Six - The Thing That Set Us Free
SIX
THE THING THAT SET US FREE
I’VE BEEN AT this for what feels like three lifetimes, and Ruin’s mane still looks like a sewer monster that crawled out of a drain and died.
The comb snags on the millionth knot, I huff out my millionth fuck; it’s how my morning’s been going.
I press my eyes shut, pause for composure, then start working the knot free.
Ruin shifts his weight but doesn’t pull away. He’s been so good—patient, attentive, almost... contemplative? If horses do that. Considering I’ve been basically yanking his hair for the last hour. But damn, I almost wish he’d get mad so I’d have an excuse to throw in the towel.
“Swear to God, I’m gonna shave you bald,” I mutter, teasing apart yet another clump. “You’d rock a Mohawk. You’re fashionable like that.”
He sighs—not sure if it’s a fuck you , a you know it , or a is this bitch talking to me , though. Kind of building the dictionary as we go, but one month since arriving, we’re still just acquaintances, by all accounts. There’s not much there yet .
Outside the stall, a couple of stablehands pass by, casually chatting like they’re in a ranch commercial.
As lunch time gets progressively closer, the muted sunlight pouring through the barn’s high windows gets warmer, more inviting, slapping a few golden stripes here and there. I feel like I’m in a damn postcard.
I step back and survey my work with critical eyes. Objectively, it looks…not good, but definitely better. At least everything is going in the same direction now, the worst knots teased out, tangles reduced to minor chaos instead of full-blown anarchy.
“Good as it’ll get, bud,” I tell Ruin, patting his shoulder and neck, then raking my fingers through the hair. “We should get it braided, though, right? Get that Viking look going?”
Not up for debate since I’m not going through this shit again anytime soon.
As I gather the grooming supplies, I hear heavy steps coming down the aisle, and I hate that I can tell it’s Eli by his footfall.
I peek out of the stall, and there he is, walking this way, carrying a bulky Western saddle by the horn over his shoulder, like it’s a summer coat and he’s trying to look trendy.
I steel myself for when he passes by, because I just know that curled bicep is looking plump and perfect, holding all that weight. That t-shirt riding up with each step is distracting me, though, showing a thin strip of tanned skin above his belt.
Our gazes meet, and he nods as he passes. I nod-slash-spasm in return, which was honestly the smoothest shit I could manage, so I won’t even beat myself up for it. The bicep got me.
Issue now is, Eli for sure went into the tack room to store that saddle, which is where I need to drop off all this grooming shit.
Being alone with a gorgeous cowboy in a tight room is a fantasy disaster waiting to happen—can’ t risk it—so I should wait a minute or two for him to leave.
My dreams are already one Horse Daddy core memory away from getting their own niche porn category.
Waiting is the plan. But then Eli pops up, leaning over the stall door like some casual prison guard blocking the only exit, and I suddenly develop a trapped kink.
“Nice job, taming the steel wire,” he says with a smile, nodding toward Ruin’s hair.
Hell yeah, nice job. I can’t help but puff up my chest a little. “Looks good-ish, right?”
“Looks awesome.” Then he lifts a… roll of electrical tape? “Thought we could braid it?”
With…electrical tape? Doesn’t matter. “If by ‘we’ you mean your very skilled ranch hands, then you’re a lifesaver. Otherwise, you’re a lunatic.” I point at my hair. Never kept it over four finger-lengths, and the undercut’s been a staple for a while too. “Does it look like I braid a lot?”
“No,” Eli answers with that cheeky smile I wish would annoy me. “But a good hairdresser’s gotta be multifaceted.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer to get inside the stall, gently petting Ruin’s jaw when he leans forward, nostrils flaring to take in Eli’s scent. I cross my arms and huff. “I’ll get to be a hairdresser for real if we don’t get this guy shaped up in the next five months.”
That grin… I’m gonna die in this stall. “Great. Let’s get some practice in, then,” he says casually, tossing the tape at me.
“Ha. Funny.” I catch it, thank fuck. How awkward would that have been…?
Eli then turns fully to Ruin. “Hey, big man,” he tells him, voice dropping into that deeper register that sends shivers down my spine. His hand strokes down Ruin’s neck, fingers gently raking through the mane. “Looking sharp. Your person did good work here. ”
Your person.
The phrase hits me softly but disorienting, like a feather pillow to the face. Being someone’s person just sounds so… much. Not scary but… yeah, kinda scary. But good? Fuck, I don’t know.
He starts teasing Ruin’s hair, getting parts of it loosely separated. “C’mon. You got this.”
My throat feels dry, but I step closer anyway. I don’t understand why it’s so hard with him, why my body is always on fire. He’s clearly hot, but that’s never been an issue when I needed to cut things off and move on.
Eli isn’t a club dude-bro with more ripples in his abs than in his brain, or every other trainer, who mistakes sweet talk for horse talk and then slips off their personality along with their boots.
And God forbid he’d be like other riders who think that sticking their dicks in my ass means they’re better than me.
With guys like that, cutting things off is easy. Most times, it’s a relief.
But Eli’s been throwing me off since the moment I first laid eyes on him, and I desperately need to unplug him from my brain. And my heart. And my cock, Jesus…
He’s straight. It won’t happen. But fuck, I feel like I’m fourteen again—just wanting and not thinking. Stupid and wild and hopeless.
So I’m left with enduring the ache for five more months, and then hopefully get some space between us. Maybe never come back here, or see him again.
Which somehow aches even more…
“Trick is separating the strands,” Eli says, running his fingers through a portion of Ruin’s mane and dividing it into three. “If you don’t get ‘em even, it’s always gonna look crooked.”
I nod, straightening my back, forcing my chin up to fall back into focus as I follow his hands move.
“Then it’s right over center, left over center, then right again.” His fingers dance through the strands, crossing one over another naturally, like water around river stones. “First few crosses gotta be looser so they don’t pull roots, but then tighter so it holds.”
The braid takes shape under his hands, lying flat down Ruin’s neck. When he gets to the tip, he extends a palm at the tape in my hand. I give it. “Last four fingers of hair, lay the tape flat, fold it over so it sticks to itself. Then pull tight and loop a few times.”
“Why tape?”
“No hair damage, no residue. Plus it’s flexible.” He tugs at it, and yeah, it’s rubbery and strong, stretching before breaking off. “Done. Easy, right?”
“Peasy,” I say, dry as a desert. “We’re ready to go Olympic.”
“Well, one of us is.” He hands me the tape back with a smile. And a fucking wink.
And I want to punch his face in, then stick my tongue down his throat.
I step up before I wreck myself completely. Ruin turns to give me an eye, but I got this—how hard can it really be? I select a section of mane near his withers, take my time making sure it’s properly divided, like Eli’s was. Are they even?
“Try crossing and pinching to hold.” He suggests, exemplifying with his thumb and forefinger. “Then the same from the other side.”
I try to follow, but my fingers feel clumsy, like I’d do better if I took my gloves off, except I’m not wearing any. The strands keep slipping, and I can’t get the tension right.
“Here. Like this,” Eli says, positioning himself behind my back.
And instantly, a current runs down my spine, tingling beneath my skin. The warmth from his body makes me want to lean back, to sink into that connection. His chest brushes against my shoulder blades, and my eyelids flutter shut.
I had both daydreams and late-night fantasies about this moment, minus the braiding. The moment when his strong arms reach around me, powerful, protective, and his hands connect to mine so he can guide me through whatever we’re doing.
Except they don’t, this time. They stop, stay hovering half way there.
And just like that, they’re gone again.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing behind his neck and stepping aside again. “Got in your space.”
I try to smile, but every move feels too charged. “It’s fine.”
“No, it ain’t. It’s…” He’s having a full press conference in his head, a hundred voices all at once, all over each other. I know what that’s like, and he handles it the same way I do—chin up, chest out, and a fake smile plastered on.
How do I kiss him without using my lips? How do I embrace him in there, where the mess is? I hate this.
“You can do it. Just keep trying.” His gaze gets anchored on the messy strands in my hands, and then at the hair behind Ruin’s ear. “I’ll start up here, meet in the middle?”
I nod. I don’t know what to say that wouldn’t be overly intimate or unhelpful, so I stay quiet, focus on my one braid.
Right over center. Pinch. Left over center.
Pinch. It’s not great, uneven in places, but recognizable as a braid, so I couldn’t really ask for more.
Eli helps me with the tape, but I got the gist of it. I’ll get it right next time.
“Not bad for a first try,” Eli says, as I work on dividing some more hair. I don’t fail to notice he’s completed three immaculate braids while I worked on my singular disaster.
“Looks like a drunk kid made it. ”
“All first braids look like that.”
“As if. Bet you were braiding horses before you could talk.”
He huffs, choosing another section too, on Ruin’s neck. “Didn’t talk much growing up, so maybe?” His smile seems real enough that my stomach can finally shake some tension off.