Discover Top Posts Tagged with #farmer!remmick

SWEAT & SUGAR. IV.

⤷ ‎ ‎ # ‎ ‎ featuring ‎ ‎ farmer!remmick × fem!reader ۶ৎ

you spend the day acting like you didn’t fall apart on remmick’s bed yesterday—until jealousy, chores, a pregnant horse, and one handmade bracelet shove the truth right into your hands. by nightfall, you’re in his lap showing him exactly how much you like him. (wc: 15k). part iii | part v

゛notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ this took me longer than i thought it would ngl. i’m working on the final part now, and i hope to have that posted after the ballerina!reader x lion one-shot that i’ve been working on for forever. warnings are based on all of what i have written so far as a whole, or are set in stone to be written ! this takes place right after part three.

゛ contents ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ hyperfeminine!reader. modern au. light slow-burn. mutual irritation / tension. spoiled / airheaded reader. forced proximity. semi-public sex. unprotected & protected p in v sex ( different scenes ). messy sex. shy!remmick. virgin!remmick ( not anymore LMAOO ). oral ( f! & m! ). overstimulation. creampies. dirty talk. praise. social class micro aggressions. size kink / difference. vaginal fingering. teasing. masturbation ( f! & m! ). vibrator / sex toy usage. aftercare. riding / cowgirl position. jealousy. mdni 18+

Sunlight filters pale through your curtains when you wake, thin and hazy, painting faint rectangles across the wall.

The air is cool in that early way before the day really decides to be hot, carrying the last breath of night through the crack in your window. Muscles ache in places they didn’t yesterday—in a good way, in a way that makes you stretch your legs under the sheets, toes flexing, and take a slow breath as you smile into your pillow before you even open your eyes.

Memory rolls back over you in pieces.

His hands on your hips, fingers firm but careful. His voice in your ear, low and rough with wanting and worry all at once. The weight of his body, the slow drag of him inside you, the way he whispered your name like it tasted good in his mouth.

It’s enough to make a shiver run through you, heat rippling under your skin despite the coolness of the room.

By the time you’re dressed—cute top that bares a sliver of your midriff when you move, shorts that are not at all practical for farm work, lip gloss already reapplied until your mouth shines. The mirror catches you pressing your lips together, adjusting your hair, trying to look like a girl who did not spend yesterday afternoon falling apart on a farm boy’s bed.

Your aunt eyes you over her mug of coffee as you grab a quick breakfast.

The kitchen smells like toast and brewed grounds and the faint citrus from the dish soap she always uses. The ceiling fan hums lazily overhead. She doesn’t say anything this time. Just watches, not unkindly, as you hum along to some song in your head, swing the cabinet door shut with your hip, and slip out the door with your keys and your phone and a little secret glow under your ribs.

The walk to the farm feels shorter than usual.

Gravel crunches under your shoes as you follow the familiar road, pebbles skittering out from each step. The sky is that washed-out morning blue, low clouds already thinning where the sun presses through.

There’s a faint soreness between your thighs with every stride, a quiet, pulsing reminder of what you did in his room yesterday.

It tugs at you, makes you overly aware of the brush of denim, the way your muscles flex. Warmth pools low in your belly at the memory, slow and syrupy.

You breathe around it, drag your focus up and out, onto the breeze that smells faintly of grass and dust, the distant birds calling to each other from the tree line, the way the morning holds the scent of dew and feed and sunlight-warmed wood even before the heat settles in.

The farmhouse comes into view, porch newly painted and glowing soft in the early light. His grandma’s car sits in its usual spot, a familiar shape against the gravel. Somewhere off to the side, out of sight, chickens cluck and fuss, wings rustling as they move. A dog barks once in the distance and then quiets. Everything looks ordinary—same house, same road, same chores waiting.

Your heart is not.

Remmick is by the barn when you spot him, back turned, shoulders moving as he hauls a sack of feed from the truck bed.

The old pickup creaks as he leans into it. His shirt is already damp along the spine, clinging to the lines of muscle you only got to feel with your hands yesterday, cotton darkened in a wide stripe between his shoulder blades. His hair is flattened at the back like he didn’t fuss much after waking up, just ran a hand through it and called it good.

“Be right there, Grandma,” he calls over his shoulder, voice carrying clear in the quiet yard, then turns.

The words die halfway out of his throat.

You stand there at the edge of the packed dirt, one hand hooked in your back pocket, glossy mouth curved in a small smile you can’t quite help.

He clears his throat, shifts the feed bag up onto his shoulder like he needs something to do with his hands, like the weight gives him an excuse to look away for a heartbeat.

“Mornin’,” he says, quieter than usual, words soft at the edges.

You walk closer, gravel grinding under your soles, trying not to think about how differently you feel in front of him now. “Hi.”

His gaze flicks down your body once—fast, instinctive, a quick sweep over bare legs and the hem of your top—then snaps back up like he’s scared he’ll stare if he lets himself linger. Color creeps up his neck, flushing from the collar of his shirt right up to his ears. You catch the way his fingers tighten on the burlap for just a second, tendons flexing.

“Sleep alright?” he asks, like it’s a simple question, like it doesn’t mean, Did you sleep after what we did?

“Yeah.” You nod, adjusting the collar of your top, nails grazing your collarbone. “You?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking momentarily toward the house, then smiles a little, sheepish and honest. “Best I have in awhile.”

The admission makes something flutter in your chest, small and sharp and sweet. You look away briefly, pretending to study the barn door with its peeling red paint and old metal latch.

“So, uh…” You drag the toe of your shoe through the dirt, tracing a faint line. “What are we doing today? Chickens first? Or are you gonna make me wrestle a cow or something.”

A soft laugh slips out of him, low and warm. The sound loosens some of the tightness in the air, unknotting your shoulders.

“Chickens first,” he says. “No cow wrestlin’ on the schedule yet.”

“Yet,” you repeat, teasing, letting the word hang. “So that’s a later thing.”

He shifts the feed bag again, but there’s a new warmth in his eyes now as they rest on you. “We’ll see how brave you’re feelin’.”

You fall into step beside him as he heads toward the coop. The dirt path is narrow enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

Your arm brushes his just lightly, fabric against fabric, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. His fingers flex once at his side, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for your hand and doesn’t quite trust himself to do it.

“You sore at all?” he asks, voice dipping low, just for you, almost lost under the rustle of the feed bag.

Heat floods your face, warming your ears. “Maybe a little,” you admit, lips twitching as you stare ahead.

He looks mortified for a half second, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, then proud in a quiet, flustered way that makes his mouth curve. “If it’s too much, I can… take a few chores off your plate.”

“I’m fine.” You bump his arm lightly with your own, a playful nudge that sends a tiny shock up your skin. “Besides, whose fault is that?”

His ears go pink, just like yesterday when you pushed him a little too far. “Reckon that’s shared responsibility.”

“Hmm.” You laugh under your breath, the sound small and private. “I’ll allow it.”

The coop comes into view, squat and familiar, paint faded from the sun. Chickens fuss along the fence line, scratching at the dirt, feathers puffed and ruffled.

He sets the feed bag down with a soft thud and dusts his hands off on his jeans, then glances at you again. He lifts the latch and lets you go in first, palm flat on the wire gate as he holds it open for you.

The metal squeaks softly, and dust and loose straw kick up around your ankles as you step inside, feathers stirring the air as the chickens crowd close, bodies jostling, beaks tapping against the bucket like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

You crouch down in your too-pretty shorts, the fabric pulling a little at your thighs, and coo at them like they’re small dogs.

“Good morning, babies,” you sing, tilting the bucket and sprinkling feed with more enthusiasm than technique, kernels bouncing off packed dirt and scuffed boards. “Did you miss me? I bet you missed me.”

One of the hens hops closer than usual, bold little eyes fixed on you, and pecks sharply at the loose bow on your shoelace. A startled yelp bursts out of you as you jerk your foot back, nearly losing your balance.

“Rude!” you scold, hand flying to your chest. “That’s designer.”

From outside the fence, he snorts, the sound quick and involuntary. “That bird don’t care what label you got on your feet.”

“Well, she should,” you grumble, though the smile tugging at your mouth betrays you. You stick your tongue out at the hen anyway.

He watches you call the chickens “miss ma’am” and “bestie,” watches you tilt your head and gossip at them about your lip gloss collection while you pour feed in uneven arcs. You tell one particularly nosy hen she gives “hater” when she pecks too close to your ankle.

Every so often he steps in to redirect your scatterbrained focus—turning the bucket so it doesn’t all dump in one pile, nudging you away from a hen who looks ready to challenge you with puffed feathers and narrowed eyes.

The little corrections are small, almost nothing, but his hands on your waist, your elbow, the small of your back leave his fingers tingling long after he lets go. It takes effort to drop his hand each time instead of letting it rest there, feeling the warmth of your skin through thin fabric.

From there it’s water troughs and checking fences, the rhythm of farm chores settling over the two of you.

He walks ahead on the worn path, shoulders broad and easy in the morning light, a hammer tucked into his belt, the handle bumping his thigh with each step.

You trail half a step behind, the toes of your shoes brushing the backs of his boots now and then, talking about everything and nothing: a silly video Bri sent you, a song stuck in your head, the way your aunt still folds your laundry when she thinks you’re not looking.

He listens, humming a response here and there, throwing in a quiet, “Yeah?” or “She does that?” at the right times, more focused on the sound of your voice than the actual content. Something about the way you talk makes the work feel lighter, even when the tasks are the same as always.

At one fence post, he kneels in the grass to tighten a loose wire, jeans gathering at his knees, fingers steady as he works the metal.

You stand beside him, one palm resting on the warm top of the post, and shade your eyes with your other hand, squinting at the bright sky. The clouds above are soft and slow-moving, smeared across the blue.

“Okay,” you decide out loud. “That one looks like a rabbit. That’s a horse. That’s—I don’t know, a potato.”

He can’t help smiling even as he huffs under his breath, tugging the wire flush. “Hand me that,” he says, nodding toward the tool sitting right by your foot.

“The… plier thing?” you ask, peering down at the cluster of metal, trying to note the name to the tool.

“Pliers.”

“Right.” You stare for a second, brain shorting out on all the shapes, then pick up the tool.

He takes it gently anyway, hand closing over yours for a second as he relieves you of it. He sets the wrong tool down behind him without comment and tips his head toward the right one, mouth quirking. “Other one, sweetheart.”

Embarrassed laughter bubbles up your throat as you trade it for the correct tool, face warming. “You know this is, like, my volunteer community service, right?”

“You’re doin’ fine,” he says, and means it more than you realize. You don’t see the way his expression softens as he glances up at you. “Even if you can’t tell a wrench from a paperweight.”

By late morning the heat builds, settling over the fields in a shimmering veil. Sweat collects along his hairline and darkens the back of his shirt again, fabric sticking to his spine. A curl at his temple clings stubbornly to his skin. Yours gathers at the hollow of your throat and between your shoulder blades, making your top cling more than it should.

Another small circuit of the property, another round of small tasks—checking the old gate that always wants to sag, tossing a stray limb off the path where the tractor wheels will roll, refilling a salt block while the cows watch with slow, bored interest.

You still complain about the bugs, swatting at a gnat that will not leave you alone, about sweat, about your hair frizzing at the edges, but every time he glances at you, your mouth is still curved up, eyes soft and content, like the complaining is a bit you’re committed to and not real misery.

Later, by the shed, he’s hauling a bale of hay when you step up and place your hands under the rough twine like you’re about to help. The dry, scratchy edges bite lightly into your palms. The weight nearly pulls you forward.

“Oh my god, that’s heavy,” you squeak, stumbling half a step toward him as the bale doesn’t budge the way you expected.

He immediately shifts, muscles flexing as he takes the full load from you with effortless strength, arms tightening. “Here, I got it.”

“I loosened it for you,” you say, nose wrinkling, trying to salvage your pride as you shake out your stinging hands.

“Yeah,” he answers, amusement warm in his chest. “You sure did.”

He carries it inside while you stand in the doorway, shadow falling across the threshold.

You watch his back, the stretch of his shirt over his shoulders, the way his arms bunch beneath the cotton when he lifts the bale onto the stack.

Heat curls low in your belly all over again. Once he disappears behind the stack, you fan yourself quietly with both hands, blowing out a silent breath, then pretend you’re examining a rusty nail on the doorframe when he comes back out, feigning intense interest in the flaking metal.

“Hungry?” he asks after a while, glancing up at the sky where the sun has edged closer to noon. “Looks like it’s near lunchtime.”

“At last,” you groan dramatically. “I’m wasting away.”

He shakes his head, but there’s a fondness in his eyes that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. “C’mon. I’ll find us somethin’ in the kitchen.”

Inside, the farmhouse feels cool compared to the late-morning heat outside. The screen door slaps shut behind you with a familiar clatter. The faint smell of coffee lingers in the air, threaded with whatever his grandma cooked earlier—maybe bacon, maybe gravy—and a hint of cleaner from the counters. The old linoleum floor is smooth under your soles, a little worn where people have stood in the same spots for years.

You hop up onto the worn surface without being asked, palms pressing against the cool counter as you boost yourself, sliding onto the space beside the sink. Bare thighs stick slightly to the smooth, sun-warmed surface as you wiggle into place, heels tapping lightly against the cabinet doors in a soft, rhythmic thud.

He opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it, cold air spilling out around his legs. Jars clink softly as he shifts them, muttering under his breath about leftovers and what counts as “still good.”

You lean back on your hands and watch him, letting your eyes trace the line of his shoulders as he bends to peer into the bottom shelf, the way his shirt pulls snug across his back.

“Wow,” you say lightly, voice echoing just a bit in the quiet kitchen. “Domestic.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Just makin’ sandwiches.”

“Still counts,” you reply. “It’s hot when you cook.”

His ears turn pink immediately. “This ain’t exactly cookin’.”

“Hot when you assemble, then.”

He huffs, but you catch the tiny smile he hides by turning back to the fridge.

You watch him pull out deli meat, cheese, a jar of pickles, mustard, mayo, a container of something his grandma must have made the night before.

He moves around the kitchen with an easy familiarity, grabbing plates from the cabinet by the stove, knives from the drawer that sticks a little, paper towels from the roll by the sink, like he’s been doing this his whole life, which he has. The domesticity of it twists pleasantly in your chest.

The quiet moments feel good, thick but not uncomfortable. You talk just to fill them, to keep the silence from turning shy.

“That jar is so cute,” you comment as he unscrews the pickles and the sharp vinegar scent hits the air. “It’s like farmhouse cottagecore.”

He pauses, lid in hand. “… It’s a jar.”

“Yeah, but it’s, like, a cottagecore jar.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You don’t have to,” you say kindly, swinging your legs. “I’m fluent for both of us.”

He shakes his head, setting bread down on the counter between the two of you. The knife slices through the loaf with a soft rasp, crumbs scattering across the wood. The scents of mustard and cold cuts mix with the clean lemon of the counters and something warm that just smells like home—like his home, which you’re slowly learning by heart.

As he lays slices of cheese and ham onto bread, your foot nudges his hip.

“Thank you for feeding me,” you say around a grin. “Or I’d just fade away into nothing.”

“I ain’t lettin’ that happen,” he replies without thinking.

The words hang there for a beat, heavier than the joking tone that carried them.

His hands keep moving—mustard spread in thin arcs, bread pressed together, pickle slice added with unconscious care—but his eyes flick up, catching yours for a second longer than normal. Something passes there, softer than the heat from earlier, quieter than the two of you moaning into each other’s mouths, but no less real.

You break it with a small grin, because if you don’t, you might say something you’re not ready to say yet. “Is it too early to ask what dessert is?”

“You just got lunch,” he says, recovering. “Eat this first.”

“Ugh, you sound like my aunt.”

“Guess that makes two of us lookin’ out for you.”

That earns him another flutter beneath your ribs, warm and buoyant.

He finishes the second sandwich and sets both plates down, one beside you on the counter, one on the small space beside the sink for himself.

You take a bite, hum approvingly at the taste, and swing your legs again, watching him through your lashes as he leans one hip against the counter to eat, close enough that his hip almost brushes your knee.

In the days that follow, the farmhouse starts to feel less like a place you visit and more like somewhere you’re quietly circling toward.

His grandma draws you in without trying. One afternoon she calls you over to the kitchen table while Remmick is still outside and sets down a bowl of snapped beans.

You sit opposite her, nails painted and bracelets sliding down your wrists, awkward for about half a second before she starts talking about everything from old neighbors to which church ladies can’t cook worth a dime.

She shows you how to break the ends cleanly, how to pile them just so. You end up talking about your aunt, your dad, all the places you’ve tried to live in before getting shipped down here.

By the time Remmick finally comes in for water, there’s a small pile of neat green beans by your elbow and his grandma is telling you that you have “good hands for work when you bother to use them.”

On another day, she pulls you into the living room while some old movie plays low on TV. You sit with a cushion in your lap while she knits, and she asks you which color yarn looks nicest for a baby blanket. You pick something soft and bright, and she nods like that was a test you passed without knowing.

You start staying later without being asked.

There are days when your aunt doesn’t have to call twice to ask where you are because she already knows you’re on the farm, fussing at chickens or trailing after Remmick with a water bottle you keep forgetting to drink yourself.

Sometimes you help his grandma set the table, humming while you line up forks. Sometimes you’re on the porch, painting your nails while he works on some small repair nearby, each of you content in the presence of the other.

Evenings at the farmhouse become their own little rhythm. Dinner with his grandma, dishes shared, then some excuse to drift off down the hall.

You end up in his room more often than not—sometimes on the bed, sometimes on the floor with your back against the mattress, sometimes sprawled on your stomach flipping through one of his old paperbacks while he pretends not to stare at how your backside looks in whatever shorts you picked that day.

Tonight is another one of those evenings.

Dinner is simple and good, and you eat until you’re comfortably full, laughing at some ridiculous comment his grandma makes about a neighbor’s cat, and when she shoos the two of you away from the sink with a firm little wave, you don’t protest.

The hallway feels familiar as you walk down it side by side, the old floorboards creaking softly under your steps. Remmick’s door closes behind you with that gentle click you’ve started to like.

He sits on the floor first, back against the side of the bed, arms resting loosely on his knees.

You drop down beside him, legs stretched out, toes nudging his foot just to see if he moves. The room smells faintly of him—soap, cotton, a hint of hay and warm skin. A crack of the sunset slips through the blinds, striping the floorboards and the lower half of the bed.

For a while, you just talk about nothing. You tell him some half-remembered story about a friend trying to bleach her brows in high school. He shakes his head in disbelief, asks why anyone would do that on purpose, then gets sidetracked telling you about a kid he knew who tried to impress a girl by riding a steer bareback and ended up with a broken wrist and a lifetime of embarrassment.

The conversation drifts, easy and looping. Your bracelets slide up and down your forearm each time you gesture, beads clicking gently. He watches the motion, eyes thoughtful.

At some point, without really deciding to, you reach over and grab his right wrist.

He startles a little, muscles tightening under your fingers, but he doesn’t pull away. “What’re you doin’?” he asks, brow furrowing—not upset, just confused.

You bring his hand closer, turning his palm up, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse at the base. “Hold still,” you murmur, squinting slightly as you tuck his forearm toward your chest. “I’m measuring.”

He blinks once, then again, watching as you slide your fingers around his wrist. “For what? My blood pressure?”

“No,” you say, distracted, frowning at the span between your thumb and forefinger like it’s a ruler. You shift your grip again, trying to ‘measure’ the circumference in your own clumsy way. “I’m trying to get the size for a bracelet.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“A bracelet,” he repeats.

“Yes.” You lift your head to look at him, as if that should be obvious. “I’ve been making them since, like, junior year. I used to sell them at little pop-ups and online and stuff. Haven’t made you one yet. That’s a crime.”

His expression softens, something fond curling in his eyes. “You sell ’em?”

“Mm-hmm.” Your focus returns to his wrist. “Used to pay for going-out outfits and nail appointments my dad didn’t approve of. He didn’t know I was making money off it at first, he just thought I had ‘mysterious extra cash’ and kept checking my room like I was hiding stolen goods.”

That earns a quiet laugh out of him. “You runnin’ a bracelet empire on the side?”

“Working on it,” you say, nodding solemnly. “I wanna redo my online shop while I’m here. Different pictures and new designs. But I need your exact size so it doesn’t look dumb on you.”

His eyes drift down to where your fingers are wrapped around his skin. Your bracelets jingle lightly against his forearm—delicate beads, tiny charms, soft colors that somehow don’t look out of place next to the roughness of his hand. “You could’ve just asked,” he points out.

“I am asking,” you say, offended. “With my hands. This is hands-on research.”

“That ain’t how measurements work.”

“It works enough.” You lean back a bit, still holding his wrist, head tilted as you squint at your fingers. “You’re, like… between two knuckles.”

“That ain’t a unit of measure,” he says, but he sounds amused.

“It is now.” You let go at last, dropping his hand gently back onto his knee. “I’ll remember. I eyeball things.”

“You gonna make it pink and sparkly?” he teases lightly.

You pause as if seriously considering it. “I mean… I could. But you’re more like… earthy colors. Browns, greens, maybe a little metal. You seem like a burnt orange person.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.” You wave it off. “You’ll see. It’s just… I’ve been thinking about doing some new stuff, and it felt weird that I hadn't made you anything when you’ve been letting me bother you every day.”

He shifts, leaning his head back against the mattress, watching you with that soft, quiet gaze that always feels a little too intense when you catch it. “You don’t bother me.”

“You did think I was annoying at first,” you remind him, smirking.

“Still do sometimes,” he admits, but his voice is warm. “Don’t mean I don’t like you here.”

The words land in your chest in a way that makes you feel oddly light. You look away before he sees too much, reaching for one of your own bracelets and rolling it up and down your wrist.

“Good,” you say, trying to sound breezy and not like your heart just skipped something. “Because you’re getting a bracelet whether you like it or not. Custom. Very limited edition.”

He huffs a small laugh. “An exclusive, huh?”

“Exactly,” you reply. “It’ll match your eyes or your soul or something.”

“My soul?” He raises a brow. “You know what color that is, do you?”

“Rusty green,” you decide. “With little gold flecks. You have a very… mossy spirit.”

He shakes his head, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh that makes his chest move under his shirt. “You say the strangest stuff.”

“And yet,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, “I’m still allowed in this house.”

“That you are,” he answers softly.

The room settles into a comfortable hush, but it doesn’t feel empty.

You sit there on the floor beside him, backs against his bed, ankles almost touching, your mind already sorting colors and bead shapes and little patterns that will sit just right on his wrist.

He doesn’t know you’re planning more than one—one for him, one to keep, maybe a third for his grandma if she lets you measure her too—but that’s fine.

Saturday arrives with heat already in the air and a list in his grandma’s neat cursive sitting on the kitchen table. You’re halfway through a biscuit, swinging one leg under your chair, when she taps the paper with her fingertip.

“Farmer’s market day,” she says. “I’d go myself, but these knees are fussin’. So I’m sendin’ the two of you.”

You blink, crumbs sticking to your lip gloss. “Like… to sell things? To strangers?”

“That’s generally how markets work,” she replies mildly.

Remmick is rinsing a mug at the sink, shoulders twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “I can handle it, Grandma. She don’t have to—”

“Hush.” Grandma cuts him off with a look, then smiles at you. “You help load the truck. He’ll show you how to set up. Smile pretty, be polite, don’t let nobody short you on change.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” you mutter, even as interest sparks in your chest. “I wasn’t told there’d be math.”

“There’s a cash box and a calculator,” she says. “You’ll live.”

The drive into town feels different with the truck bed stacked high—crates of tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, jars of pickles and preserves lined carefully in milk crates, a couple of cartons of eggs if they don’t crack on the way.

You sit close enough that your bare thigh brushes the worn denim on his leg every time the truck hits a bump.

“I’m gonna mess this up,” you announce as the town limit sign passes. “I’ve never sold… anything that grew out of the ground.”

“You sold your bracelets,” he points out, one hand steady on the wheel.

“That’s different. Those were sparkly. Nobody gets excited over… zucchini.”

“Lot of folks do,” he says, amused. “Just gotta find the right ones.”

Stalls line the town square by the time you arrive, a scattered patchwork of tents and tables. Some vendors are already talking with customers. Others are still unloading. The air smells like kettle corn, grilled something, and sun-warmed fruit. You hop down from the truck, shading your eyes with your hand.

“It’s… cute,” you say. “Like a tiny festival, but with more vegetables and less glitter.”

He chuckles under his breath and starts unloading, motioning toward the folding table strapped in the back.

You help, in your own way—dragging the legs out, getting one corner stuck, almost pinching your fingers until he steps in behind you and fixes it with a practiced thump.

“Here,” he murmurs, sliding the table into place. “We’ll set the stuff up in rows. Tomatoes up front, jars in the back so nobody knocks ’em over.”

Arrangement is something you understand. While he hauls crates, you start playing with display—tilting baskets, lining up jars, making little pyramids of squash that you insist look artistic. He watches you fuss with the tomatoes until one of them rolls off and you squeak, catching it at the last second.

“You’re stressin’ yourself out,” he says, setting a crate beside you. “Folks are just here to buy dinner.”

“They’ll buy more if it’s pretty,” you reply, concentrating hard. “Presentation matters.”

The first few customers wander over just as you’re finishing your third tomato pyramid. An older couple inspects the cucumbers. A dad with two toddlers in tow asks about eggs. You freeze for a beat, suddenly hyper-aware of the cash box, the prices Grandma scribbled, the fact this is all very real.

Remmick steps in smoothly, voice calm and friendly as he answers questions. He weighs produce on the hanging scale, counts out change with practiced ease, nods and thanks and smiles in that quiet way of his.

You stand beside him, trying to look like you’re helping. When someone asks a price, you glance at him. When someone hands cash, you double-check the amount in your head twice before handing it back.

The first time you try to talk, the words come out slightly jumbled. “Our tomatoes are… round.” You want to disappear.

A woman with a reusable bag raises a brow. “I’d hope so, sugar.”

Blood rushes to your face. “I mean—ripe. Very… juicy. Organically… sun… kissed.”

Behind you, Remmick clears his throat like he’s choking on a laugh. Somehow, the woman still ends up buying a pound and asking if you’ll be here next week.

After a few more sales, your panic fades enough to notice something important: people like attention. They like being seen, complimented, handled gently. That you can do.

A man hesitates by the pickles, frowning at the label. “My wife’s picky,” he says. “Never can get the brine right.”

“They smell amazing,” you tell him honestly, leaning a little closer to the jar. “Way better than the store ones. And they look so cute on a shelf? Very old-fashioned kitchen vibes. Your wife’ll think you’re thoughtful.”

He blinks, taken off guard. “You think so?”

“Definitely.” You nod, bracelets clinking as you gesture. “Plus the jar is great. She can reuse it. It’s like a two-for-one.”

He buys two jars.

A teenager hovers near the squash, clearly sent on an errand. He mutters something about not knowing which ones his mom likes.

You grin, hand on your hip. “Grab these,” you say, plucking three that look particularly nice. “They’re pretty and they’ll roast up real nice. Your mom’ll think you paid attention.”

His shoulders relax. “Yeah? Thanks.”

More customers wander by. You start calling people “hon,” smiling wide, telling one woman her hat is adorable, another that her nails “totally match the peaches”. People laugh, linger, buy more than they planned. You forget you were nervous.

Remmick watches you out of the corner of his eye between weighing produce and making change. He notices how quickly people warm up to you, how your silly compliments taper their edges, how they walk away smiling. More than once, someone says, “She’s good for business,” and he agrees quietly in his head.

Mid-morning, the sun climbs higher. You fan yourself with the paper list while he wipes his forehead with his sleeve.

A trio of local girls wanders through the stalls, giggling among themselves. One of them—a dark-haired woman in cutoffs and a tank top—spots your table and veers toward it with interest.

“Hey, Remmick,” she says, voice bright. “Didn’t know you’d be working the market today.”

He looks up from the cash box. “Mornin’, Aaliyah.”

She sidles closer, resting her hand on the edge of the table. “These your grandma’s?” she asks, glancing at the vegetables, then back at his face. “They look good. You been takin’ care of ’em?”

He nods, shifting his weight. “Best I can.”

“You always do.” Her smile turns a shade softer. “Remember when you helped my daddy fix that flat on the highway? He still says you saved him a tow.”

“That was a while back,” he says. “Wasn’t nothin’.”

She laughs lightly. “You’re always sayin’ that.”

There’s a familiar ease between them, small-town history layered in their words. You stand a little straighter, attention drawn like a magnet. Her elbow leans on the table, bringing her closer to him. Her lashes flutter just a fraction more than necessary.

“You here every Saturday now?” she asks. “Maybe I’ll have to swing by more.”

The little pinch in your chest arrives so suddenly you almost miss it. It’s not big. Just a tight, low curl of something unfamiliar that makes your smile waver. Your gaze flicks from her arm, to how near her hand is to his, to his mouth when he answers.

“Far as I know,” he says. “Grandma likes the company.”

She hums, eyes sliding down his chest for a second. “You look good behind a table.”

Heat creeps up your neck. That’s your thought.

Without thinking, you shift closer to him, shoulder brushing his arm. It’s a small movement, but you feel it—staking space, sliding into his orbit. One hand rests lightly on the stack of jars, fingers inches from his. Your body angles toward him instead of the stand.

Aaliyah’s gaze flicks to you then, just noticing you’re there. “You helpin’ out today?” she asks, voice polite in that way that makes it clear she’s trying to place you.

“I am,” you say, bright and sweet. “His grandma sent us. He’s the muscle, I’m the… marketing.”

Her eyes sweep over your gloss, your bracelets, your not-at-all practical outfit. Something sharp passes through them before her expression smooths. “You from around here?”

You tip your head, replying with your home city. “Temporary exile.”

That earns a tiny, reluctant smile. “Well. Welcome to the middle of nowhere.”

You smile back, but the pinch in your chest doesn’t fade. It sits there, simmering quietly while she buys a few tomatoes and a jar of pickles. She touches his forearm when she hands him the cash, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“We’re having a cookout tonight,” she says lightly. “You should come by. Mama would love to see you.”

“Got chores tonight,” he answers. “Maybe another time.”

“Don’t wait too long.” Her glance skims over you once more. “Nice to meet you.”

She walks off with her friends, laughter trailing behind them.

For a moment, the sounds of the market go a little muffled around the edges. You stare at the space where she was standing, then at the spot on his arm where she touched him. The feeling in your chest twists, not painfully, but insistent.

He starts stacking change back into the box, jaw a touch tighter than before. “Aaliyah’s family’s had land near ours for years,” he says after a moment, like he needs to explain. “We all grew up ’round here.”

“That’s cool,” you say. The words come out light, breezy, practiced. “She’s pretty.”

He glances at you, brows pulling in. “Guess so.”

There’s a beat of silence. You adjust a basket that doesn’t need adjusting, suddenly annoyed at the way your bracelets feel too tight on your wrist.

“She definitely likes you,” slips out before you can stop it.

Color rises along his neck. “She likes flirtin’ with anything that can swing a hammer.”

“Oh.” Your mouth twists. “So that’s… community service flirting.”

He huffs, something close to a laugh, but his eyes stay on you a second longer, trying to read what’s underneath your tone. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.” Your smile feels a little stiff around the edges. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Tomatoes,” you say quickly. “And customer engagement. And how I’m probably gonna need you to carry me to the truck when my feet give out.”

He watches you quietly, like he can see there’s more but doesn’t know how to reach it yet. Another customer approaches and the moment dissolves under questions about cucumbers and exact change.

Still, as the morning wears on and you go back to calling people “hon” and telling them their kids are cute and their hats are iconic, that small pinch of jealousy sits right where it started, a new, sharp little awareness.

You care that other people look at him.

And that means something you’re not quite ready to say out loud yet.

The truck rumbles along the back road on the way back, windows cracked just enough to let hot air snake through, carrying the faint smell of dust and whatever’s left of the market on your clothes—kettle corn, tomatoes, sun.

You’re slumped against the passenger door, legs tired, bracelets resting quiet on your wrist for once. The cash box is wedged between your feet on the floorboard, no longer terrifying now that you’ve survived a whole morning of using it without losing anyone’s change.

Beside you, Remmick drives one-handed, the other arm resting along the open window frame. His shirt is damp at the front, collar dark with sweat, hair a little flattened from the heat. He looks tired in a good way.

Your brain is not calm.

The moment with Aaliyah keeps replaying in your head like a loop: her leaning in, hand on his arm, easy little laugh that said I know you and I’ve known you a long time. Your eyes keep flicking to that forearm, resting now on the wheel, skin dusted with sun and faint pale lines from old scrapes.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. But the pinch in your chest hasn’t gone away.

The quiet stretches until it feels too big.

“I didn’t like that lady touching your arm,” you blurt.

The words drop into the cab like a rock in water. Both of you go still for half a second. You feel your face heat so fast it’s like someone turned you toward the sun.

“I mean—oh my God,” you groan, bringing a hand to your forehead. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand tighten briefly on the wheel. He glances over, brows raised. “Aaliyah?”

“Yes, Aaliyah,” you say, sinking lower in your seat. “Little hometown cutie with the nice crop. I know she’s nice, whatever. I just… didn’t like her touching you. It made my chest feel weird.”

His expression shifts—surprise first, then something softer. “We’ve known each other since we were kids,” he says slowly. “She’s like that with everybody.”

“I’m not everybody,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

He goes quiet again. The road hums underneath the truck, trees blurring past in green smears. You roll your glossed lips together, wishing you could stuff everything you just said back into your mouth.

“Sorry,” you add quickly. “That was possessive. And weird. You’re allowed to have your arm touched. By whoever. I don’t own your arm. It’s a free arm.”

He huffs, a short surprised laugh that loosens something in the air. “A free arm,” he repeats.

“Yes,” you say, doubling down because you’re committed now. “I’m pro–free arm.”

He shakes his head, a half-smile curling at his mouth before fading into something more thoughtful. “I didn’t think anything of it,” he says. “Didn’t feel nothin’ special when she did that. Just regular talkin’.”

“You didn’t?” you ask, glancing over, unable to help yourself.

His eyes flick from the road to you and back again. “No,” he says simply. “I don’t… look at her that way.”

The pinch in your chest eases, just a little. You look down at your hands, twisting one of your bracelets between your fingers. “Okay.”

He waits a beat. “You jealous?” His tone isn’t mocking, just curious, like he’s holding something gentle in his hands and trying not to crush it.

You think about lying. It would be easy to laugh it off, to say no, to claim you were just being territorial about the table or the produce or some nonsense. But your mouth chooses honesty before your brain can censor it.

“Yeah,” you say, voice low. “Maybe a little. I didn’t like how she looked at you. Like she already had half a claim.”

His grip shifts on the wheel. The truck dips over a small rise in the road. “You’re the one who put your shoulder on me soon as she came over.”

You blink, startled. “You noticed that?”

“Hard not to when you got all up in my space,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. If anything, he sounds pleased. “I didn’t mind.”

You stare out the windshield, a smile pulling at your mouth despite your best effort to stay mildly irritated. “Good,” you say. “Because I’m probably gonna keep doing that.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

The farmhouse slides into view, the white siding catching late light, porch newly painted, fields rolling out behind it. He turns into the drive, dust puffing under the tires.

“I don’t mind,” he says finally, voice quieter. “When it’s you.”

The truck rolls to a stop in front of the house. Instead of pulling around the side like he sometimes does, he leaves it right there, engine idling for a moment before he cuts it. The sudden quiet clicks in your ears.

Through the front window, you can see a flicker of movement—curtains, maybe his grandma passing by—but no one comes to the door. The world feels strangely small. Just the truck, the porch, the two of you sitting close in a suddenly too-still cab.

You turn toward him slowly. “You really didn’t like it?” you ask, softer now. “Her touching you?”

His eyes meet yours. There’s no hesitation in them this time. “Didn’t even think about it,” he says. “I was too busy watchin’ you sell my grandma’s cucumbers like they were luxury goods.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of you. “I am an excellent salesperson.”

“You are,” he agrees. “And… I was thinkin’ more ’bout you than anyone else the whole damn time.”

Heat flares in your cheeks, spreading down your neck, settling warm between your thighs. Your hand finds his arm—the free one—the same one Aaliyah touched. You rest your fingers there deliberately, thumb tracing a slow little circle on his skin.

“Well,” you say. “I like this more.”

His breath hitches. “So do I.”

The cab feels smaller by the second. You can hear your heartbeat, the faint ticking of the cooling engine, a dog barking faintly somewhere off on the road. Your aunt’s house is far enough away. His grandma is inside, probably moving around the kitchen or folding something in the living room, but she isn’t at the window right now.

You lean in without fully deciding to. He meets you halfway, lips pressing to yours in a kiss that starts off soft—testing—and then deepens quickly when you sigh against his mouth.

The angle is awkward, but you don’t care. One of your hands slides up to his jaw, thumb brushing the roughness there, while the other abandoned his arm to clutch at the front of his shirt. He tilts his head, lips parting, the kiss turning warm and a little messy as your tongue brushes his.

He makes a low sound in his throat—one of those rough, unrestrained noises he only makes when he’s stopped worrying about whether he should—and shifts closer on the bench seat. The move brings your bodies into better alignment, knees bumping, shoulders pressing.

Outside, the porch and yard sit innocently in the sun. Inside, the cab fills with the slick sound of lips moving, the small gasps you let out when his hand finds your hip, fingers squeezing just a bit tighter, thumb stroking under the hem of your shirt.

You angle your body toward him, one leg sliding up onto the seat so you can twist closer, effectively half-kneeling as you chase his mouth.

“Remmick,” you murmur against his lips, breathing him in.

“Yeah,” he answers, his breath warm against your mouth, voice already wrecked.

“This is… kind of risky, right?” you say, though you don’t pull back, your fingers still fisted in his shirt. “Your grandma could totally walk out.”

“Windows are high,” he murmurs, but he glances at the house anyway, just long enough to check. “Can’t see the truck from the sittin’ room. I think.” His eyes flick back to you, darker now. “You wanna stop?”

“No,” you say, immediate and honest. “I like it.”

He groans softly, forehead pressing to yours for a second like he’s trying to steady himself. Then he pulls you in again, kissing you harder this time. His hand slides further around your waist, palm spreading across the small of your back, dragging you closer until your chest presses to his.

Your heart drums against your ribs. Every little sound feels loud in the cab, but not loud enough to make you let go. Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging gently at the curls at the nape of his neck. He reacts with a shuddering breath, body leaning into yours in a way that pins you between him and the steering wheel, thigh pressed firmly against the inside of your leg.

“You keep doin’ that,” he murmurs against your mouth, “and I’m gonna forget we’re parked right in front of the house.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” you whisper, grinning against his lips.

His answering smile is quick and helpless before he kisses you again, slow and deep, hand splaying fully across your lower back, thumb dipping just under the waistband of your shorts.

Your skin prickles under his touch, heat pooling low. A small, involuntary whine slips out of you when he rolls his hips the slightest bit, not enough to be obvious, just enough for you to feel how much this is affecting him.

You’re both breathing harder now, kisses dragging longer, mouths opening, tongues brushing. Somewhere in the back of your mind is the knowledge that anyone could walk by the road and see two figures tangled in the front seat of the old truck. Somehow, that makes you press closer.

“Remmick,” you whisper again, his name turning into more breath than word.

He pulls back just a fraction, breathing as hard as you are, eyes dropping to your kiss-swollen mouth and then back up. “We should probably go inside,” he says, though his hand doesn’t move from your back. “Before I talk myself into somethin’ we don’t have time to finish.”

Your smile curves slow and warm. “Then maybe don’t talk yourself out of continuing later.”

He swallows, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing it. “Count on it.”

You steal one more quick kiss—soft, sweet, a tiny contrast to the heat you just stirred up—before you slide back properly into your seat and adjust your hair with your fingers. He clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, makes a show of checking the cash box like that was what he’d been focused on all along.

From the porch, the front door rattles faintly. His grandma’s silhouette passes by the narrow window, none the wiser.

You both get out of the truck, trying not to look as flustered as you feel.

By the time night settles in fully, the house feels smaller and quieter, like it’s wrapped in its own blanket.

Your aunt has gone to bed already, bedroom door shut, hallway light off. The TV in the living room clicks off not long after, leaving only the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the cool.

In your room, a little pool of lamplight spills across the bedspread. On the mattress in front of you sits an old plastic organizer, each compartment filled with beads you’ve dragged from place to place since high school—glossy glass ones, matte little rounds, thin metallic tubes, imperfect stones with veins of color running through them.

You sit cross-legged in the middle of it all, a too-big sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder. Your fingers move through the beads in practiced motions, bracelets on your own wrists clinking softly as you drag them through small pools of color.

His wrist is easy to picture now. Broad, strong, just a little bigger than you expected that first time you wrapped your fingers around it on his bedroom floor. Warm under your touch. Solid in a way that makes you feel anchored.

Burnt orange and mossy green. That’s what you said. Earth tones. Something that looks like sun on old wood and pasture after rain.

Your hand hovers over a section of green glass beads—some deep and foresty, some lighter like new leaves. You pluck out a handful of the darker ones, letting them tumble into a little pile on the sheet. Next, you reach for the coppery ones—not perfect orange, but something that gleams warm when the light hits. A few antique brass spacer beads follow, small and understated, little anchors between the colors.

Thread is already cut, one end tied in a loose knot. As soon as you pick it up, your body falls back into a familiar rhythm: bead, bead, spacer, bead. Thumb and forefinger work in tiny, practiced pinches. The line slowly fills with pattern—three dark greens, one copper, three greens, one brass. You adjust spacing, squinting a little, lips pursed in concentration.

This isn’t like the bracelets you made for city girls and online customers—bright neon, chunky plastic, little gold letters spelling out inside jokes and petty phrases. This one feels quieter. More grounded.

You don’t want anything too flashy on his wrist, nothing that wouldn’t look right when he’s out in the field with dirt on his hands and straw clinging to his shirt.

Somewhere between threading the third and fourth repeat of the pattern, your mind wanders back to the farmer’s market. His shoulders at your side, the way he weighed squash like it was second nature. The little lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Aaliyah’s hand on his arm. Your own body sliding closer to him before you even fully realized what you were doing.

Jealous. You’d actually been jealous.

The admission still makes your stomach flip a little, but not in a bad way. More in a is this what being serious feels like way. There’s a warmth in your chest now when you think of him, mixed with something possessive and something deeply, embarrassingly soft.

The bracelet grows, inch by inch, as the pattern repeats. Every now and then, you pause to wrap the half-finished length around your own wrist, gauging whether it looks right, picturing how it’ll sit on his. You remember the way his pulse felt under your thumb when you were “measuring”—steady and strong—and add another green bead, another flash of copper, a brass piece to break the rhythm.

A small piece of you is tempted to make it too tight, just so he has to stretch it over his hand and think of you when it snaps into place. In the end, you leave it a little looser, knowing he likes room to move.

When the length seems right, you tie it off carefully, fingers working the knot close and tight. The ends get trimmed, the excess tucked neatly away. The finished bracelet lies in your palm, a neat little circle of moss and rust and warm metal, catching the lamplight in soft glints.

On the blanket beside you, your phone lights up for a second with a random notification.

For half a breath, you wonder what he’s doing right now—lying in his own room across the fields, maybe on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking too much like he always does. Maybe thinking about you. Maybe replaying the way you leaned into him in the truck, how your hand felt on his arm, how your mouth tasted.

The bracelet rests against your bracelets on your own wrist for a moment as you slip it on to test the look. It fits a little loose on you, beads clicking softly as you twist it. Two of them sit right over the bones on the top of your wrist, shining green and copper in the light.

It feels right.

You slip it back off, rolling it between your fingers before reaching for the little cloth bag you keep your nicer pieces in.

The bracelet goes inside gently, tucked safely among other small treasures. A silly thought creeps up—wrapping it, or putting it in his palm and closing his fingers around it, or slipping it on him yourself, thumb pressing against his skin afterward in a way that makes his breath trip.

Sleep creeps up around the edges of your mind, soft and insistent. Beads get poured back into their compartments. The thread is wound up and tucked away. The organizer closes with a faint snap and gets set aside on your nightstand, the little bag with his bracelet placed next to your phone, where you’ll be sure to see it in the morning.

When you finally slide under the covers, the room changed from bead-strewn workspace back into a simple bedroom.

The bracelet rides in your pocket all morning.

You keep reaching down to thumb the little cloth bag, feeling the shape of the beads through the fabric as you walk up the drive.

Sun climbs slow and steady over the fields, burning off the last of the dew, and the farmhouse looks so normal that it feels almost unreal to be hiding something small and precious in the pocket of your shorts.

You tell yourself you’ll give it to him after chores. Or before lunch. Or when you finally stop chickening out.

Remmick is already busy when you get there, boots planted in the dirt beside the barn. He’s got a post-hole digger sunk into the ground, shoulders working as he pulls and lifts and twists.

You stand there for a second just watching him, your fingers curled loosely around the bracelet bag.

“Morning,” you call.

He glances up, expression easing in a way you feel more than see. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m fixin’ that corner fence after I feed the cows. You can go say hi to the horses if you want. I’ll meet you in the barn after I’m done here.”

“Okay,” you say, relief warm in your chest. You can give it to him in the barn, you decide. Horses around you, him close, your hand on his—all very romantic. Extremely cottagecore.

You head toward the barn, sneakers kicking little puffs of dust, the smell of hay and animals growing stronger with each step. Inside, it’s cooler than the yard, shadowed and familiar. Dust motes float in shafts of light cutting through the open doors. You hear a soft snort, the shuffle of hooves, the faint clink of a chain.

“Hi, babies,” you murmur, slipping down the aisle between stalls. “It’s just me. I’m here to gossip.”

You pause at each stall: a gelding who pushes his nose against the bars for a scratch, another who tosses his head like he’s above all this.

Then you reach the one you always drift back to—your favorite mare. A broad, gentle creature with a pale mane and a blessfully patient expression who decided she liked you on the first day you gave her an apple behind Remmick’s back.

“Hey, pretty girl,” you coo, already reaching up to touch her nose. “I missed you. Did you have the most boring night without me?”

She doesn’t come over.

She stands in the back of the stall, shifting her weight, head low. Her flanks twitch. There’s a sheen of sweat along her neck that glistens in the strip of light from the window. Her tail flicks once, twice. She lets out a deep, restless huff, then stamps gently and turns in a tight little circle.

Your heart stutters.

“Hey,” you say, voice softening with concern. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You step closer, fingers wrapping around the stall door. Up close, she looks all wrong—too fidgety, eyes a little wild, sides working harder than usual. She doesn’t nuzzle your hand like normal. She flicks an ear and shifts again, almost bumping the wall.

Panic spikes sharp and fast.

“Remmick?” you call, but it comes out thin, too quiet. You swallow, throat tight.

Maybe she’s overheated. Maybe she ate something bad. Maybe something is really, really wrong and you didn’t notice soon enough because you were out here thinking about bracelets and kissing him in trucks and—

Your eyes sting.

You spin on your heel and practically run back down the aisle, tripping a little over a stray bucket and catching yourself on the wall. Outside, the light feels too bright all at once, the air too hot. Remmick is still by the fence line, but the second he sees you barreling toward him with your face crumpled and your breath hitching, his whole body goes alert.

“Hey,” he says, dropping the digger and stepping toward you. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s sick,” you blurt, grabbing his sleeve, fingers tightening like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “Your mare—my mare—the one I like—she’s in her stall and she’s all sweaty and restless and she won’t come to the fence and she’s breathing funny and I think she’s dying, Remmick, I think—”

Your voice cracks. Tears sting harder now that you’ve said it out loud. Some part of you knows you’re spiraling, but the image of her shifting and blowing and not looking like herself is stuck in your head with flashing alarm bells around it.

“Alright, slow down,” he says quickly, hand coming up to rest warm and steady on your shoulder. “Which stall?”

You tug on his arm like that’ll make his legs move faster. “The fourth one down, the girl with the white blaze. She looks really bad, Remmick, I’m serious—”

He doesn’t waste another second arguing. He follows you at a fast walk toward the barn, strides longer than yours. You stay glued to his side, breath hitching, your hand still latched onto the crook of his elbow like a lifeline.

Inside, you point with a shaking finger. “There.”

He approaches the stall calmly, not rushing, not flinging the door open like you half expect him to. He leans on the wood, eyes scanning the mare with a practiced, assessing gaze—head, sides, legs, the way she carries herself.

She shifts again, lets out that low restless snort, paws lightly at the straw. Her tail flicks. Her sides ripple in a wave that makes you catch your breath.

“See?” you say, voice wobbly. “She’s freaking out. She never freaks out. Did she get out? Did she eat something? Is she—”

He lifts a hand, palm up, a gentle gesture that puts your words to rest. “Easy.”

Those brown eyes soften as he watches the mare, piecing together small signs you can’t read. Then, to your surprise, his mouth curves slightly.

“She’s fine,” he says.

Your jaw drops. “She is not fine. She looks miserable.”

He glances at you, amused despite himself. “She’s uncomfortable,” he agrees. “But she ain’t sick.”

“How do you know?” you demand, already bracing for him to list ten horrible farm illnesses she could have that you don’t know about.

He points with his chin. “Watch her sides.”

The mare shivers along her flank again, skin rippling, muscles tightening and relaxing in a way you recognize suddenly, like a memory snapping into place.

Remmick shifts his hand to your back, thumb brushing absently along your spine in a soothing little motion. “She’s in foal,” he says gently. “Remember? I told you couple weeks back that she was bred. That belly’s been gettin’ bigger every time we come through.”

You blink, mind flipping back to some earlier conversation when you probably nodded along while thinking more about his hands than his words. “You said she was pregnant,” you manage. “But I thought that was in, like… horse months. I didn’t know it was now.”

“Gestation’s about eleven months,” he says. “She’s near due. Been keepin’ an eye on her. She’s just feelin’ those contractions startin’ to warm up.”

The word lands heavy and surprising. “Contractions,” you echo, staring at the mare with new eyes.

“She ain’t all the way into labor or I’d have her in the foaling stall,” he adds. “But she’s gettin’ close. That’s why she won’t settle. Body’s practicin’ for the real thing.”

You stoop a little, peering through the bars, suddenly noticing all the details you missed in your panic—the way her udder looks fuller, the slightly hollowed spot in front of her hips, the waxy little beads at the tips of her teats.

It all clicks in a messy collage of google searches you did years ago on bored nights, half-watching animal videos and half-texting friends.

“But she’s okay?” you ask, voice small.

“She’s okay,” he repeats, steady as a promise. “Uncomfortable. Probably a little cranky. But not in danger. We’ll keep checkin’ on her. If anything looks off, I know who to call.”

The relief hits so hard your knees go a little weak. You sag against the stall door, forehead nearly touching the wood. “Oh my God. I thought she was dying and I was gonna have to plan a funeral.”

He laughs quietly, hand still warm at your back. “You really thought the worst.”

“I like her,” you protest, lifting your head, eyes already damp. “She likes me. We have a bond. You didn’t see her face, she looked so miserable. And horses… can, like, colic and stuff. And twist their insides. And just… drop.”

He nods, serious again. “They can. You’re right to be watchful. But see how she’s still movin’? Still interested in what’s goin’ on around her? She ain’t checked out. That’s good. She’s just ridin’ it out.”

You sniff, wiping beneath one eye with the back of your wrist. “I almost started crying.”

“I noticed,” he says, soft. There’s no teasing in it, just this warm thread of fondness that makes your cheeks heat for a different reason. “Means you care. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

You study the mare again, the lines of her body, the strong curve of her neck. “She’s gonna have a baby.”

“She is,” he says. “Wanna feel ‘em kick?”

Your eyes widen. “I can do that?”

He nods, unhooking the stall latch and slipping inside with quiet, confident steps. The mare turns toward him, recognizing his scent, ears flicking forward. He murmurs something low under his breath, a soothing string of nonsense and her name, hand running down her neck.

“C’mere,” he calls softly to you.

You hesitate at the doorway. “What if I mess something up?”

“You won’t,” he says. “I’m right here.”

You step inside, heart in your throat, hyper-aware of the big animal beside you. He takes your wrist gently and guides your hand to the mare’s side, pressing your palm flat against the curve of her belly, just in front of where she begins to slope toward her hindquarters.

“Hold it there,” he says. “It might not do anythin’ right away. Just wait.”

You do. For a few seconds, all you feel is warmth, the rise and fall of her breath, the shifting of muscles as she shifts her weight. You’re just about to say you don’t feel anything when something nudges against your hand from the inside—a firm, brief bump, like someone tapped once and withdrew.

Your breath catches. “Oh.”

He smiles, watching your face more than her side. “Feel that?”

“They kicked,” you whisper, eyes wide, voice reverent. “There’s, like, a whole horse in there.”

“A whole horse,” he nods lightly.

You keep your hand there a moment longer, hoping for another nudge. The mare shifts again, letting out a deeper sigh that sounds less distressed now that you know what’s happening. You look up at Remmick, palm still on the horse’s side, your other hand resting against his forearm where he stands close.

“Next time she looks like that,” you say softly, “you’re supposed to tell me she’s pregnant before I have a breakdown.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Thought I had.”

“Well, say it louder,” you huff, though there’s no real bite behind it. “She’s very important to me.”

He studies you in that quiet way he has. “I’m startin’ to realize you’re very important to her too.”

You look away before you can melt entirely, patting the mare’s side once more.

“Do we… stay with her?” you ask. “Like… when she has it?”

“If we can,” he says. “Sometimes they foal in the middle of the night just to be difficult. But I’ll show you signs when we’re closer. If she starts waxin’ heavier, layin’ down a lot, lookin’ at her sides more, we’ll move her where it’s safer.”

You nod, absorbing each detail with more focus than you’ve ever given any classroom lecture. He squeezes your wrist very gently before letting go.

“C’mon,” he says. “We’ll check her through the day. For now, she’s alright.”

You step out of the stall, glancing back once at the mare, who flicks an ear and seems almost smug now that your panic has been replaced by awe.

His room is warm that night, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint hum of cicadas.

You’ve been pacing for the better part of ten minutes, socks sliding on the old wood floor as you leap from topic to topic—your aunt’s casserole, the mare’s baby, the weird dream you had last night, whether horses know they’re pregnant, whether roosters have feelings, whether you should get a haircut.

Remmick lies stretched across the bed, back propped against the headboard, damp hair curling where it meets his neck. He’d showered earlier while you watched TV with his grandma before she left for her sister’s for the night.

He has a book open in his hands, but it’s been stuck on the same paragraph for the last five minutes because he’s listening to you—not interrupting, not telling you to slow down, just following every twist your mind takes with that soft half-smile he does when he’s trying not to show how fond he is.

“You know what I learned today?” you say suddenly, spinning on your heel, bracelets jingling. “Baby horses have to stand up, like, immediately. Imagine if human babies did that. I would simply pass out—”

You stop dead.

Like a light flicking on in your head, you remember.

“Oh! Oh my God—come here.”

Before he can ask, you cross the room in three quick steps and climb straight into his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, the book nearly knocked from his hands.

His breath catches a little—not in shock, just in that way he does when you surprise him in ways he secretly likes.

“Well—hi,” he murmurs, steadying the book so it doesn’t fall. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you say, leaning forward so your chest brushes his, fingers diving into the pocket of your shorts. “I forgot something. Well I didn’t forget, I just—remembered that I forgot to give you something.”

He blinks up at you, hands hovering lightly at your hips because he still asks permission with his body even when you’re sitting on him. “Give me what?”

You pull the little cloth bag out and plop it right onto his chest with a soft thud.

“This!”

He places the book aside carefully, one brow raised, then pinches the drawstrings between two fingers. “What’s this for?”

“Just open it,” you say, grinning, palms pressed flat against his warm shoulders like you need to hold him in place.

He loosens the ties and tips the bag, letting the bracelet slide into his palm—a circle of mossy green and warm copper and antique brass that glints softly in the lamplight.

You watch his face shift—surprise first, then something softer. Something that makes your stomach swoop.

“For me?” he asks, almost quiet.

“Obviously,” you say, flicking his forehead lightly. “Who else has wrists that size around here? It’s custom. Don’t lose it.”

He turns it in his hand, thumb brushing over the beads as though he’s afraid they’ll bruise. “Did you make this last night,” he asks.

You shrug, pretending your heart isn’t pounding. “Maybe.”

His eyes lift back to yours, softer than you’re ready for. “It’s real pretty.”

“It’s supposed to be,” you reply, leaning back enough for him to see it on you for comparison, then tapping his wrist. “Give me your arm.”

He offers it, hesitant but obedient. You slide the bracelet up over his hand, working it past his knuckles until it settles against his skin. Perfect fit—exactly the size you memorized when you pretended to “measure” him with your fingers.

The sight hits you harder than expected. It looks… right. Like it belongs there.

He turns his arm over, watching the beads catch the light. Then his other hand rises to your thigh, steady but gentle, anchoring you.

“I’ve never had jewelry before,” he admits, voice low. “Not real jewelry, anyway. Never thought anyone’d make me somethin’ like this.”

Your throat tightens—embarrassingly sentimental. You try to cover it by checking your nails. “Well, now you do. Because you’re important.”

His eyes lift fast. “To who?”

“To me,” you say without thinking—soft, honest, dangerously close to too much.

His breath leaves him in one quiet exhale, like he felt the words land somewhere deep. You shift a little in his lap, suddenly aware of every place your body touches his—the warmth of his chest under your palms, the subtle rise and fall of his breath, the way his thighs tense slightly beneath you.

The bracelet rests on his wrist, perfect and still glowing in the lamplight.

“You like it?” you ask, softer now.

He doesn’t look away from you when he answers.

“I love it.”

His thumb strokes once along your thigh, slow and uncertain, like he’s testing whether he’s allowed to want more.

You lean in before he can second-guess himself, mouth brushing his in a soft, warm kiss that deepens almost immediately.

He exhales hard through his nose, fingers tightening around your hips as if the feel of you settling fully into his lap hits him all at once.

The bracelet you made clinks softly as he moves his hand to your waist, the beads catching the lamplight with every shift.

You kiss him again—fuller, hungrier, lips parting against his. He meets you halfway, a quiet sound slipping out of him as your tongue traces the seam of his mouth. His hands slide up your back, fingertips skimming under the hem of your shirt before pushing it higher.

Your body leans into him instinctively, chest pressed against his, thighs tightening around his hips. The connection pulls a soft gasp from your lips, swallowed quickly by another kiss, slower now, deeper, like he’s letting himself drown in it.

His book is long forgotten on the bed beside him. The only thing he’s holding now is you.

When your fingers slide into his hair, tugging lightly at the ends, something in him breaks loose. He lifts his hips just a fraction—barely a shift, but enough to let you feel the heat building between you.

One hand slips to the small of your back, guiding you down as he slides lower, shoulders inching off the headboard until his spine meets the mattress. You go with him easily, still straddling him, still kissing him like the air in the room belongs to both of you.

Your hands plant on the mattress beside his head as he settles beneath you, chest rising under yours in steady, hungry breaths. He looks up at you for half a second—eyes dark, lips swollen, hair mussed—and whatever softness lived in the moment before melts into something heavier, closer to a need he doesn’t have words for yet.

You lower yourself until you’re flush against him again, your breasts pressed to his chest, your hips snug over his. The kiss turns messy—your mouths sliding, your breath mixing, his hands exploring your waist.

“Come here,” he murmurs against your lips, voice concentrated and breathless.

“I am here,” you whisper, kissing him again, deeper now, rolling your hips just enough to make him gasp into your mouth.

His head tips back against the pillow, throat exposed, lashes fluttering. You trail a slow kiss along the edge of his jaw, then down to the warm skin beneath his ear. His hands grip your hips harder at the sensation, fingertips digging in through the thin fabric of your shorts.

“Darlin’…” His voice cracks on the word, soft and helpless.

You smile against his neck, breath warm on his skin as you grind down the smallest bit, the heat of him pressing perfectly beneath you, trapped and growing harder by the second.

His chest lifts into yours on instinct, body arching up for more contact, seeking it without thinking. Your bracelets slide against his collarbone, tiny chimes marking every delicious shift of your weight.

When you lift your head to kiss him again, he meets you halfway—mouth warm, eager, unsteady, his breath mixing with yours in rushed little sighs that make your stomach twist with something sharp and hungry.

He’s not shy with his hands anymore. Not with you leaning over him like this. Not with your bodies lined up and your heartbeat pushing against his ribs.

Your palms slide down the sides of his torso, feeling the heat beneath his shirt, the firmness of his stomach as he pulls you closer, like he’s savoring every second he gets to have your weight on top of him.

The bracelet glints on his wrist each time he cups your waist, and the sight of it—your work on his skin—only pushes you closer, your hips sinking down to meet the hard shape beneath his jeans again.

He gasps into your mouth. You bite lightly at his lower lip.

His hands roam your sides with a tentative hunger, fingers pushing your shirt higher, thumbs brushing the bare skin just under your ribs.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and the friction catches you just right, sending a sharp, hot pulse through your body that makes your breath hitch against his mouth.

He murmurs your name, voice low and frayed at the edges, and you whisper his back, biting his lower lip gently before soothing the skin with your tongue.

You lean back enough to tug your shirt up over your head, hair brushing his chest as the fabric slides away. His eyes follow the motion, going dark when your bare skin is revealed. Whatever air was left in his lungs leaves in a quiet rush when he sees your tits in the soft lamplight, nipples tightening under his gaze.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless, like you didn’t just completely undo him by sitting there half-naked on his lap.

His hand rises, cupping one breast, palm warm, a little rough, thumb brushing slowly across your nipple. The soft drag makes you inhale sharply, hips shifting without you meaning to.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, helpless honesty spilling out before he can catch it.

Heat curls up your spine at the way he says it—like he’s seeing something heavenly instead of a girl who didn’t even match her sleep shorts to her nail color.

You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, letting the weight of your chest press into his hand. His fingers tighten, thumb rolling over your nipple in clumsy circles that feel so good they make your toes curl.

You feel yourself getting wetter with every small grind of your hips, the slick heat of you dragging along the line of his erection. Your panties are damp, clinging, and the denim beneath you grows warm where your body presses down. He shifts under you, breath breaking, trying to keep still and failing.

“Remmick,” you murmur into his mouth, “take your shirt off.”

He obeys like you flipped a switch. Both hands leave you long enough to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head in one quick movement, hair musing, chest revealed.

You run your palms over him, exploring every inch you can reach. His muscles jump under your touch, especially when your fingers trace along that lines of his side.

“If you touch me there much longer,” he says, voice ragged on a soft chuckle, “I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” you say softly, smiling, even as your own pulse beats hard between your thighs. “I have a solution, though.”

His brows knit in confusion for half a second, and that’s all it takes for you to reach down and pop the button on his jeans. The zipper drags down with a soft rasp, releasing pressure. His stomach tightens under your hands.

“Lift,” you tell him.

He does, hips rising so you can shove denim and boxers down enough to get what you want. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, brushing against your inner thigh with a weight that makes your breath catch hot in your throat.

“Lord,” he murmurs, color rising in his cheeks when he feels your gaze linger. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around the base of him, relishing the way his breath stumbles. “Like I want to sit on it?”

His hand clamps around your hip, fingers digging in. “You say things that make my head spin.”

“Good.” You give him one slow, firm stroke, feeling the heavy twitch in your grip, the way his cock swells even thicker. “Then you won’t overthink it.”

You lean over him, chest pressing into his again, lips brushing his ear. “Remember when you said you wanted me on top?”

He groans quietly, the sound raw and deep. “I do.”

“You’re about to get what you wanted,” you whisper.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment like he’s thanking every force in the universe he believes in, then snap open again when you lift your hips, shifting your weight forward. He reaches toward his nightstand automatically.

“Condom,” he says, a little breathless. “We—”

“Already on it,” you reply, twisting to snag the drawer handle and tug it open. Foil crinkles faintly as you fish out a packet and tear it with your teeth, feeling his gaze locked on you the entire time. You roll the condom down over his length with both hands, smoothing it along the veined shaft until the latex hugs every inch snugly.

He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling under yours, hands both back on your hips like he needs to hold onto something or float away.

You shift your body so you’re kneeling over him properly, his cock poised just beneath the damp crotch of your panties. Hooking your thumbs into your waistband, you strip your panties down in one fluid motion, tossing them off the side of the bed. Cool air hits your slick folds, and you shiver.

Remmick watches it all, growing even harder at the sight.

You reach between your legs and guide him to your entrance, the thick crown nudging against you. Even just lining him up makes your body pulse, the anticipation almost unbearably sharp.

Then, with one slow, controlled movement, you sink down.

The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, stretching you around the broad width. Your mouth opens in a soft, broken sound as your body clenches, trying to accommodate the sudden fullness.

He grabs the sheets with one hand, the other still clamped on your waist, eyes slammed shut as if he’s on the edge of something too bright.

“You’re so…” you breathe, voice trembling, trying to relax your muscles as you take him deeper, inch by thick inch.

“Don’t say it,” he chokes out, jaw tight, eyes squeezed closed. “I’m tryin’ not to… ”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, though you can already guess what he was about to say. You sink farther, thighs trembling, feeling the drag of him inside you—rubbing against every sensitive place, forcing you to stretch around him in a way that borders on overwhelming.

Your walls hug him tight, clutching at the intrusion of him sliding deeper and deeper until you finally bottom out, pelvis pressed to his.

You sit there for a moment, braced with your hands on his chest, both of you panting. Your pulse is everywhere—between your legs, in your throat, pounding behind your eyes.

He opens his eyes slowly, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you like he’s never seen anything more arresting. His voice comes out hoarse. “I don’t know what to do...”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say, breathless but smiling, rolling your hips just a little to feel him shift inside you. The sensation makes you gasp, your body fluttering around him. “I’ve got it.”

You lift yourself up, only an inch or two, feeling the delicious slide of him moving. The air seems to thicken around you as you drop back down, the sound of your bodies meeting a soft smack that makes his cheeks flush.

“Mercy,” he groans, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to anchor you to him.

You begin to find a rhythm—slow lifts, deep drops, your thighs already burning with the effort, your cunt clenching greedily around that thick, perfect stretch.

Each time you raise your hips, you feel the ridge of his head drag along a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Each time you slide back down, your body swallows him whole again, that overwhelming fullness settling deep in your belly.

Your breath picks up, little noises falling out of you every time gravity helps you take him back in.

He watches you, utterly entranced—the bounce of your tits with each movement, the way your mouth falls open, lips shiny from kissing and parted in pleasure. His hands move from your hips to your waist, then up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in circles that make your back arch.

“You look…” He swallows hard, words failing. “You look… so good up there.”

“You like it?” you ask, managing to breathe the words out between moans.

“I—love it,” he admits, voice cracking. “Been thinkin’ about this since the first time I ever saw you walk through that barn door.”

The confession makes something molten slip down your spine.

You push yourself a little harder, picking up the pace—riding him with more confidence, more need, letting your body chase the friction you’ve been hungry for. The sounds grow louder, your slick coating him where he disappears into you, dripping down to the base of his cock.

You reach between your legs without really thinking, your fingers finding your clit as you bounce in his lap. The added pressure sends a sharp jolt of pleasure racing through you. A gasp tears from your throat.

Your thighs tremble, the muscles starting to shake from both effort and rising pleasure.

He can’t help it anymore—his hips start to move, thrusting up to meet your rhythm. It throws you a little higher each time, makes him drive deeper, thick cock hitting that sweet spot so directly you almost see white. The bed creaks softly beneath you. The bracelet on his wrist flashes each time his hands grab your waist and pull you down harder, greedier.

You lean forward to kiss him, swallowing his broken moan as you grind down harder. Your chest presses to his, your nipples dragging across his skin with every movement, pleasure sparking everywhere you touch.

Your rhythm begins to fall apart from how close you are. Your fingers on your clit move almost frantically now, little circles matching the erratic thrusts of his hips. Your body tightens around him, walls clamping down as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

“I’m… oh God, I’m close,” you gasp, forehead pressing to his. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop—”

His grip on you firms, fingers digging into your waist as he drives up into you with a desperate, uneven rhythm, clearly hanging by a thread. “I’m right there with you,” he manages.

Heat unspools through you in a rush, your body seizing around him as a sharp, broken cry spills from your mouth.

Your cunt pulses around his cock in tight, rhythmic waves, milking him, pulling him deeper as your body shakes in his lap. Your thighs clamp around his hips, muscles trembling as you shudder and gasp against his mouth.

He lasts maybe two thrusts more.

The feel of you convulsing around him, squeezing him so hard it almost hurts, drags him straight over the edge.

His head falls back, a moan ripping from his chest, breathless and raw. His cock throbs inside you, thick pulses shooting heat into the condom as he comes hard, hips jerking helplessly up into your still-clenching body.

He groans, voice ragged, hands pulling you down to keep you as close as possible while his release floods out of him.

You ride it out together. You, shaking and whimpering, still grinding slowly through the aftershocks as your orgasm rolls over you in lingering waves. Him, buried deep, moaning into your shoulder, body trembling beneath you as each twitch of your walls wrings another broken sound from his throat.

Eventually, the intensity ebbs into something softer. Your fingers slip away from your clit, trembling. Your breaths sync slowly, chests rising and falling together, sweat cooling on your skin where you’re pressed so tightly you might as well be one person.

You stay like that for a long moment—still joined, still full of him, his cock softening gradually but still snug inside you, your body reluctant to let go.

He runs one shaking hand up your spine, pausing at the back of your neck to cradle it gently. The bracelet glints at his wrist, beads catching the lamplight as his thumb strokes your skin.

“You alright?” he asks, voice hoarse and quiet, like he’s afraid to break the spell.

You lift your head just enough to look down at him, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes hazy with satisfaction. A slow smile curves across your face.

“I’m perfect,” you say. “You rode that… very well.”

His cheeks redden. “I thought you were the one… ridin’.”

“I was,” you say, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “But you helped.”

His chest shakes with a breathy laugh, and his arms wrap around you fully now, pulling you down to rest against him. He’s still inside you, still warm, still exactly where you want him.

And with your body lax over his, your bracelet on his wrist, and his hands splayed over your back, it’s very clear that this was more than a position he wanted to try.

sweat and sugar 🏷️ @sowntears @idlephantom @julxsxx @prettyxwhimsy @aemondloverr @mncxbe @ree5ep3ace @jolestar @bleedingsunlight @maura-has-a-bellyache @1ych333 @calebspipsqueak @cuntbitchandthebottlemen @skankhvnt42 @iluvsharon @ethereal-athalia @bekahdabest @pearlstiare @valvalvalval-val @materialgirl-97 @ethereallyy @jougds4n

#farmer!remmick

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#farmer!remmick