Lucas
Itook the farm truck because it was there and because no one stopped me.
It smelled like dust, old coffee, and something faintly oily that I couldn’t place. The keys were already in it. That felt like permission, even though I knew it wasn’t.
I drove out past the barns, past the line of cottonwoods, all the way to the main road. When I reached it, I didn’t hesitate. I took a left, same as I always did when I didn’t know where I was going.
The road stretched out in front of me, gray and empty, the kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful so much as unfinished. I rolled the window down an inch and let the cold air slap some sense into me.
There was enough signal by the time I reached the gas station with the faded sign and that one pump that always looked out of order. I parked anyway and went inside for coffee.
It tasted burnt and thin. I drank it standing up.
Rebecca called just as I finished.
“Hey,” she said. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.”
“Can you look at the funding spreadsheet again? I messed up the columns.”
“Sure, hang on…” I scrolled to the Sheets app as she talked numbers. Beds. And about how many young adults the charity had seen last week, and how many she’d had to place elsewhere. With the spreadsheet fixed, I focused back on what she was saying. Or wasn’t saying.
“We’re full,” she said, and there was a tired edge under the practical tone. “And winter’s not done with us yet.”
“I know.” I rubbed my thumb over the cardboard sleeve. “Any movement on funding?”
“Not enough.” A pause. “We might have to freeze intake for a bit.”
The words sat heavily in my chest. Freeze intake.
As if people were a problem you could put on hold.
Not that she meant that, but I took this personally.
What if I’d turned up and there’d been nothing for me?
I wouldn’t have lasted long without the medical care I’d needed and the safe space that was essential.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Let me email the funding agency and see what I can shake loose.”
She didn’t argue. That was worse.
When we hung up, I stayed where I was, staring at nothing, until the coffee was gone and the cup had cooled in my hand.
I checked my phone without meaning to.
Dalton had texted while I was driving.
Dalton: Hey, ranch boy? How are you doing, pardner?
I snorted despite myself.
Lucas: Okay. Tragically bad coffee might take me out.
Dalton: I’ll plan a tasteful memorial.
Lucas: Make sure it’s short.
A pause.
Dalton: You okay though?
I stared at the question longer than necessary.
Lucas: Yeah.
It was a lie. It wasn’t a dramatic one, just small and practical, like most of the lies I told.
Dalton: That was not convincing.
Lucas: I’m fine. Just… figuring stuff out with Jesse. He really doesn’t want me here and is refusing to discuss selling and all the benefits that come with that.
Dalton: Tell me what he looks like
Lucas: Tall, dark hair, brown eyes, irritable most of the time, stubble, hat, jeans, a horse, what else do you want to know?
Dalton: What aren’t you telling me? Is he hot?
I considered the question. Yes, Jesse was hot, and all cowboy, and grumpy gruff along with it. But Dalton was asking if I found him hot, not whether he was actually hot. Also, Rebecca’s worries about funding were front and center.
Lucas: He’s in my way
There, that was a safe answer. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Dalton: Yeah, but is he hot? Because I’m lacking hot men right now, and I once watched this cowboy porn where they did it in the barn, and I’m telling you, it did it for me.
Lucas: Some might say he’s hot
Me. I’m saying that.
Dalton: You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?
Lucas: I’m thinking about selling the ranch.
Dalton: That’s not what I asked.
Dalton: Anyway, I’m hoping to get the time to head out to you to see for myself, but work is killing me.
Lucas: Keep me posted.
He sent back a thumbs-up and a coffee emoji, which somehow felt like concern.
And all I could think about was the cowboys in a barn porn.
I really needed to find that.
I did some grocery shopping—enough to at least have a couple of snacks and way more instant coffee, and the drive back felt longer, even though it wasn’t.
Snow Creek came back into view piece by piece—the taller barns first, then the house, solid and unyielding, as if it had always been waiting for me.
I wasn’t ready to go back in the house, so I headed to the horse barn instead.
There was only one horse in there, and a black-and-white cat was curled up on a bale of hay as if it owned the place. It opened one eye when it saw me, then decided I wasn’t worth the effort.
“Hey,” I murmured.
It let me scratch under its chin, leaned onto my hand—its purr was loud and insistent, vibrating straight through my fingers—and for a second, I simply enjoyed the connection. But when I finally pulled my hand away, the barn felt empty and echoing.
I headed back toward the house, Snow Creek solid under my boots, and wondered—briefly, unhelpfully—how something could feel so steady and still leave me this lost.
I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to fix the charity’s problems, be in my nice, warm apartment that I’d had to sublet, and sit at my computer working on my accounts.
I didn’t sleep.
Or maybe I did, in short, useless stretches that left my body more tired than before. My hip ached in that deep, grinding way that never let me forget it was there. Lying on my side made it worse. Lying on my back wasn’t much better. By the time the clock glowed past two, I gave up.
The house was dark and too quiet as I made my way downstairs, filled the kettle at the sink, and set it on the stove.
While I waited, I dragged a chair out from the table and turned it sideways.
I braced my hands on the back and lifted one leg, stretching until the stiffness eased.
I breathed through the ache, counting the way the physio had taught me.
Not fixing it but at least keeping it from getting worse.
The kettle hadn’t even started to whistle when the back door opened.
I froze.
Footsteps. The soft thud of something being set down. Jesse’s shape filled the doorway, hat still on, shoulders slumped as if he’d been carrying the whole damn ranch on his back. He didn’t see me at first.
Then, he did.
He stopped dead. His posture changed instantly—back straight, jaw tight, as if he’d been caught doing something he hadn’t meant anyone to witness.
“Sorry,” he said, rough and automatic. “Didn’t know anyone was—”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. I lowered my leg from the chair, suddenly aware of how stupid it must look. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His eyes flicked to the chair. The kettle. Me, with my foot on a chair, contorted into a stretch.
“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”
We stood there, the silence stretching thin and awkward between us. The kettle began to hiss, a small, ordinary sound that felt too loud, and I cursed when I tried to stand.
“You okay?” he asked, after a beat. The question sounded reluctant, as if it had slipped out before he could stop it.
“Yeah.”
He nodded once. “Right.”
Another pause.
“I’ll grab a mug and get out of your way,” he said, already moving.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in, not unkindly, but final. “Kitchen’s big enough.”
We worked around each other in careful silence. No touching. No eye contact for longer than a second. When the kettle boiled, I poured the water too fast and sloshed some onto the counter. Jesse grabbed a towel at the same time I did.
Our hands brushed.
It was nothing—just skin on skin, a stupid accident—but the moment stretched anyway, thinned out until I was aware of every detail. The heat of his fingers, the roughness of his palm, and the way he went still hit me all at once.
He looked at me. I looked at him. Oh god, this felt like we were checking each other out. Get out! Abort!
Jesse’s jaw flexed. “Sorry,” he muttered, pulling his hand back too fast. He took the towel properly this time and wiped the spill in short, efficient motions.
“Long day?” I asked because the quiet was starting to feel like pressure.
He let out a breath that might have been a laugh if he’d had more energy. “You could say that.”
“If you sold,” I said, because the words were already there and stopping them felt like cowardice, “you could do something else.”
His eyes narrowed. Not angry. Assessing.
He crowded me back toward the sink as he reached past me for the milk, claiming the space without asking, close enough that I could feel the heat of him without him ever touching me, and it hit me then that he didn’t need the space—he wanted it.
I inhaled the clean scent of soap and shower and something unmistakably him, and my body reacted before my head could stop it, heat flaring hard and fast, my cock trapped painfully in my jeans.
“I have the best job on earth,” Jesse said, his breath warm against my ear. “Can you say the same thing?”
My face felt hot. I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I picked up my mug with shaking fingers, muttered something that might have been an excuse, and ducked past him before my body could make things any worse.
I headed upstairs, heart hammering, shame and want tangled together in a way I didn’t have the energy to unpack.
My face felt hot. Too hot. I took a step back, then another, very aware of my body and the way it had betrayed me.
I wrapped my hand around myself and squeezed with enough pressure to make me hiss.
Jesse’s presence was still in my head—his heat, the way he’d crowded my space, the certainty in his voice.
I pumped my fist slowly at first, then harder, chasing relief more than pleasure, hips lifting as my body took over.
It didn’t take long. I came with a muffled groan into my hand, pulse racing, breath ragged, frustration and want bleeding out of me together.
After, I lay there staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, the ache in my hip dulled and was replaced by a different kind of soreness. Nothing was fixed. Nothing was clearer.
I cleaned up, turned onto my side, and finally—mercifully—sleep dragged me under.