‘Was that the final boss?’I ask.
Luke wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.‘No.That was level two.’
He disappears into the shed and emerges a moment later holding a large white milk bottle with a long rubber teat on the end.He doesn’t say anything, just hands it to me and jerks his head towards the side of the house.
‘Oh,’ I say, my face breaking open with delight.‘Is it Cutlet time?’
Luke smiles and nods before I head across the yard, bottle in hand.I duck into the shade of the small pen where Cutlet waits.She barrels towards me the second I step into the pen, her gangly legs wobbling as if she’s made of pipe cleaners and caffeine.She headbuttsthe bottle with the enthusiasm of someone who believes food should be a contact sport.
‘Easy, girl.’I laugh, bracing myself as she latches onto the teat and suckles.
Luke stands at a distance in the stable doorway, arms crossed, sweat clinging to his neck in a way I’m trying not to stare at.‘I told you not to get attached to your dinner.’
I glance down at Cutlet, who’s making obscene noises as she guzzles.‘She imprinted on me,’ I say.‘I’m her weirdly hot surrogate mother now.’
He raises an eyebrow.‘You’re the one who named her Cutlet.’
I shrug.‘It’s aspirational.She was born small.I thought she needed edge.’
‘Edge?’he echoes, amused.
‘I’m preparing her for both outcomes.’
He watches her pull at the bottle.‘You think she’s gonna make it?’
‘She’s persistent.Mouthy.A little intense.Reminds me of you.’
Luke’s mouth tips into a smirk.‘Only one of us is bottle-fed.’
‘Please.’I shift the bottle as Cutlet butts into my hip.‘You love sucking on my nipples.’
That stops him.His smile deepens – slower now, darker.‘I’m a man of simple needs.’
Cutlet finishes the bottle with a sloppy final suck and headbutts me in the stomach, completely ruining the moment.I stagger back a step, laughing despite myself.‘Rude,’ I mutter, wiping milk off my hand and Cutlet’s nose.
Luke watches me with that same unreadable expression – somewhere between entertained and something he’s not ready to admit out loud.‘You’re surprisingly good at this,’ he says eventually, nodding towards the now-empty bottle.
I toss him a grin as I straighten and walk over.‘Yeah, well.You like my nipples, and she likes my bottles.I’m basically the full-service station.’
Luke laughs.‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ he says, turning back towards the shed.‘We’ve got a feed delivery coming in.’
That startles me.‘Wait – I thought we were done for the day.’
He lets out a single, humourless chuckle.‘That’s cute.You think time sheets exist out here.’
Sure enough, a battered white truck rumbles up the drive, dragging a trail of dust behind it.The driver kills the engine and climbs out.He’s short and sun-browned, with a sweat-stained singlet and the body language of someone who’s had exactly one type of job his whole life.
Luke walks over to meet him.They shake hands, exchange nods.No dramatic greetings – just the kind of low-voiced conversation that only exists between men who see each other once a month and don’t need to post about it.
I’m too far away to hear the words, but Luke’s head tilts slightly as they talk.The driver says something that makes him smirk.Luke gestures at the silo.More nodding.A short laugh.Then they’re back to business.
The driver swings into the cab and starts reversing with calm, practised confidence, lining the truck up to the silo as if it’s second nature.The chute cranks down with a satisfying clunk, locking into place at the mouth of the silo.
Then –whoosh.
Grain pours from the belly of the truck in a golden, rumbling cascade, drowning the yard in the scent of dry oats and summer heat.Bits of husk whirl into the air like confetti at a barn wedding.
Luke stands by the silo, one hand braced on the metal wall, watching the levels rise.Once the truck’s empty, the driver climbs back out.Another quick exchange – more nods, even a shoulder slap – then he’s off again.
