I watch her, and for a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to let her close. But then I clear my throat gently, grounding myself in this moment.
“Would you like to have a go at feeding her?” I ask, offering her the bottle. “She’s nearly finished, but there’s still a bit left.”
Stormy nods, her eyes bright.
“I’d love to.”
She shifts closer, and I pass her the bottle, careful not to jostle the foal. Our fingers brush. Her skin is warm, and her touch is light and careful.
“She likes it angled just a little,” I say, adjusting Stormy’s hold gently. My hand clasps hers longer than it needs to, and I feel her glance at me, not startled, not pulling away, just watching.
“She’s doing great,” I offer quietly, nodding toward the foal. “You’re a natural.”
Stormy smiles, then turns her attention back to the little one, her voice soft and affectionate. “There you go, baby girl,” she whispers, stroking the foal’s neck with the backs of her fingers. “You’re doing so well.”
The foal shifts slightly, her ears flicking, and I watch Stormy feed her, her brow furrowed in concentration, her voice low and soothing. I feel that ache in my chest that’s been building for weeks surface again. It’s not just a crush. It can’t be. It’s something deeper.
She glances up at me briefly, her eyes bright and her smile genuine. And I wonder, just for a moment, if she feels it too.
Is friendship really enough for us?
Because right now, watching her kneel in the hay, bottle in hand, her voice full of warmth and compassion, I’m not sure it is.
I glance toward the stall door for a moment, expecting to see Missy still hovering nearby, but the space is empty. Somehow, she’s slipped away without either of us noticing. Of course she has. She knew exactly what she was doing.
But then Stormy shifts, and my attention snaps back to her. “What’s her name?” she asks, looking over at me.
I shake my head.
“She hasn’t got one yet.”
Stormy’s eyebrows lift.
“Really?”
I nod, watching her closely.
“You want to name her?”
She blinks, surprised.
“Me?”
“Why not?” I ask, smiling. “She seems to like you. Feels right.”
Stormy looks down at the foal and strokes her golden coat with slow, thoughtful fingers. The last of the sunset catches her hair, and for a moment, the two of them look like they belong together.
She’s quiet for a beat, considering. Then her smile curves gently—knowingly—as she glances back at me.
“Sunshine,” she says. “She looks like sunshine.”
I freeze. My breaths are caught somewhere between my chest and throat.
I’d started calling Stormy that name as a joke—something light, something teasing. But mainly because of the way her hair shone in the sunlight and the way it matched her beautiful personality. Lately, she’s started smiling when I say it. She doesn’t mind it. Maybe she likes it. And now she’s given it to the foal. I stare at her, heart thudding, and she just keeps smiling, soft and steady.
“It’s perfect,” I say quietly. “Sunshine it is.”
A strand of hair falls from Stormy’s messy bun, curling across her cheek, and I have the sudden urge to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. But the moment I begin considering it, the foal makes a soft, sleepy noise, and we both glance down, finding her flopped forward, in Stormy’s lap.
