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Let Me Carry Some of It

Title: Let Me Carry Some of It

Pairing: Farmer!Hal Carter x Farmer!Female Reader

Summary: Your husband walked out and left you to face your first winter on the farm alone. You’re determined to keep the land in your family, even if it grinds you down to the bone. Until your neighbour Hal Carter turns up with a truck full of feed, a steady pair of hands along with the terrifying suggestion that you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.

Word Count: 16.4k (…this got out of hand…)

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Friends-to-lovers, grump/hidden sunshine v Sunshine, small-town, Unprotected Sex, fingering, FEEELINGS! Themes of partner abandonment (Readers Ex Husband) Self worth.. No Beta..

A/N: For Small Town challenge Week 2 @thezombieprostitute and @1000plants again first Hal Fic… this one… really umm.. yeah.. I don’t know what happened..Kinda went bang.. Still set in Silver Ridge

You’d forgotten how heavy the hitch bar felt when you were the only one lifting it.

Your gloves were already damp, the cold seeping through the worn patches as you tried to wrestle the implement into place. Metal clanged against metal, the sound too loud in the still morning air, sharp enough to make your teeth ache. You grunted, braced your boots in the frozen mud and dragged the attachment another inch toward the tractor.

It wasn’t enough.

“Come on,” you muttered through your teeth, breath puffing white in front of you. “Just- cooperate for once.”

The tractor didn’t care. The cold didn’t care. The land sure as hell didn’t.

You leaned your shoulder into the frame and heaved, feeling something in your back protest. The implement shifted with a screech, then stuck again, just shy of where it needed to latch. Your hands slipped on the icy steel, knuckles slamming against the hitch. The pain was immediate, hot and shocking under the numbness.

“Shit.”

You shook out your hand, flexing your fingers. They didn’t want to bend. The winter air bit harder this far up the ridge, the wind funneling through the valley and cutting straight through your jacket like it knew exactly how thin your layers were under it.

First winter alone. You hadn’t exactly given yourself a warm-up.

You straightened slowly, shoulders tight and squinted down over the paddocks. Frost still clung to the grass in glittering sheets, but the cattle would be moving soon, noses steaming, waiting for feed that didn’t care about your timetable or the fact that your life had imploded.

You should’ve kept at least one hand on. Someone to help with the heavy lifting, with the day-to-day grind that didn’t stop just because your marriage did. But that would have meant explaining, answering questions. Letting people see the empty side of the bed and the cleared-out half of the closet.

Instead, you’d told them he’d gone to care for an unwell family member.

A mother. A grandmother. The story shifted depending who you were talking to, a patchwork lie that frayed at the edges more every time you said it. The town wasn’t stupid. They saw the boxes you’d shipped at the post office. They noticed the way your smile got tighter when his name came up.

They knew he wasn’t coming back long before you dared to admit it.

You set your jaw and bent again, forcing the thoughts away. Thinking didn’t get the snow cleared or the stock fed. Thinking didn’t keep pipes from freezing or troughs from icing over.

Work did.

You grabbed the implement again, fingers slipping into the cold gap between worn metal pieces and pulled with everything you had left.

Your boots dragged trenches in the frost. Your lungs burned. A dull throb started behind your eyes, a headache born from too little sleep and too many nights listening to the house creak and settle around you while you lay awake, counting the things that could go wrong.

For a second, the weight moved. Just a fraction.

“Come on,” you hissed.

It wasn’t enough. Your grip slipped, legs buckling, and you had to drop the damn thing before it tore something in your shoulder. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, vibrating through your boots.

You stood there, chest heaving, hands on your thighs, staring at the stubborn hunk of metal like if you glared hard enough it would hook itself up out of spite.

The wind picked up, slipping under your jacket, sneaking down the back of your collar. Your fingers throbbed in your gloves, aching in that bone-deep way that promised they’d sting like fire when they finally thawed.

Christ for someone not even thirty yet, your body was starting to feel like your were closer to fifty.

You swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

No.

You were not going to cry over a tractor.

You straightened again, rolling your shoulders back until something cracked. The sound echoed too loud in the early quiet, but it grounded you. One more breath. One more attempt.

You could do this.

You had to.

This was your place.

You’d just decided on one last try, just one more heave before admitting defeat and switching tactics when the low rumble of an approaching engine cut through the morning stillness.

You froze, hand still braced on the hitch as you listened. The sound grew louder, tyres crunching over the rutted gravel of your long drive. For a heartbeat your chest kicked, stupid hope flaring that it might be the light, familiar bounce of your husband’s old ute rolling back up the lane.

It wasn’t. The weight was wrong. A truck, by the sound of it, something heavier. Deeper.

Your stomach dipped all the same.

You wiped the back of your glove across your nose, straightening as the truck came into view between the bare-branched trees that lined the track. The dark green body, the dent in the front bumper, the way it shifted its weight as it rolled to a stop near the barn. You recognised it before the driver even killed the engine.

Hal Carter.

Of course.

You exhaled, something like relief and irritation tangling up in your chest. You’d completely forgotten the feed delivery was due today, and the realisation made your shoulders sag a little. He climbed out of the cab with the easy, loose-hipped stride you’d seen a hundred times at the co-op and the feed store, denim already dusted with the work of his own morning. Hat pulled low, jacket unzipped despite the cold, like the weather knew better than to mess with him.

He spotted you almost immediately.

“Morning!” he called, voice carrying just fine across the yard.

You straightened instinctively, trying to smooth down the wild edges of your hair with your gloved fingers. “You’re early,” you replied, hoping you sounded more composed than you felt.

Hal swung the tarp off, revealing the stacked winter feed in the back; bags of pellets, some mineral lick blocks, and two rows of hay bales tied neat.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said lightly. “Sun’s been up for hours.”

You snorted, wiping your palms on your jeans as you wandered closer. “Yeah, well. Some of us had a disagreement with machinery.”

His gaze flicked to the half-attached implement and the mess of disturbed frost around your boots. His mouth flattened, just a touch. Not quite a frown, but close.

“That thing giving you grief?”

“It’s fine,” you lied, already feeling your hackles lift. “I’ve almost got it.”

Hal hummed, the kind of non-committal sound that said clearly he did not believe you for a second.

“Funny,” he said, rounding the truck to come closer. “From here it looks like it’s winning.”

You shot him a look, but there wasn’t much heat in it. You were too tired for that.

“I didn’t call an audience, Carter.”

He grinned, warm and lazy, but his eyes were sharp as they took you in, your hunched shoulders, the way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other like something hurt, the faint tremor in your fingers where they clutched the edge of your jacket.

“Lucky for you,” he said, “this here’s a full-service delivery.”

Before you could protest, he stepped past you, boots crunching in the frost and crouched by the hitch. He sized up the misalignment with a practiced eye, then glanced back at you.

“Mind if I…?”

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. The words came out sharper than you intended. “You’re here for the feed. I can handle my own equipment.”

One of his eyebrows ticked up.

“I know you can,” he said, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt in it. “Question is if you need to do it with your hands shaking like that.”

You stiffened. “They’re not- ”

You looked down.

They were.

Not violently. Not enough a stranger would notice. But Hal wasn’t a stranger. Never had been. Your fingers flexed uselessly in your gloves, the cold and the strain combining into a fine, betraying tremor.

He sighed softly through his nose, turning back to the tractor.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You stand there and supervise, make sure I don’t mess up your system. I’ll get this hitched and then I’ll unload your feed, Oh and you were short on your order, added it in. No extra charge.”

“I didn’t order extra,” you muttered.

“Yeah, well, you got it anyway.”

He braced a shoulder under the implement and lifted, muscles bunching under his jacket as he hauled it into place with a grunt, the metal clanking as it finally slid where it belonged. It took him all of thirty seconds.

You hated him a little for that….only a little though..

He locked the pin, gave the hitch an experimental shake, then stepped back, dusting his gloves off.

“See?” he said, flashing you a small, satisfied smile. “No trouble.”

You realised you were breathing harder than he was, even though he’d done all the work. Embarrassment burned hot in your chest. You folded your arms, tucking your numbed hands into your armpits, trying to look less rattled than you felt.

“You got the feed?” you asked, clearing your throat.

“Sure do,” he replied, jerking his chin toward the truck. “You wanna open the barn up for me? I’ll back her in.”

You nodded, grateful for something to do that didn’t involve proving how out of gas you were.

“Yeah. I’ll- ” You swallowed. “I’ll get the doors.”

As you walked toward the barn, you could feel his eyes on you- steady, assessing, not unkind. Like he was cataloguing every crack you’d tried so hard to plaster over.

You kept your chin up anyway.

This was your place.

You weren’t going to crumble in your own damn yard.

By the time you’d wrestled the barn doors open. The metal latch stuck halfway, swollen with cold and rust, and you had to put your full weight into it before it finally jerked free with a sharp, protesting squeal.

Hal eased the truck back with the practiced confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times; straight line, no fuss, tyres crunching over the packed dirt as he reversed into the barn’s shadow. The engine rumbled low for a moment, then cut off, leaving a heavy quiet in its wake.

You swallowed, rolling your shoulders once like that alone might shake off the exhaustion. Six months of doing this one your own, it was starting to hit you.

He hopped down from the cab, glancing around the barn. You tried not to fidget under it.

“Any preference where you want these?” he asked, hitching a thumb toward the bed of the truck.

“Same as always.” you said, jerking your chin toward the far wall where the old haystack had dwindled to a sad, uneven pile. “Pellets by the door. Easier to get to when it ices over.”

“Got it.”

He popped the tailgate and hauled the first bale off one-handed, muscles shifting easily under his jacket. It landed on the barn floor with a muted thump, straw scattering like dust motes in the chilly light.

You stepped in beside him before you could overthink it, reaching for the next one.

“I can help,” you said.

“I know you can,” he repeated, same calm tone as earlier. “But you don’t have to.”

“I’m not going to stand there and watch you do all the work on my property.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say you had to watch. I said you didn’t have to lift.”

You ignored that, fingers already digging into the twine of the nearest bale. The coarse fibers bit into your gloves as you heaved it up against your thighs, breath punching out of you in a small grunt.

The weight hit different today. Heavier. Or maybe you were just more tired than you wanted to admit. You’d been born into this life? You were young by all standard. This wasn’t supposed to drain you.

You staggered a step, boots sliding slightly on the straw-dusted floor, and corrected your balance before you could drop it.

“See?” you puffed, trying for breezy, the cold was getting to you. “Still useful.”

Hal’s eyes flicked over your face, then down to the way your chest rose and fell too fast beneath your jacket.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” he replied, voice easy. “Just said I could manage.”

He grabbed another bale, hefting it like it weighed nothing and carried it across the barn without the slightest hitch in his stride. You watched the line of his shoulders, the sure, unhurried set of his stride. You used to have that kind of reserve, energy in the tank, strength you didn’t have to think about. Maybe it you slept more..

Now you were counting the tasks left in the day like tally marks on your bones.

You reached for another bale. Your fingers slipped on the twine as you hoisted it, the edge catching you under the ribs when you misjudged the swing. The breath whooshed out of you in a small, shocked noise.

Hal was there in an instant.

“Hey.”

His hand closed around the side of the bale, taking the weight before you could drop it on your own foot.

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically, even as your arms wobbled.

“I know you think you do.” His tone didn’t sharpen, but it firmed in a way you weren’t used to from him. “But I’d rather not watch you crush yourself trying to prove a point.”

You clenched your jaw and let go. The bale sagged into his grip and he shifted it easily, stacking it with the rest.

Your hands felt useless suddenly, empty and shaking as they curled in at your sides. You stuffed them under your arms, hugging your own ribs, trying to trap some heat there.

“I don’t need special treatment,” you muttered.

“Good thing this isn’t special,” Hal said. “It’s just help.”

He grabbed another bale, then another, moving with a rhythm that made your head spin to watch. He’d always been like that- strong in that unshowy way, like the work was just an extension of his body.

You hovered uselessly near the truck, shifting your weight from one cold boot to the other.

“Why don’t you go open the feed boxes?” he said after a few minutes, not looking at you, just talking as he worked. “Or go make yourself a coffee? I can do this.”

“No, it’s- ”

You reached for the next bale anyway, stubbornness flaring hot in your chest. The moment you tried to lift it, your arms protested, your left knee giving a small, concerning twinge. You staggered, grip slipping.

“Sit” Hal said.

The word wasn’t loud, but it landed like a command.

You froze.

“I meant right here,” you said weakly, gesturing to an overturned bucket by the wall. “I can just-”

He finally stopped, turned to you fully, and shook his head.

“I meant in your house,” he clarified, gentler now. “In the warm. Maybe put some coffee on for both of us before you pass out on the barn floor.”

A flush crawled up your neck. “I’m not going to pass out.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But you’re about two steps from shaking apart, and I’m not gonna stand here and pretend I don’t see it.”

There was a joking lilt to his words, but underneath it was something firmer. Something that made you feel twelve again, told off for climbing a fence you knew was loose.

You swallowed, throat thick.

“I can help unload,” you tried one last time.

“You did help,” he countered. “You opened the doors. Delegation. Very management of you.”

You gave him a narrow look. “I don’t like being bossed around on my own land.”

“Good thing I’m not your boss,” he said easily, turning back to the truck. “Just your neighbour. Now go inside, would ya? It’s cold enough to freeze your stubborn to the ground.”

You stood there another heartbeat, pride and exhaustion at war. Then, slowly, you exhaled, your breath fogging in front of your face.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But if you stack those bales crooked, I’m calling... Someone....”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Deal. Coffee. I’ll be in when I’m done.”

You turned toward the farmhouse, boots crunching over the hard-packed dirt, feeling strangely lighter and heavier all at once.

~#~#~#~#~

The warmth hit you like a wall as soon as you stepped into the kitchen. It wasn’t hot, not really, the old heater never quite reached that, but compared to the bite outside, it felt almost indulgent.

You tugged off your gloves with your teeth, fingers tingling angrily as the blood returned. They still shook a little as you set them on the counter and reached for the kettle.

Coffee. You could do coffee.

The motions were automatic: fill the kettle, flick the switch, reach for the clean mugs that had been in this house longer than you had. One of them still had his favourite football team’s logo on it. You hesitated over that one a second too long before choosing a plain one for yourself and sliding the branded mug to the back of the cupboard getting one of the others out.

Old habits. Old ghosts.

While the water heated, you opened the pantry and scanned the shelves. You hadn’t exactly been stocking up for company. Meals lately had been whatever you could throw together between chores, toast over the sink, a bowl of stew eaten standing at the counter, spoon in one hand and tomorrow’s to-do list in the other.

Your gaze snagged on the shelf where you’d stashed the packet of shortbread Yelena had tossed into your order at the store the other week

'for when you remember to stop working and eat girl,’ she’d said, shoving it at you before you could protest.

“Yes,” you breathed, spotting the familiar logo peeking out from behind a sack of flour. You reached in, fingers brushing the crinkling plastic, and pulled the packet free. At least you had something to offer the man currently unloading your winter survival in the cold.

The kettle clicked off.

You poured, the smell of cheap instant coffee blooming up into the air. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was hot and dark and strong enough to strip paint. You fixed one mug the way you knew Hal took it; two sugars, splash of milk..before catching yourself and blinking.

You hadn’t made him coffee that many times.

You just… noticed things.

The back door creaked a few minutes later, a gust of colder air curling along the floor and around your ankles. You glanced up as Hal stepped inside, boots thudding on the mat. He took his hat off at the threshold like he always did, fingers running through his hair to shake off the chill, then toed off his boots, leaving them by the door without tracking too much mud in.

Considerate. Of course.

“Smells good in here,” he said, closing the door behind him. His cheeks were pink from the cold, breath still visible in faint puffs.

You slid his mug across the table as he sat, the chair creaking under his weight. The shortbread tin sat open between you, biscuits lined up like an apology for all the other things you couldn’t offer.

He wrapped his hands around the mug, closing his eyes for a second as the warmth seeped into his fingers. Then he took a sip and sighed, long and content.

“Now that’s a proper cup,” he said.

“Instant,” you replied dryly.

“Still better than what the boys make at mine. Pretty sure last week someone tried to brew it with bore water.”

You huffed a quiet laugh and nudged the tin toward him. “Shortbread?”

His eyes lit, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Now you’re spoiling me.”

He took one, bit into it, crumbs dusting his stubble. For a moment the only sounds were the faint tick of the old kitchen clock and the distant, muffled clank of the heater cycling.

“You been into town this week?” he asked eventually, like it was the most casual question in the world.

You shook your head, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “No. Been busy.”

He made a soft, unconvinced sound. “Ted's niece turned up, she’s been making rounds, hasn’t quite got to us all on this side yet. But heard from Turner that she's a nice girl.”

“You think every girl’s nice, Hal,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His grin widened, unabashed. “Never met one who didn’t like being told she had a nice smile.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

“What can I say? I’m consistent.” he admitted.

He took another sip of coffee, gaze sliding over your face in that way that made you feel both seen and a little exposed.

"Anyhow, seems that Ari's making sure she’s feeling real welcome."

You raised an eyebrow at that.

"Turner told you that?"

"Yep," he said, like that explained everything. "He rang to have a gas, plus he wanted to know when I'd be coming past here."

You put your cup down, it was like being in high school again. "Swear none of you boys talk nearly this much about me when-"

“Point is,” he added cutting back in, “folks’ve been asking after you.”

Your shoulders tensed. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” He broke another piece of shortbread off, crumbs scattering on the table. “But you don’t have to do everything on your own, you know.”

You stared into your coffee, the surface swirling slightly where your hand shook against the ceramic.

“This place needs a bit of work before the real cold hits,” Hal went on, that light, conversational tone returning. “Seen a few things just driving in. Gutters need clearing. Pipes should’ve – well they need wrapping. You got a hole in the fence right near the gate..”

“I’m getting to it,” you said, a little too fast.

“I know you are,” he said. “But there’s only one of you right now and winter doesn’t exactly wait its turn.”

You bristled, heat prickling behind your eyes. “I can manage.” You had been, you Pa had taught you that before leaving the place to you and heading off to warmer weather.

“I don’t doubt it.” He leaned back slightly, mug cradled in his hands. “But managing and running yourself into the ground aren’t the same thing.”

There was a beat of silence. The house creaked softly, settling.

“I can come up,” he said at last. “Next few days. Help you get things winter-ready. Won’t take long with two sets of hands.”

You shook your head immediately. “Hal, you’ve got your own place. Your own stock. Other deliveries. I can’t-”

“Don’t go pushing back help,” he cut in, not unkindly, but firm. “That’s just foolishness.”

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth, ready to insist, to trot out the same old line, the same excuse you’d been feeding everyone and yourself.

“He ain’t coming back…” Hal started. Your heart lurched, stomach dropping clean out under you. He saw it. The flinch. The way your fingers locked white-knuckled around your mug. “…before spring, right?” he finished smoothly, like he hadn’t just grazed the rawest part of you. His eyes were steady on yours, giving you a lifeline. An out.

You swallowed. The lie tasted worse every time.

“He…” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat. “He doesn’t think he will.”

There it was.

Not quite the whole truth. But closer than you’d let yourself get in months.

Hal nodded once, like you’d just confirmed something he’d known a long time.

“So what’s the harm in letting me come up?” he said softly. “Place like this needs more than one pair of hands right now. That’s not a judgment. That’s just math.”

You stared at the scarred surface of the table, at the faint rings from old mugs and the knife marks from when your grandmother used to cut bread right there.

You were so tired.

“Just for a bit,” you said finally. “Until things are set up for winter.”

His smile was small but genuine. “Just for a bit,” he agreed. “All I want in return is dinner after we’re done.”

You huffed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You considered him for a long moment. Hal Carter, who flirted with every woman in town and yet had somehow never brought one home. Hal, who showed up when your fences went down in the flood last year, unasked and didn’t complain when he left soaked to the bone. Even when your husband had whined the whole day about being wet and cold.

“Feels like I’m getting the better end of the deal,” you said.

His eyes softened. “You have no idea.”

~#~#~#~#~#~#

You’d half convinced yourself that Hal wouldn’t come the next morning. That he’d said it to be kind. Men said things all the time they never planned to follow through on.

But before it was even eight, you heard that familiar engine again. This time, your chest didn’t kick with stupid hope. It settled.

You wiped your hands on your jeans as his truck pulled in, this one empty of feed but full of tools. The tray was loaded with things you hadn’t asked for; ladders, a coil of pipe wrap, a battered toolbox, even a shovel, pick and the chainsaw you recognised from the time he’d helped clear a fallen tree after a storm.

He hopped down, gave you a little wave like this was just another Tuesday.

“Morning,” he called.

“You’re… early,” you said, glancing at the sky. The frost had barely begun to melt. “You don’t need to- ”

“Yeah, I do,” he cut in lightly, slamming the truck door. “Got a full schedule today. Gotta start before the sun remembers it has a job.”

You huffed, but your lips twitched.

“I made a list,” you said, lifting the notebook in your hand. Pages of cramped handwriting, tasks circled and underlined.

“Course you did,” he said, amusement sparking in his eyes as he took it from you. He flipped it open, scanning quickly. “Gutters, pipes, stall doors…” He read on in his head “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” you echoed. "What, you think I wouldn't write stuff down?"

“Alright then,” he said ignoring you, snapping the notebook shut and handing it back. “You handle your usual rounds. Make sure nobody’s wandered off, make sure they’re fed… I’ll pick off what I can up here.”

“You don’t want me to tell you where everything is?”

He jerked his chin toward the house and sheds. “I got a fair idea what’s where. Plus, a man can use his eyes. You can fill in the blanks when you get back.”

“Fine,” you said. “But if you reorganise my tool shed, I will throw something at you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of touching your shed,” he replied, already heading for the ladder.

~#~#~#~

You headed down to the lower paddocks, the work there swallowing a few hours. The cattle were restless but manageable, breath steaming in the cold air as you checked their water, broke thin sheets of ice on troughs, spread out fresh hay. The rhythm of it calmed you. This part you knew. This part you’d been doing since you were old enough to hold onto the back of your Dad’s shirt.

Still, every so often, your mind drifted back up the hill.

When you finally headed back toward the house around midday, the first thing you noticed was the gutters. Or rather, the conspicuous lack of foliage spilling out over the edges.

You slid off the quad, frowning up at the roofline. Clean. All the way around as far as you could see. The downpipes had been wrapped too, silvered insulation snug around the vulnerable joins.

The far fence post by the gate near home paddock, the one crooked for months, now stood straight, freshly tamped earth mounded around its base.

You ducked inside just long enough to put the kettle on, rinsing out your old thermos while it boiled. The sandwiches you’d thrown together that morning ‘just in case’ were still in the fridge, wrapped in wax paper; you grabbed those too, stuffing them into a battered lunch tin.

It felt right to walk back out with something in your hands that wasn’t a tool or a list, but an actual break.

Hal was in the horse stalls when you found him, sleeves rolled up, forearms flecked with dust and straw as he replaced a hinge on one of the old doors. The horses watched him with ears flicked forward, as if they’d decided he was acceptable.

He didn’t hear you at first. He was humming under his breath, some tuneless thing, focused entirely on the stubborn screw he was coaxing into place.

You leaned on the stall door frame and just… watched.

He moved with the same easy confidence you’d seen a thousand times in passing, at auctions, in town, leaning against his truck at the feed store. But here, on your land, it felt different. Closer.

He didn’t groan or complain when the screw fought him. Didn’t mutter about how old everything was, how much work it needed. He just set his jaw, adjusted his grip and kept working until it did what he wanted.

Your chest loosened a fraction.

“You gonna stare all day or say hello?” he asked without looking up.

Heat shot up the back of your neck. “How’d you know I was there?”

“You breathe,” he said simply, giving the hinge one last experimental tug. “You also step heavy when you’re trying not to. Door’s good now.”

He straightened and finally turned toward you, wiping his hands on an already dirty rag. His hair was mussed from where he’d shoved his hat off and on again, a smear of something dark along his jaw.

You had to curl your fingers tighter around the wood to stop yourself from reaching out and wiping it away.

“Looks good,” you said, nodding at the door instead. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Well you had it on the list and I did notice your mare nearly took the whole thing off its hinges last month when it swung wrong. Figured you didn’t need that on top of everything else.”

“You’ve been watching my horses?”

“Been watching you trying to wrangle them on your own when I’m around,” he corrected mildly. “Don’t like seeing you get knocked around.”

The simple sincerity of it made your throat go tight for a second.

You cleared it. “I, uh… made sandwiches. Brought a flask.” You lifted the old thermos hooked over your arm. “Figured you might want to refuel.”

He grinned, eyes creasing at the corners.

“Knew you kept me around for a reason,” he said. “C’mon then. If I sit down now, you better too.”

You shared lunch sitting on overturned buckets just outside the stalls, sun finally managing to burn through the clouds enough to take the very edge off the cold.

Hal ate like he worked; steady, thorough, appreciative. Every now and then, his arm brushed yours when he reached for the thermos, the incidental contact sending little sparks along your skin you tried very hard to ignore.

Except… you didn’t quite want to ignore them.

The knot in your chest, the one that had been coiled tight since the day your husband left, eased another fraction.

“You really don’t have to do all this,” you said quietly at one point, staring at the dirt between your boots.

“Already am,” he replied, taking a swig of coffee. “Might as well finish the job.”

You risked a glance sideways.

“Why?”

He met your eyes, nothing flippant in his expression now.

“Because this place matters,” he said. “Because you matter. And because I’m your neighbour, and that’s what we do. Simple as that.”

Your stomach did a slow, traitorous roll.

You looked away again, but not before he caught the faint, reluctant curve at the corner of your mouth.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, like coaxing a skittish colt. “There she is, hiding but that was a smile.”

~#~#~#~#~

By mid-afternoon, your muscles were starting to feel the day in a different way.

Not that bone-deep, lonely ache that came from knowing there was still a mountain of work and only your two hands to climb it. This was a simpler soreness, earned, shared. The kind that came with crossing items off a list and actually seeing the difference.

You left Hal working on the last of the winterising; checking seals on the pump house, fiddling with something on the generator while you headed inside to start dinner.

The house felt less oppressive when you walked in this time. The silence wasn’t as loud. You moved through the kitchen with a little more purpose, putting the oven on, pulling a chicken from the fridge, rummaging in the pantry for potatoes and carrots.

Making a proper meal felt… possible.

You’d almost forgotten what that was like.

You seasoned the bird the way your grandmother had taught you; salt, pepper, garlic, a bit of rosemary from the half-frozen bush by back door you’d moved inside. Hands moving on autopilot. The familiar motions soothed something inside you, the simple alchemy of turning ingredients into comfort.

Once everything was in the oven, you washed your hands and drifted to the window over the sink.

Outside, Hal was a dark shape against the pale afternoon, moving between the sheds with unhurried efficiency. He carried a bundle of kindling under one arm, a length of pipe in the other, shoulders set in that solid, reliable line you were starting to recognise as its own kind of comfort.

He didn’t stomp or slam or throw things when something fought him. He just worked around it. Through it. With it.

You found yourself tracking him without meaning to, the way he braced a boot against a loose board to hammer it back into place, the way his mouth pursed slightly when he measured a gap, the way he pushed his hair back with his wrist to avoid smearing grease through it.

Your heart did that slow roll again.

“Stop it,” you told yourself.

This was Hal. You’d known him for years. He flirted with waitresses and smiled at old ladies and always had some smart remark ready when the local girls giggled around him. He was sunshine in denim and a battered hat.

And yet.

You’d never really let yourself look at him like this before. Not properly. Not with the vulnerable, hungry part of you that had been shut down and boarded up the day your husband said, It’s too hard, you’re too hard, I need something easier.

Out in the yard, Hal straightened from the pump house and rolled his shoulders, neck cracking as he tipped his head side to side. Even from this distance, you could see the stretch of muscle under his shirt.

Heat licked low in your belly, sudden and disorienting.

You tore your gaze away and busied yourself fussing with the table; finding placemats, wiping down the surface even though it was already clean, folding napkins like you had someone to impress.

It was ridiculous. It was just dinner.

Just a thank you.

Just… the first time in months…years…you’d cooked for someone who might actually appreciate it. Someone who wouldn’t sneer.

When the roast chicken was nearly done and the kitchen smelled like every holiday you’d ever had in this house, you filled a small bucket with hot water from the tap and added a splash of degreaser, the citrus scent cutting through the richness in the air.

You grabbed a clean rag and headed outside, the warmth spilling out behind you in a brief, comforting wave before the door swung shut.

“Hal!” you called, picking your way across the yard. “Hal, that’s enough for today. Food’s almost done.”

He emerged from behind the shed, wiping his hands on his jeans. There was a smear of something dark on his forearm, and that streak across one cheek had spread more. His hair stuck up at odd angles where his hat had flattened and released it.

You shouldn’t have found it attractive.

You did.

He glanced at the bucket in your hand and huffed a small laugh.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he said.

“Figured you might want to be somewhat presentable before you sit at my table,” you replied, setting the bucket down near steps. “Can’t have you getting grease all over the good plates.”

“You own good plates?” he asked, teasing.

“I own not chipped plates,” you shot back. “That’s about as fancy as it gets around here.”

He grinned and crouched by the bucket, plunging his hands into the steaming water with a quiet hiss.

“Hot,” he muttered.

“I’d been aiming for warm..” you said. “You’re welcome.”

He scrubbed his hands, the strong lines of his forearms flexing as he worked the degreaser into the creases of his skin. You watched a bit too closely, pulse ticking up as he rolled his sleeves higher, giving himself more room.

He glanced up, catching you looking.

Something slow and warm flickered in his eyes.

“Appreciate the thought,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, you know.”

“You patched half my life back together today,” you replied, voice a little rougher than you meant it to be. “Least I can do is make sure you don’t have to eat it with dirty hands.”

His smile gentled at that, the usual bright, joking edge smoothing into something quieter.

“Fair trade,” he said.

He finished washing up and stood, wiping his hands on the rag you held out. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, a brief, warm slide of skin against skin.

You felt it everywhere.

Neither of you mentioned it.

“Go on,” you said, a touch too brisk. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to wash your face. Dinner’ll be ready when you’re done.”

“Yes, ma- ”

“Uh-uh,” you cut in, pointing the rag at him. “You take that back. I’m younger than you. I’m not my mother.”

His mouth curved, eyes glinting. “Alright then. Yes, boss. Better?”

You snorted, sticking your tongue out at him as he tipped his head before he went in.

The back of your neck prickled, the ice around your ribs cracking just a little more.

Then you took a deep breath, squared your shoulders before following him in.

You hovered for a second with the oven door open, letting the heat wash over your face, thawing out the last chilled corners of you. Then you straightened, set the tray on the stovetop and told your heart to stop trying to climb into your throat.

It was just dinner.

You’d laid the table while the vegetables roasted, nothing fancy, just clean plates, mismatched but unchipped, proper cutlery instead of the forks you sometimes grabbed straight from the drawer to eat over the sink. You’d even found the old placemats your grandmother used to insist on, the ones with faded pictures of sheepdogs and Herefords.

The knock on the doorframe came right as you were carving the first few slices of chicken.

“Smells like you’re trying to bribe me,” Hal said from the doorway, voice warm with amusement.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He’d cleaned up as best he could with your bathroom sink, hair damp where he’d splashed water through it, face scrubbed free of grease streaks. He’d swapped his outer jacket for a flannel shirt you recognised from town, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jeans still worn and dusty but at least free of mud.

He looked… nice.

You swallowed and turned back to the carving board before you could stare.

“If this is what it takes to get free labour, I think I can live with that,” you said, trying for light.

Hal huffed a small laugh as he stepped fully into the kitchen.

“If it taste as good as it smells” he said, “I think I'm getting overpaid.”

He moved to the table without being asked, setting out the serving dishes you’d laid ready on out, as if he’d eaten here a hundred times instead of… never.

“Sit,” you told him, nodding toward the chair opposite yours. “You’ve done enough for one day. I’ll bring it over.”

“Yes, boss,” he said easily, dropping into the chair, the wood scratching on the floor.

You brought the food over in stages; the platter of sliced chicken, the bowl of roasted potatoes and carrots, the small dish of bean you’d thrown on at the last minute. Hal watched every movement with open, hungry appreciation, eyes following the way you moved around your own kitchen like you were putting pieces back where they belonged.

“Alright,” you said at last, sinking into your own seat with a small exhale. “Help yourself before it gets cold.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Hal served you first, two generous slices of chicken, a heap of vegetables and then loaded his own plate with the kind of enthusiasm that made something flutter, pleased and fragile, in your chest. A working man’s appetite.

He took the first bite in silence, eyes falling shut for a moment as he chewed.

You watched him, nerves winding tighter the longer he didn’t speak.

“Well?” you prompted, a little sharper than intended. “Edible?”

His eyes opened, soft and bright.

“Sweetheart,” he said, absolutely serious, “this is the best thing I’ve eaten in months. Maybe longer.”

Heat snapped up your spine, hot and humiliating and oddly welcome.

“It’s just chicken,” you muttered, looking down at your plate.

“It’s good chicken,” he countered. “Cooked in an actual oven, in an actual home, by someone who knows what they’re doing. That counts for a hell of a lot more than you think.”

You poked at a potato to hide the way your throat went tight.

“What, your place doesn’t have these cutting-edge inventions?” you asked, trying for teasing.

Hal snorted.

“Oh, we got an oven,” he said. “We even got plates that match. But when you got a whole mob of grown men sharing one house, it turns into more of a bunk room than anything else. Kitchen’s mostly for coffee and whatever they can burn in a pan at two in the morning. More beans, eggs and bacon..”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Let me guess,” you said. “Décor is posters of cowboys, cars, and motorbikes?”

He pointed his fork at you.

“Don’t forget the calendar with the tractors,” he said. “Real high art.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you easier than it had in a long time.

“I knew it,” you said. “Meanwhile, I’ve got Grandma’s curtains and a table older than both of us combined.”

“Feels like a home in here,” he replied simply, glancing around the kitchen. “That’s a good change. Doesn’t smell like someone’s socks, either.”

The compliment landed somewhere low and aching. You blinked down at your plate, busying yourself with arranging peas so you didn’t have to look him in the eye.

“So,” you said after a few bites, needing to steer away from the sudden lump in your throat. “Tell me about this high-class bunkhouse. You ever get a moment’s peace in there?”

“Sure,” he said. “About five minutes a day, right before dawn, when everyone’s still asleep and I’m making coffee strong enough to wake the dead.”

“You?” you teased. “Sitting quiet?”

He smirked.

“Hard to believe, I know. But even I shut up sometimes. Usually when I’m out on the bike.”

You glanced up at that, curiosity snagging.

“Still got the Indian?” you asked, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him out on it. But you hadn’t exactly been off property unless you needed to be.

Hal’s smile turned fond, the kind of relief-warmth people reserved for favourite dogs and first trucks.

“’Course I do,” he said. “You kidding? That thing’s the closest I got to religion. She’s in better shape than half the boys working for me.”

You snorted.

“I remember you turning up on that thing,” you said. “Every girl in town nearly broke her neck trying to stare without drooling.”

“Did you?” he asked mildly, taking another bite of chicken.

You almost choked on your potato.

“I had more sense back then,” you said dryly once you’d swallowed. “Didn’t have time to be impressed by noisy toys.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Shame. You’d look good on the back of it.”

The image hit you hard and unannounced; your hands fisted in the back of his jacket, pressed up snug behind him, the wind in your face and his body solid in front of you. That heat flashed and flooded between your legs, your own core clenching.

You stabbed a carrot a little harder than necessary.

“Pretty sure I’ve got enough to juggle without adding ‘risk of flying off your stupid bike’ to the list,” you coughed trying to clear your throat reaching for your drink.

He chuckled, low and pleased, like he’d heard the part of you that hadn’t actually said no.

“You ever change your mind,” he said, “offer stands. It’s a different way of seeing the place. Hills look softer from a bike seat.”

You rolled your eyes, but the thought lodged itself somewhere you couldn’t quite shake.

“Speaking of hills,” he added, pushing his fork into some chicken, “you got enough wood put away for that fireplace of yours?”

You hesitated just a fraction too long.

“Enough to get by,” you said. Something that would’ve been on your husband’s list once, and now sat at the bottom of yours.

His eyebrow tipped up.

“That a real answer or a ‘please don’t look too closely at how low the stack is’ answer?”

You scowled at your plate.

“I’ve been busy.” Your voice getting a little sharp again.

“I know,” he said, it was killing you how easy he said it not taking your tone to heart.

“I was going to get to it,” you insisted. “It’s just…” You gestured vaguely, encompassing the entire farm, your own tired bones, the endless list in your head.

“Just that there’s one of you and about twenty of everything else,” he finished for you. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You shifted in your chair, discomfort prickling under your skin.

“Hal, you’ve already done more than enough today,” you said. “I can’t keep asking- ”

“You didn’t ask,” he reminded you. “I offered. And I’m offering again. After we’re done here, you can show me what you’ve got stacked. If it’s not enough, I’ll add it to the list for tomorrow.”

“Hal- ”

He held up a hand, palm out.

“Don’t go pushing back help,” he said, that same firm gentleness creeping back into his tone. “We had this talk already.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you muttered.

He grinned.

“Didn’t say you did. Just said you had to let it happen.” He tilted his head, eyes softening. “That’s what neighbours do, remember?”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders sagging a fraction.

“I do appreciate today,” you said. “I really do. But you have your own place to run, other farms that need deliveries.”

“It’s no bother,” he said. “Like I said, what neighbours do. It’ll take what, another day, day and a half? And my guys have got my place managed without me.”

“Really?” you said, dubious.

He shrugged, mouth quirking. “It’s too cold for them to burn it down. Now, if it was summer, I might agree with ya scepticism.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it and his own smile brightened at your reaction.

Heat crawled up your neck as you ducked your head, breaking eye contact under the weight of it.

“We’ll check the woodpile after this,” you said, voice a little too brisk. “Before it gets too dark.”

He let you have the change of subject, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he scooped up the last of his carrots and beans.

“Whatever you say, boss,” his smile tugging again.

The word rolled through you in a way that had nothing to do with titles and everything to do with the way he was looking at you, like the idea of following your lead didn’t scare him at all.

He paused halfway through mopping up gravy with the last of his potatoes and glanced at his plate.

"Any more potatoes?" he asked, holding it up a little.

"Yeah, there are some more," you said, already reaching for the serving bowl to tip a few extra onto his plate. The pleased look he gave you over the rim did something warm and foolish to your insides.

He took the bowl and you picked up your own fork again, not shovelling food in on your feet between chores, but sitting and eating at your own pace for once.

~#~#~#~#~#~

After the last of the gravy had been wiped up, the plates picked clean, you sat there for a moment longer, staring at the bones and smears on Hal’s plate like they might rearrange themselves into answers.

They didn’t.

“Alright,” you said at last, pushing your chair back with a soft scrape. “If I leave these any longer they’re going to fossilise.”

Hal huffed a low laugh, the sound warm in the cosy kitchen.

“Can’t have that,” he said. “Might have to start charging people to come see ‘em.”

“You’d charge people to see dirty dishes?”

“Sweetheart, folks round here will pay for anything they can slap a plaque on.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth tugged at the corner as you stood and gathered a couple of plates. The familiar weight of ceramic steadied you. This part you knew. Clear, rinse, wash, stack. Something to do with your hands so your head didn’t run too far ahead of you.

Hal stood too, automatically reaching for the serving bowls before you could stop him.

“You don’t have to- ”

“Relax,” he said. “I know how to carry dishes without breakin’ ‘em.” He paused playfully “Most days.”

You snorted under your breath and led the way to the sink.

The tap squealed as you turned it, pipes rattling in the wall before a stream of hot water gushed into the basin. It took a bit before the steam curled up, fogging the lower half of the window and softening the view of the darkening yard outside. You poured in a splash of detergent, watching the bubbles bloom and spread.

Hal moved quietly around you, his presence taking up space without crowding you. He set the stack of plates to your right, bowls and cutlery within easy reach. Then, without being asked, he rolled up his sleeves and took his place at your side.

“I’ll dry, you wash?” he offered.

You blinked at him. “Since when do guests do dishes?”

“Since the guest is a gentleman.” he said mildly. “And I pull my weight.”

You made a face at that and turned back to the sink before he could see the way that made you shift. Hal was too old school sometimes.

“Fine,” you said. “But if you chip Grandma’s plates, her ghost will haunt you, not me.”

“Reckon I could take her,” he jokes raising his hands with the towel.

You nudged him with your hip for that, earning a low chuckle.

The rhythm came back quicker than you expected.

Wash, rinse, stack. The clink of crockery, the soft slosh of water, the occasional crackle from the fire in the next room. Outside, the last of the light leached from the sky, the kitchen settling into that familiar winter twilight, lamps on, world shrunk down to the pool of gold around the table and sink.

You rinsed a glass, passed it to him. His fingers brushed yours, warm and calloused, slipping over the back of your knuckles for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary.

You pretended not to notice. Your pulse didn’t get the memo.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything stronger than coffee,” you said after a while, breaking the quiet. “After all that work today… most people’d expect a beer or something.”

Hal shrugged, setting a clean plate in the rack.

“Coffee was perfect,” he said. “Besides, if I start on beer now, I’ll get comfortable and you’ll never get me out of that chair.”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned. “Truly terrible.”

He shot you a sideways look, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Careful. I might start thinkin’ you like having me around.”

The joke landed somewhere too close to the truth. You turned your attention a little too fiercely to the next plate, scrubbing at a non-existent spot.

“I appreciate the help,” you said carefully. “That’s all.”

“That’s a start,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer. The suds blurred your view of your own hands.

A few more minutes passed like that, comfortably quiet on the surface, something taut and humming underneath.

Hal finished stacking the last plate in the rack and shook his hands off lightly over the sink, droplets scattering. You reached for the tap, but he got there first, turning off the water with a firm twist.

“That’s enough for now,” he said.

“I can finish- ”

“You have finished.” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it cut through your automatic protest all the same. “Whole lotta work here, and not all of it’s dishes. Let 'em soak.”

You frowned, wiping your damp fingers down the front of your jeans.

“Hal, I can manage the rest. You don’t have to hover.”

He leaned back against the counter, drying his hands on a dish towel, watching you with that steady, assessing gaze that saw far too much.

“You ever notice,” he said slowly, “how every time someone offers to take something off your plate, you act like they’re tryin’ to steal from you?”

Your spine stiffened. “That’s not- ”

He lifted a hand, palm out.

“Not a criticism. Just an observation.”

You pressed your lips together, resentment and embarrassment tangling in your chest.

“This is my place,” you said finally. “My responsibility. I don’t want people thinking I can’t handle it.”

“Too late, for that mistake” he said, infuriatingly gentle.

You stared at him.

He sighed, folding the dish towel with unnecessary care.

“Whole town knows you can handle it,” he clarified. “We’ve seen you doing exactly that. On your own. For months. Nobody’s questionin’ if you can.”

“Then what are they questioning?” you asked, hating how small your voice sounded.

“Why you think you gotta bleed yourself dry to prove it.”

Your laugh came out brittle. “Maybe because everyone knows my husband walked out and I don’t feel like givin’ them anything more to talk about.”

Hal’s face softened further, the lines around his eyes deepening in something like sadness.

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “they already talked. They got it outta their system weeks ago. Now they’re just… watchin’. Waiting to see if you’ll let anybody help you carry it.”

You looked away, jaw tight, throat hot.

“Everyone knows,” you echoed, more to the sink than to him.

“Course they do,” he said. “Box shipments. Story kept changin’ depending who asked. Man’s car gone more than it was here. This is the sticks, not the city. We notice when a pair turns into a one.”

Humiliation crawled up your neck, prickling hot under your skin. You gripped the edge of the counter, fingers whitening. Fuck

“I thought…” You swallowed. “I thought I was keeping it together. At least on the outside.”

“You are,” Hal said. “That’s the problem.”

You shot him a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held your gaze calmly, the towel stilling in his hands.

“Means you’re so busy holdin’ it together that you forgot you’re allowed to fall apart a bit,” he said. “Man leaves like that? After everything you put in? That’s not somethin’ you just… muscle through.”

Your chest cramped.

“You don’t know everything that happened,” you said, the words coming out more defensive than you meant.

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t. Don’t need to. I know enough.”

You scoffed. “Yeah? What’s ‘enough’ Hal?”

He set the towel down on the counter behind him and crossed his arms loosely, ankles crossing at the boot.

“Enough to know you stuck,” he said. “He didn’t. Enough to know he walked away from land like this, good land and a woman like you, sayin’ it was ‘too hard,’ like that was your fault somehow.”

The air left your lungs in a small, unsteady rush.

You hadn’t told him that exact phrase.

“Who- ” You broke off, swallowing down panic and a bitter, reflexive anger. “Who’s been talking?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“You really think a man like that leaves without givin’ himself a soft landing?” Hal asked quietly. “You think he didn’t tell anyone at the bar his little sob story? How he was standing in his father in laws shadow.. not seeing the gift he got handed here? No.. all he could say was how the missus was too much, the work was too much, how he wanted something easier?”

You flinched, closing your eyes for a beat.

There it was. The echo of words you’d tried not to let stick: you’re too hard, this is too hard, I want delicate. You used to be soft.

“That’s not…” You shook your head, blinking up at the ceiling to clear the sting. “He wasn’t all bad.”

“I didn’t say he was,” Hal said. “But he was a coward.”

The flat certainty in his tone made your breath hitch.

“Hal- ”

“He could’ve said, ‘I’m tired.’ He could’ve said, ‘I can’t hack this, I wanna try somethin’ else.’ He could’ve been honest without makin’ you the villain in his story.” Hal’s voice didn’t rise, but it deepened, roughened, like gravel under a tyre. “Instead he let you carry the blame for him not bein’ man enough to stand where he said he’d stand.”

Tears burned hot behind your eyes. You blinked them back, furious with yourself.

“He said I got cold, hard,” you heard yourself say. The words fell out in a hoarse rush before you could stop them. “That the work… and the money, and me takin’ on more, and not wanting to… to be small about it, made me hard. That he wanted something softer.”

The admission hung between you, raw and ugly.

Hal’s jaw flexed.

“He said you were hard,” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the words just to spit them out. “Huh.”

You let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh.

“Guess he wasn’t wrong,” you said, staring at your hands. “Feels like there’s nothing but edges left some days.”

Silence stretched.

Then Hal pushed off the counter.

He stepped closer, not crowding, but close enough that you had to tip your head back a little to keep your eyes on the same place on his chest. YOu couldn’t look at his face right now.

Hal’s hands hung loose at his sides, fingers flexing once, like he was resisting the urge to reach for you.

“You’re not hard,” he said softly. “You’re tired. There’s a difference.”

You swallowed.

“Feels the same from in here,” you said, pressing your palm briefly against your own ribs.

He shook his head.

“You got iron in you,” he said. “That’s what keeps this place standing. That’s what kept him standing longer than he deserved. Iron’s not hard in the way he meant. It’s strong. That’s somethin’ to be proud of.”

The words scraped along raw places you’d been ignoring, stinging and soothing all at once.

“He didn’t see it,” Hal went on, voice low. “He saw a woman who wouldn’t shrink herself to make his life easier and decided that meant there was somethin’ wrong with you.”

He huffed, a sound with no humour in it.

“Baby, that’s on him.”

The endearment slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.

Your head snapped up.

Hal’s eyes were on you, steady, unflinching. There was no apology there. No backtracking.

“Baby,” you repeated weakly, like you were testing the word in your own mouth.

His lips twitched.

“You got a better name you want me to use?” he asked.

You looked at him, really looked and saw the way his throat bobbed like he’d just realised exactly how deep he’d stepped.

“I…” You shook your head, tears blurring him at the edges. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

“Not askin’ you to do anything with it,” his tone softer “Just… letting you know I see you different than he did.”

He hesitated, then finally lifted one hand, slow enough that you could’ve stepped back if you’d wanted to.

You didn’t.

His palm cupped your cheek, rough skin warm against your chilled face. His thumb brushed once, feather-light, under your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t even felt fall.

He went very still.

“Baby, what did he do to you to take that light away?” he murmured. “You used to… you don’t even see it anymore, do you? Back when I first got here, you walked into a room and the whole place shifted. Man got a smile outta you, his week was made. I damn near forgot how to talk the first time you laughed at one of my dumb jokes.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“Hal- ”

“I get tongue-tied around you,” he went on, like a confession he’d been holding back for too long. “Me. The bloke who never shuts up. You look at me and I forget how to string a sentence together some days.”

A shaky, disbelieving sound escaped you. “That’s not- you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

His thumb stroked your cheekbone again, slow, sure.

“Why would I lie about that?” he asked softly. “Hell, half the girls in town could tell you I go quiet when you walk into the bar.. I say somethin’ stupid, you laugh, then I spend the rest of the night tryin’ not to stare.”

Your heart thudded unevenly against your ribs, heat and grief and something dangerously like hope tangling inside you.

“Baby, what did he do to ya to make you forget you were the sun?” he whispered. Those blue eye’s searching yours hoping to see something there. “You don’t know your own shine anymore. That’s what makes me mad. Not that he left. That he took that part of you with him when he walked out.”

Your breath hitched. The first sob tore up your throat, small and broken.

You jerked your head away, scrubbing at your face with the heel of your hand.

“Don’t,” you said thickly. “Don’t- if you’re just bein’ kind- I can’t- ”

“Hey.”

His other hand came up, gentle but insistent, guiding your chin back toward him. His touch never tightened, never pinned. Just… invited.

“Look at me,” Hal voice pleaded a little.

You did.

His eyes were bright, not with pity, but with something fiercer. Protective. Angry on your behalf.

“I am being kind,” he said. “But I’m also tellin’ you the truth. You got dealt a shit hand. Doesn’t mean you stop deservin’ good things.”

Tears spilled over again, hot tracks down your chilled cheeks.

“I don’t know how to be that person anymore,” you admitted in a whisper. “The one who walks into a room and… and shines. I feel like I’ve been… dimmed. Like there’s nothin’ left but work and… and getting through the day.”

Hal’s jaw worked.

“Then let me help,” The offer true “Not just with the fences and the woodpile. Let me remind you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “And how exactly do you plan on doin’ that?”

He leaned in a fraction, his breath warm on your damp skin.

“One day at a time,” he uttered, like a promise “One chore at a time. One dinner at a time. One truth at a time.”

His thumb swept another tear away.

“Startin’ with this one: none of this was your fault.”

Something inside you cracked then.

Not in the sharp, shattering way you’d been afraid of, but in a slow, relieving way, like ice thawing under steady heat. Your shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out of muscles you hadn’t realised were locked.

You sucked in a breath that felt like the first real one in months.

“Hal,” your voice cracking “I don’t… I don’t know what this is.”

He smiled then, small and a little sad.

“It’s me standin’ in your kitchen tellin’ you I see you,” he said. “Been seein’ you for a long time. You don’t have to do anything with that tonight. Or tomorrow. But I’m not gonna stand on the other side of the fence and watch you carry this alone anymore.”

Your vision blurred again, but this time it wasn’t just from tears. It was from the terrifying, tantalising possibility that you weren’t as alone as you’d convinced yourself you had to be.

“Why?” you asked, the word torn from somewhere deep. “Why do you care this much?”

His hand was still on your cheek, palm warm, thumb resting just under the corner of your mouth.

“Because I’m not an idiot,” he said simply. “And because I know what it’s like to be young and stupid and think the grass is greener somewhere easy. I did my runnin’ around. I chased the pretty girls and the shiny things. Thought settlin’ down meant givin’ up.”

He huffed a breath, almost a laugh at himself.

“Then I got here,” he said. “Saw this place. Saw you. And it hit me in the gut that there are some things you don’t walk away from. Not if you got any sense. Just he beat me too it..”

Your heart lurched.

“Hal…”

“Been tryin’ to give you space,” he went on. “Figured you needed time to… figure out how you wanted to tell the story. But I’m done pretendin’ I don’t care what happens to you. I do. A lot more than is polite, probably.”

Your lips parted on a soft exhale.

He hesitated then, the first real flicker of uncertainty you’d seen on his face all day.

“You tell me to stop, I stop,” he said quietly. “You tell me you don’t want this, I’ll go back to talkin’ about feed and fence posts and nothin’ else. But if there’s even a piece of you that wants to know what it’s like to be looked at like you’re the sun again…”

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth.

“…you just have to say so.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

You could hear the tick of the old clock, the gentle hum of the fridge, the faint crackle of the fire in the next room. Outside, the wind scraped against the eaves, winter pressing close.

Somewhere under your ribs, a small, stubborn flame you thought had gone out flickered back to life.

Your voice shook, but you got the words out.

“I… don’t know how to do this,” you admitted. “But I… I don’t want you to stop.”

For a moment, everything in Hal’s face softened. Relief, fondness, something like wonder.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I do.”

His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the side of your neck, fingers warm against your pulse. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

When his mouth finally met yours, it was shockingly tender.

No rush. No urgency. Just a careful, gentle press of lips, like he’d been waiting a long time and had no intention of scaring you back into yourself.

You inhaled sharply against him, your hands flying up out of habit, fingers clutching at the front of his shirt. The flannel was soft under your palms, warm from his body heat. You felt the solid breadth of his chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath your fingers.

He made a low sound, half exhale, half groan and kissed you a little deeper, tilting his head to fit his mouth more snugly over yours.

The world narrowed to the heat of him.

The rough scrape of his stubble against your skin. The faint taste of coffee and roast chicken on his tongue. The way he kept it slow, letting you set the pace, his thumb stroking lazy circles at the nape of your neck.

Something inside you that had been locked down for so long uncoiled.

You kissed him back.

Tentative at first; a soft press, a small, testing slide of your lips against his. Then, when he responded with a soft, encouraging hum, you let yourself lean into it, fingers curling tighter in his shirt as you rose onto your toes without thinking.

He caught you around the waist with his free hand, not pulling you in, just anchoring you there, solid and unmovable and utterly safe.

When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t because the moment snapped. It was because your lungs remembered they needed air.

You drew back an inch, breath mingling with his, eyes wide.

Hal rested his forehead lightly against yours, his hand still cradling your neck.

“See?” he murmured, voice rough. “Still got plenty of light in you. Look at you glow.”

“You might be biased,” A laugh bubbled up, wet and shaky, slipping out before you could stop it.

“Absolutely,” he said. “And I plan on stayin’ that way.”

You let your eyes close, just for a second, letting yourself feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb brushed once more at your pulse like he was memorising it.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

One moment you were standing in the kitchen with Hal’s forehead resting against yours, the taste of him still on your lips and your heart beating like it wanted to climb straight into his hands. The next, he was kissing you again. Only this time it was a little deeper, just a little longer, like you both couldn’t quite bear to let the moment go.

You made a soft sound against his mouth, something small and helpless. His fingers flexed at your neck in answer, thumb stroking slow and steady along the line of your pulse.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, breath ghosting over your lips.

“It’s not,” you got out as he let you both breathe again. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Something in his chest eased at that, the tension you hadn’t realised he’d been holding melting away. He brushed another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the fragile space just in front of your ear.

“Alright then,” he said softly. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable than a kitchen floor, yeah?”

Heat curled low in your stomach at the casual certainty of it.

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

He didn’t drag you. Didn’t rush. Just laced his fingers through yours and let you choose the direction, matching his stride to yours as you led him down your hallway.

The house felt different with him at your shoulder.

The shadows weren’t so harsh. The creaks weren’t as loud. The bedroom door you’d been leaving half-shut for months, because closing it made the emptiness worse and leaving it open made it feel like you were waiting, suddenly looked less like a reminder and more like a possibility.

You pushed it open and stepped inside, heart pounding all the way up in your throat.

Hal paused just inside the room, gaze flicking over the unmade bed, the pile of clean clothes on the chair, the scuffed floorboards that had seen more pacing than sleeping lately. He didn’t look put off. If anything, his expression softened further, some quiet, private tenderness settling over his features.

“This alright?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded again, then forced yourself to speak.

“Yeah. Just… haven’t had company in here for a while.” You tried for wry and landed somewhere closer to raw.

Hal’s fingers squeezed yours.

“Then we’ll take it slow,” he said. “Want to let me take it from here, yeah?”

You huffed out a shaky little laugh. “Pretty sure you’re the one who knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “So how about you let me look after you tonight, baby”

The endearment wrapped around you like a quilt.

You stepped closer, free hand coming up to rest tentatively against his chest again.

He dipped his head, catching your lips again.

This kiss was different. Not tentative, not testing.

It was sure.

He kissed you like he’d decided, somewhere between the sink and this doorway, that he was all in. His mouth was warm and sure on yours, his stubble rasping gently against your skin, grounding you in every place you touched.

You made a noise you didn’t recognise as your own, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He answered with a low hum, stepping you back until your knees brushed the edge of the bed.

“Easy,” he murmured, breaking away just enough to see your face. “Sit for me.”

You sank down onto the mattress, breath coming a little fast, palms braced on either side of you. Hal followed, one knee on the bed between your thighs, his other foot still on the floor, looming without ever feeling threatening.

His hand came up to cup your cheek again, thumb rubbing a slow line along your lower lip.

“Still alright?”

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

He smiled, small, just a little crooked.

“Good,” he said.

You blinked. “Good?”

“Means it matters,” he replied simply. “You think I’m not? I’ve wanted to do this for so long my hands are shakin’ worse than yours were out by that tractor.”

You glanced down automatically. His fingers seemed steady, sure, until he saw where you were looking. Then, just to prove his point, they trembled a fraction against your skin.

The ridiculous surge of affection that punched through you almost knocked you flat.

You leaned up and kissed him again, hard enough that your teeth knocked his lightly. He huffed a laugh into your mouth, then answered with a slow, deep slide of his tongue against yours that sent heat shooting straight down your spine.

His hands slid down, fingers skimming the sides of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your waist. When his thumbs brushed the underside of your ribs, you shivered.

“Cold?” he asked against your mouth.

You shook your head minutely. “No.”

His lips curved. “Good.”

He eased back just enough to get his fingers under the hem of your shirt.

“Can I…?”

You lifted your arms in answer.

The fabric whispered up over your skin and then you were bare from the waist up except for your bra, the cool air of the room kissing the new-exposed skin. Hal’s breath caught.

“Jesus,” he murmured.

He sat back on his heels for a second, just looking.

You fought the instinct to fold in on yourself, to cover. Hal Carter looked like a man who’d been handed something precious he didn’t quite feel worthy of.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, like it was a fact. “Always thought so. Just didn’t think I’d get to say it out loud.”

Your throat went tight.

“Hal…”

He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder this time, then along the line of your collarbone. His stubble scratched lightly, his mouth soft and warm and thorough, like he was making up for every touch you hadn’t had.

By the time he reached the hollow at the base of your throat, your fingers were tangled in his hair, your head tipping back on instinct to give him more.

“Lie back for me,” he murmured against your skin.

You went willingly, easing down onto the mattress. Hal followed, bracing one forearm by your head so he didn’t crush you with his weight, the other hand splayed warm over your ribs.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, deftly undoing it before he eased the straps down your arms and slid the fabric away.

You sucked in a breath as his palm cupped your breast fully, the heat of his hand making your nipple tighten almost painfully.

“God,” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice gone rough. “That about covers it.”

He rolled your nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger, watching your face as he did. The sensation shot straight through you, sharp and electric, your back arching off the bed.

“That good?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” you managed.

“Tell me,” Hal purred at you, voice getting rough “Want to hear it.”

“It’s… good,” you gasped. “Feels… really good.”

His smile flashed, feral and pleased.

“Atta girl.”

He dipped his head and closed his mouth over your other nipple, heat and damp and the scrape of his teeth making you gasp. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle there as you writhed under him.

He took his time.

Alternating between each breast, he worshipped you with mouth and hands until you were panting, a low, constant throb starting to build between your legs. Every tug, every swirl of his tongue seemed designed to drag another soft sound out of you.

When he finally lifted his head, your skin felt too hot for the cool air.

“Too much?” he asked again, checking in.

“Not enough,” you blurted.

His laugh rumbled through both of you.

“Careful, sweetheart. You say things like that, I’m liable to forget we started out slow.”

He pushed himself up just enough to fumble at his own shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. Your breath caught.

He was solid.

Strong through the chest and shoulders, years of work carved into the lines of him. Not gym-perfect. Scars here and there from old misjudged fences or cantankerous stock, you suddenly wanted to touch.

You did.

Your fingers slid up over his ribs, along the warm expanse of his chest, feeling the muscle jump under your touch.

He bent to kiss you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world. While his tongue stroked against yours, his hand drifted down, skimming your stomach, the curve of your hip, until his fingers brushed the waistband of your jeans.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak.

“Still okay?”

You swallowed and nodded. “Please.”

That one word seemed to undo him.

“Lift your hips for me,” he murmured.

You did, and he made quick work of the button and zip, sliding the denim and your thermal layer down your legs in one firm, careful pull. The fabric dragged over your calves and caught briefly at your socks before he eased it past your ankles, leaving you bare to the room from the waist down. The cool air raised goosebumps over your thighs, but the way his gaze moved over you, slow, hungry, unbelieving, chased them away.

You were down to your panties now, the cotton already damp where you ached the most, clinging to you.

Hal swore under his breath. His fingers flexed, physically restraining himself from grabbing hold of you too fast.

“Look at you,” he murmured at last, voice thick. “Been workin’ yourself half to death and you’re still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You huffed a tearful little laugh, the sound wobbling. “Not a high bar.” You tried to joke, to shrug it off, but your voice came out small, betraying how unused you were to being looked at like this.

He shook his head once, firmly, like you’d said something offensive.

“Highest one I’ve got,” he said. “You think I don’t know what I’m lookin’ at?”

Heat crawled up your neck, spreading across your chest.

His hand slid slowly up the inside of your thigh, the rough-smooth contrast made your muscles jump, a shiver skating along your spine. Your hips twitched toward him without permission, a tiny, helpless reach for more that had his mouth curving in a low, satisfied smile.

He watched your face as he reached the edge of your panties, fingers teasing along the damp line.

“Gonna touch you,” His tone was firm, needing you to understand “Need you to tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I will,” you said immediately. “But don’t stop.”

He smiled, low and pleased. He slid his hand under the cotton, fingers finding slick heat.

You gasped, hissing a little at even the light touch.

“Jesus, you’re wet,” he groaned. “Not just this place needs looking after is it?”

You might have argued if he hadn’t chosen that moment to drag his fingers slowly through your folds, circling your clit with the lightest, most maddening pressure.

Words scattered.

Your hips jerked, a broken sound spilling from your throat.

“Pretty noises, from the pretty girl.” he murmured.

He worked you with a patience you didn’t know what to do with.

Small, slow circles over your clit, just enough pressure to build the heat without tipping you too fast. Every time your breath hitched, he eased off a fraction, drawing the sensation out, letting it swell and swell until you felt like your skin couldn’t contain it.

He slipped two thick finger inside you and you almost sobbed at the stretch.

“Hal- ”

“I know,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “I know, baby. You’re so damn tight. Been left wanting too long.”

You dragged in a shaky breath, forcing your muscles to relax around him. He moved slowly, curling his fingers in a steady rhythm that brushed exactly where you needed it most. Your knees fell wider on instinct, heels digging into the mattress.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Doing good." You could feel yourself clenching around him, that slow, inexorable tide of pleasure rising with every drag and curl of his fingers, every precise circle of his thumb on your clit.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Nothin’ else you gotta do right now. Just let me take care of you.”

For once, you did.

You let go.

Let yourself ride the wave he was building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. It wasn’t sharp, not a sudden spike, it was a swell, a gathering force, like the moment before a storm breaks.

“Hal,” you gasped. “I- I’m- ”

“Just feel.” Soft encouragement “Let it happen.”

When it hit, it wasn’t the jagged crack you’d been bracing for all these months. It was a surge.

Pleasure rolled through you in heavy, unstoppable waves, pulling a loud, broken moan from somewhere deep in your chest. You twisted, skin hot, bending into his hand as the orgasm crashed over you, pleasure hitting again, and again.

Hal kept his fingers moving, easing you through it, murmuring soft, steady praise that you couldn’t quite catch over the rush in your ears.

“Good girl… that’s it… that’s my girl…”

You shuddered, finally sagging back into the mattress, limbs boneless.

He eased his hand away carefully, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before straightening.

“You still with me?” he asked.

You nodded, the room hazy around the edges. “Yeah. Just… whew.”

He grinned, wide and delighted.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Whew.”

The warmth he’d left in you pulsed slowly, sweet and heavy. Underneath it, an ache had started up again, sharper this time. You already missed the weight of his hand between your thighs, the sure way he’d touched you like there was nothing else in the world worth doing.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you reached for him.

Pulling him back down into a kiss.

This one wasn’t careful at all.

You opened for him immediately, tongue chasing his. Your hips shifted on instinct, chasing contact, brushing against the hard line of him still trapped in his jeans.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and rough, one hand bracing by your head while the other landed at your waist, holding you steady.

“Careful,” he muttered, breaking the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath coming rough. “Seein’ you like this, feelin’ you grabbin’ at me? Can’t forget myself, and I wanna take my time with you.”

Heat flared low in your belly at the way he said it, like taking his time with you was a promise, not a chore.

“I don’t mind if you forget a little,” you were only half joking, still breathing a little hard.

He huffed out a strained laugh, thumb stroking your hip.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he said. “But you deserve better than me rushin’ through this.”

He caught your wrist gently, bringing your hand up to his mouth to press a quick, reverent kiss to your knuckles before setting it back on the bed.

Then he eased away, pushing up off the mattress. The loss of his warmth made you shiver, but the sight of him, thumb already hooked in his belt, jaw set with determined focus, did something dizzying to your insides.

“Let me get a bit more comfortable,” he said.

He stripped his belt with a practised flick, then undid his jeans, working them down over his hips along with his briefs. You caught a glimpse of the heavy, straining line of him before you ducked your gaze, cheeks burning- and then, unable to help yourself, you looked again.

Hunger stirred, clean and bright. You wanted to feel all of him, wanted that deep, full stretch to match the rush still humming through your veins.

With his back half-turned, you took the chance to peel off your socks, toes curling against the cool sheet as you tugged the wool away. It made you feel absurdly bare, but also… right. Like you were meeting him in this, both of you shedding the last, practical layers of the day.

He toed his clothes aside, then glanced back at you, checking in even now before he got back onto the bed with you.

“Baby, when you look at a man like that,” he drawled lightly as he settled between your knees, “you make him feel awfully good about himself.”

You swallowed hard, because you were looking. At all of him, and what was ahead of you was.. something

He sobered a fraction, eyes tracking the flicker of nerves across your face.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s not a real snake, baby. It won’t bite, promise.”

You rolled your eyes at the ridiculousness of the line, a huff of breath escaping you, but it did exactly what he meant it to, it broke the tension just enough that you could breathe again.

Before you could come up with a retort, he took your hand, big fingers wrapping gently around yours and guiding it down between you.

“Just touch me,” he murmured. “That’s all.”

The weighted heat of him in your palm was almost unreal after months of nothing; thick and hot and alive, pulsing faintly against your skin. Hal’s own breathing hitched, a rough shudder running through him as your fingers curled, testing his weight.

“Yeah,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Just like that.”

He leaned in to kiss you again, slower but no less hungry, coaxing your mouth open as he gently eased you back onto your backk. Your hand slipped free as you went, landing uselessly in the rumpled sheets while his body came over yours, bracing his weight on his forearms so you felt surrounded without being pinned.

His palm slid up the outside of your legs, urging them wider.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said again, lining himself up. “I mean it. We can stop at any point.”

Your heart swelled.

“I know,” you said. “I trust you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours. Whatever he saw there made his throat bob.

“Alright then,” he murmured.

You felt the broad, hot head of him nudge against your entrance, the slick slide as he found the right angle. Even braced for it, the first push in was a shock, sharp enough to pull a strangled gasp from you, your fingers clenching in the sheets as your body tried to decide between retreat and welcome.

He stopped immediately, muscles trembling with the effort of holding still, every vein in his neck standing out.

“Breathe,” he said. “Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good.”

You dragged in a shaky breath, then another, forcing the tension out of your thighs, your belly, willing yourself to open around him. The sting eased with each exhale, the stretch melting into a deep, aching fullness that settled low in your core.

“Hal,” you whispered, voice wrecked as you tried to lift your hips towards him “Please, Hal… more.”

He groaned, low and raw, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Course, baby” he said.

He eased in inch by inch, relentless but unhurried, letting you feel every thick, dragging centimetre of his cock as he sank deeper. Your inner muscles fluttered helplessly around him, slick heat clinging to his length. He cursed under his breath, jaw locked tight like he was hanging on by his fingernails. The pressure making your body buzz.

By the time his hips finally met yours, the blunt press of his hips snug against you, you felt stretched around him in a way that was almost overwhelming. Full to the point of dizzy, every pulse of your heartbeat echoing where your bodies joined. You weren’t just fuller than you’d ever been; everything inside you felt tender and over-wound, nerve-endings lit up after months of pretending you didn’t have needs at all.

“Okay?” he managed, voice strangled.

You nodded, but it came with a little shiver you couldn’t quite control, your thighs trembling where they framed his hips. “Yeah. You just… feel like a lot.”

He laughed breathlessly, but there was nothing mocking in it, just raw wonder.

“Been called worse,” he said softly.

He didn’t move right away. Instead, he shifted his weight to one forearm and brought his free hand up, brushing a damp strand of hair back from your forehead with surprising gentleness, your brow pitched together.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me a sec.”

You dragged your gaze up to his. Whatever he saw there made his expression go even softer, your walls fluttered again..Hal swallowed his own noise.

“That’s just your body catchin’ up,” he nodded at you. “You’re doin’ fine. Little fawn shakes are normal. Just outta practise.” The fondness in his voice made your throat tighten.

He dipped his head to kiss you, slow and lingering, his mouth giving you something else to focus on while the initial sting and stretch settled into that heavy, aching fullness. His thumb stroked along your cheekbone in lazy passes, grounding you. After a beat, he caught one of your hands, guiding it up to his face.

“Here,” he murmured against your lips. “Hold on to me.”

Your fingers curled against the rough line of his jaw, feeling the flex of muscle there, the warmth of his skin. Little by little, the tremors in your thighs eased, your body loosening around him as you adjusted to the size of him, the reality of him everywhere at once.

"Easy now.." He drew back carefully and pushed in again, slow, deliberate. The drag of him along your inner walls sent sparks shooting up your spine.

"Nuh-auh.." Your mouth fell open on a soft cry.

"That’s it,” he encouraged. “Let me hear you.”

He set a rhythm that matched the rest of him, steady, patient, no rush.

Each thrust rolled through you, his thick cock sliding deep into your soaked centre, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that felt steady, anchoring; a shelter instead of a cage. His hand bracketed your hips, big palms wrapping almost all the way around, thumbs stroking idle, reverent patterns into your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

"Auh-god -ugh" the little sounds slipped out of you with every push, your own body moving with his.

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” Hal murmured, swallowing them up with a low groan of his own, the heat of his breath fanning against your cheek. “Keep moaning for me, baby. Let it out.”

The pleasure built again, different this time. Deeper. Heavier. Less like a crashing wave and more like the pull of a strong current, tugging you down somewhere warm. His shaft moved along your inner walls with every slow withdrawal, the tip catching just inside before he pushed back in, filling you again.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Been dreamin’ about this, you know that? ‘Bout how you’d feel wrapped around me.”

Hal shifted his angle, hips tilting, your body answered before your mind could catch up. Your leg lifted, thighs tightening as you hooked your ankles behind his hips, dragging him closer, locking him against you. The new position let him grind deeper, his pubic bone rubbing your swollen bud with each thrust, sending sparks up your spine, your walls squeezing him.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice rough with approval. “Hold on to me, baby. Just like that. Pull me in- fuck, yes.”

The next stroke drove into a spot inside you that made your vision go white at the edges, a choked cry punching out of you as your nails bit into his shoulders.

“Hal- oh god!”

“Right there?” he asked, breath hot against your cheek, his hips circling slightly to hit it again.

“Yes,” you gasped. “God- Hal- right there..”

“Then that’s where I’ll stay,” he said, his tone promising everything as he adjusted, locking into that rhythm.

His thick cock driving deep into you with every measured thrust, the broad head grinding deliberately against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you. Your inner walls clenched tight around him, milking each slow, controlled stroke, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room as he held you in that warm, unhurried build.

“Ahh, shit,” he rasped, voice thick with need.

The familiar ache in your chest was gone, replaced by something fierce and bright and alive, blooming hot under your skin as his free hand trailed up your side, fingers splaying wide and tender over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in soothing circles.

A raw moan tore from your throat, your hips bucking up to meet him, nails scraping lightly down his back.

“Hal- ”

“That it Baby,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “You’re so good Baby- Just little more –“ His own voice getting caught “You’re almost there - Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

The blunt words, wrapped in that deep, honest rumble, hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your pussy fluttered wildly around him, the pressure coiling tighter, hotter, till you couldn’t do anything but burn.

You came hard, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your walls pulsing and squeezing his cock in rhythmic spasms. Wet spilling around him, slicking along his shaft, a sharp cry escaping your lips the climax rolled deep and long, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Hal swore, hips stuttering.

“Fuck- there you go, that’s it, that’s my girl- ”

You felt him follow right after, burying himself to the hilt with a final, powerful drive, his cock throbbing inside you as hot spurts of his own release mix with yours... He groaned long and low against your throat, body going rigid, muscles tensing.

For a moment, everything was just heat and breath and the frantic beating of two hearts trying to sync up, his lips brushing feather-light kisses along your jaw as you both came down.

Hal braced his forearms on either side of your head, careful not to collapse his full weight on you. He pressed a soft, almost absent-minded kiss to your cheek, then your temple, like he couldn’t stop himself.

“You okay?” he asked at last, voice hoarse.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Good,” he said softly. “That’s… yeah. Good.”

He shifted before he eased out of you gently, murmuring an apology when you winced at the oversensitive drag and dipped his head to kiss you through it, his mouth soft and coaxing until the sharp edge faded to a faint ache. Hal stretched out on his side and opened one arm in quiet invitation.

You went, tucking yourself in against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hand smoothed up and down your spine in slow, soothing strokes, the steady rhythm lulling your muscles into bonelessness. Your leg hitched over his hip of its own accord, pressing you closer to his warmth.

“Look at us,” you mumbled against his skin. “First proper dinner I’ve cooked in months and we end up here.”

He huffed a soft laugh, his chest rumbling under your cheek. “Best payment I’ve ever had for a day’s work,”

You swatted weakly at his side. He caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Don’t,” you pouted “Don’t make a joke of it.”

His grip tightened, just a fraction.

“I’m not,” Hal apologised giving you a small squeezed. “But I meant what I said in the kitchen.”

You tipped your head back enough to see his face.

“We’ve got all winter,” he said. “You can take as long as you need to figure out what you want this to be. Only thing I’m sure of is I’m not goin’ anywhere unless you tell me to.”

Your chest ached again, but it was a different kind of ache now.

“You really think I’m the sun?” you asked, half-teasing, half-pleading.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you’d even doubt it.

“I know you are,” he said. “Just hope you’ll let me orbit a while.”

A laugh bubbled up, soft and a little disbelieving. You buried your face back in his chest to hide the way your eyes stung.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I think I could live with that.”

His arm tightened around you, holding you close and that was enough.