my heart is stronger now that you're in it

Still, it's yours now. Inherited from a relative you rarely talked to; the deed shoved into your hands even though you don't know a fucking thing about tending soil or keeping animals, and now, you're the hesitant owner of twenty acres of stubborn, murky ground, a creaky barn, and a house that needed more love than you knew how to give. You weren't naive— you knew damn well you had no clue how to farm— but a part of you believed in the fantasy anyway. That you could trade traffic for trees, the concrete jungle for open fields. That you could learn as you went, like people do in stories.

The land, however, doesn't care about your optimism.

The tractor won't start— it doesn't even cough. The chicken coop smells like something died in it, and the hand saw you picked up at the feed store, after googling how to cut wood like an idiot, isn't doing more than blistering your palms.

You've cried twice. Once in the barn, when the roof leaked straight into the feed bags you'd just bought, and once in the kitchen, when the sink gave a groan and spat rust into the dishwater. The feed turned to mush, the water still ran rusty if you didn't let it bleed first, and what stared back on the reflection of your kitchen window looked every inch the fool who thought their life would become a Hallmark movie.

By the third day, your body aches in ways you didn't know it could. Your thighs are sore from trudging through mud that clings like wet cement, your shoulders burn from hauling feed, and your palms are raw from gripping tools you barely know how to use. Your first ever attempt at splitting wood ended with the axe bouncing off the log and nearly catching your shin. Sweat stings your eyes even though the air's cool, and suddenly you feel like laughing, half hysterical, half furious. The laugh sticks in your throat when you hear it, a solid thud, rhythmic, like the sound of a heartbeat. It was coming from the tree line that marked the far end of your property.

This is the first time you see him.

He's built like the logs he's splitting, broad and solid. Shirtless too, despite the chill, steam coming off his skin. Scarred shoulders and forearms bunch and flex with each swing of his axe. The curls at the crown of his head catch the sunlight, damp and wild from sweat, strands springing in different directions across his forehead. No hat shields him from the wind; his ears are ruddy, matching the sharp tip of his broad nose. His breath clouds the air in short bursts, but he doesn't seem to care.

He doesn't look up right away, keeps at it unhurried, like he's done this a thousand times before, and when he finally does pause, it's not because of you— the log gives, the split clean, the wood halved nearly to his boots. Only then does he straighten while rolling his shoulders back. His gaze flicks to you like a weight, as heavy as the axe he leans against the tree trunk. The silver marks running along the edges of his chest, the heaviness of his middle, and the strain of his denims over the swell of his thighs is staggering.

There's no comfort in his expression— dark eyes blunt and hard-edged, rooted in earth, his mouth set in a flat line, and then— oh. His mouth moves.

"What?" he grunts. Well, pardon me. You splutter, stepping back too fast, and your glove snags on the loose post of the fence. The wire catches, jerks your arm, and you stumble forward, nearly pitching into the dirt. An awkward shuffle is what keeps you upright, and your cheeks burn furiously when you realize how ridiculous you must look, tripping over a fence post.

Suddenly, his hand is on yours, casually untangling your glove from the wire. You hadn't even heard him approach— no crunch of leaves, no squelch in the dirt. For a man his size, he moves like fog.

The heat of him hits first— radiating off him like the open mouth of a hearth, the scent of him follows close behind: Woodsmoke, sweat, tobacco. Not the sweet kind from a pipe, just dry and bitter. Makes the back of your throat prickle.

He frees your hand like it's a chore, like pulling burrs off a dog's fur, and not a kindness from one neighbor to another. When he steps back, you don't wait, tucking your tail in and bolting; sneakers slipping in the mud, breath stuck in your throat. You don't look back either, just make for the porch like it's a finish line, pride in tatters behind you. The door sticks when you shove it open, the house greeting you with its usual chill. You kick off your shoes too hard, one skidding across the floor and smacking against the cabinet, and glance down— the hole in your brand new glove is small but ragged, and there's a scratch blooming red beneath it. Great. Perfect.

The antiseptic makes the cut sear when you dab on it with a cotton ball, the sting making your eyes water. The scratch isn't deep, but it's angry. Thin, red, and pulsing as if it was trying to remind you of every mistake you've made since stepping foot on this wretched land. You press harder than necessary, watching the skin blanch around it, trying to erase the moment with pressure alone.

Tossing your other glove onto the counter, it lands with a wet slap, and you lean against the sink, knuckles bled white and stare out the window. The field stretches wide and indifferent, and this time you don't cry, don't curse. You just stand there, unraveling, slowly, quietly, like a thread pulled from a hem. And you could pack up, sure. Sell the place, pretend it never happened. But then what? There's no backup plan. Just the same city with a job that chewed you up and spat you out, the same overpriced rent, the same noise that never fucking stops.

You'd rather rot in the dirt than go back and hear your friends say I told you so.

Besides, spite is cheaper than therapy.

---

The town's not much. Just a handful of crooked streets blended together, the kind of place where the gas station doubles as a bait shop and the post office closes early on Fridays because nobody's in a rush. The diner still has a jukebox that eats quarters and a waitress who calls everyone "hon", whether she likes you or not. There's a church, a feed store, a hardware shop that smells like sawdust, and a bar that pretends it's not open before noon.

Everyone knows everyone. And if they don't know you, then they know about you. (Hard not to when your car is the only one that skids on gravel.) You're the one that got saddled with the plot that has a rusted windmill that folk use as a landmark when giving directions.

You're the only one parked crooked outside of the grocery store, the only one asking where the boxed mac and cheese is.

It smells like dust and citrus cleaner in here, the kind that clings to the floor and never quite masks the scent of old produce. You're halfway through reading the handwriting on a box of eggs when the woman behind the counter leans in, elbows on the register, voice low, private.

"You settling in alright?" You give her a cautious nod. "Must be quite the change, coming from the city." A shrug is all you manage. "Well, bless you." She says it like benediction. Like you're going to need all the luck you can scrape together. Your gaze drifts past her shoulder to the corkboard on the wall, where handwritten flyers are pinned: lawnmower repair, free kittens, bible study potluck, Thursday at 7. You hope she doesn't expect you there. You're not a fan of churches and green bean casserole.

She glances out the window, where the hills roll out.

"You seem like a nice girl," she says. "Steer clear of that one."

You blink. Who?

Another voice chimes in from the canned goods aisle— an older man with a cart full of beans and dog food. "Simon Riley," he says like the word itself tastes bitter. "Lives out past the tree line. Big feller. Quiet. Keeps to himself."

The woman nods, "Used to be military, or something like it. Nobody really knows. He's not trouble, exactly, but he's not neighborly either. Doesn't take kindly to folks pokin' around."

Oh. The neighbor whose land backs up against yours. The one you’ve heard about in passing— mean as sin and just as ugly, lives alone, doesn't wave. You think of the way he freed your hand, his fingers careful but not kind. Now you know his name. Simon.

You thank them, pay for your groceries, and step out into the sun with a warning tucked between the receipt and the bruised apples you didn't mean to buy. The bell above the store door tinkles behind you, its little jingle out of step with the knot tightening in your stomach.

The outside air smells of motor oil and hay, a mix you might not ever get used to, and the gravel lot radiates heat through your shoes. The bag digs into the crook of your arm as you fumble with the keys, and when the car starts, the engine coughs before catching, the sound ricocheting too loud in the small parking lot. A woman in a straw hat looks up from her truck bed from across the street, and the same older man pushes his cart past, eyes flicking toward you. The road out of town stretches straight and bare, the fields rolling out, some with cattle and others with horses.

By the time you hit the bend that curves toward your land, the sun's dipped lower, sky streaked with the last embers of fading light, casting long shadows over where your boundary brushes his. He's there, of course he is. A massive figure against the gold of the field, broad back bent over something you can't quite see.

Whatever, not your business.

You park crooked again, the tires crunching over the loose stone in your driveway and sit there for a beat longer than necessary, fingers curled tight around the steering wheel. Simon still doesn't move, still bent over something, or maybe nothing. You don't look long enough to find out.

The groceries are heavier than it should be, the boxed mac and cheese pressing against your hip as you shoulder the door open. The porch shifts under your weight, same as always, and the screen door slaps shut behind you. You unpack slowly— eggs into the fridge, careful not to jostle the cracked one. Apples into a gaudy ornate bowl. The coffee joins its expired cousin in the cabinet, and the crackers go into the drawer that sticks unless you tug it right.

The house creaks in response, settling around you like an old dog curling up at your feet. You flick off the kitchen light and pad down the hallway, the floorboards groaning under each step. The bedroom is cool, the sheets still stiff from the last wash, and the window rattles faintly in its frame.

You change in the dark, tugging off your jeans and hoodie, slipping into a shirt that smells like detergent and not much else. The mattress still feels unfamiliar beneath you, the ceiling above blank. Silver filters through the window, and you watch shadows creep along the wall.

Outside, the windmill moans once, long and low, and the porch creaks once. The thought that it could've been deliberate makes your pulse thrum in your ears. You aren't sure if it's fear, anticipation, or some stupid pull you can't name.

Sleep comes slow, but it comes.

---

It slips again— your grip, your temper, the last thread of patience you've been nursing since spilling the coffee you made at sunrise. The latch to the chicken coop jerks sideways, the wire snags, and the gate swings wide in mockery. Muttering something sharp under your breath, you tug at the wire with stiff fingers. It bites back, slicing another thin line across your knuckle. You let out a hiss, more out of frustration than pain, and sit back on your heels, breath fogging in the cold.

Then you feel it, the shift, the pressure of someone watching. You turn around and Simon's already pushing off the fence and walking closer, boots sinking steady into the dirt. Up close, he's so much worse— his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders, damp with sweat and dust, clinging to the curve of his belly and the thick roll of his arms. He crouches beside you, bare hands thick-knuckled and scarred, and they move with the kind of ease that makes you feel like a child playing house.

You sit there, useless, and can't help but notice the small details: the faint scars along his forearms, the way the collar of his shirt rubs at the crease of his neck, the set of his jaw when he considers a problem. None of it invites intimacy, and yet, your thoughts keep lingering there, in that cozy space where observation and curiosity brush against something sharper.

Simon threads the wire, tightens the hinge, and tests the swing, and you watch the gate behave for him like it never did for you.

"Y'shouldn't be strugglin' with tha," he says finally.

"I—uh, it's tricky," you manage, fiddling with the drawstring of your hoodie. "I've uh, never really done this before."

He glances at you briefly, eyes narrowing at the scratch on your hand, and his jaw tightens, muscles ticking under the skin, but he doesn't say any more. He just shakes his head once and goes back to his property, dust rising faintly around his boots with each step.

It was the first of many things he fixes for you. When you can't manage your firewood pile before a harsh front, he shows up without asking, stacking it neatly by your porch. Not just stacked, aligned. Tight rows, bark facing out. You open the door to thank him, voice stiff with the effort, and he just nods, mutters, "S'nothin."

Then the fence. You woke one morning to find the rotten posts ripped out and new ones driven in, straight and deep into soft earth. You hadn't made any calls. But there he was, out in the early light, hammer swinging with brutal efficiency. You stand at the window, coffee cooling in your hand, rehearsing what you'll say. That he can't just show up. That you'll be damned if you pay him for something you didn't ask for.

But when you step outside, you don't say any of it.

Instead, you leave a jug of fresh lemonade and a sandwich on the porch rail. Not because you owe him. Not because you're grateful. It's reciprocity. Basic decency. A gesture to balance the ledger. He doesn't touch them at first. Keeps working like the offering doesn't exist. You go back inside, pretend not to watch, and later, the sandwich is gone, save the tomato slice. The jug's half-empty, the wax paper folded neatly, tucked under the rail.

No tomatoes, got it.

(And the one time you do sort of ask for help, it's because the sunroom has a wall that's gone soft with water damage, half-rotted, and you'd assumed he'd offer tools, or a second set of hands, but Simon does nothing in halves. You're barely able to register what he means by stand back before he lowers his shoulder, squares his stance, and throws every ounce of his brutal weight forward. The sound is catastrophic— wood splinters, plaster cracks— and he stumbles through the wreckage, boots crunching over broken plaster, insulation clinging to his shirt as he pulls down the rest with his bare hands. Sun'll come in better now, he says. No, yeah, sure.)

It becomes a rhythm. Not quite a routine, but close enough that you notice it when the days feel stretched and raw. He fixes things you can't, and you leave things behind— food, drink, once a pack of smokes you found at the bottom of a drawer. He never comments, never asks. But he never leaves anything behind either, except for the absence of whatever you put out. It's like leaving offerings on a shrine to a god you're not sure you believe in.

The gate closes without complaint now. The new fence stands straighter, stronger. The woodpile remains high, always replenished. You don't have to ask, and he doesn't offer. There's only the cycle: you wake to find something mended or replaced, and by noon you leave something out for him.

At first, it was functional: a sandwich— peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, a BLT (hold the tomato), and something to wash it down with. Then, one morning, you set down a slice of pie you baked from a boxed mix that tasted faintly like cardboard. You'd hesitated to leave it, but when you checked outside at sundown, the plate was scraped clean, the fork in the middle. Bent slightly, like he'd eaten standing right there.

From there, the rhythm grew teeth.

He started appearing when you were outside. Not always close, barely ever speaking, but present. Working his field while you sat on the porch with a basket of beans to snap. Hauling hay when you hung laundry. He's there the day you plant a sad little patch of herbs— your hands deep in dirt, his eyes half on the seedlings, half on you.

When snow finally falls, it comes heavy, the kind that bends branches, and your boots aren't meant for it. Your sneakers are long ruined by the time you dig a path to the chicken coop, and your fingers are numb inside your gloves. The latch sticks, and the muttered threat of eating the fucking chickens is swallowed by the wind— and then Simon's there, the hood of his jacket pulled low but not enough to hide the shadow of his jaw.

You startle so bad you nearly drop the bucket in your hands. He doesn't say anything, just takes it from you, thick fingers brushing yours, heat even through your gloves. He ducks into the coop like it's his, tending to the feed and water.

You hover at the door, biting down on questions that feel too big in your mouth. When he's done, he doesn't hand the bucket back, just tips his chin toward your house, gruff, "Inside. Your lips are discolored."

Simon, you've come to notice, times himself into your hours.

The locals have noticed too. They notice everything in this backwater ass town.

It'd been subtle at first. The man who never showed his face in town unless he absolutely had to— the one who bought bulk feed once a season, grunted at the cashier and left— suddenly had reason to drive in more often. And each time, he drove because your car "wasn't worth piss on the highway".

The first time, you didn't even notice how people looked at you. You were too busy staring at the rows of canned peaches, trying to figure out why the labels looked different from what they did in the city. When you reached for one on the top shelf and almost knocked the display over, his one hand was at your back, steadying you, the other curling around the can like it was nothing.

You hadn't thought anything of it then.

But the cashier did. The woman stocking the bread did.

And in a town like this, where gossip travels faster than cell service, that gesture didn't go unnoticed.

By the next visit, the air had changed. You walked in beside him, and conversations in the store paused mid-sentence. Smiles tightened. The woman at the register went quiet the second she saw him standing close enough to reach you, but not close enough to touch. She didn't even greet you this time, just scanned the groceries quick, her eyes flicking between you and him.

Simon never said anything, but he carried the basket. Paid in cash. Held the door.

All of them knew.

All except for the milk boy— sweet-faced, all of twenty-something, fresh out of school— starts to show up at your door every other morning after signing up for their delivery service. Cheerful, chatty, hands you a crate of glass bottles that clinks gently as you brace the weight. He tells you about his mother's peach trees, about the new calf that came too early but survived. You like the normalcy, the friendliness.

Simon doesn't.

You don't hear him come up behind you. You never do.

The milk boy is mid-sentence, bright eyes and an easy grin, when Simon's arms close in around you, reaching for the crate. Your fingers are still curled around the handle when his hand closes over it, and his grip dwarfs yours. Your shoulder brushes his thickened middle, your head not even clearing his collarbone. You could tuck yourself into the space between his arms and still have room.

The crate lifts like it weighs nothing, but you know it doesn't. You struggled with it just two days ago. But in his hands, it's just another thing to take off yours. The milk boy's voice is thinner when he says that he'll see you next week, and all Simon gives him is a grunt, a dismissal.

And maybe that should’ve been the moment that everything shifts. But it wasn’t. 

It came later— when the sky cracked open and thunder rolled over the fields. You'd been out for too long, checking the shed roof before the rain came. You are halfway up the ladder, fingers cold and slick against the metal, when a hand clamps around your ankle, and the strength in it makes your knees nearly buckle.

"What the fuck are you doin' out 'ere?," his voice cuts through the wind, sharp and rough. "Get back inside— now."

The ladder screeches beneath you, unsteady, and for a split second, you're not sure if you're going to fall or be dragged. You look down and he's halfway up the ladder, one hand on your ankle, the other braced against the rung below. His face is rain-slicked and hard-set, jaw locked in that way that makes his cheekbones stand out sharper than usual. The water clings to him, dripping from his brow, tracing the furrow between his eyes, dripping from the edge of his nose.

His eyes are the worst of it. Not wild, not pleading, just furious.

Not the kind that burns hot and fast, but the kind that simmers, the kind that corrects.

Simon yanks you down.

His hand slides from your ankle to your waist and pulls you down like it's nothing; too easy, too practiced. Your boots scrape against the rungs, the ladder trembles, and then he jumps.

The drop isn’t far, but it’s fast. Sudden. Your breath leaves you in a jag as the ground rushes up, and then his boots hit the earth with a blow that rattles your spine. He doesn’t stumble with the extra weight, doesn’t sway. Then, before you can speak, before you can twist and wriggle in protest, he shifts— grabbing you higher, flipping your body with far too much ease, and throwing you over his shoulder like you’re nothing more than a bundle of kindling he’s hauling home. 

Your hands fist the back of his shirt instinctively, knuckles white against the soaked fabric. It clings to him, stretched tight across the broad plane of his back, rain dripping from the hem as he strides toward the house with a single-minded purpose. 

Simon tracks mud straight across your porch and through your house, leaving thick, wet prints across your clean floors— mud and rain trailing behind him like a second presence. He doesn’t put you down until you’re inside, when the walls close around you, and he peels the wet coat from your shoulders himself, hands moving rough and fast, but they don’t hesitate. They never hesitate. 

The flannel comes next, pulled from a bag you hadn’t seen him bring in. It’s thick, worn soft at the edges, smells like him. He doesn’t give it to you; he puts it on you. One arm is shoved through, then the other, like he’s dressing a child too stubborn to do it themselves. The fabric swallows you— too big, too warm, sleeves hanging long past your wrists— and he tugs the buttons closed with the kind of care that almost feels violent.

“Looks better on ya,” he mutters, tugging the buttons closed, “looks right.” 

His fingers linger at the last button, thick knuckles brushing your sternum, and when you finally find your voice, it comes out shaking. “You—”

“You tracked mud into my house.”

It’s not what you meant to say, but it’s what comes out, small, brittle, absurd against the sheer gravity of him. Simon bends until your back hits the wall, his large hands settling heavy at your waist, thumbs pressing into your soft stomach. His curls are soaked, flattened and heavy against his scalp, rainwater trailing down the buzzed edge of his neck, dripping into the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t care.” He rumbles, eyes flicking to the side of your throat where your pulse flutters like a tell. “I’ll drag ‘alf the field through this fuckin’ door if it means you’re inside when the sky turns.” You want to protest, say something practical, something sharp, something about how of course he doesn’t care, you’re the one who has to clean it up, but you can’t, not with his breath ghosting the corner of your jaw. He tilts his head, rainwater still beading in his lashes. “You don’t get it, do ya? Everythin’ I’ve done, haulin’ logs you couldn’t lift, fixed the roof you feared would cave in— ain’t ‘cause I’ve nothin’ better to do.” 

Your fingers twitch at your sides, wanting to push him back, wanting to stay exactly where he’s holding you. 

“The world’s simple, love. Hard hands do hard work. Yours are for the home, for rockin’ a cradle, not haulin’ seed. That’s the way of it.” 

Simon’s mouth slants, and it’s not a smile. His hand leaves your waist only to catch your wrist, dragging your palm up against the plane of his chest, the relentless beat beneath his rips burning your skin like a brand. “I keep ya warm. You keep me fed. I keep this place workin’ so you don’t ‘ave to.” 

You open your mouth even though your words are caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, but he’s not done. 

“Y'want somethin’ to do? Mind the housework. Sweep the floors. Keep the porch tidy. I’ll do the rest. I’ll do everythin’ else.” 

The storm slams its fists against the roof, the wind howling like it’s trying to claw its way inside, but Simon doesn’t glance toward the noise. His focus is on you— on the way your breath trembles, on the way your pulse kicks beneath the delicate skin of your wrist. He leans closer, no hurry in the way he moves, but the tension in the air makes your own muscles coil, ready to react. 

"I said— everything else is mine to tend. Y'hear me?"

You nod, shaky, the movement barely a twitch, and that's all he needs, because he drops to his knees on the wet boards, dragging you with him until your back slides down the wall. "Your pulse kicks in your throat, too fast, too high, but when the heat of him crowds close, you can't stop him. Don't even want to.

Your jeans are still on, clinging damp to your thighs, but Simon's got no patience for barriers. He tears at the button with one rough twist of his wrist; the sharp pop lost under the thunder. The zipper follows in a slow drag, teeth grinding apart, and before you can blink, he's tugging— down, down, denim rasping over your hips, over your thighs. You lift instinctively, a half-second of cooperation you can't take back, and he doesn't miss it. His eyes flash up, catching yours, something satisfied yet so hungry burning there.

"Tha's it," he rasps. "Now you're listenin'."

Simon doesn't bother getting them all the way off, one shoe still hooked, a pant leg twisted around your knee. It doesn't matter. He's already back between your thighs, shoving them open with the weight of his shoulders. His mouth finds you, hot and slick, and your head slams back against the wall with a cry that feels ripped from your chest.

The pace is merciless. He licks you open with slow, leaden drags of his tongue, then sucks sharp and sudden until your knees quake. His hands are iron at your hips, holding you down, forcing you to take every pull of his greedy mouth, every grind of his tongue against the bundle of nerves that has you shaking apart.

You whimper, a high, desperate sound, and his growl rattles your teeth as your thighs tremble, threatening to close snug around his head. "Nice 'n open, sweet'eart, take wha' I give ya." One knee hooks just enough to tilt you toward him, keeping you spread, and you arch into him, fisting his damp curls. This earns you another ruthless suck, a dizzying roll of his tongue that has you choking down a sob. Simon laps at your pussy like it's the only meal worth taking in a lifetime of starvation. His nose grinds against your swollen clit, the scrape of stubble raw between your legs.

He doesn't stop when release finally hits you— violent, ruining, your hips riding his face, your vision white-hot. He doesn't let you shy away, doesn't let you twist free; he holds you down and drinks it all, devouring every last burst of pleasure like it's what he's owed.

Only when you're slumped on the floor, panting and syrupy, does he look at you. His mouth glistens, his jaw rough and wet, slick beading on his chin. Simon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then presses his mouth over yours, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips. It wasn't so much a kiss as it was a taking. When he pulls back, it's not clean. A thin, glistening strand of spit stretches from his mouth to yours, delicate, catching the light. It sways for a moment, suspended in the hush, then snaps with a soft, wet pop.

"Taste how sweet ya are?"

Every nerve is still buzzing with the aftershocks when he scoops you up, palms under your thighs, carrying you toward the bedroom, kicking the door closed, and setting you down on the bed with a roughness that rattles the frame. He peels off the rest of your damp clothes away with a single-minded intensity.

"Look at ya," he mutters, scorching gaze sweeping over your bare skin— he looks at you like he's a man with a sweet tooth looking for a cavity. His callused fingers trail down your belly, spreading over it wide and presses down until you start to squirm.

"Pretty little thing."

He tugs his shirt off in one go, and you drink in the scratches of moonlight on his pecs, the inner curve of his bicep— where his skin pulled taut, unable to keep up with him— and drag your eyes down to his treasure trail, a shade darker than the hair on his head. One hand works the button of his jeans open, while the other snakes lower, curling over your slick, thumb dragging along your slit, and you whine, hips bucking up.

And then you see the flash of him, thick, heavy— his length already straining, pulsing, impatient, eager. Simon catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes because he mumbles a gentle, "Easy. You can take it." This stirs something in your chest, bright and hot, a fire that coils tight and refuses to be ignored. You snap at him, asking him if he can— if he can, you know, with his older age and achy back, that you've heard the way he grunts to tie his work boots.

Simon smacks your pussy, and you arch off the bed, knees knocking together before he forces them apart again. "Oh, poppet," he coos, "I'm gonna take it."

He positions himself, the blunt head of him nudging against your wet heat. "Relax," he coaxes, his hands resting on your knees. "You'll stretch for me jus' fine."

The first push steals your breath, your body clenching tight around him as he sinks in deeper, thicker. "Gotta let me in, love." He rolls his hips, once, and you can feel something inside snag, tight and hot, and he does it again, this time filling you the rest of the way, every inch of him stretching you taut and full.

From here each thrust is brutal, heavy, each one shoving you further up the bed. Your body strains under him, his pace rough and deep, the wet, sticky sound of your pussy generous, slick smearing along him. You can't move, can't breathe, can't think past him. His teeth graze your jaw, your chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. "This perfect little cunt— fuck."

A sob spills from your lips when he grinds his hips down, pushing impossibly deeper. He hisses at the feel, sweat dripping from his brow and onto your chest.

"Tha's it, fuck," His hand splays over your belly again. "Feel tha'?" The drag back of his cock burns, and the push in pinches. "Tha's me. All the way inside, deep enough to leave somethin' behind."

Your breath hitches. "Sim—"

"Shh." He bends, mouth hot against your ear. "Soon, You'll be carryin' me," he thrusts sharp, hard enough to make the bed creak, "carryin' us."

He wrenches himself back, the sudden pull leaves your pussy clenching around nothing, then with a quick, jerky motion, he flips you over onto your hands and knees. The change of the angle drives you forward, chest to mattress, palms scraping for purchase, and before your mind can catch up, he slides back in. You can feel his stomach— thickened by routine, by the meals you made— firm against your ass, a slight press of muscle and flesh that's almost bruising in its intensity.

Your protest tangled in a moan as his cock fills you with the kind of weight that presses you down, and your fingers tangle into the sheets, legs shaking under the merciless rhythm of him fucking you.

"I'll fuck you full. Deep. Fuck, you take me so good," your ass smarts from the smack he gives it, "might keep fillin' you 'til it sticks." He drags a hand up your spine, nails grazing. "Tha's wha' a man does for 'is wife."

"Tha's wha' I'll do for mine."

Simon doesn't fuck you like he's chasing his release, he fucks you like he's chasing yours, like he's determined to wring every broken noise out of you until you choke on it. Your slick drips and clings, tracing down from your swollen folds down over the soft skin of your inner thighs, slipping between the crease where your leg meets the bed.

His balls, heavy and taut beneath him, catch the heat and slick, coating him in your arousal. You can feel the way it sticks to him as he pounds into you, making him wetter, more slippery. The sticky friction pulls you apart and together at the same time.

Your body trembles, muscles tightening around him as your heat pools deep and molten, tears welling in the corners of your eyes as his pace turn punishing, borderline violent.

"There it is," he snarls, voice breaking as he drives you higher, the words as filthy as his thrusts. "Clench down on me. Milk me, make it messy. Don't wanna waste a drop."

The thought— terrifying, consuming, intoxicating— burns through you as he drives harder, faster, the sharp edge of his control slipping, and the fire is unbearable. Your pussy clamps down, reflexive, desperate, and you feel it snap— a shuddering release that rattles through your body. Your back arches and hands claw at the sheets as wave after wave of heat pulses down, dripping around him, coating him in your release. Your cry is raw, ragged, a mix of pleasure and desperation, and he grits his teeth, dragging it out, making sure he feels every tremor of your orgasm.

Your climax finally begins to ebb, leaving you raw and utterly spent when he groans, low and guttural, as his hips jerk, his cock swelling so thick this time it does hurt, and then he's pulsing inside you, feeling the heat bloom, thick and molten. His hands dig into your hips, holding you in place as he presses down heavier with every pulse, chest hot against your back, each pant rough, until he slows, still buried inside you.

Simon doesn't move immediately; he stays pressed against your back, chest heavy over yours, his arms curled near your head. His breathing is uneven and harsh, then slowly evening out as the aftershocks fade. You can feel the warmth of him radiating into your sweat-slick skin, the residual mess clinging where he still rests inside you. Your own breaths slow even if your pulse is still tight. His head drops, curls brushing the back of your neck, and you feel the rough, dry scrape of his stubble against your shoulder. A soft exhale escapes him, a low rumble, almost a sigh, and he nuzzles into the space between your shoulder blades.

Your eyes slip closed, the damp weight of your blanket pressing softly over you, and the world outside— the storm, the land, the day— shrinks into nothing, leaving only this, leaving only him. And then, finally, with a soft sigh that mingles with yours, you're swallowed entirely, drifting into sleep.

---

The storm had passed, but the air still smelled of wet earth and old wood. Pale light seeps through the cracks of your curtains. You woke sore everywhere, thighs burning when you moved, and the faint smell of him still clinging to your skin.

Simon was already up. You heard the heavy scrape of a chair, the quiet creak of floorboards. When you padded out the room, rubbing your arms to stave off the chill, you saw him at your table, shirtless, broad back hunched as he cleaned mud off his boots with intentional strokes.

He didn't look at you right away. Just kept working, quiet, steady. Then he speaks, voice deep.

"You'll wanna take it easy today."

You swallowed, tugging his oversized flannel tighter around yourself. "What?" you ask, voice hoarse from sleep and last night.

Now he looks over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping you, lingering at your stomach before they meet yours. "Best not push yourself today," he says simply. "Yesterday took a lot from you. Ain't no shame in stayin' in'."

You're not too keen on finding out what he's on about, but that's how it starts.

You'd tried putting your boots on, to head outside and look at the chickens, but Simon's shadow filled the doorway before you could even lace them. One glance down at your hands fumbling with the strings and his jaw set tight.

"Take those off," he said. Not unkind, just firm.

"Simon, the chickens—"

"No." He reaches down, pulling your shoe clean off your foot with little effort. You almost yelped when he hoisted you up in his arms, carrying you back inside. He sets you down gently, but the look in his eyes was steel. "No."

You aren't to lift, aren't to carry, aren't to sweat under the sun. Instead, he presses a different work into you— kneading dough at the kitchen table, stitching torn shirts he brings you, all the while, he looks at you like he's waiting for something to show. That something is settling. That it's taking.