I unlatch the heavy gate that leads to the pasture and then swing it wide. The cows file out in their usual order, Daisy first as always, followed by Clover and the rest. Gouta dances around their legs excitedly, clearly hoping for some playful interaction, but the massive animals barely acknowledge her presence as they lumber toward the frosted grass.
I see him before he sees me as I’m closing the gate. A dark figure leaning against the fence line, his posture too carefully casual to be accidental. The morning sun catches in his hair, turning the brown strands almost golden.
Gouta trots ahead of me, betraying our approach with an excited bleat. Taylen’s head turns, and I watch his expression shift from genuine warmth at the sight of the goat to something more neutral when his eyes meet mine.
“Didn’t expect to see you still here after two whole weeks,” he calls out as I approach. “You’re usually gone by now.”
The words sting more than they should, probably because there’s truth in them, but it’s also not a fair comment. I came home as often as I could, and definitely more than all of my band mates together, since the farm became the unofficial Hall of Fame safe retreat from the public eye.
I stop a few feet from the fence, close enough to see the stubble on his jaw, the way his light-blue eyes catch the sunlight.
“Things change,” I say, aiming for casual but hearing the defensive edge in my voice.
“Do they?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or do they just look different for a while before going back to how they’ve always been?”
Gouta headbutts my leg before trotting over to Taylen’s side of the fence. Traitor.
“This goat’s probably got more farming experience than you do,” he says, reaching down to scratch behind her ears before picking her up like she’s a baby. The movement pulls his Henley tight across his shoulders, and I force my eyes away. Why is he not wearing a coat like a sensible human?
“You don’t know anything about my experience,” I counter, stepping closer to the fence. The air between us feels charged. I know why, but regardless of what's in the past, we used to sort of be friends.
“I know enough.” His voice drops lower, and something in his tone makes my skin prickle. “I know farming takes more than money and good intentions. It takes staying power.”
“You think I don’t know that?” The words come out sharper than intended. I take a deep breath to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret later.
He looks up then, and for a moment, our eyes lock. The morning sun casts shadows across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw, the slight part of his lips. Heat that has nothing to do with anger coils in my stomach, and I have to remember who he is.
“I’m not going anywhere, Taylen. Get used to seeing me across this fence.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and I see something flash across his face. Frustration, maybe, or something else entirely. The moment stretches between us, taut as a wire.
Gouta’s sudden bleat breaks the tension. Taylen puts her back on the ground, and she bounces between us, head held high as if proud of her intervention. Despite everything, I find myself fighting back a smile.
“Keep the goat,” Taylen says, pushing off from the fence. “She’s got good instincts about people. Usually.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Try not to prove her wrong.”
I watch him walk away, my weak eyes noticing the way his jeans frame the perfect shape of his ass from his narrow waist to the thickness of his thighs.
“I didn’t mean it like that, J,” I whisper, looking up at the sky, hoping that wherever he is, my best friend won’t start haunting me for appreciating what years of hard work have done for his brother.
Gouta presses against my leg, and I reach down to pat her head absently.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, my voice carrying across the silent field. “I won’t prove you wrong.”
4
TAYLEN
My muscles screamat me as I walk the shortcut between my land and the Halls’, toward their farmhouse.
Serves me right for channeling all my restless energy into work after my encounter with Bastian this morning.
The basket of apples Sylvie asked for weighs heavy in my arms. Macintosh and Honeycrisp, handpicked for one of my favorite people in the whole world.
My fingers flex around the basket handle, already numb despite my gloves. The split-rail fence emerges through the light snowfall, weathered wood marking the boundary between their land and mine. I used to hop that fence daily as a kid, racing my brother to the old oak tree that stands near the corner.
Even with our twelve-year age gap, Jackson always made me feel like we were best friends. He was the kind of big brother who made time to teach me all the things our dad taught him.
Somewhere on the tree, initials are carved into the bark. J.H. and B.H. for Jackson Howard and Bastian Hall.
