you get to shove me into the ‘bad choice’ box and retreat into your martyr kingdom.” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

"So tell me,” you push. Silence. You think he’s going to walk out, slam the door, disappear. Instead, he laughs. It’s a terrible sound. “Fine,” he says. “You want the truth? You want context instead of excuses?” Your spine stiffens. He looks right at you, eyes suddenly very, very old. “I was engaged once,” he says. “We were together since high school. She was… it. Knew me when I had nothing. When I was a mess. When all this—” he gestures vaguely, taking in the office, the ranch beyond the window, “—was a fantasy and a thrift-store magazine.”

Your chest tightens. He goes on like you haven’t made a sound. “We fought,” he says. “About the usual shit. Money. Time. How much of me the ranch was taking, how much of her job was taking. She wanted me home more. I told her I was building something for us. She said she didn’t care about land; she cared about me not being a ghost in my own house.”

His throat works. “She walked out,” he says. “Got in the truck. Said she was going to her sister’s. I followed. It was raining. I was angry. I pushed too hard on a turn, and there was gravel and…” his hand makes a helpless skidding motion. “We went off the road.” Your heart stops. “Mingyu,” you whisper. He doesn’t look at you. “I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken arm,” he says. “She didn’t wake up at all.”

The room swims. “You were driving,” you manage. He finally looks at you. “I killed her,” he says flatly. “I put the ring on her finger and then put her in the ground. That’s what I live with. That’s the ‘context’ you didn’t have.”

Your breath comes short and shallow. You should say you’re sorry. You should say it wasn’t his fault, that accidents are accidents.

Instead, something mean and hurtful in you speaks first. “So what?” you snap. “You decided you don’t get to be happy ever again? That you don’t get to want anything? That you’re cursed, so the rest of us have to live with the fallout of your martyr complex?”

His face goes white. “Don’t,” he warns. You don’t stop.

“You think clinging to her makes you loyal,” you say, words spilling now, sharp and unstoppable. “But all it does is give you an excuse. An excuse not to try. Not to risk. Not to actually show up. You get to punish yourself forever and call it grief.” He stares at you like he doesn’t recognise you. You’re not sure you recognise yourself either. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something,” you go on, voice rising. “You think I liked walking out of my life? You think I don’t wake up wondering if he’s found me yet? But I still got on that horse in a storm. I still picked up that phone. I’m trying. You’re just hiding.” He flinches, then bares his teeth. “At least I admit what I did,” he says. “You can’t even say his name.”

"He doesn’t deserve it,” you spit.

“He doesn’t deserve what you’re doing with me either,” he bites back, instantly regretting it and saying it anyway. “Maybe he had a point if this is how you treat commitments.” The words slam into harder than any of your husband’s fists ever did. You feel them in every old bruise. “Fuck you,” you whisper. His jaw locks, horror flickering in his eyes at himself. You don’t wait for him to take it back. “You know what?” you say, voice shaking. “You’re right. I made a mistake. Not in leaving him. In thinking you were anything safe. In thinking your ‘I’ve got you’ meant anything outside an arena.” He stares at you, breathing hard. You move toward the door.

“You’re not some tragic hero, Mingyu,” you say, hand on the knob. “You’re a coward with a saddle and a saviour complex. And I refuse to be something you can punish yourself with.” You walk out before you can see how the words land. The kitchen is a blur of sound and light as you pass through. You push out into the yard, into the cold air, blinking hard until the big house and the barn smear. You make it to the bunkhouse before you start crying. You slam the door harder than you mean to. Hana looks up from her book. Riley pauses mid-scroll on her phone. Tess lifts her eyes from the crossword.

You stand there, shaking, jacket half off, cheeks hot and wet, and you don’t even remember when you started. “Okay,” Tess says, setting the paper aside. “Who do I have to kill?” That almost makes you laugh. You don’t. You collapse onto your bunk instead, burying your face in your hands. Hana is there in a second, perching on the edge of the mattress, hand rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Riley flops down by your feet, chin on your shin, eyes wide and unexpectedly gentle.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “Hey, Rookie. Breathe.” You choke out some mangled version of the story. Not all of it. You can’t. But enough. Paperwork. Husband. Overheard. Mingyu. The words. The fight. “He called you what?” Riley demands, eyes flashing. “An idiot,” you say hoarsely, editing, because actually repeating someone else’s wife feels like letting it carve into you again. “A bad decision.” Tess’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Well, then he’s a bigger one,” she says. “Man’s head is so far up his own guilt he can’t see daylight.” Hana nods, jaw tight. “He’ll regret it,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t make it okay. But he will.” You don’t know if you believe that. Right now, all you feel is hollow. “Maybe I should go,” you whisper. “Before it gets… worse.” Riley’s head snaps up. “Absolutely not,” she says. “You’re not running because some emotionally constipated cowboy can’t use his words.”

"This is your home now, too,” Hana adds. “You earned that. We want you here.” Tess nods once. “If anyone leaves, it’s him,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve known that idiot since he could barely see over a fence post. He’s not going anywhere. He’ll just sulk.” You let them talk. Let them build a small, noisy wall around you with jokes and insults at Mingyu’s expense and offers of chocolate and threats of physical violence. You curl into their warmth and let yourself believe, for a little while, that staying is possible.

Even if everything between you and him just cracked down the middle.

Seokmin finds Mingyu not long after. He’s in the shadow of the machinery shed, leaning against the tractor, staring at nothing. Hands limp at his sides, shoulders rigid. “You look like shit,” Seokmin says, trying for light. Mingyu doesn’t answer. He will later barely remember exactly what he and you said—only flashes, only the worst parts on loop. Someone else’s wife. Coward. Killed her. The words stick in his throat like barbed wire. “You gonna tell me what happened?” Seokmin asks, softer. Mingyu shakes his head once. Seokmin studies him, worry etched deep. “You’re gonna lose her,” he says quietly. “If you haven’t already.” Mingyu’s hands ball into fists until his knuckles go white. He says nothing.

Seungcheol catches his eye once in the doorway, the question clear. “Don’t,” Mingyu says, voice rough. Seungcheol sighs, but lets it go—for now. Mingyu tells himself he’s right to be angry. He tells himself this proves what he’s always known: that he ruins things. That anything he touches ends up broken. That wanting you was a mistake from the start. But when he hears your laugh float faintly from the bunkhouse later—thin, forced, propped up by Hana and Riley—something in him cracks anyway. He doesn’t go to you. You don’t come to him.

The fifty yards between the big house and the bunkhouse suddenly feel wider than the whole damn ranch.

Unbeknownst to you, the papers did exactly what they were meant to do. They found your husband.

He opens the door of his neat little suburban house in a shirt he hasn’t bothered to button properly, stubble dark on his jaw, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The process server says his name and holds out the manila envelope. He laughs at first—too loud, a little slurred. Then he reads. The laugh dies.

His fingers tighten on the papers until the edges bend. His eyes start to move faster, back and forth, tripping on the words cruelty and fear for safety and protective orders like they’re accusations aimed at someone else. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters. The server says something about signing, proof of service. He scrawls his name hard enough to tear the page, then shuts the door in the man’s face. He drinks. He reads the petition three times. The first time, he scoffs, taking a swallow after every sentence that paints him as anything less than a good husband. The second time, he mutters about lies. About exaggerations. About how you always twisted things. The third time, his face goes very still. “You think you can do this to me,” he says into the empty room, the bottle sweating in his hand. He doesn’t sleep that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.

He drinks instead, buzz humming under his skin, mind running circles around the same thoughts: you leaving, you talking to lawyers, you putting his name on paper with words like danger and harm. By the third day, his heart is jittery, and his hands won’t stop shaking. He throws clothes into a bag, doesn’t bother zipping it properly. He grabs the car keys, knocks over a chair, and doesn’t pick it up. The house door slams behind him, echoing down the quiet street. He drives.

Highways blur past in sun and then in neon and then in predawn blue. He nurses gas-station coffee with one hand and whiskey with the other, ignoring his own blinking reflection in the dark windows whenever he stops. He has nothing solid to go on. You cut cards, changed phones, ran. But he has your full name, and he has his anger, and he has three days of obsession carved into his nerves. It’s enough.

He hits a random exit in the middle of nowhere because his eyes are gritty, his fingers are tingling, and the gas light is on. The town is a handful of streets and a string of lights. It could have been any town. He walks into the first diner with its lights still on. The waitress can’t be more than twenty-two. Ponytail, tired eyes, soft voice. She sees the ring on his finger, the papers peeking from his jacket pocket, the desperate, frayed look of a man who hasn’t slept. She doesn’t see the bottle in the glove compartment or the way his jaw clenches every time he says “my wife.”

“Coffee?” she asks. “Have you seen her?” he blurts, sliding a photo across the counter—one from the early days, when you still smiled for his camera. The waitress hesitates, then covers her mouth with her fingers. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah. She came through here. Nora at the bakery took her in for a bit. Said she was sweet. She’s out at Longview now.”

"Longview?” he repeats. “The ranch,” the girl says, eager to be helpful. “Big place out past the highway. They hire everyone. Took her on right away, I think.” She blushes. “She looked… better when I saw her last. Happier.” His smile goes thin and sharp. “Did she,” he says. She doesn’t hear it. She writes Longview Ranch and gives rough directions on a napkin, placing it in front of him like she’s handing him a lifeline.

“Good luck,” she says kindly. “I’m glad you found her.” He tucks the napkin into his wallet beside that old photo. He leaves the coffee untouched.

Later, he stands at the edge of town, at the turnoff where pavement gives way to gravel and then to dirt, looking at the fence line disappearing into the distance. His eyes are bloodshot, lids heavy, hands buzzing with caffeine, alcohol and rage. “Found you,” he murmurs. And starts walking.

Days pass at Longview with a new kind of silence.

Not the easy quiet that settles after a long day, when everyone’s tired and content and too full of Tess’s cooking to do more than murmur. This is the brittle silence of two people orbiting each other and refusing to touch.

You get up before dawn, muck stalls, check water, ride your routes. You joke with Vernon, tease Dino, help Tess inventory feed. You help Seokmin with a loose latch, laugh at Riley’s ridiculous playlist, listen to Hana complain about a parent-teacher conference Evie told her about.

You do your job. You don’t go near the big house unless you have to. Mingyu works too. If anything, he works more. He takes the worst jobs—checks fence lines in the heat, hauls extra feed, volunteers for late-night rides to check the far pasture. He talks to Seungcheol and Seokmin when he has to, gives orders that are shorter and sharper than usual, and vanishes. He doesn’t look at you at breakfast. You don’t look at him at dinner. The others feel it. Conversations stutter when you walk into a room together. Riley watches you both with murder in her eyes. Hana oscillates between sympathy and barely restrained rage. Tess sighs a lot and mutters, “Idiots,” under her breath. No one says out loud what they suspect. No one knows the specifics. It doesn’t matter. Something broke. And no one knows how to fix it.

Tonight, you can’t sleep. You throw off your blanket and stare at the bunkhouse ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of breathing around you. Riley is out cold. Hana shifts, mumbling. Tess’s snores are a steady, comforting rumble. You slip out of bed, drag on jeans and a hoodie and boots, and step outside. Lights glow low in the barn, left on purpose for late checks. Seungcheol asked someone to make sure the new gate latch on the equipment shed is holding; you’d volunteered earlier, then forgotten. Now it feels like something to do with your hands.

You cross the yard, gravel crunching under your boots, breath fogging in front of you. The big house is dark except for one room upstairs. The far pasture is just a line of darker shadow against the sky. Mingyu is out there tonight. You know it without needing to check the rota.

You find the shed door slightly ajar, just like Seungcheol said. Inside, the shapes of tractors and mowers hulk in the half-dark. A single overhead light flickers. On the workbench by the door, another sat phone sits in its charging cradle, left there after the last weather check. You think about calling your lawyer again tomorrow. You think about the way Mingyu’s voice sounded when he said someone else’s wife, and tell yourself not to.

You’re still staring at the phone when a voice behind you says your name. Not the one everyone here uses. The old one. You freeze.

The sound of it is a fist to the gut, pulling you straight back to another town, another kitchen, another life. You turn slowly. Your husband’s framed in the doorway, lit from behind by the bare bulb above the shed.

He looks worse than he ever did at home. Eyes bloodshot, sweater stained, hands trembling slightly at his sides. There’s a sour tang of alcohol even from across the room, layered over stale coffee and three days of sweat. He’s vibrating with exhaustion and adrenaline, stretched thin and sharp. “Hey, baby,” he says, smiling like this is funny. “Been a while.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Air becomes a suggestion. “How did you—” you start, voice barely there. He lifts a wrinkled napkin between two fingers—Longview Ranch scrawled across it in looping waitress handwriting—then lets it flutter onto the workbench. “You left a trail,” he says. “Bus ticket. Motel receipt. Little breadcrumbs. You always were careless with details.” He takes a step inside, hand bracing on the doorframe as if to hold himself upright. “Drove all night,” he adds, with a twisted chuckle. “Three nights, actually. Couldn’t sleep, not when my wife is out in the middle of nowhere telling strangers I’m some kind of monster.” You take a step back without meaning to. He notices. His smile tightens, goes brittle. “That’s not very welcoming,” he says lightly. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

"You… shouldn’t be here,” you manage. “You got the papers.” His eyes flash, a flare of humiliation and rage. “Yeah,” he says. “I got the papers. Imagine my surprise, finding out my wife has been running around playing cowgirl instead of coming home like she was supposed to.”

"I’m not your wife,” you say, voice shaking. “Not anymore.” He tsks. “On paper, you still are,” he reminds you. “You always did have trouble understanding vows.” Anger threads through the fear. “You broke them first,” you say. “You know you did.” His jaw twitches.

He steps closer, a sway in it now—not drunk enough to stumble, just enough that you can see how frayed the edges are. “I worked myself to the bone for us,” he says, voice tightening. “Provided. Paid the bills. Put a roof over our heads while you… what? Decided you were bored? That you deserved better? That filing papers behind my back was a cute way to get attention?”

"I did it to survive,” you snap. “You weren’t providing, you were controlling. You weren’t protecting me, you were hurting me.” He barks out a laugh, sudden and ugly. “There it is,” he says. “The drama. Survive. Hurting. You read a couple of articles online and suddenly you’re the poster girl for abuse.” Your stomach turns. You edge sideways around the workbench, inching yourself closer to the sat phone. “You hit me,” you say, low. “More than once.” He shrugs, jaw clenched. “You pushed me,” he fires back. “You nagged, you picked, you walked around like everything I did wasn’t enough. Sometimes I reacted. That’s marriage. You don’t get to rewrite our whole history because your feelings got hurt.”

"You broke my ribs,” you whisper. He doesn’t flinch. “You pushed me to it,” he says. “You always do. You make me the bad guy and then act shocked when I live up to the role you wrote.” He says it like he believes it. That might be the worst part.

You slide your hand along the bench, fingers brushing the cold plastic of the phone. His eyes flick down. He sees. “What are you doing?” he asks.

You curl your fingers around the device anyway. “Calling someone who can make you leave,” you say. He laughs again, but his voice is fraying.

“Who, your lawyer? You think she can drive out here and drag you home? Because that’s what should happen. We should go home, sit down like adults, and talk this through. You can apologise for overreacting. For embarrassing me.” The word embarrassing lands heavily.

“I didn’t overreact,” you say. “I left because if I didn’t, you were going to kill me.” He goes very still. “Don’t be dramatic,” he says softly. “You know I’d never hurt you. Not unless you gave me a reason.” You want to scream. Instead, you move. You snatch the sat phone off the bench and hit the call button on instinct, thumb slamming down on the emergency contact Seungcheol programmed. You don’t look at the screen—you just press and hope. The tinny ring sounds in your ear. Once. Twice. Your ex lunges.

He catches your wrist, knuckles whitening around your bones. The phone slips, dips. For a second, the screen is angled toward him in the overhead light. He sees a name. Mingyu.

“So that’s his name,” he says, voice dropping, all pretence gone. Something cold and possessive ignites in his eyes. “You ran halfway across the goddamn country to spread your legs for some cowboy named Mingyu.” Pain blooms along your wrist as your ex’s hand slams it onto the bench.

“You think he’ll save you?” your ex asks, voice low and dangerous. You look him in the eye even though your pulse is rabbiting. “I know he will,” you say. “He’ll be here any minute.” His lip curls.

“You always were a terrible liar,” he says. “That’s why it was so easy to keep you where you belonged.” He yanks you around the end of the workbench, dragging you into the deeper shadow of the shed. Your boots skid on the concrete. You wrench back, trying to twist out of his grip like you’ve practised in your head for months. You get halfway free before he shoves you back against the metal shelving. The impact rattles tools and jars; something clatters to the floor. Pain spikes through your shoulder. “Let go,” you gasp. “You can’t—” He slams his palm into the shelf beside your head, making everything jump and jangle. “I can do whatever I want,” he hisses. “You owe me. I worked my ass off while you sat at home and complained. And this is how you thank me? Running off to a bunch of hicks and sending me legal threats?”

Terror crawls up your spine. You try to slide sideways. He follows. His other hand clamps at your hip, fingers bruising, thumb digging into old ghost marks. “Nobody here knows who you really are,” he mutters. “Sweet little stray they all took in. You think they’ll keep you when they find out you walked out on your husband? That you made him look like some drunk who couldn’t keep his woman in line?”

You glare at him through the fear. “You made yourself look like that,” you spit. “Every time you picked up a bottle instead of listening to me. Every time you raised your hand instead of your voice.” His eyes flare, bloodshot and furious. “You drove me to drink,” he snarls. “Do you get that? You. Your nagging, your whining, your constant I’m not happy. I wouldn’t be like this if you weren’t the way you are.”

It’s so familiar it makes you nauseous. “You chose the bottle,” you say. “You chose to hit me. You chose to follow me here.” He lunges. You duck, but he’s still faster, still bigger and wired on three days of obsession and whiskey. His hands find your shoulders and slam you into the shelving again. Your head cracks back; stars explode behind your eyes. You shove at his chest. “Stop—”

"Look what you make me do,” he snarls, spittle hitting your cheek. “You always do this. You push and push and then act like I’m the problem when I finally snap.” His grip shifts, fingers bunching in the front of your hoodie, hauling you up onto your toes. You claw at his wrists. His mouth twists.

“If I can’t have you,” he says, voice gone frighteningly soft, “nobody else is going to. Not some cowboy. Not some ranch. Not anybody.” The words chill you more than the night air ever could.

His hands climb. Fingers around your throat. Pressure. Instant. Your body goes cold. Your hands fly up automatically, grabbing at him, nails scraping skin. You can’t get any air. The shed narrows to the span of his face above yours, eyes bright and wild, breath sour with alcohol. He squeezes harder.

“This is your fault,” he grits out. “Remember that. You make me like this.”

Your ears fill with a rushing sound, like standing under a waterfall. You try to kick. Your boot connects with his shin. He grunts, slams you harder into the shelving, metal biting into your spine. The world warps at the edges. You think of the barn. Of Milo’s steady eyes. Of Hana and Riley and Tess laughing over coffee. Of the herd moving like a river in the storm. Of Mingyu’s voice in the truck, saying I’ve got you like he meant it. Your vision tunnels. The overhead bulb smears into a bright, distant star. His face floats in front of you, red and blurred, mouth still moving—ungrateful, embarrass me, mine—but the words are slipping away.

You reach for his wrists one more time, but your fingers won’t close. Your knees go weak. The last thing you hear is your own pulse thudding slow and heavy in your ears, like hooves on packed earth.

Then even that starts to fade.

Mingyu almost ignores it.

He’s halfway down the northern fence line, reins loose in one hand, eyes on the horizon, when his phone buzzes in his vest pocket. The night is quiet—just insects, the occasional low from the herd, the creak of leather as his horse shifts. He fishes the sat phone out with numb fingers, glances at the screen. Your name. His chest tightens. He hesitates. You haven’t spoken in days. Pride whispers, let it go. Hurt adds she’s doing fine without you. Before he can decide to answer, the line dies. He pulls the phone back, frowning at the call ended message. No signal error. No dropped network. Just—gone. He stares at your name on the screen, thumb hovering over redial.

“Pocket dial,” he mutters, even though you don’t do that. You’re careful with devices in a way he’s only now understanding. He slips the phone back into his vest. Rides two more fence posts. His gut twists. He thinks of that night in the truck. The way your voice sounded when you said you were choosing him. The way you looked in the office when he threw those words at you like knives. He reins in, swears under his breath. “Shit.”

He turns the horse around and kicks him into a canter.

By the time he clears the last rise and the main yard comes into view, his pulse is hammering. The big house is dark. The bunkhouse is quiet. The yard looks… normal. No vehicles. No strangers. No obvious emergency. He almost laughs at himself. Then he hears it. A muffled crash. A high, broken sound that might be metal, might be a voice. The equipment shed.

He’s off the horse before he fully stops, boots hitting dirt in a spray of gravel. He tosses the reins over the fence rail, trusting the gelding to stay, and runs. The overhead bulb in the shed throws a weak halo over the doorway. Inside: shadow, shelves, machinery. And you.

Pinned against the shelving, toes barely brushing the concrete, fingers clawing at the hands locked around your throat. For a second, his brain doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing. Then it clicks: a man’s back, shoulders bunched, forearms tight like cables, your face above his hand—eyes wide, mouth open in a sound that isn’t making it past your crushed windpipe. Something in Mingyu’s chest detonates. He doesn’t think. He moves.

He hits the man like a freight train, shoulder slamming into his ribs, hands tearing at his grip on your neck. The force rips him away from you; you crumple sideways, coughing, sucking air like it’s the first time. The stranger hits the concrete hard, breath leaving him in a grunt. He reeks of whiskey and sweat and something sour underneath. Mingyu doesn’t register the words he spits, just the sneer, the wild eyes, the flash of his hand reaching again. Not happening. Mingyu hauls him up by the front of his shirt and slams him into the opposite wall. Tools rattle. The man swings at him, fists clumsy but fueled by something ugly. A punch grazes Mingyu’s jaw. Good. He’d been waiting for an excuse.

Mingyu’s fists find bone and muscle and resistance; he drives through all of it. Every hit lands with the solid, sick thud of knuckles on flesh. He doesn’t count them. He doesn’t pace himself. All he can see is your face going purple. All he can hear is his own heartbeat roaring in his ears. Not again. Not again. Not again.

The man jerks and swings, but he’s slow—drunk, exhausted, winded. He gets one good shot in that splits Mingyu’s lip. It barely registers. Mingyu tackles him to the floor, knees pinning his hips, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other bringing his fist down again and again. Pain shoots up his arm. Blood—whose, he doesn’t know—splashes his knuckles. “Stop—” the man slurs, or maybe laughs. “What, you gonna kill, cowboy?”

The word kill hits a live wire inside Mingyu. He hits harder. The world narrows to red.

You drag yourself upright on unsteady legs, lungs burning, throat fire-raw. Every breath feels like scraping glass. The room swims. Mingyu is on top of your ex, straddling him, arm rising and falling in a relentless rhythm. Your husband’s head snaps with each blow, blood smeared across his face, his hands up in some pathetic attempt to shield himself. Mingyu’s face is something you’ve never seen before. Jaw clenched. Eyes wild. Teeth bared. You’ve seen rage. You’ve lived inside it. This is different.

“Mingyu,” you rasp, voice barely a whisper. He doesn’t hear you. You stumble forward, catching yourself on the edge of the workbench. “Mingyu,” you try again, louder this time, your vocal cords protesting. “Stop.” No reaction. His fist comes down again with a crack that turns your stomach. “You’ll kill him,” you croak, forcing the words out past your shredded throat. “Mingyu, please. Stop.”

He doesn’t look at you. He’s somewhere else, buried under years of guilt and two minutes of pure, blinding fury. All he sees is the hand around your neck. All he feels is the old sick weight of a ring and a steering wheel and the moment he lost everything. “You don’t get to touch her,” he spits, knuckles slamming into bone. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get anything.” You try to scream. It comes out as a broken, torn sound that makes your eyes water. Still, you keep going. “Please,” you manage. “He’s not worth it. Mingyu, please.” Your words bounce off the walls, thin and ragged against the heavy thud of fist on flesh.

Noise explodes at the mouth of the shed. “What the hell—” Seokmin’s voice, high and panicked. “Move—” Seungcheol, right behind him. A second later, they’re on Mingyu. Seokmin grabs his shoulder, hauling backwards. Seungcheol wedges both arms under Mingyu’s, locking him up in a full-body hold and dragging him off the man on the ground. Mingyu fights them on instinct.

He sees flashes: Seokmin’s shocked face, Seungcheol’s clenched jaw, your ex rolling onto his side and curling around his ribs. “Let go,” Mingyu snarls, straining. “He was choking her—”

"We saw,” Seokmin says, breathless. “We heard—Jesus—stop, you’re gonna break my arm—”

"You’re done,” Seungcheol grunts in his ear, muscles bunching as Mingyu bucks against him. “You’re done, Gyu.” Mingyu twists, still trying to get one more shot in, hands clawing at the air now that his fists can’t reach.

“He doesn’t get to walk away from this,” he spits, voice breaking.

“He won’t,” Seungcheol snaps. “But you are not going to do this in front of her. Enough.” More footsteps. Tess in the doorway, hair loose, face white, phone already in hand. Hana and Riley behind her in pajama pants and boots, eyes wide with horror as they take in the scene: you clutching your throat, your ex groaning in a smear of blood, Mingyu trembling in Seungcheol’s grip, hands dripping red. “I'm calling the sheriff,” Tess says, already dialling. “Someone call an ambulance. Now.”

The following minutes are chaotic. Mingyu loses track of the order. He remembers being shoved outside, the cool air hitting his sweat and blood, his ears ringing. Seungcheol keeps a tight hold on him anyway, one hand clamped on his shoulder, as if he thinks Mingyu might bolt back in. He might have. He might, even now. He tries to look for you instead.

You’re sitting on the lower step outside the shed, Tess crouched in front of you with her hands fluttering uselessly before she finally settles one against your knee. Hana has an arm around your shoulders. Riley is pacing, swearing under her breath with impressive creativity.

You’re breathing. Shallow and ragged, but breathing. Dark marks are already blooming on your throat, fingerprints rising ugly and distinct. There’s a smear of blood at your hairline. Your hands shake. You’re still here. He doesn’t realise he’s moving toward you until Seungcheol’s grip tightens. “No,” Seungcheol says quietly. Mingyu jerks his arm out of his hold and crosses the space between you in three big strides. “Rookie,” he says, voice rough, reaching out before he can think, fingers stretching toward your face, your throat, anything to anchor himself to the fact that you are alive.

You flinch. It’s tiny. A flicker. A reflexive duck of your chin, a millimetre of recoil before you force yourself still. It’s enough. His hand stops in mid-air. The look on your face guts him more than any punch: you, trying to smile through pain, wanting to reassure him, but there’s fear there too. And he put it there. He knows it. He freezes. Pulls his hand back like he’s burned. “Don’t,” he says hoarsely—to himself, not you.

Hana’s gaze snaps between you two, eyebrows knitting. “We need ice and water,” Tess says briskly, standing up. “And towels. Go.” Riley bolts for the house just to have something to do. Seokmin hovers near the shed door, watching as the paramedics work in tight, efficient movements over the crumpled body on the concrete. Your ex doesn’t fight them. He doesn’t say anything at all. His face is a swollen, bloody mess; one eye completely closed, mouth slack, breath coming in wet, shallow pulls as they fit an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. “BP’s low,” one medic mutters. “Let’s move.” They slide him onto the stretcher, strap him in, and lift. Sheriff Alden stands back to give them room as they carry him out. He doesn’t spare the man on the stretcher a word. His gaze is on Mingyu.

On the bloody knuckles, the split lip. On the bruises already rising on your throat. He’s not a tall man, but he’s solid. He steps closer, boots crunching on stray gravel, and looks from Mingyu to Seungcheol. There’s history there; Longview has been paying taxes and smoothing town trouble for a long time. “He came onto our land drunk and went for one of our own,” Seungcheol says, voice flat. “We found his hands around her throat.” He doesn’t dress it up as anything else.

Alden’s eyes flick to you—wrapped in a blanket on the step, a medic pressing gauze gently to your temple, Hana’s arm tight around your shoulders, Riley standing guard like she’s ready to bite someone. Alden nods once. “That’s what I’ll say I saw when I came in,” he says. He still asks questions, because he has to. Tess backs up the story, voice steady, jaw tight. Seokmin fills in what he heard when he came running. Hana and Riley add their details. You croak answers when you have to, every word scraping your throat. No one mentions the part where Mingyu didn’t stop hitting after the immediate danger was over.

Eventually, Alden turns back to him. “You got anything to add?” he asks. Mingyu swallows. His fists ache. His lip is split. He can feel blood drying under his nails, tight and tacky. He opens his mouth, ready to say I lost control. To ask if they need to take him in, too. To confess how good it felt to hit until he couldn’t see anything but red. The words lodge in his throat.

“He hurt her,” he says instead. “I stopped him.” Alden studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “We’ll write it up that way,” he says. “You might get a citation if someone downtown wants to make noise. Doubt it’ll stick. From where I’m standing, it looks pretty clear-cut.” Mingyu’s stomach churns. Clear-cut. Sure.

Nothing about how his knuckles enjoyed connecting is clear-cut. Nothing about how, for one second, he wanted the man to stop moving altogether is clear-cut. They lift the stretcher into the ambulance. The doors slam. Lights wash over the yard in red and blue, then fade as the vehicles head back toward town. Dust settles. Literally. Figuratively, not so much.

The others drift—Tess back to the house to make tea she’ll pretend is for herself, Riley and Hana to the bunkhouse where they can fuss over you more privately, Seokmin to check on the horses that spooked at the sirens. Seungcheol lingers with the sheriff a few minutes more, low-voiced, making sure everything is as tidy on paper as it can be. Mingyu is left standing in the yard, feeling like he’s not quite in his own skin. He flexes his hands. They hurt. He deserves it.

He looks toward the bunkhouse. The door is closed. The light in your room is on, a warm square spilling onto the dirt. He can almost picture the scene: you on the lower bunk this time, blanket around your shoulders, Hana kneeling in front of you with a bag of ice pressed gently to your throat, Riley tossing out half-serious ideas about going into town to slash tyres. He should go to you. He should say something—anything. I’m sorry. I came as fast as I could. I shouldn’t have kept hitting him. I was so scared. Instead, he stands there, rooted.

Because the image he can’t shake isn’t you gasping on the shed floor. It’s you, flinching from his hand. He hears his own voice, cold and cruel in the office: someone else’s wife. Hears you calling him a coward with a saviour complex. Hears the way his fists sounded on your ex’s face and overlays it with smashing glass, skidding tyres, the last scream he ever heard from the passenger seat of his truck.

What if it had been a second later? What if he’d hesitated longer on that call? What if he’d walked away? He sees your throat, bruises blooming in the shape of fingers. He sees his own hands. Maybe he was always headed here. Maybe this is who he is when it counts: a man who puts people in the ground, one way or another.

Seungcheol appears at his elbow like he’s read his mind. “Charges will be minor,” he says quietly. “Alden’s framing it as self-defence. Maybe disorderly conduct, maybe nothing. Guy came onto our land drunk and attacked someone. We’ve got witnesses. Your record’s clean.”

Mingyu huffs out a humourless laugh. “You sure about that last part?” Seungcheol gives him a long, steady look. “I’m talking about legal records,” he says. “The ones that matter to the sheriff.” A beat. “The other kind… you’re the only one who can do anything about those.” Mingyu’s jaw flexes. “She flinched,” he says, before he can stop himself. “When I reached for her.” Seungcheol’s mouth presses into a line.

He doesn’t say of course she did, or you’re covered in blood, or you scared the shit out of all of us. He just says, “Then you make sure, from now on, she never has a reason to do that again.” Mingyu looks back at the bunkhouse, at that soft pool of light. His feet stay where they are.

He is soaked in adrenaline and regret, and terrified that if he gets close to you right now, you’ll see all of it. He turns instead toward the barn. Toward a hose, a first aid kit, and a set of empty stalls where no one can watch him scrub blood off his skin and try not to see your face every time he closes his eyes.

Out in the dark, eyes burning, knuckles raw, Mingyu holds a thin, fragile truth like the only thing keeping him from going under: You called him. He almost didn’t come. He came anyway.

You don’t leave the bunk for four days.

The first morning you wake up, your throat feels like you’ve swallowed sandpaper. Every breath is a careful, measured thing. Your neck throbs in ugly pulses, each one a reminder of fingers that wanted to close around your life. You try to sit up. Your body says absolutely not. Hana is there before you can fall back, a palm at your shoulder. “Easy,” she murmurs. “You’re on medical leave, Rookie. Doctor’s orders. And by doctor I mean Tess, which is scarier.” You manage a half-smile, but it hurts.

They fuss. God, they fuss. Tess appears like clockwork with broth and tea and soft food that doesn’t make you swallow too hard. Riley pulls a chair up by your bunk and plays you stupid videos on her phone when the shaking gets too bad, pretending not to notice when your hands tremble.

Hana texts Evie, who drops off a stack of paperbacks and a set of ridiculous pastel pens so you can underline things if you get bored. Mae swings by one afternoon with a box of cookies and a card that says Congratulations on Not Dying in glitter pen. The boys come too.

Vernon hovers in the doorway with a potted succulent he stole from the windowsill in the mudroom. Dino sits on the floor and chatters about absolutely nothing of consequence until you stop staring at the wall.

Seungcheol pokes his head in once, clears his throat, and says, “You scared us,” like it personally offended him. Then he leaves you his favourite mug and a gruff pat on the ankle. Seokmin comes the most.

He never arrives empty-handed: gum, a new pair of socks, a stupid magazine, a handful of jellybeans he “taxed” from the office candy jar. He sits on the bunk ladder and fills the air so you don’t have to. They’re all here. Everyone but him. No one says his name.

On the third night, you wake up choking on your own breath. For a second, you’re back in the shed—hands on your throat, the world narrowing, the overhead light smearing into a star. You bolt upright.

Riley jerks awake in your previous bunk. “Hey, hey,” she mumbles, hanging over the side. “You good?” You nod too fast. You’re not. She doesn’t push.

She climbs down, slips under your blanket without comment, and lets you tuck yourself against her shoulder like you’re not both grown adults. Her hand rubs slow circles on your back until your breathing evens out. “You’re safe,” she says into your hair. “He’s gone.” You know which he she means. You still lie there with your fingers pressed to your own pulse, counting beats like they might vanish if you don’t pay attention.

On the fourth day, Seokmin comes in after lunch and doesn’t immediately start talking about something stupid. That’s how you know it’s serious. He knocks on the bunk post with two knuckles. “You decent?” You tilt your head toward him. Your voice is still mostly a croak, but it works. “Pretty sure.” He climbs onto the foot of your bed, careful not to jostle you.

For a minute he just looks at you. At the bruises creeping from purple to sick yellow-green around your throat. At the faint split near your hairline. His usual sunshine is dimmer today. “We can talk about something dumb,” you rasp. “I can handle your top ten cow rankings.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re not ready for that debate,” he says. Then, softer, “I wanted to check in. And, uh… tell you some stuff. If you’re up for it.”

You pull the blanket a little higher and nod. “Okay.” He fiddles with the hem of your comforter for a second. “So,” he starts, “first thing: they’re not coming after you or the ranch for what happened. Sheriff filed it as trespass, assault, protective order violation. Your guy—” he makes a face; your guy is wildly inaccurate—“is in custody. Hospital first, then jail. Alden says the DA’s building a nice little pile on him.” Your stomach flips. You stare at your hands. “And Mingyu?” you ask, trying to sound neutral. You fail. “Self-defense,” he says. “They toyed with a charge, but Alden shut it down. Said if it ever sees paper it’ll be some bullshit misdemeanor that gets pled out. Cheol’s been on the phone with every suit in a fifty-mile radius.” You let out a careful breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Okay,” you whisper. Seokmin watches your face. “He beat him pretty bad,” he says quietly. “You know that.” Images flicker: Mingyu’s shoulders heaving, fist rising and falling, blood spattering his knuckles. You nod once. “How’s he doing?” you ask, not trusting yourself to say more.

Seokmin snorts softly. “Terrible.” He leans back against the wall. “He’s working like a maniac. If he’s not in the barn, he’s on a fence. If he’s not on a fence, he’s checking the herd. He hasn’t sat at the kitchen table in four days. I don’t think he’s slept much.” A bitter part of you wants to say, good. The rest of you just feels tired. “Is he… mad?” you ask. “At me?”

Seokmin gives you a look like you’ve grown a second head. “He thinks you’re gonna leave,” he says. “He thinks he deserves it.” You swallow around the ache in your throat. “He scared me,” you admit, voice barely audible. “Just for a second. When he wouldn’t stop.” Seokmin’s face pinches. “I know,” he says. “We all were. But he—” he breaks off, searching. “He saw you and something in his brain just—fried. It wasn’t pretty. But if he hadn’t come back when he did…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. “He saved your life,” he says instead, simply. The words land strange. True. Heavy. You stare at the ceiling for a long moment. “He didn’t come,” you croak finally. “To see me.”

"He’s afraid to,” Seokmin says. “He said he doesn’t want to be another reason for you to flinch.” A pause. “He’s not handling that well.” You let that sink in. Your ex’s violence was always about control—about punishment, power, ownership. If he’d walked in on you with someone else, it would’ve been how dare you embarrass me, not are you okay.

Mingyu’s rage had been… different. Messy and terrifying and too much, yes. But underneath it was something else: panic. Fear. This bone-deep, desperate need to keep you breathing. He’d gone too far. He’d also gotten there because someone was actively killing you. Both things can be true at once. “Thanks,” you tell Seokmin. He shrugs it off. “Part of the job,” he says lightly. “Wrangling cows, fixing fences, providing emotional exposition.” You snort, which hurts, but it makes him smile. Before he leaves, he hesitates in the doorway. “You know you don’t have to decide anything right now, right?” he says. “About him. About staying. You nearly died. You’re allowed to just… breathe for a minute.” You nod. You also know something shifted the second you saw your ex on that stretcher and realized he wasn’t between you and the door anymore. You’re tired of letting men decide whether you stay or go.

On the fifth morning, Tess wakes you from a fitful doze with a knock on the bunk frame. “Mail call,” she says. You blink blearily. She’s holding an oversized envelope out at arm’s length like it might explode. Your name is printed in neat black letters across the front. The return address is your lawyer’s. Your heart does something weird in your chest. Your fingers shake as you take it. “Figured you’d want privacy,” Tess says gruffly. She taps the side of the bunkpost, then leaves without waiting for an answer.

The envelope feels heavier than it looks. You slit it open with a thumbnail and slide the documents out. Your eyes pick out the important words even through the blur: Decree of Dissolution of Marriage. Your name. His name. Filed, stamped, signed. Final. You read it twice to make sure you’re not hallucinating. Then a third time, just because you can. By the fourth, the letters stop meaning anything. They blur together, drowned out by the roaring in your ears and the strange, light feeling in your chest.

It’s done. No more waiting for a court. No more technicallys. No more arguments in your own head about whether you have the right to move on until the system catches up. You are not his wife. Not in any universe. A laugh breaks out of you, half-sob, completely undignified. Hana jerks awake in the top bunk and peers over the side. “You okay?” You hold up the papers with a trembling hand. Her eyes widen. “Are those…?” You nod. Her face crumples and brightens all at once. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “You’re divorced.” She corrects herself. “You’re free.” Free. You press the papers to your chest.

For a second you’re back in that first motel room, chair wedged under the door, heart beating out of your ribs. You had a bag, some cash, a stranger’s pity, and a vague plan. You have more now. A job. Friends. People who heard you scream and ran toward the sound. A man who answered your call even when he thought you didn’t want him anymore.

You think of Mingyu in the shed, the way his voice sounded when he spat you don’t touch her between blows. The way he looked when you flinched from his hand. Your ex’s violence had always come with you made me do this attached. Mingyu’s came with I’ll take whatever comes after written all over his face. You’re shaking again, but it’s not fear.

Mingyu spends the fifth morning digging a posthole he doesn’t actually need. The fence in this section is fine. It’s overkill. Redundant. He doesn’t care. He just needs his hands busy and his mind blank. He’s failing at both. Every time he blinks he sees it again: your face above that bastard’s hand, eyes wild, lips purpled. The way your body went slack when the air cut off. The way it felt when his fists finally found something they could break without consequence. And then the way you jerked away, just that fraction, when he raised his hand near you after. That’s the part that keeps him up. He drives the posthole digger into the earth and pulls, muscles burning. Dirt gives under the blades, clumps flying. Sweat runs down his back despite the cool morning.

“You’re gonna hit China if you keep going,” Seungcheol’s voice calls from the fence line. Mingyu doesn’t look up. “Fence needed checking,” he mutters. “Fence is fine,” Seungcheol says. “You did it twice already.” Mingyu sets the tool aside, chest heaving. Seungcheol hops the fence and comes to lean on a post nearby, arms folded. For a while, they just stand there. Finally, Seungcheol says, “Papers came this morning.”

Mingyu stiffens. He doesn’t ask which papers. “They’re final,” Seungcheol adds. “Evie texted. Alden called her; she called Tess; Tess told half the county. Your girl’s single.” Your girl. The words twist in his gut. He stares at the hole he’s dug. “Good,” he says, voice rough. “That’s… good.”

"You’re not going to talk to her?” Seungcheol asks. Mingyu’s throat tightens. “She was scared of me,” he says. “I saw it. I can’t—” he breaks off, jaw clenching. “I don’t want to be another thing she has to get over.”

Seungcheol studies him. “You almost crossed a line,” he says simply. “But you didn’t. You came back when she called. You stopped when we pulled you off. You’re not him.”

"You didn’t see me,” Mingyu mutters. “You saw the tail end. You didn’t feel—” He presses his palms over his eyes. “I liked it. For a second. That’s what scares me.” Seungcheol exhales. “You’re human,” he says. “You saw someone you care about being hurt and you lost it. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make you a monster either. What you do with it now is what matters.” Mingyu drops his hands. Looks at the house. At the bunkhouse beyond. “If she leaves,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop her.” A half-smile tugs at Seungcheol’s mouth. “Maybe let her tell you what she’s doing before you decide,” he says. He pushes off the post. “Family dinner tonight. You don’t show up, I’m dragging you in by your ear.” He walks away, leaving Mingyu with the hole and his thoughts.

You’re divorced. Free. You owe him nothing. He knows, with a cold kind of certainty, that he’d rather pack a bag and disappear into some back forty than watch you flinch from him again. But he also knows something else. You called him. You could’ve dialed the big house, or the office, or the sheriff directly. You called him. Even after everything he said to you—you still reached for him when it mattered. Maybe he owes you the same courage. He wipes his hands on his jeans and starts toward the bunkhouse before he can talk himself out of it.

You’re sitting on the bunkhouse steps with the decree folded neatly in your lap when his shadow falls across your bare feet. You know it’s him without looking up. The air changes when he’s close—tighter, somehow, but not always in a bad way. Your heart kicks. You lift your head. He looks rough: dark circles under his eyes, jaw unshaven, split lip healing in an ugly line. There are faint yellow bruises on his cheekbone where your ex got that one hit in. His hands are clean now, but you remember what they looked like covered in blood. “Hey,” he says, voice low. You swallow. Your throat protests. “Hey.” He glances at the papers in your lap. “Is that…?”

You nod, holding them up a little. “It’s done,” you croak. “Judge signed. He did too.” For a second, something almost like a smile flickers over his face.

It doesn’t last. “Congratulations,” he says. You huff out a weak laugh. “Hell of a party,” you mumble. Silence stretches. He shifts his weight, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he doesn’t trust them near anything breakable. “Can I…?” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Can we talk?” You look up at him properly. You remember Seokmin’s words: He thinks you’re gonna leave. He thinks he deserves it. You also remember the office. The things you both said. The way they sliced you open deeper than you wanted to admit. But you’re tired of running.

You nod once, then scoot sideways on the step, patting the space beside you. He sits, leaving just enough distance that his knee doesn’t quite touch yours. The yard spreads out in front of you—barn, fences, open sky. The spot where the ambulance had parked is just dirt now. You start. “He used to say it was my fault,” you rasp. “The way he was.” Mingyu goes very still. You keep your eyes on your toes. “That if I didn’t push, he wouldn’t snap. That if I was better—quieter, more grateful, more… whatever—he wouldn’t need to drink so much. Wouldn’t have to hit things.” You swallow. “Wouldn’t have to hit me.” His hands curl in his pockets. “None of that is true,” he says immediately. “You know that, right?”

"My head does,” you say. “My nervous system is still catching up.” You look at him. “So when you went for him… when you wouldn’t stop… for a second, it felt like being back there. I know it wasn’t the same, but my body doesn’t always know the difference.” The words hang between you. He doesn’t flinch away from them. His jaw flexes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For that. For how it looked. For losing it like that in front of you.”

You watch his profile. “I know why you did,” you say, equally soft. “I know it wasn’t about owning me. It was about… not losing me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I heard you,” he admits. “In the shed. I heard your voice but it was like—” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t hearing words. Just noise. And his face. And your neck. I haven’t wanted to hit something that bad since…” he trails off. You know how that sentence ends. “I didn’t stop when I should’ve,” he says. “I crossed a line. Or I was damn close. That’s on me. That’s not on you. It’s not because of you. It’s not something you caused.” You nod slowly. “You saved my life,” you say.

He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that. “I also called you someone else’s wife,” he says, like he’s listing charges. “I threw your past in your face. I made your abuse about me. I punished you for being scared and for surviving. I have no defense for that.” You stare at your hands. “It hurt,” you admit. “Worse than the bruises.” He winces. “I know.”

"You made me feel dirty,” you go on, voice shaking. “Like I’d cheated on both of you by surviving. Like I should’ve told you everything upfront so you could decide if I was… worth the risk.” He sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly. “You don’t owe anyone your trauma on a timetable,” he says. “Least of all some asshole rancher with a saviour complex.” He opens his eyes, looks straight at you. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it. I’m sorry.” The apology is simple. No but. No if. No excuses.

“I was scared,” you tell him. “Of telling you. Of losing this place. Of losing you. I thought if I said the word husband out loud, it would somehow make him real again. You were starting to feel like… the opposite of that.”

“You are not her replacement,” he says suddenly, like it’s been burning a hole in him. “You’re not a second chance at the same story. You’re…” he searches for it. “You’re the first person who’s made me want anything since she died. That’s not small. That scared the shit out of me. But it’s not about putting you in her place.” You let that sink in. “You said you killed her,” you say quietly. He looks out at the pasture. “I was driving,” he says. “I was angry. I was stupid. That’s a kind of killing, in my head. I don’t know if that ever changes.” He flicks a glance at you. “But I don’t want to use her as an excuse anymore. To hide. Or to hurt you.”

Silence stretches. The breeze ruffles your hair. Somewhere near the barn, a horse snorts. “I’m not leaving,” you say. He goes very still. “You don’t have to decide that now,” he says. “I already did.” You turn toward him fully, divorce papers crinkling in your hands. “I’m not running again,” you say. “Not from him. Not from you. Not from this place. This ranch is home. These people are my family. I’m staying.” You take a breath. This is the hard part. “The question is whether I’m staying… just as a ranch hand,” you finish, “or as something more. With you.”

His mouth parts, then shuts. “After everything I said?” he asks, disbelief roughening his voice. “After what you saw in that shed?” "Because of what I saw,” you correct softly. “You came anyway. You’ll live with your own shit for the rest of your life. I see that. I have mine too. But I don’t feel owned here. Not by you. Not by them. That’s what matters.”

You search his face. “Do you want me here?” you ask. “Honestly. All of me. Mess and papers and bruises and everything.” His answer is immediate. “Yes.” He swallows. “I… want you here,” he says, like the words are heavy and precious. “On this ranch. In this family. In my life, if you’ll let me. But if the idea of being near me makes your hands shake, if you can’t trust me after what you saw, I will get out of your way. I’d rather walk off this land than be another man you have to heal from.” Your eyes sting. You don’t look away. “You scared me,” you say again, because you won’t pretend otherwise. He nods, accepting the blow. “I know.”

"But I wasn’t afraid of you,” you add. “Not the way I was with him. I was afraid of losing you. Of losing… this.” You gesture vaguely between you. “That’s on me to untangle. And I want to. With you. If we do this slow. If we keep talking. If you promise—”

"Anything,” he says, too fast. You almost smile. “If you promise not to disappear when it gets hard,” you say. “No more grunting across the yard and pretending you don’t care. No more punishing me—or yourself—for wanting things.” He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped for months. “I can try,” he says. “I’m gonna screw up. I’m probably gonna say dumb shit. But I’ll stay. I’ll talk. I’ll… try not to be an idiot.”

"That’s all I’m asking,” you rasp. “Well. That and maybe fewer bar fights.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “No promises if someone touches you again,” he says, then grimaces. “Kidding. Mostly.” You huff out a sound that almost passes for a laugh. Your throat protests. He sees it. Very carefully, like he’s approaching a skittish colt, he lifts a hand. He pauses midway between you. “Can I…?” he asks. “Touch you?” You look at his palm. Big. Calloused. Clean. You nod.

He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind. His fingers brush your jaw first, feather-light, then tilt your chin so he can see the marks on your neck properly. His eyes go dark with something like grief. “I hate that I wasn’t faster,” he murmurs. “You were fast enough,” you say. His thumb traces your cheekbone once, then falls away, as if he doesn’t trust himself to linger. You miss the touch immediately. “So,” you say, voice raw but steady. “Home?” He frowns a little. “You want to call this home?”

You fold the decree neatly, slide it under your thigh like you’re putting it to bed. “I already do,” you answer.

He looks at the bunkhouse, the barn, the house, the stretch of land beyond. Then at you, hunched on the step in an old hoodie with a healing throat and divorce papers in your pocket. “Home,” he says, more certain this time. He shifts, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours, solid and careful. You let it. For now, that’s enough.

Later, there will be more work: lawyers and therapy and triggers you don’t see coming. There will be days when you still wake up choking on air, nights when he still dreams of rain on glass and metal twisting.

But here, on the bunkhouse steps with the sun starting to slide down and the ranch humming around you, you let yourself lean into his solid warmth. For the first time since you ran, the word home no longer feels like a trap. It feels like hope. Like a future.

You wake to the soft tick of the old clock in the bedroom, to the weight of a warm arm slung over your waist, to Mingyu’s slow, even breaths ghosting across the back of your neck.

“You’re staring again,” he mumbles into your shoulder, voice rough with sleep. “I’m thinking,” you murmur. He nuzzles closer. “About feed costs or about what you’re doing to me, leaving this bed at five a.m.?” You smile, rolling just enough to see him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction. His eyes are half-lidded, soft in a way you still haven’t fully gotten used to—like he trusts the day to be kind. “Both,” you say. “In that order.”

“Tragic,” he sighs. He leans in and kisses you, slow and unhurried. It still hits you somewhere deep, the way he can make a five a.m. kiss feel like a promise and not a goodbye. “Up, Rookie,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Herd won’t move itself.” You groan. “You’re the one keeping me here.”

“Yeah,” he says, lips quirking. “That’s on purpose.” He steals one more kiss for good measure, then lets you go. Your boots wait by the bedroom door. So do his, a little bigger, a little more scuffed. Your hat hangs on the same hook as his. Your side of the dresser has a mess of hair ties and chapstick and a small ceramic dish Mae gave you for your birthday. There’s a framed photo of the three owners and you at the last county fair, all of you sunburnt and grinning like idiots. Evie swears it’s the only time she’s seen Seungcheol smile that wide in public.

Downstairs, the big house smells like coffee and toast and Tess’s cinnamon something. Hana is already at the counter, ponytail looped through the back of her cap, lunchbox open, stealing bacon off a plate. “Morning, boss,” she says, bumping your hip. “Don’t call me that,” you say, stealing a strip of bacon right back. “You’re the one with your own coffee mug in the main house,” she points out. “That’s, like, official rank.” Your mug does sit by the kettle now, nestled between Mingyu’s chipped one and Tess’s floral favourite. It says Rookie in big, hand-painted letters. Riley made it. Of course she did. “Speaking of useless titles,” Riley says, shuffling in behind you with sleep in her eyes and one sock half-off her foot, “who’s taking bets on Seokmin actually asking Mae out on a real date before we all die of old age?”

“He asked,” Tess says, sliding a plate onto the table. “She said yes. Friday. Real restaurant and everything.” Riley gasps so hard she almost drops her coffee. “Shut up.”

“What the hell, Tess,” you say. “You didn’t lead with that?” Tess smirks. “I enjoy watching you all suffer,” she says. “Also, sit and eat before I start throwing things.” You sit. You eat. You listen to Hana complain about a parent who tried to argue fractions with Evie (“She almost got herself arrested,” Hana says, grinning proudly), and to Riley brag about how many calves she can rope in under an hour. Tess rolls her eyes and mutters that if anyone breaks anything, she’s not nursing them through it again. You laugh. You do it without worrying about who hears.

By mid-morning, you’re in the saddle, out in the middle pasture, the sun finally up and burning off the last of the haze. The grass is high, the herd spread wide, heads down. You ride like you were born to do it. Milo moves under you with easy confidence, your body matching his without thinking. Your hands are steady on the reins, your posture relaxed, eyes sweeping the herd for limps or stragglers. There’s a new kid riding a borrowed mare on the far side of the field. She’s nervous, all hunched shoulders and white-knuckle grip, legs too stiff. “Heels down!” you call across the distance, voice carrying clean and easy. “You’re not choking a chicken, let your hands breathe!” She laughs, tension easing.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped being the one needing the constant corrections. Somewhere along the way, you started giving them. Seokmin rides up on your left, hat tipped back, smile bright as the sky. “Look at you,” he says. “Bossing people around. What would Truck-Sex-You think of this?” You groan. “I hate that you call me that.”

“I hate that the horn squeaks when I hit it,” he says. “I will never forgive you for that.” You shove at his arm with your boot. Ahead of you, Hana whoops and takes off at a gallop, cutting around a pocket of cows in a smooth arc. She yells something back about you two moving your asses or eating her dust. “Rookie,” Seokmin says, eyes glinting. “Race you?” You arch a brow. “You sure you want to cry before lunch?” He gasps. “Mingyu’s rubbing off on you. I hate it.” You grin. Then you nudge Milo into a run.

Wind whips at your face, your hat brim, your hair. The herd blurs at the edges as you and Hana and Seokmin weave through them, guiding, not scattering, whooping and laughing. You’re aware of your scars—the faint ache at your throat when you breathe too hard, the old bruises that sometimes still twinge when the weather changes—but they don’t define the moment. You do. You and the horse beneath you, the land, the people yelling insults and encouragement in equal measure. You don’t notice the two figures on the porch. They notice you.

From the porch of the big house, Mingyu watches you ride like it’s the only thing worth looking at on the whole damn horizon. You look different now than the day you stepped off that bus. He still remembers that girl—eyes jumpy, shoulders tight, heart wrapped in barbed wire. The one who flinched if someone opened a door too fast, who counted exits without meaning to. The woman down there now laughs with her whole body.

You lean into the turn as Milo cuts ahead of Hana and Juniper, whooping as you beat her by half a length to the makeshift finish line near the creek. Seokmin throws his head back in exaggerated despair, nearly falling out of his saddle.

“She’s gonna be insufferable,” Seungcheol says beside him, taking a sip of coffee from his World’s Okayest Rancher mug (Evie’s joke, still his favourite). “She already is,” Mingyu says, but there’s no heat in it. Seungcheol follows his gaze. From up here, the ranch looks like the picture they used to tape to the inside of the truck—dream version of a future they weren’t sure they’d ever reach. Fences in good repair, barns freshly painted, herd fat and glossy. Workers moving with the easy rhythm of people who know what they’re doing and know they’re valued for it.

Business is good. The new irrigation pivots on the south field, which went in last fall. The winter calving season was their best yet. There’s talk of a small direct-to-consumer beef line; Tess is already experimenting with spice blends in the kitchen. They’re expanding the bunkhouse next year. They’re talking guest cabins the year after that. There’s a spreadsheet open on Mingyu’s phone with numbers that don’t make his stomach hurt anymore—just his brain a little, in a way he’s learned to like.

“We’ll need another hand if we take that east pasture, though,” Seungcheol is saying. “Somebody good. Vernon’s already stretched, and Dino’s gonna burn out if we keep throwing every night check at him.” Mingyu makes a noncommittal sound. He hears him. He’s just a little busy. His right hand is wrapped around a mug. His left is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, fingers brushing the small, square box that’s been living there for the past three weeks. The metal corners press against his knuckles every time he shifts. It grounds him. It also makes his heart attempt weird gymnastics.

“You listening?” Seungcheol asks, amused. “Mostly,” Mingyu says.

Seungcheol follows the line of his arm, the way his shoulder’s just a little too stiff. “You gonna tell Rookie what you’ve been carrying around,” he asks mildly, “or you gonna make us all suffer another year watching you hover?” Heat crawls up the back of Mingyu’s neck. “You could pretend you’re not observant for once,” he mutters. “No fun in that,” Seungcheol says. “Ring burning a hole in your pocket isn’t subtle, man. Seokmin almost sat on the damn box when you left your jacket on the couch last week.” Mingyu winces. “He see it?”

“Nah,” Seungcheol says. “I moved it. Almost had a coronary doing it. Felt like I was picking up contraband.” He glances at him. “You waiting for something?” Mingyu cups his mug with both hands now, box momentarily forgotten. He thinks of everything between then and now.

Of papers and court dates and the day Alden called to say their problem was going to be someone else’s problem for a very long time. Of the first time you raised your voice and he didn’t flinch from it, just listened. Of the way you still sometimes wake up breathing too fast—and how, more often than not now, you fall back asleep with your hand in his. He thinks of the storm and the shed and the hospital and all the ugliness that brought you here, yes. But he also thinks of the morning you called the bunkhouse “home” like it was nothing. Of the afternoon he found you on the couch in the big house, arguing with Tess about his grandma’s biscuit recipe and claiming it as your own. Of the picture on the mantel of all of you last Christmas, Riley wearing antlers, Seokmin mid-sneeze, you laughing so hard your eyes are closed. “I was waiting to make sure you weren’t gonna fire her,” he says dryly. Seungcheol snorts. “You’re the only one we’d fire,” he says. “She’s the reason we’re in the black.”

Mingyu smiles. He can’t argue that. He looks back out at the pasture. You’ve dismounted now, hat tipped back, face turned up to the sun as you talk with Hana and Seokmin. You gesture toward the outer fence, probably arguing over which route is fastest for the afternoon rotation.

You look like you belong here. Like you’ve always belonged here. His hand finds the box again, thumb rubbing over the seam. “I’m waiting to make sure I’m not asking her to sign up for something she’s still healing from,” he says finally. “Marriage, I mean.”

“You’re not him,” Seungcheol says, no hesitation. “I know,” Mingyu says. “But. Still.” Seungcheol is quiet for a beat. “You know what she did on the anniversary of her divorce papers this year?” he asks. Mingyu arches a brow. “No?”

“She baked a cake,” he says. “Ugly thing. Pink frosting. Riley wrote ‘Happy You Day’ on it. She cut the first slice and said, ‘I’m not celebrating the end of something, I’m celebrating that I was dumb enough to try. Means I can be dumb enough to try again.’” He tips his mug toward the pasture. “That sound like someone afraid of you asking?” Mingyu stares at him. “You were listening from the stairs again, weren’t you?” he says. “You two aren’t subtle,” Seungcheol replies.

Mingyu laughs, low and a little disbelieving. His heart… doesn’t feel like it’s trying to crawl up his throat anymore. It beats steadily. Solid. Like it’s already decided.

Down in the field, you throw your head back and laugh at something Seokmin says, reaching out to smack his arm. Milo nudges your shoulder impatiently, and you turn to scratch his nose, all easy affection. Mingyu watches you for another quiet moment. Then he sets his mug on the railing. His fingers close fully around the box. “You gonna go?” Seungcheol asks, though the answer’s written all over his face. Mingyu exhales. “Yeah,” he says.

He steps down off the porch, boots hitting the packed earth of the yard with a familiar thud. The big house looms behind him, the barn off to one side, the bunkhouse farther out—every piece of this place stitched into him now. He walks toward the pasture. Toward you. You spot him when he’s halfway there. Your whole face changes when you see him—it always does, even when you’re pretending it doesn’t. Your smile is small at first, then bigger when he approaches closer and closer. You swing up into the saddle again to meet him at the fence, hat tipped forward, eyes bright.

“What’s up, boss?” you call, teasing. He grins. God, he loves you. “Got a question for you, Rookie,” he says.

And for the first time in a long time, there’s no panic under the words. No, what if screaming in his head. Just this. You. The ranch humming around you both. Something solid under his boots and building under his ribs. He reaches the fence, hand already moving toward that back pocket, toward the small square box that isn’t going to live there much longer.

You lean down from the saddle, curiosity and affection written clear all over your face, and whatever he was about to say settles, sure and steady, on his tongue. He’s ready. To ask. To stay. To build whatever comes next—with you.

A/N: Okay so, I know this is crazy. Writing 50K words after just finishing a 61K story and telling you all I was going to disappear for a while. Good time for me to let you all know I suffer from major hyperfixation, and when I obsess over something, I literally CANNOT not finish it. Like, sleeping two hours and writing through the night. So, surprise (I guess?) Hope you enjoy. 💟

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(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)