It was just like that time when I was fifteen all over again.
"Head's coming," Wyatt said, his voice tight with concentration and hope.
"Keep steady pressure. Don't rush it." My hand found his arm without thinking, guiding the pressure. The muscle under my fingers was solid, familiar despite the years. "Together. Pull together."
The next contraction brought the head fully out, then the shoulders—the hardest part. We both held our breath. Another push and the calf slid free in a rush of fluid, landing in the straw with a wet thud that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
For a terrifying moment, it didn't move.
"No, no, no," I whispered, immediately dropping beside the calf, my hands working automatically—clearing mucus from its nose and mouth while Wyatt rubbed its sides vigorously with straw, stimulating breathing. Our hands brushed and tangled as we worked, both desperate, both determined.
"Come on, little one," I pleaded. "Come on."
Wyatt's hand covered mine for just a second, squeezing. "Together," he said quietly. "Count of three."
We rubbed and stimulated in unison, and then—a gasp. A snort. The calf's eyes opened, dark and wondering, and it let out a weak but definite cry that was the most beautiful sound I'd heard in years.
"There we go," Wyatt breathed, and when our eyes met over the newborn calf, his smile was pure and unguarded, the same smile he'd given me the first time he'd said he loved me. "There we go."
The relief hit like a physical thing, like grace, like forgiveness for sins we hadn't even named. We'd done this—saved these lives together, working as one unit without thought or hesitation. My eyes burned with tears I refused to let fall.
The heifer, exhausted but instinct-strong, turned to inspect her baby, lowing softly—a completely different sound than her earlier distress. Within minutes, she was licking it clean with long, methodical strokes of her rough tongue, bonding fierce and immediate.
"It's a heifer," Wyatt said after checking, his voice soft with satisfaction. "Good genetics, too, from the look of her. Strong legs, good chest capacity."
"She's perfect," I agreed, watching the calf already trying to figure out what her legs were for, wobbling like a drunk sailor. "A fighter."
"Like you," Wyatt said quietly, and when I looked at him, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't read. "You haven't lost your touch, Ivy. Still the best hand with difficult births I've ever seen."
The compliment, so unexpected and sincere, made my throat tight. "You're not so bad yourself."
We stayed until we were sure both mother and baby were stable, the calf nursing successfully with loud, satisfied sucking sounds, her tail wiggling with enthusiasm. The new mother stood patient and proud, occasionally turning to sniff her baby like she couldn't quite believe she'd made something so perfect.
It was nearly 4 AM by the time we finally stepped outside, both of us a mess of blood, fluid, and straw. The night air was cool against our overheated skin, carrying the scent of coming rain and fresh grass.
We leaned against the fence under the floodlights, shoulders not quite touching but close enough to feel each other's warmth, breathing in the quiet of pre-dawn. The adrenaline was fading, leaving that particular exhaustion that came from successful crisis management—bone-deep but satisfying. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster was considering whether it was time to crow, giving a few experimental coughs.
"Thank you," Wyatt said quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion and something else. "I couldn't have done that alone. Would have lost them both."
"Yes, you could have."
"Maybe. But it was better with your help." He paused, turned to look at me fully, and the floodlights caught the gold flecks in his green eyes. "Always was better with you."
I looked at him in the harsh fluorescent light. He had straw in his hair, a smear of something I didn't want to identify on his cheek, and his shirt was definitely ruined. He'd never looked more like the boy I'd fallen in love with—competent and caring and completely focused on what mattered. But also like the man he'd become—broader, steadier, carrying responsibility like it weighed nothing.
"We make a good team," I said softly, the words escaping before I could stop them, carrying more weight than I'd intended.
Something shifted in his expression, became softer, more vulnerable. "Always did. Even when we were kids, we just... fit. Like two halves of something whole."
The words hung between us, meaning more than just tonight, more than just this calf. We stood there, grimy and exhausted, and for a moment I could pretend the years hadn't happened. That we were still those kids who worked together like breathing, who knew each other's moves without speaking, who could save things together.
"Ivy," he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair and dislodging more straw. "Christ, I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Stand here with you. Work with you. Be near you without wanting..." He trailed off, jaw clenching.
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Without wanting what?"
