The barn is a low, long building right next to the main street, steam ghosting out of the open doors into the cold air. The smell hits first: hay, manure, animals, metal, something warm and alive and absolutely nothing like polished marble floors.
Élise stops a half-step behind me at the threshold.
“This is… rustic,” she says carefully.
“Don’t worry, princess,” I say. “You’re safe from the big bad cows.”
Inside, the light is yellow and soft. Hay dust floats in the air. Cows shuffle in their stalls, massive heads turning to inspect us. A radio murmurs in the corner. Claus steps out from behind one of the animals, wiping his hands on his work pants.
“Nico,” he says, grinning, reaching out. “You made it.”
We clap each other on the shoulder, quick, instinctive. I nod toward Élise.
“This is Élise,” I say. “Friend of mine.”
Claus wipes his hand again, then offers it to her without a hint of recognition beyond basic politeness. No double-take atthe name, no flash of knowing. Just a guy greeting a woman his buddy brought home.
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
She hesitates half a second, Moreau's instincts searching for cues, then takes his hand. “You too,” she says. Her voice is fractionally softer than usual.
“Come on,” I say, tugging her gently farther in. “You’ve seen cows on TV, right? Time for the real experience.”
She makes a quiet, disbelieving noise, but she follows.
We stop by one of the stalls. A big brown-and-white head turns toward us, eyes dark and calm, breath steaming in short huffs.
“Go on,” I murmur. “Say hi.”
I catch her wrist and guide her hand forward until her palm meets coarse hair and warm, damp skin. The cow snorts once and leans into her like she’s a scratching post.
Her fingers twitch, then start to stroke, awkward at first.
“You’ll never look at your steak the same way,” I say. “First time seeing real animals outside the zoo?”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. I ride horses. And we have sheep near my grandfather’s vineyard.”
“Expensive polished horses, and sheep with fur trimmed to perfection,” I shoot back. “Let me guess, they spray them with perfume when the princess comes to visit?”
Her mouth curves despite herself. “Only on special occasions.”
Claus chuckles, shaking his head, and nods toward the far stall. “If you think the cows are cute, wait till you see our donkey.”
We walk over. The donkey sticks his head over the half-door, ears flicking, muzzle twitching curiously toward Élise’s earrings.
“He’s cute,” she says, surprised.
“Careful,” Claus warns. “He bites.”
“So does she,” I say.
She elbows me lightly in the ribs, but there’s no real force behind it.
“This is Seppi,” I tell her, scratching the donkey between the ears. “Local celebrity. Better hair than me.”
Seppi snorts, lips tickling Élise’s palm when she offers it. She actually laughs, short and real, when his whiskers brush her skin. The sound does something disorienting to my chest.
The barn is noisy in a quiet way, hooves shifting, metal creaking, the radio humming some Schlager song. Claus gets called away by his father and disappears deeper into the barn with a pitchfork over his shoulder.
