We reach the barn doors. They’re big, red, and familiar. I pull one open. Warmth and the smells of hay, leather, and horse wrap around me like an old blanket.
“Hey, boys,” I call softly.
Jasper, back in his stall, lifts his head over the nearest door, ears pricked. The other horse—Rook, the bay—snorts and stamps a hoof.
Bran hangs back just inside the barn, giving the space a quick once-over. It’s empty at the moment. Twice a day a boy from town comes in to muck stalls and feed the animals.
I slip into Jasper’s stall, moving slow so he knows I’m there. He noses at my hoodie pocket immediately.
“No treats,” I tell him. “I didn’t come prepared.”
He huffs, offended, and nuzzles my shoulder anyway.
My muscles, which have been at useless, hummingbird-level tension since last night, finally start to unclench.
Horses don’t care about anonymous handles or anonymous men at windows. They care about hay and weather and whether their people show up when they say they will.
I rest my cheek briefly against Jasper’s neck, breathing in the horse smell. It’s earthy and warm and completely unconnected to the mess in my head.
“You’re cheating on me with livestock,” Bran says dryly.
I look back.
He’s closer than he was, leaning one shoulder against the stall door, arms folded. His eyes are softer than his voice.
“Jealous?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, without missing a beat.
It hits me harder than it should.
I laugh, but it comes out a little wobbly. “You know he’ll let you pet him too, right? You don’t have to lurk in the corner like a disgruntled scarecrow.”
“Not what I'm jealous of.”
For a heartbeat, I don’t think I hear him correctly. My eyes stay fixed on where I’m stroking Jasper’s mane. Finally, I turn my gaze to look at him.
“What did you say?”
“Forget it.”
Push or don’t push?I sigh and shake my head.
“Whatever. Come here,” I say, holding out my hand across the stall door.
He looks at my hand like it’s a snake.
Then he reaches.
His palm fits against mine, warm and big and callused. For a second, it’s just the two of us, no horse, no serial killer, no house—just contact.
I squeeze his fingers, once, and then turn our hands outward, pressing the back of his knuckles to Jasper’s nose.
Jasper snorts, breath washing hot over our skin. Bran doesn’t flinch, but I feel the minute shifting of his weight, the way his shoulders loosen fractionally when nothing bad happens.
“See?” I say. “He likes you. You’re both big and dramatic.”
He exhales, a huff that might be a laugh.
