Riverlight Magic
THE RANCH WAKES up at five thirty, but by then I’m already running laps.
Still healthy on two hours of sleep, right?
Two weeks in, “nothing to do” has basically curdled into “existential crisis, but with horses.” At my old training camps, every hour was spoken for—ride times, drills, physio, media training.
Even the fucking meditation blocks that were supposed to cultivate inner silence—like that’s a real thing—but mainly gave me twenty minutes to spiral in peace.
Hell, all my life has been like that.
But here, all they expect me to do is breathe and be present, and I’m like… Fucking ta-da, I guess? Still here. Still not asphyxiating.
I don’t know. With my horse in quarantine and our deadline months away, it feels like a slap in the face, honestly. Just me and my brain prancing in circles.
So, yeah, I jog at dawn to keep sane. Civil fucking disobedience.
When the burn in my quads gets distracting enough, I veer off trail and cut through the pastures toward the main barn.
There’s a split-log fence running parallel to the path where I stop, drop my water bottle, and plant a sneaker against the lowest rail, leaning into a calf stretch until my hamstrings scream.
The sun is barely up, just a rim of yellow over the treeline, but someone is already in the paddocks.
For a second, I think it’s one of the staff, but then I see the cowboy hat, the tight black tee under a sheepskin-lined denim jacket.
And the stance that says, ‘I could take a nap standing up and not fall over.’
Eli.
He’s doing something with a wheelbarrow and a shovel—rancher cosplay, surely—and coming this way. His eyes track me for a second, then he tips his chin in a lazy hello.
I nod back, going back to stretching, but now it’s performative. I lock my arms overhead and arch my back a little farther than necessary, so my ribs pop and my shirt rides up, exposing the line of my abs. Not for him.
Yes, for him. Who am I kidding?
“Morning,” he calls, voice low and unhurried as he approaches.
“Barely,” I call back, not even trying to sound friendly. It’s too early for that.
He’s close enough now that I can see the little flecks of dirt on his face, the way his hair contours his cheek before he tucks it behind one ear. His shirt is damp at the collar, clinging to his neck.
“Done with your run?” he asks, like he’s genuinely interested.
“Trying to keep from atrophying,” I say, swapping to the other leg. “If I sit still too long, I turn into a pumpkin.”
He grins. Fucking unfair. “You should check out the trails up the ridge. Hard as hell, but the view’s incredible.”
“Cool. Thanks,” I say, even though I know I won’t. No fun solo .
He leans against the fence, loosely folding his arms so the jacket’s sleeves ride up and the veins in his forearms pop. I hate that I notice, but it’s impossible not to. He watches me for a bit, not in a creepy way, just… observing.
“Got a name for your horse yet?” he asks, tone neutral but with a smile at the edge of it.
I freeze mid-stretch. Of course he’d bring it up. And of course he’s cheeky about it because he knows I don’t.
“No,” I admit, dropping my arms. “Been thinking about it, though.”
He nods, like this is a perfectly reasonable answer, though he’s about to add some horse whisperer fun facts to help me choose already.
Except a whirlwind of Lena barrels down from the barn and interrupts.
“Boss man!” she yells, holding a mug in each hand and thrusting one at him.
“Coffee for you. Extra strong. No poison, promise. Maybe only little poison.”
Eli takes the mug, eyeing her with affection and mild exasperation. “Thanks, Lena. You’re up early.”
She beams at him, then at me, then back at him. Way too fast. “Much excitement in air. Maybe storm comes, yes?”
Eli shakes his head. “Weather’s supposed to be clear.”
Lena shrugs. “Still, excitement.” She glances at me and winks, then tips the mug to her lips and drinks. “Mmm. So, Cassian, you run without shirt and then stretch where everyone sees? Very west behavior. I approve.”
I roll my eyes, pointing at my stomach. “Welcome to the modern world. This is a regular shirt. Re-gu-lar.” Well, a tank. Deep cut on the sides because I don’t like the pull of tight clothes when I’m running—I get enough of that with pro attire. Still clothing.
“But I see all beneath. Is not same?” She giggles. “Should I, too, run with titties out?” Her free hand flies to her breast, gives it a double squeeze. “Titties too small for bouncing. Bummer for me, but still joy for you! ”
Eli just shakes his head like a dad watching a toddler eat sand. I’m half-positive he’s trying not to laugh.
I gape at her. “Please get your titties away from me.”
“Champion boy is no fun.” She swats a hand my way and turns back to Eli, eyes going all sly and smirky. “Horse Daddy enjoys titties, yes?”
She did not just call him—
Slowly, my eyes drag to Eli for a glance, but he’s not even rattled. Her broken English must’ve saved her so much embarrassment; I bet she makes it worse on purpose. The fuck am I saying? Pixie demons don’t feel embarrassed.
“Sure,” Eli answers. “Outside work.”
He said sure. Sure. He likes titties.
Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? Huge hands like that, I bet he makes women on the street throw their panties at him.
I bet they swoon when he circles their tiny waists and his fingers connect, or when one palm covers an entire butt cheek, no matter how big.
And self-lubrication—that’s the dream, right?
Fucking whatever. Go straights.
“Oh, yay!” Lena beams, arm up in triumph, but it immediately drops down again. “But you always inside work.”
He shrugs, palms up—like yeah, it’s a real conundrum alright.
She groans theatrically and spins off on her heel, long braid whipping behind her.
“Fine. I go show titties to sun. Sun appreciates me.” She jogs backward a few steps, points her mug at me like a warning flare.
“Cassian! We compare titties some time, yes? Small titties club.” And then she’s gone, actually skipping while sipping from her cup.
I shake my head. “That girl’s gonna wreck so many dicks, I fear for this world. ”
Eli chuckles, watching her go. “She’s harmless.”
“Yeah, well…” I say, spinning around and crossing my arms over the fence. “I thought you were harmless too.”
Eli turns to the paddock as well. “What do you mean?”
“You’re leading her on. You like titties but not at work? Might as well tell her to try harder.”
Eli smiles but frowns at the same time, like I’m saying something crazy. But I’m not. “She’s a baby. I got a good ten years on her. Was never gonna happen.”
“Yeah, it’s called an age gap, and some people are into it, believe it or not.
” I take a deep breath. “Look, you’re the one who says this place makes people mistake things for something else.
” Eli visibly retracts, like I pressed the right spot.
“So just… stop feeding that something else. It’s fucking confusing. ”
After a moment, Eli nods softly, eyeing the coffee in his hand. “You’re right.”
We stand in it for a while—frost smoke, distant birds, me pretending my pulse isn’t in my ears. He’s picking at his mug hand, and I honestly feel bad, but also, it had to be said.
Right?
I open my mouth to smooth things down, but he speaks first. A murmur. Almost nothing.
But I hear it. A punch to the heart.
“It ain’t like it’s easy for me either.”
My blood freezes and thaws in half a second. God, he sounded so tiny, so…abandoned.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you’re right. I’ll be more careful.” He clears his throat, plasters on a smile. “So, I reckon it’s ‘bout time we free your partner?”
My thoughts whiplash. My what? “What are you talking about? ”
“Big guy’s off quarantine today. Should we bring him to the main barn?” he asks, smile creeping back. “Or you wanna keep stretching? Happy to wait.”
There it is, that weird not-quite-flirty vibe. I tell myself it’s just ranch banter, nothing more, but my ears go hot anyway.
Then he straightens up, shaking his head, frown back on. He’s all over the place today. “Not like…watching you stretch, or anything. Just come get me when you’re done.”
“I’m good,” I say, grabbing my water bottle from the ground. “All stretched out. Ready for the beast.”
Which, after a second, sounded so fucking sexual, I press my eyes shut way too hard, willing the words to go away. Then I crack one open, just to gauge the damage.
Eli is biting his lips not to smile. Which makes me do the same. And then we’re both unable to keep it up and blurt out laughing.
When I eventually catch my breath, I raise my water bottle at him. “Here’s to emotional rollercoastering at 6 AM. Like men.”
He wipes off a tear and brings his coffee cup to clink against my bottle. “Riverlight magic.”
“Riverlight magic,” I repeat, and bring delicious fresh water to my lips. Fuck I needed that.
Eli takes a sip of his coffee too, and I watch his face go through all stages of grief in one second, culminating in a full contraction. He gulps it down, though it was a whole battle not to spit it out.
I smirk. “Don’t tell me she put vodka in it.”
He coughs, then chokes out, “So much sugar. Holy crap.”
I laugh, and it feels good. Really good. “She’s sugar-powered. I knew it. It had to be something.”
He grins, then dumps the rest in the grass, nudging his head so we get on our way to quarantine. “If she asks, I finished it. ”
“For sure. And you’d like another.”
Eli gasps and stops. I don’t, grinning like an idiot. “You wouldn’t.”
I wouldn’t. “Guess we’ll never know.”
There’s no way I can look back, because I know he’s doing that cute-boy smile, chuckling like that. And I need a cool-off moment if I’m gonna not fall in love with it.
Again.
It’s really hard, though. Even harder when Eli catches up and falls in beside me, and that minimal curl on the corner of his lip bleeds the air from my lungs. Softly, like a leak I don’t notice until it starts to ache. So I inhale. Start over. Waiting for it to ache again.
Which makes me feel like a hypocrite. Because I just told him not to feed the somethings, and here he is doing absolutely nothing. But it’s a nothing that’d make me drop my pants in the quarantine tack room if he asked.
Not that he would. He’s straight. Yeah, I remember.
It’s not his fault. He’s so genuine, people just get pulled in—of course they do. Sugar-imp fairies and stunted gays alike.
Except I don’t feel stunted around him.
And that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?
We keep the walk to the quarantine barn mostly in silence. When I dare a peek his way, he’s still kind of smiling, but his eyes don’t match it. And I get that clinch in my sternum, as if I just kicked a puppy that did absolutely nothing wrong other than catching me on a bad day.
It ain’t like it’s easy for me either.
Why did he have to say it like it hurt?
The thumbprint lock buzzes. We step into the barn, up to my horse’s stall. And I see Eli there with him—not now but the other day—telling me to back off. That what I feel is peace and freedom and finally being able to breathe, not whatever lovey-dovey shit this place makes me believe it’s real.
And he’s not wrong. Fuck, if anyone would confuse actual normalcy with anything deeper, it would be me. The hell do I know about normal life? About what normal people feel when their worlds don’t hang on results—week after week after decades? I get it.
But then… what the hell am I supposed to do with this? Is there a kill switch for mislabeled feelings?
Is there one for feelings, period? Take my money.
This isn’t helpful, and Eli is finally letting me do something for a change, so I roll my neck, shake out my shoulders. Gotta stay sharp.
“He’s ready,” Eli says, soft but certain, sliding the stall door open, halter and lead in hand.
I don’t step inside after him. It’s been the rule so far—I stay close but not in the horse’s space. Eli keeps his movements loose, same as always, underwater speed.
The horse lifts his head, ears swiveling between me and Eli.
He’s still massive, but every time I see him this close, he seems to drop a notch in the murderous intent scale.
I’ve parked myself here multiple times a day since we first arrived, sometimes just playing solitaire on my phone—better than doomscrolling—or reading a book from the small library at the head office.
Been getting progressively fewer huffs from him.
Not yet at the shirtless-after-dark-cuddle level, but one day we might.
Eli slips the halter on him, clips the rope, double-checks the buckle, then leads him out. I stay out of kick range—you never know—and drift along beside Eli as we do a slow lap around the barn, let that first out-of-stall energy seep out.
Then we stop, facing the gate. And Eli passes me the lead.
I take it on reflex, then blink at him. “I’m taking him out? ”
“You don’t wanna?”
“Of course I do.” I frown. “It’s just… the first time I’ve held his lead.” I glance at the stallion. He looks calm. “Will he even follow?”
Eli shrugs. “Let’s find out.”
Yeah, let’s. No big deal, right?
It’s not like my entire life depends on it…