#farmer!remmick

The first thing he saw was your tired eyes, barely open. The slip of your nightgown hanging off your shoulders, and your hair frizzed to the side. You looked like you just stumbled out of bed— probably right on that part.

You opened the door slightly, eyes squinting from the sun peeking past his shoulders, and then gradually opened them— realization crossing through your face.

"…Remmick?" You yawned, pulling the door open wider.

He cleared his throat, tipping his hat down. “Mornin'," he said with a nervous smile on his face.

"You're early." You said softly, turning your head to look at the clock on the wall. "I thought you said you'll be here in the afternoon?"

"I-I know— sorry." He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "I just thought if I came early—" he faltered, embarrassed. "You know what? I could come back—"

"No, No— it's fine." You assured him, covering your mouth to yawn again. “Come on in." You walked back, pulling the door open to let him in.

 He stepped inside, removing his hat immediately. It was dimly lit inside, the curtains drawn closed. There was a hint of cinnamon apple that graced his nostrils, and the smell of Pine-Sol somewhere else. 

"I hope you don't mind the mess— I've been rearranging." You sighed.

"I-It's not a problem—" A flush slowly creeps up his face when he notices your nightgown. It's short, stopping just above your knees. He can see how sheer the fabric is, the shape of your breast outlined, your nipples hard against the material.

He gulped, averting his gaze to the pictures on the walls instead.

"W-Where's the um—"

"Kitchen." You pointed, already moving. 

You led him towards the back of the house and he followed right behind you, keeping his eyes up.

There were different family portraits on the wall: Family vacation, horseback riding, and a high school graduation portrait. He couldn't help but admire how pretty you looked in all of them— Especially the one you took during your last birthday party.

You were dolled up, wearing this tight-fitted dress that he could remember in perfect detail. You had the sweetest perfume on, heels that made you taller, and hair pinned up. He remembered he could barely talk to you without feeling embarrassed. 

"I'm glad you came— regardless if it was early as fuck. I wasn't sure who else to ask." You said softly.

"Y-Yeah…" Besides that, he wasn't going to mention the way he can see the pattern of your panties from the back of the gown either. Pink with white flowers scattered around, lacy trimmings that outlined your curves. How it hugged against the fat of your ass— Shit, he just mentioned it.

“Remmick.”

“What— yeah?” he blinked. Stopping abruptly.

“I said thank you for coming,” you repeated, stepping into the kitchen. “You're the only one who probably won't charge me a ridiculous amount of money.”

"It's not a problem.” he smiled wryly, “I um— I wasn't doing anything today anyway." he continued, stepping into the kitchen as well.

"Clearly,” You noted, leaning against the counter while he strode off towards the sink.

He placed his toolbox on the counter and stood in front of the sink. He checked the faucet by turning the handles back and forth. A low hum alerted him but no water came out. Then, he pulled a flashlight out from his back pocket and leaned over to look inside the drain. When he didn't see anything he quickly got down on one knee.

You continued talking, dragging your eyes over his form. “—Why else would you be here so early if you did?" You teased, watching as he worked.

Remmick glanced at you while he opened the cabinets, pushing a few things to the side. "T-That's not true… I'm always early.”

You raised a brow. "You? Early?"

"Yeah?" his voice wavered, averting his eyes back to the items in the cabinet. He took out dish soap and cleaning products from under the sink, placing them off to the side.

“I have things to do later— stuff,” he said, hoping it doesn't come off cheap.

“Like what?” you pushed. 

 You weren't buying it, but you were amused by how long he could try.

He paused, “I've got other things to fix…like my…like my bed.”

“Your bed?" He was a terrible liar. "What's wrong with it?"

“It's been…um…creaking— like, a lot.”

You quirked a brow. “Wouldn't be creaking if you're not doing things on it,” you said offhandedly but it made Remmick pause, his ears turning red immediately.

“T-Things?” He stuttered, almost knocking over a can of Ajax. "I'm… I'm not... w-what are you implying?"

“Suspicious activities— cardio?" You said out loud, like you were naming things off a checklist.

Remmick reached around to feel the pipes, ducking his head underneath.

"—A lot of movement? Active stuff?" You continued, "You're a man aren't you? I'm sure you don't just sleep on it.”

He almost banged his head against the ceiling of the sink.

"G-Goodness— Darlin' I think ya have me for somebody else." He pulled his head back from underneath the sink and turned to look at you.

"Yeah? Really?"

"I don't—" he stopped, trailing his eyes off to the side. "I don't…um…do those things."

"Things?" You pressed, a small smirk forming over your lips. "Now, what are you implying?"

He gulped. Feeling self-conscious suddenly.

"I-I didn't—"

"You know, I can tell when you're lying."

The kitchen felt smaller— like the walls were moving in on him. 

In the presence of someone like you, always so aware of things—especially him, it made it harder to compose himself. You looked at him like you already knew the next words that were going to come out of his mouth— probably the correct tone of wording as well.

"…How—"

“You do this thing where you look away, like people won't be able to tell what you're thinking if they're not looking straight at you.” You tilted your head, gaze sharp. “…Or maybe you're just that obvious.”

"Obvious?" He scoffed, "ain't nothing about me 'obvious'."

"Yeah?" You questioned.

"Yeah."

Remmick doesn't have anything left to say to that, but he knows you caught him when your eyes shift and the next words out of your mouth sent him into a spiral:

"Why are your ears red then?"

He cleared his throat, trying to calm the growing heat elsewhere. He goes back under the sink, hoping it could hide him away— or at least try to.

"J-Just hot in here— that's all."

You hummed, tapping your finger against the counter.

“I'm gonna go freshen up— I'll be back,” you announced and left without waiting for his response.

He couldn't help the need to glance back and watch you leave. He noticed how the fabric of the gown brushed the back of your knees and swayed with each step you took. You turned to walk up the stairs, stretching your arms, and once you disappeared— he quickly went back to working.

"Your ears are red." Echoed in his head. 

He wasn't that obvious…Well…maybe a little— but that's beside the point.

He opened his toolbox and pulled out a handful of tools, sorting through them with a furrowed brow— trying to remember which one might do the trick. With a heavy sigh, he lowered himself to the floor, twisting to lie on his back and scooting halfway into the cramped space beneath the sink.

The cabinet’s edges pressed into his shoulders as he reached up, entirely too small to fit a grown ass man, and he felt around blindly. The texture felt scratchy against the pad of his thumb, the smell told him that something was wrong.

A few twists here, a turn there— rusted knobs resisting him at every angle.

It doesn't take long to spot the issue: clogged pipes and the wear of an old, neglected house.

He doesn't know when the house was first built but the rusted pipes tell him it's probably no more than 40 years old— maybe more.

No wonder the sink had stopped working.

He tightens his grip on a wrench he pulled from his box, and gives another valve a turn—too far, too fast. A deep rumble shudders through the pipes, and a moment later, a sudden spray of cold water blasts him in the face— drenching the top portion of his body.

Coughing and blinking through the mess, he wrestles the pipe shut, the valves screeching as he cranks it tight. The spray cuts off. A second later, he hears the satisfying gurgle of water flowing properly—this time into the sink above.

He shimmies down, pulling himself back from under the cabinets, and wipes the water away from his face. He stood up slowly, feeling the way his shirt clung to his skin— dripping down onto the floor leaving a wet puddle at his feet.

So much for picking out an outfit today.

He shook his head, like a dog— hair ruffled every which way. He threaded his fingers through his strands, moving some that were stuck to his forehead.

He hears you a few minutes later, trailing down the stairs, humming a soft tune that abruptly stops when you notice that he looks disheveled.

“Remmick?!" You quickly jump the last steps, moving towards him in record time. You could see water dripping from his hair, the wide puddle at his feet.

“What—” your voice goes quiet when he slowly starts to unbutton his long-sleeve shirt, pulling it off his skin.

He was wearing a t-shirt underneath but it left little to the imagination. You swallowed— hard — eyeing the way his biceps bulged through the fabric. His chest was large, his nipples prominent through white. 

The fabric clung to his skin like a glove.

“Loose pipes, old house. The usual when you fix a sink,” he said simply, turning around to ring his shirt.

Your eyes trailed over his back, the muscles working every time he twisted his shirt,  squeezing the water out.

"I did what I could, but you'll have to replace the pipes soon. Maybe in a few months." He turned back around, holding his shirt out. "I don't suppose you have a dryer?"

You smiled sheepishly at him, "Nope, broken." You pause, and then: "But I have a towel?"

"Sounds good to me."

You walked around, opening a few drawers. Rummaging through the contents.

"So, how much will that be?"

"Will what be?" he questioned, watching you intently.

"New pipes? Someone to come fix it?" Suddenly, you remembered where you kept the towels stored.

"Well…Joe's Supplies could probably sell them to you for cheap, but—" Remmick's eyes almost pop out when he sees you bend down, opening a cabinet. 

The sheer nightgown was enough but shorts were overkill. It hugged you tightly, riding up enough to give him a peek at your underwear from the bottom—

"—So what you're really saying, is that I'm fucked?"

He gulped, quickly fixing his posture. His jeans suddenly felt too small. "Y-Yeah."

"What do I do now?" You stood up, towel in hand, and turned to face him.

He cleared his throat— something he's been doing a lot since he's been here. "If you, um, buy the pipes— I could, you know? Probably…replace it for you."

He could see your face light up.

 "You will?"

He nodded when you stepped closer, reaching up to pat the towel against his neck.

"Thank you, Rem." You smiled, patting the towel down his chest. "How much do I owe you?"

Something as innocent as this shouldn't be working him up— but it was.

"F-For?"

"Fixing my sink, duh."

"O-Oh, it's nothing." He smiled softly, leaning back against the counter. "F-For you, it's on the house."

You dabbed the towel over his forehead next, making sure to soak as much water as you could. "Oh? Am I that special—"

"Yes." He said a little too quickly.

When you quirked a brow, he coughed slightly.

"Yes," he tried again, keeping his voice steady. "Just let me know when."

You ruffled the towel through his hair, laughing to yourself when you moved it to see his hair mussed.

"Thank you, I don't know what I would do without you." You grinned, dropping the towel around his neck.

He gave you a face. "R-Really?"

You hummed, nodding to yourself. "What other person I know fixes things as good as you?"

"I-I don't know…"

"You're supposed to say 'nobody' ." You laughed, pulling the towel away.

Remmick gulped, "Sorry—"

"Maybe the right word isn't obvious, but, oblivious." You scanned his face, "Are you always this fidgety?"

He shifted on his feet, "I don't…um…know what you mean."

"You're the only guy I know who struggles so badly when it comes to the signs."

"The signs?"

"You know? When someone takes interest? Like that girl in fifth grade."

Remmick frowned, rolling his eyes like a kid. "Who? Suzie?"

"Mhm, you couldn't tell how much she liked you?"

"She used to bully me— called me a vampire cause she made me spill my mama's famous tomato soup down my face!"

You made a face. "'Famous' is an understatement."

"Understatement?! How— you know what? I'm not even gonna talk about it." He folded his arms, visibly seething in front of you— scrunching his face, biting the inside of his cheek.

He looked adorable.

You couldn't help the loud snort that slipped out.

"I'm just teasing ya, Rem."

Silence.

"Rem?"

His nose twitched.

"Rem~" You sang, "come on, Remmy, I was just joking. You really mad at me?"

You placed your hands on his shoulders, smoothing them over his wet sleeves. "Want me to apologize?"

"…Yeah."

"I'm sorry. How's that?"

"You don't…sound sorry."

You pressed closer.

His eyes immediately dropped to your lips.

Obvious.

"I'm sorry, Remmick." You said, hands moving to grab his narrow waist.

His eyes quickly snapped to the side.

Oblivious. 

“Look at me Rem— I'm sorry. Okay?"

The way you were looking at him, eyes soft and lips puckered. Face mere inches away and God— your hands. They were rolling delicate little circles in his side— playful and full of hidden meanings that he was afraid to understand. 

Afraid that it was what he was thinking. 

Could it be? 

It can't…can it? 

"Rem?" You asked, tilting your head. 

If you kept calling him that— he doesn't know what he'll do. 

"Rem, I'm sorry, okay? Can you talk to me—" 

It happened so quickly you barely had time to react. Your eyes widened, mind blank when he pressed his lips to yours. They were slightly cold but it wasn’t unpleasant. 

He doesn't know what came over him, doesn't know why he did it— but it felt right. He leaned forward, his lips on yours— kissing with that sort of clumsiness that made it known that it was real. 

He had to shut his eyes to keep from staring into yours.

His hand snaked behind your back, holding you close like you might vanish— like all those times in his dreams where it played out exactly like this. You, him, alone. Different scenarios but it all ended in Remmick kissing you. Whatever happened after he woke up instantly. 

You dropped the towel and quickly cupped his face in your hands. Just like his lips, his skin was cold but it warmed the minute you pressed your hand against it. 

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and the moment your tongue pressed against his—  the faint taste of you invading his mouth— he pulled back abruptly, sucking in air like a fish out of water. His hands dropped away like he was just burnt, eyes darting around your face.

His mouth moved before it could stop, "I-I'm s-sorry." He apologized, trembling like a baby deer. "I-I don't know what came over me— Oh m-my — I just couldn't help myself, and you were so close— and you smelled so good— a-and I thought that it was—"

"Rem, slow down." You laughed, shaking your head at the display of nervousness rolling off of him. "Do you see me complaining?"

He blinked. "…N-No?"

"Do you see me getting mad and yelling at you?"

"…No?"

"So, then, it's fine."

"B-But, it's not right for a man to come onto a woman like that— especially someone like you. I-I'm supposed to ask first, make sure you're okay with it, and then—"

"Remmick, if it wasn't okay, you would have been kicked in the balls by now."

He froze. "O-Oh."

A smirk played along your lips, "I'm not so delicate, you know?" You moved into his space again, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"A-All women are—"

"Not me." You said softly, threading your fingers through the back of his head,  fingers twirling the short locks of hair on the back of his neck.

He sucked in a breath.

"There you go again, acting all shy." You quipped. "Obvious, oblivious— maybe you're somewhere in between."

"B-But—"

"Remmick, I like you."

He opened his mouth but no words came out. He was permanently in shock, unsure if he was dreaming or if he was dead in his sleep right now. 

"I asked you to fix my sink— yeah, but also because I think you're cute."

"W-Wait— You do?"

You nodded. "I think you're so hot when you work.” You pressed your chest against his, the wet fabric staining the front of your clothes. “Especially when you get this look on your face when you're trying to figure out how to do something."

He looked like a tomato at this point. 

He slowly wrapped his hand around your waist, still careful and shy. "I think you're also…c-cute."

"I know, it's so easy to tell from you."

"Am I…really that obvious?"

"Yup."

“I-I’m sorry. I just…you make me so… I—“

You chuckled, “You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I-I’m sorry—“ he clicked his tongue. “I mean, I didn’t know you liked me. I just assumed that you thought of me as a friend…only.”

“Want me to show you?”

“Show me what?”

“That I don’t think of you as just a friend?”

“H-How?”

"Easy. All you have to do is keep your eyes on me, Rem.” Slowly, you got down on your knees, the water wetting your skin, and you peered up at him through your lashes. Your fingers hooked through his belt buckle, working them open.

Remmick gulped— his eyes averting off somewhere. But then they snapped back when you tugged his hips forward. 

“What did I just say?” You teased, finally pulling his belt apart.

“I-I’m sorry—“ he took a breath, “ o-okay.”

This can't be real.

He covered his face with one hand, peeking through the gaps of his fingers. His other hand was holding the edge of the counter, squeezing, trying to hold on as you worked him open. 

You pulled his pants down, smiling at how small Remmick was trying to make himself. “You're always so shy, I’ve never seen a man—“ your eyes widened when you pulled his briefs down after. 

He was leaking already, the head of his cock flushed red. Swollen and hard against his naval. He had a vein running along the side of his skin, twisting like a vine. He was big— bigger than you've ever seen. 

Probably the biggest you're ever going to get. 

"I-I know," he said, sighing through his hands. Flustered. "Y-You've probably seen better— something more of your style. I-I'm not normal— probably disgusting—"

"N-No." You quickly said, using the pad of your thumb to run soothing circles against his thighs. "Baby, look at me."

Remmick slid his hand down his face, chest rising and falling with desperation. He looked so scared, afraid that you wouldn’t like it— wouldn’t like him. 

"You're perfect." You smiled up at him.  

He felt warmth slide across his chest. "R-Really?"

"Mhmm, of course. Just look at ya,” you wrapped your hand around him and he jumped. “already weeping for me just from kissing." 

“I-I’ve never—“

"Kissed anybody? So that makes me your first?”

He nodded, shamelessly. 

“It’s okay.”

“Y-You sure?” 

"I wouldn't be on my knees in front of you if I wasn't sure."

“S-Sorry—” and then he huffed when he caught himself apologizing again. “Okay...” 

“I just want you to keep your eyes on me— that means you can’t cover your face and look away.”

“O-Okay, I can do that.” 

“Yeah?”

“Y-Yeah.”

You pumped him once, getting a feel— watching the way his stomach tensed. He was staring at you with such intense eyes, like he couldn’t believe that you were here— on your knees with his cock in your hand. 

"You're so cute, Remmick." You pumped him again and he swallowed. "You're always so shy, so nice— Unlike any man I've known before."

He sucked in a breath when you leaned forward to kiss the vein pulsing on his skin. 

"Am I the first one to see you like this too?"

"Y-Yes." He answered breathlessly. Honestly.

"A farm boy, nice, his first time— you're just wrapped in a pretty pink bow for someone, huh?” 

“W-What does that—“

You delved forward, sucking him into your mouth and he shuddered. Your tongue lay flat under the weight of his cock, but that didn’t stop you from rolling it underneath. You watched as his face contorted, his eyes darting from your mouth to everywhere else.

You could tell that this was hard for him. 

He gasped when you pulled back just enough to suck the tip of his cock, your hand pumping the base of him. 

He clenched the edge of the sink tighter, "D-Darlin'—" he choked, jolting when you pushed forward to swallow him whole again.

“G-Goodness.” He moaned, “I-I…you're doing so— o-oh.”

You pulled back, his cock slipping out and you grinned at him. “Keep your eyes on me, okay?” 

“O-Okay.”

You made a show of licking the tip, precum beading against your tongue and he couldn’t help the high-pitched whine that escaped. 

“Darlin’— p-please.” He doesn’t know what he was begging for but the thought of you, the way your tongue kept rolling off of him felt so good— he had to feel more. 

Sensing that, you spit into your hand and grasped him in your hand again— moving your hand back and forth with an antagonizing slow pace. 

“What’cha beggin’ for, Rem? Don’t tell me you thought about this before?” 

“N-No—“

“Liar.” You chuckled. “Your face is already red. I think we’re far past embarrassment.” 

“P-Please— can…can you go faster?”

“Faster?”

He nodded, “Y-Yes.” 

You rolled the pad of your thumb against the slit of his cock and he groaned. “Ask me the right way then.” 

“I-I want your mouth on me—“ he gasped when you cupped his balls with your other hand, rolling them in the palm of your hand. He visibly shuddered when you squeezed, playing with them like stress balls. 

“Keep going. You got it, Rem.” 

“Y-Your mouth— felt so good on me.” He sighed, “A-and your tongue.” 

“Want me to taste you again?”

“Y-Yes please.”

You laughed, going back to pumping him and he moaned out loud. 

“You're so polite, Rem. But I’m afraid you have to tell me exactly what you want.” 

“I-I can’t.” 

“You can. Lemme help you.”

You kissed the tip of his cock, moving to lick the underside of him with messy trails of spit and precum. He felt his stomach tighten, the image of you like this was almost too much to bear. 

“G-Golly—“ his breath hitched when you licked lower, swirling your tongue over his balls, his cock resting on your face. The size of him was so obvious like this. 

You slipped him from your mouth, moving to kiss him once more. “Say it, say you wanna fuck my mouth.” 

He felt his heart skip a beat. “D-Darlin’—“

“Say it,” you demanded.

“I c-can’t—“

“If you don’t, I’ll stop. Leave you here just like this.” You gave him a devilish smirk, clutching the base of his cock without mercy. “Want me to leave?”

“N-No, I don’t want you to—“

“Then say it.” 

He sucked in a breath, trying to find the confidence to repeat your words back. But his hands shot out, fingers interlocking into your hair when you tilted your head back— tongue lulling out to rapidly slap the length of his cock against the flat of your tongue.

It was loud, wet, and obscene. The type you only saw in pornos. He broke eye contact, shutting them closed. Whimpering shamelessly. 

He was putty in your hands. 

"O-Oh— P-Please—" he groaned, rutting his hips forward without meaning to. 

“Please what?” You questioned. 

"C-Can you— can you do that again?" You felt his leg tense. 

You peered up at him, “Watch me then.” 

The moment he finally opened his eyes to look at you, you squeezed him in your hand and slapped his cock against your tongue once more. He let out a low groan, pulling your hair tightly without meaning to. 

“I wanna—“ He curled his hand against your scalp, threading his fingers through your hair. “Wanna f-fuck your mouth.”

“Say it again, baby.” You pushed, watching as he opened and shut his mouth like a fish. 

“P-Please— I wanna— f-fuck your mouth—” 

You barely gave him time to finish before your mouth was on him finally. Pumping what you couldn’t fit into your mouth while swirling your tongue over the tip. 

He rocked his hips forward, watching intently as his cock disappeared and reappeared from your mouth— wet streaks of saliva and cum coating him in a messy show of display. You looked so pretty like this, on your knees, working him over. Face flushed, eyes teary.

 "Darlin— mhm, n-not gonna last—" he moaned, rutting his hips forward. "F-Feels so good— so warm, tight— suckin' me in whole—"

You felt heat pool into your stomach, your cunt clenching around nothing. The sounds he was making were slowly starting to get to you.  

“O-Oh, that’s it,” he groaned. Desperate and needy, holding your head tighter when you pushed forward, making sure that the tip of his cock kissed the back of your throat. 

“R-Right there—“ he moaned, loud and high-pitched. 

Your hand guided back to cup his ass, squeezing him in your hand— pulling him forwards to help him fuck into your mouth more. You wanted to feel him, pull him in deeper. Your moans vibrated against his cock, sending an electric shock through his body. 

"G-God—" he rasped, both hands placed on your head to hold. “ Y-Your so perfect— dreamed about this.” 

You moaned, shutting your eyes, listening while your throat worked around him. 

"Baby— c-can't believe your doin' so well— so perfect—" he thrust into your mouth— once. Pulling your hair gently.

You could feel your cunt leaking, dripping into your panties with no shame. 

"I-I dreamed about this— you." He thrusted up again, kissing your throat with clumsiness. "T-Thought you would be scared of me—mhm, thought you might run away— " another thrust into your throat has your toes curling, stomach lurching forward. 

You clutched the globe of his ass, teetering on the edge of sliding a finger past. 

He locked his hands around your head— a warning not to stop, a silent plea to keep going— on the verge of breaking. 

"I was s-scared— T-Turns out, I should have been scared of you—Oh! K-Keep going." He begged, tipping his head back, jaw slacked. Moaning in broken whimpers of pleasure. "G-Gosh— feel so good— you— feel so good. Takin' me in like this."

You pulled back to pop him out of your mouth, catching your breath,  drool pooling from the corner of your mouth. You kissed the underside of his cock, and then dragged your tongue across the length of him. Coating him once more. 

He rolled his hips forward, his cock gliding over your tongue in one swift motion. "You're gonna— darlin' if you keep— mhm, keep working' me— gonna make me—"

"Y-Yeah?” You breathed, throat slightly sore. “Gonna come?"

He nodded profusely, petting his fingers in your scalp. “A-Almost—“

"Now?" You kissed the slit of his cock, cum coating your lips. 

"C-Close— so close."

“You know what to do.” 

You slipped him back into your mouth and he broke. Holding your hair tight into his hand, jutting his hips once, twice, three times— until he found a rhythm that made him dizzy. 

"I-I'm, darlin' I'm gonna— g-gonna come—"

You moaned around him, digging your nails into the fat of his ass to keep him close. Maneuvering his hips, helping him thrust into your mouth.

"B-Baby— s-soon." He gasped, throwing his head back. "I-I'm sorry for doing this— just, ohh— j-just hold on f'me."

You weren't sure what he meant but you quickly understood when he took a deep inhale and he used both hands that were tight on your head and pulled you forward— shoving himself all the way into the back of your throat, leaving no room for you to breathe. 

The size of him was too much for you to handle— so fucking big, suffocating you— leaving you to gag around him. Tears slipping past and down your cheek. 

A loud, whiny moan slipped from his open mouth. His fingers curled more into your head when your throat clenched around him and he saw white cross his vision. 

He spilled just like that, on your tongue, stuttering his hips— burying himself as deep as he could go. Your throat contracted around him while he rutted forward, trying to keep you in place. Your nose was buried against thick, coarse, hair that tickled. 

“T-That’s it— y-your draining me dry, baby.” He moaned, drenching the back of your throat with everything he had. 

You shut your eyes tightly, gag reflex screaming at you to pull him out— but you refused to. You felt warmth flood your taste buds— too much and still not enough. He groaned out loud, frozen in place, still cumming into your mouth, like you were milking him dry. 

Not once did you move until he was done— his cock spurting its last with his thighs shaking, and loud, breathless moans from his mouth.

He crashed back against the edge of the sink, letting go of your hair, his cock slipping out to lie flaccid against his thigh. 

You opened your mouth, tongue lolling out to show him streaks of white lying on your tongue like a work of art. 

"G-Gosh." He breathed.

He watched as you closed your mouth and visibly swallowed, smiling up at him— face a mess and tears dried against your cheek. 

You stood up, abruptly, dragging his pants up with you, and lazily zipped him back up— belt buckle still hung open, his body twitching every so often from shock. 

You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in close to press his lips against yours. He could still taste the faint traces of himself on your tongue— salty and sweet. 

You placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, resting your hands on his shoulder. He looked so cute, face still red, ears burning— his chest still heaving.

You opened your mouth to speak, "How was that—"

"Incredible." He beat you to it.

"Was I?"

"Y-Yes…"

"Did you like it?"

"A-A lot… like, more than I can describe."

"Yeah?"

He nodded slowly, biting his lower lip.

”I have another sink for you to fix.” you smirked at him, pulling him by the hand. He followed along with you on wobbly legs while you directed him towards the stairs.

“A-Another one?” he questioned.

“Yeah, it's in my bedroom.” You took a step, Remmick trailing behind you.

“Bedroom…?"

You hummed, "This one might be tricky, but I trust you.” You looked back, taking another step. “And lose the shirt, you won’t need it.” 

With a contented sigh, you turn to look at Remmick, and you feel his arms loosen enough to let you. Before you can say anything, he's already pressing slow kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your temple. All gentle and lingering. The faintness of it tickles enough to pull a light giggle from you, and you pat his arm to stop.

Remmick breaks away but hovers over you, hair wonderfully dishevelled from sleep. "Mornin'…" It's quiet, spoken with a whisper only meant for you. His voice still has a husky drag to it from his sleep.

You reciprocate, unable to stop your lips from curling into a smile. "Morning, Rem."

The corner of his mouth twitches up from the nickname, and there's an approving hum from him as he nuzzles into you with an off-handed mumble. "You smell of vanilla." You have your new soap to thank for that. You made the switch after discovering through baking that it was Remmick's favourite scent; he hasn't kept his off you since.

"How's my girl doin'?" Remmick sneaks another kiss from your neck, playful and quick this time, before you can stop it.

Before your muscles can protest much more, you give a slow stretch as you turn back around and lie on your side again. "Pretty good, you?"

Remmick's voice is lower in your ear, and the brush of his lips over the shell of it makes your breath catch ever so slightly. "Been thinkin' about you all mornin'." His fingers have made their way to your side, rubbing smooth circles into your skin between your PJ top and your underwear with his thumb.

The implication of Remmick's words has your thighs lightly pressing together. "Oh?" You tease the question despite already knowing what he means, then give a slow push of your hips so that your ass presses against Remmick. "Thinking of me, how~?" You hear the soft catch in his throat at the same time you feel his clothed length twitch against you.

Remmick's face buries into the skin where your neck meets your shoulder; his skin feels hot, and you don't need to see to know there's a lovely flush of pink across it. You grind back against him in slow circles, feeling him rut back as he hardens until he's at least twice the size and heavy against your ass.

You love that Remmick is a grower; almost every time you watch it happen, it sends a rush to your stomach as your empty cunt clenches with anticipation.

"How you make such pretty sounds when -" You hear Remmick swallow as his voice stutters just a little; you know he's flustered from the thought of saying it, but you've expressed how dirty talk makes you feel, and you know that he's trying. "When I'm… inside you." It's quieter, and a moan slips out of you. It takes so much for Remmick to speak in that way that it's still a surprise to hear it from him; you don't think it could be so endearing on anybody else.

For a moment, the mattress shifts under you as Remmick's arm slides under your pillow, his other hand dragging over from your side to snake underneath your PJ top. When he reaches your breast, he kneads at one with his palm, and you hear a thin whine against the crook of your shoulder. You wet your lips at that, Remmick's neediness for you burning against your skin as excitement sparks through you.

"That what you want, baby?" You reach back for Remmick's hip, pulling him closer to drag your soaked underwear over his cock. "You want to make love to me?" The lilt to your voice is intentional, and your choice of words makes Remmick's eyes flutter shut as his face burns. He was such a romantic that sometimes 'fuck' was too much for him. The way his blush paints his face every time you say it makes your stomach flip like the first time.

He gasps into your skin as he nods, only breaking away to pant against your ear. "Ta-ke these off." You don't make him explain as you reach for your underwear, peeling them away from you under the sheets before pulling his boxers as far down as you can manage.

You're able to stifle a small moan when you feel how wet you already are. When you part your thighs, Remmick is already trying to rub against you, and you reach through your legs to guide the flushed head of his cock through your folds and to your clit.

It sounds as if the air is forced out of Remmick's lungs as you hold him there. He twitches up as he thrusts against you, and the blunt press of him has your chest feel light. When he starts leaving wet kisses on your neck, and you try not to whine as you realise you can feel Remmick all over, stiflingly warm, seeping into every pore.

"P..Please, I need… to hear you." Remmick licks his lips in between plea, taking his time with the thick drag of his cock to gather your slick. "You're.. Oh-" His grip on your breast tightens reflexively as he feels how wet you are just from this.

You let Remmick have what he wants as your mouth parts. A thin whine spills out under your breath, and it's enough to have Remmick twitch up against you impatiently. "Christ, you're… you're soaked." Your walls clench as you hum a small 'mhm' in agreement, too impatient for his fingers as you move your hips away just enough to angle your entrance at his tip.

"W-Wait, you'll-" Remmick starts, wanting to ease you open, but when you push your entrance flush to his head, you feel him freeze behind you with a stuttered breath. The thick stretch is enough to halt your breathing in your throat, and you only manage to sink past the crown of his head when you feel Remmick's hand at your hip, forcing you to stop.

He can't get his words out fast enough before he's tripping over the next. "Darlin'- oh god- Wait, y.. you're so tight." The puffs of warmth against your neck soothe the slight blow to your ego; you forget just how thick he is, and it makes you a little dizzy.

"S'fine, want you to move~" Your airy words make Remmick's head spin as he swallows. The grip on your hip flexes as he lets go of the thin restraint he already held onto.

With a nod, Remmick moves his hips to slide further into you, and it forces you to inhale at the delicious fullness of him. You feel his forehead pressing somewhere between the back of your neck and your shoulder blades as he groans into you.

"Rems…" You clutch onto the bedsheets as Remmick carefully stuffs his cock into your tight walls, and you can't stop clenching around his with every inch he gains. The way he fills your entire being is something you don't think you'll ever get used to; you can feel it in the way your throat sucks in air sharply as he starts to take his time with each little thrust further inside.

When Remmick finally bottoms out inside you, there's a cracked groan against your ear, and his breath turns ragged as he waits for you to adjust to the size of him. "Filling me up so good-" You squirm back against him, and as you finally grow accustomed enough to him, you turn your head slightly to plead with him. "-please, move. Need it."

Remmick grips your hip as he grinds his cock up into you, dragging a wanton sound from your throat. "You need this, baby?" The heavy press of him on your sensitive walls has your cunt pulse around him in response as you breathe out a 'yes', and the way Remmick is trying to be a little bolder with his words makes your face heat.

It's already so overwhelming to feel all of him; the hot press of his chest behind you, his arm underneath you folds to hold you tight as he begins to slide out and thrust back into you, the warmth of his breath curls around your neck. Then his hand slips away from your hip to hold your jaw, turning as much as you're able to so that he can capture your lips in his with a short whine.

Remmick is everywhere, and you can't get enough as each sense is quickly overrun with him. You feel so safe like this, completely enveloped by him as you share the air between you.

The heat of him inside you concentrates more with every heavy drag of his cock on the spongy part of you, and he parts your thighs more so you can twist your torso further into his. Remmick is twitching inside of you, and he moans freely into your mouth as his lips move against yours. It's undeniably sweet how much Remmick loves to kiss you, feel the softness of your mouth on his and the tiny licks you tease him with. It took a little practice when you discovered that you were his first, but Remmick proved to be a quick learner.

He slowly breaks away from the kiss, and you realise your eyes had shut at some point. When you peer back at Remmick, his eyes are half-lidded and his lips are parted, letting his thin moans pour over one another. The sight makes your face relax as you soak him in, and his mouth brushes over yours as he begs. "Can… Oh- Please, can I go faster?" Remmick's heavy emphasis on 'please' makes you smile, and you nod enthusiastically.

From the moment you do, Remmick's cock pistons into you, quicker and bullying your walls with purpose as he whines into your ear. You're rocked forward with each harsh pulse, and his grip on you pulls you to sink back onto his thick cock each time with a sharp cry.

Soon, you're hearing frustrated sounds rise up from Remmick's chest, and before you can ask what's wrong, he's already begging in your ear. "Please, h-have to move… I love seein' you. You - god- you make such pretty faces." A warmth spreads through you at the way he freely admits it, unashamed to say it. It isn't a line to impress you, nor a lie to lure you in, simply Remmick being authentic in what he knows. You adore every part of it, too much to feel self-conscious with him.

You nod gently to him, and he gives an excited gasp as he pulls out so that you can lie on your back. A small whine falls out of you at the loss, but before you can miss him for too long, Remmick is shoving a pillow under your hips and realigning his cock with your entrance. Both of your eyes go glassy as he pushes in, not looking away from each other as he fills you completely.

The new angle immediately has you feeling significantly fuller. Words fall out of your head as you make incoherent sounds with the stretch of him.

"There you are, beautiful." Remmick watches with admiration as he grinds down into you. Each movement pulls a deeper pant from him until he's whining above you, and you can tell he won't last long just from the pitch alone. Not that you're far behind, the brush of him is felt everywhere, and the head of him hits the spot inside that has your toes curling in the sheets.

Remmick's breaths morph into small grunts, and he leans down to capture one of your stiff nipples with his lips. He sucks hard as a hand kneads into you there, and he tries to speak around you, desperate to feel as much of you as possible. "I can feel you gettin' close, your squeezin' me so good."

You whine at the feeling, and your hand shoots up to stroke him through the hair on the back of his head. When Remmick's words get dirtier for you, your fingers slowly grip the tresses. He pulls away from your breast with a loud 'pop', just enough to ghost his breath over it as he fucks you in earnest. "You gonna be a good girl and soak my cock?"

The words make your entire body heat up. You have no idea where he learned them from but you're impressed with them all the same. The effort alone for what you like to hear is enough to have your cunt clench around him, his heat entirely inescapable. You can only nod up as your breathing gets heavier without your control, and the familiar pressure builds inside of you.

Then, with little warning from you, Remmick's cock forces you to come hard enough that you end up squirting as you cry out his name.

Remmick's teeth grit at the sudden tightness of you, and can only move to crash his lips against yours as he ruts. Between the kisses are desperate little words from him, and you can barely register what he's saying as you lie there dazed.

"I-I can't- Remmick swallows thickly before crushing his mouth against yours, and whimpering breaths are the only noise that breaks the contact again in pieces. "Can't think- Pussy's s-so good- I can't think straight-" You move both hands to the sides of his head, cradling him there as you feel his cock jerk inside violently.

"L..Love you- oh- I love you so much." Remmick's whines shatter against you as he plunges into you a final time, harder than before with a dragged-out grind of his hips once he's in. You can feel the hot flood of him releasing into you and it makes your breath hitch against his mouth.

The sensation has you both shivering together; there's so much between you that it's obvious when it drips out of you and down Remmick's balls until it's ruining the sheets. You both remain like that for a few moments, with Remmick moving to bury his head into your shoulder.

You can feels his skin burning against you.

As your breathing gradually begins to level out. There's a breathy laughter from both of you. When you carefully pull his face to look at you again, he's clearly embarrassed, but he looks so sweet that you want to savour the elated expression.

With a warm smile, you cross your legs around his hips. It makes you both gently gasp at how sensitive it feels for each of you, but Remmick doesn't complain. You smooth a thumb over his cheek, pulling him down for a slower, gentler kiss than previously. Not of hunger, but a sated, caring one before you pull him away just enough to whisper. "I love you too, Rem."

It’s a warm evening on the farm and Remmick is sat, resting after a full day of work, in a rocking chair on the front porch of his family’s farm. He’s lightly rocking back and forth, watching you lazily in the patch of grass just out-front, picking colorful flowers. Soft smile on his face. You eventually trot up the porch and come over to him.

“Havin’ fun?” He asks you with a chuckle.

All you do is smile and begin to sit in his lap facing him, knees bending, as you straddle him. His hands move to wrap around your hips, holding you with a light touch. You hum, beginning to arrange the flowers into his hair, one by one, however they would stick out of his wavy hair. He just smiles at you letting you do whatever, just appreciating the closeness. His hands slightly rub against your hips.

“There, perfect.” With a smile of your own you lean forward, quickly pecking him on the lips.

Remmick smiles more as you pull back from the kiss. As his hands rub, he realizes that he doesn’t feel that familiar line of your underwear. His eyes go wide as he tries to hide his panic, then they go back to normal. His sudden reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you can’t help but grin mischievously. You lift his chin up to look at you.

“Something the matter baby?”

 He swallows, “no…” as says clearing his throat. “Not at all.”

You giggle and roll your hips down. He bites his lip feeling you rub yourself against the seam of his jeans. “You wanna try something?” You whisper to him, just below his ear.

A nod and he gulps, unsure what you had in store for the night. After glancing around the empty space, the farm seems to have not a soul in sight, all the confirmation you need. You unbutton his jeans. Once he realizes what you might be up to his face flushes and the tips of his ears go bright red.

You take your time, pulling the zipper down, reaching past the waistband and tugging his cock free. It doesn’t take much until he’s rock hard, all from a little pumping of your hand around his shaft. Soon you rub his tip through your already wet folds.

He swallows hard. Not believing that this is happening, especially not out in the open.

Your entrance sucks his cock in, sliding through your folds. He stifles a moan feeling his cock sink into you. Quickly you ruffle your dress down, smoothing the crinkles to cover you both up, in case some passersby notice you. They would just see two lovers enjoying a light evening on the porch.

You gently take his chin again; he’s already giving a whine. “I need you to be a good boy for me, Rem. Can you do that?” Voice low as you give him instructions. Whispering at the base of his ear, you tell him he’s not allowed to move. Not a hip roll, not a thrust, nothing. You on the other hand could do what you pleased.

Remmick nods, agreeing. You feel his hands tighten on your hips.

When you kiss him, his hips jerk involuntarily. You tsk at him and he apologies. You are also cruel in the fact that you tell him he as to keep his noises down. To stay quiet. Even though no one was around for miles.  The goal was to watch him fall apart.

Your words sank into that beautiful skull, his cock twitching already. His fingers dig into your hips, when the warmth of your walls clench. He tells himself not to grip you to hard, never wanting to accidentally bruise your skin.

There’s a soft creak from the chair, swaying beneath you. The farmhouse looms behind him, a silent watcher. The soft lamplight casts a soft glow on your features and creates a halo of light behind his head. It’s just you, him, and the night critters to keep you company.

With the fabric of your dress layered perfectly, thighs press tight against his, sinking deeper, his cock settling fully now. His thick shaft is buried all the way to the hilt, tip leaking pre thanks to the warmth. You can feel the way it pulses alongside his heartbeat, every shift you make, no matter how slight, has the vein throbbing.

Remmick looks so innocent under you. He’s looking up at you, wide blue eyes wet and pleading, the tiny flowers sticking out of his wavy hair. Your heart flutters with how cute he looks.

“You’re being such a good boy,” you murmur, lips brushing the bottom of his. Except for the occasional shift, you have sat completely still. It was a torment; the sensitivity hits him hard. You know he’s desperate for friction, his cock is a dead give away with how its twitching and straining inside you.

Remmick briefly clamps his eyes shut, steading his breath, while his chest rises and falls in shallow pants. When your walls squeeze, its shoots shivers up his spine. He’s forced to swallow a whimper. And you watch the struggle unfold when his Adam’s apple bobs.

Nuzzling your nose against his, the tension coils, he swears you’ve been here for hours, speared on his cock, but It’s only been a few minutes. He staggers a breath as you lean in, “just sit there and feel me.” You instruct, suddenly, deliberately, you roll your hips. It’s instant. He bites his lip, eyes fluttering shut, a whine escapes his throat, slipping past without meaning to. His cock drags through your drenched folds, squeezing his whole length.

“You’re doing great, Rem. Just gotta stay quiet.” Hand cupping his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you.

His pale blue eyes are already watery from tears. His lips parted when a soft moan slips out when his cock jerks. “Feels….please…it’s too much.” Clutching your hips, he locks his in place, as his voice cracks.

He’s unraveling so easily and your grinning, loving to get to watch this happen in real time. Purposefully you shift again a bigger motion, lifting so his cock slides out about an inch before lowering, plunging it back in. the sound it makes, soft squelch, your slick coating him, easing the glide. He bites his lip again, fighting back a gasping moan that filters out anyway. Tears streaking down his cheeks, the bite so hard it almost breaks the skin on his lip.

“Shhh…. no.” Your tone is affectionate, yet firm, as you cut him off. To add to his torment, you grind down, clit rubbing against his pelvis, hard this time. His cock throbs helplessly. His chest heaves, a whine turning into quiet sobs, gripping at clumps of your skirt for comfort. Cock pulsing again, head nudging that sweet spot, mixing your slick with his leaking pre-cum. He wants to beg for relief.

“You feel that?” you throw the question into the night air. The stars come out to play now, as you continue tormenting him. The chair rocks with each grind, a whisper meant to taunt and tease. “The way you fill me up, is just right.”

Tears come out of the corner of his eyes more freely, moans growing louder despite his efforts. All he can manage is tiny whiny pleas, body shaking, as you deny him any release.

You capture his mouth in a slow kiss, silencing another arising moan, tongue intruding deeply. His own tongue, in frantic urgency, twists and chases yours, desperate for anything to bring relief. Your mouth muffles the desperate cries.

Pulling off to breathe, just for a second, then you’re diving back, recapturing his lips before he can think. Arms wrapped snuggly around his neck, you press your body into his, so that he can feel your perked nipples through the fabric of his shirt.

When you go completely still, his cock is sucked into a vice grip that your pussy has on it. There’s no more teasing, no more shifts or rolls. The shaft of his cock throbs wildly, his thickened length stretching you with that full feeling. Core fluttering with quiet pleasure.

This time he’s the one to break free from the kiss. Letting out a jagged whine. You don’t allow him. Your mouth is currently nipping at his jaw, at the soft stubble there, in soothing kisses.

“Shhhhhh….” You gently remind him and it has him in more tears. Whimpering quietly, your breath warm on his skin, slick flowing over his jeans.

Remmick’s cock fills you just right, it throbs and twitches desperate for any movement. A broken needy whine vibrates from his chest. He’s not sure how much more he can take and you barely started.

“Mmmm….baby,” you hum, sucking on his neck, leaving little red spots. What you are doing is just plain cruel. Pussy clenching, clamping again, an involuntary response. More broken cries slip out of him, tears coming down faster. Heart thumping against his ribs. Your pussy squeezes more pre-cum from his tip, the head barely kissing your cervix.

You moan this time, he’s so deep, the sensation sending sparks behind your eyes.

The grip he had on you waivers, losing his grasps on your dress, hands slipping, he wasn’t meaning to let go. Hell, he needed contact to ground him. His thighs tense, body shuddering, a slew of sobs escaping him. The overwhelming pressure is too much; he can’t help as his legs spread wider causing the chair to rock. Your thighs trip his, another denial, prolonging the ‘torture’ you’ve held him hostage with.

You tease him, kissing his neck softly, whispering. “Feels good. Doesn’t it?” your words crash into him, straight to his core, cock jumping, vein pulsing, tears pouring out alongside his pathetic whimpers.

“Lord….y-yes…you’re so…so warm… please.”

It almost breaks your heart the way his voice cracks. The way he’s begging for release. He catches himself just as his hips try to thrust.

“Please… c-can’t… take much more.”

It doesn’t help that each breath you take makes him feel the tiniest movements. He’s sweaty, drenched in your slick from the waist down, darkening his jeans. Buried so deep, he lets out a frustrated groan.

Lips meet his once more, you lift his dipped head. Soft pathetic wails fill your mouth, muffled of course. You have him so close to the edge, just like a balloon popping from the smallest needle. The chair creaks, rocking backwards. Muffled moans and the wet squish are the only sounds. His body was so frantic.

As you lock eyes with Remmick, he’s a total broken mess. Tear filled hazy eyes, unfocused, look towards yours. Tear lines wet his cheeks as they continue to trickle out. Gently you use your thumb to wipe them away. The least you could do for him. As much as you love him like this, obedient, vulnerable, your heart swells with affection.

He trusts you so completely, even when you bring him to ruin like this. You can feel him tremble under your hands. He’s so sweet. You are starting to feel bad.

He inhales, it sounds difficult for him, breaths ragged and stuttered as he fights to keep still. Just as you told him to. Remmick’s lips are quivering, jaw clenching, and those soft whimpers he’s producing is a show of control. Restraint. Following the instructions you put in place.

More time passes, you are unsure how long. Sat there unmoving. When you look at him again, he’s barely held together. His eyes are heavy lidded, part way closed, desire mixed with exhaustion.

You press a tender loving kiss to his jaw. “You’ve been so good for me, Rem.” There’s warmth in your voice. Praise. He’s done so well to this point. The only response he’s able to muster is a quiet whine. You fear you may have pushed him too far and broken your sweet caring man. It worries you, so you roll your hips, just a fraction. His cock responds with a twitch. Proof that he’s still with you. at least his body is. Whatever focus he had, had been shattered.

When you cup his cheek, he hums. When you pet his face, in a slow soothing motion, he leans instinctively into it. And when your fingers find his hair, massaging his head, he purrs.

Kissing his forehead, you ask him. “Would you like me to move now?”

You wait for a response. It takes his mind a few moments to process that you spoke to him. Then a slow nod of his head, then an almost inaudible plea.

“Please…” A high begging whine comes out.

“There’s my good boy.” You praise, worry washing away as you kiss him deeply. As a reward you start to roll your hips. Your pace stays that way too. Lifting up making his cock drag along your walls. Then you sink, pussy swallowing every delicious inch. It rips a guttural groan out of his throat.

“Do your best to stay quiet love.” Words barely holding together yourself as you grind your hips. It’s a challenge for him.

Remmick tries. He really does. Biting on his already sore lip, but noises leak out of him regardless. By now he’s panting, breathy and low. It doesn’t take long, each bounce, each slide, and your walls squeeze. He doesn’t have any control left. Another sink down his cock and it only takes one buck of his hips, through no fault of his own, the action involuntary. It dawns on you, that he’s cumming, releasing the pent up load in hot spurts, painting your pussy white with his seed. His dick convulses wildly inside you.

Releasing everything he had, he is spent. His head slumps forward against your open collarbone. Face buried, panting so hard it has his whole body shaking in your arms. With each one of his breaths there’s a heart breaking whimper.

“Hush now. I’ve got you.” You say soothingly, slowing your movements. You feel his cock soften within your soaked warmth, slick and cum trickling out as you sit still again.

Both hands gently cup his face, tilting it just enough to kiss his damp forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips.

“You did so well. Staying still, so perfect. And cumming….just like that for me.” You purr.

The air is cool in that early way before the day really decides to be hot, carrying the last breath of night through the crack in your window. Muscles ache in places they didn’t yesterday—in a good way, in a way that makes you stretch your legs under the sheets, toes flexing, and take a slow breath as you smile into your pillow before you even open your eyes.

Memory rolls back over you in pieces.

His hands on your hips, fingers firm but careful. His voice in your ear, low and rough with wanting and worry all at once. The weight of his body, the slow drag of him inside you, the way he whispered your name like it tasted good in his mouth.

It’s enough to make a shiver run through you, heat rippling under your skin despite the coolness of the room.

By the time you’re dressed—cute top that bares a sliver of your midriff when you move, shorts that are not at all practical for farm work, lip gloss already reapplied until your mouth shines. The mirror catches you pressing your lips together, adjusting your hair, trying to look like a girl who did not spend yesterday afternoon falling apart on a farm boy’s bed.

Your aunt eyes you over her mug of coffee as you grab a quick breakfast. 

The kitchen smells like toast and brewed grounds and the faint citrus from the dish soap she always uses. The ceiling fan hums lazily overhead. She doesn’t say anything this time. Just watches, not unkindly, as you hum along to some song in your head, swing the cabinet door shut with your hip, and slip out the door with your keys and your phone and a little secret glow under your ribs.

The walk to the farm feels shorter than usual.

Gravel crunches under your shoes as you follow the familiar road, pebbles skittering out from each step. The sky is that washed-out morning blue, low clouds already thinning where the sun presses through. 

There’s a faint soreness between your thighs with every stride, a quiet, pulsing reminder of what you did in his room yesterday. 

It tugs at you, makes you overly aware of the brush of denim, the way your muscles flex. Warmth pools low in your belly at the memory, slow and syrupy. 

You breathe around it, drag your focus up and out, onto the breeze that smells faintly of grass and dust, the distant birds calling to each other from the tree line, the way the morning holds the scent of dew and feed and sunlight-warmed wood even before the heat settles in.

The farmhouse comes into view, porch newly painted and glowing soft in the early light. His grandma’s car sits in its usual spot, a familiar shape against the gravel. Somewhere off to the side, out of sight, chickens cluck and fuss, wings rustling as they move. A dog barks once in the distance and then quiets. Everything looks ordinary—same house, same road, same chores waiting.

Your heart is not.

Remmick is by the barn when you spot him, back turned, shoulders moving as he hauls a sack of feed from the truck bed. 

The old pickup creaks as he leans into it. His shirt is already damp along the spine, clinging to the lines of muscle you only got to feel with your hands yesterday, cotton darkened in a wide stripe between his shoulder blades. His hair is flattened at the back like he didn’t fuss much after waking up, just ran a hand through it and called it good.

“Be right there, Grandma,” he calls over his shoulder, voice carrying clear in the quiet yard, then turns.

The words die halfway out of his throat.

You stand there at the edge of the packed dirt, one hand hooked in your back pocket, glossy mouth curved in a small smile you can’t quite help. 

He clears his throat, shifts the feed bag up onto his shoulder like he needs something to do with his hands, like the weight gives him an excuse to look away for a heartbeat.

“Mornin’,” he says, quieter than usual, words soft at the edges.

You walk closer, gravel grinding under your soles, trying not to think about how differently you feel in front of him now. “Hi.”

His gaze flicks down your body once—fast, instinctive, a quick sweep over bare legs and the hem of your top—then snaps back up like he’s scared he’ll stare if he lets himself linger. Color creeps up his neck, flushing from the collar of his shirt right up to his ears. You catch the way his fingers tighten on the burlap for just a second, tendons flexing.

“Sleep alright?” he asks, like it’s a simple question, like it doesn’t mean, Did you sleep after what we did?

“Yeah.” You nod, adjusting the collar of your top, nails grazing your collarbone. “You?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking momentarily toward the house, then smiles a little, sheepish and honest. “Best I have in awhile.”

The admission makes something flutter in your chest, small and sharp and sweet. You look away briefly, pretending to study the barn door with its peeling red paint and old metal latch.

“So, uh…” You drag the toe of your shoe through the dirt, tracing a faint line. “What are we doing today? Chickens first? Or are you gonna make me wrestle a cow or something.”

A soft laugh slips out of him, low and warm. The sound loosens some of the tightness in the air, unknotting your shoulders.

“Chickens first,” he says. “No cow wrestlin’ on the schedule yet.”

“Yet,” you repeat, teasing, letting the word hang. “So that’s a later thing.”

He shifts the feed bag again, but there’s a new warmth in his eyes now as they rest on you. “We’ll see how brave you’re feelin’.”

You fall into step beside him as he heads toward the coop. The dirt path is narrow enough that your shoulders nearly touch. 

Your arm brushes his just lightly, fabric against fabric, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. His fingers flex once at his side, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for your hand and doesn’t quite trust himself to do it.

“You sore at all?” he asks, voice dipping low, just for you, almost lost under the rustle of the feed bag.

Heat floods your face, warming your ears. “Maybe a little,” you admit, lips twitching as you stare ahead.

He looks mortified for a half second, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, then proud in a quiet, flustered way that makes his mouth curve. “If it’s too much, I can… take a few chores off your plate.”

“I’m fine.” You bump his arm lightly with your own, a playful nudge that sends a tiny shock up your skin. “Besides, whose fault is that?”

His ears go pink, just like yesterday when you pushed him a little too far. “Reckon that’s shared responsibility.”

“Hmm.” You laugh under your breath, the sound small and private. “I’ll allow it.”

The coop comes into view, squat and familiar, paint faded from the sun. Chickens fuss along the fence line, scratching at the dirt, feathers puffed and ruffled. 

He sets the feed bag down with a soft thud and dusts his hands off on his jeans, then glances at you again. He lifts the latch and lets you go in first, palm flat on the wire gate as he holds it open for you. 

The metal squeaks softly, and dust and loose straw kick up around your ankles as you step inside, feathers stirring the air as the chickens crowd close, bodies jostling, beaks tapping against the bucket like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. 

You crouch down in your too-pretty shorts, the fabric pulling a little at your thighs, and coo at them like they’re small dogs.

“Good morning, babies,” you sing, tilting the bucket and sprinkling feed with more enthusiasm than technique, kernels bouncing off packed dirt and scuffed boards. “Did you miss me? I bet you missed me.”

One of the hens hops closer than usual, bold little eyes fixed on you, and pecks sharply at the loose bow on your shoelace. A startled yelp bursts out of you as you jerk your foot back, nearly losing your balance.

“Rude!” you scold, hand flying to your chest. “That’s designer.”

From outside the fence, he snorts, the sound quick and involuntary. “That bird don’t care what label you got on your feet.”

“Well, she should,” you grumble, though the smile tugging at your mouth betrays you. You stick your tongue out at the hen anyway.

He watches you call the chickens “miss ma’am” and “bestie,” watches you tilt your head and gossip at them about your lip gloss collection while you pour feed in uneven arcs. You tell one particularly nosy hen she gives “hater” when she pecks too close to your ankle. 

Every so often he steps in to redirect your scatterbrained focus—turning the bucket so it doesn’t all dump in one pile, nudging you away from a hen who looks ready to challenge you with puffed feathers and narrowed eyes. 

The little corrections are small, almost nothing, but his hands on your waist, your elbow, the small of your back leave his fingers tingling long after he lets go. It takes effort to drop his hand each time instead of letting it rest there, feeling the warmth of your skin through thin fabric.

From there it’s water troughs and checking fences, the rhythm of farm chores settling over the two of you. 

He walks ahead on the worn path, shoulders broad and easy in the morning light, a hammer tucked into his belt, the handle bumping his thigh with each step. 

You trail half a step behind, the toes of your shoes brushing the backs of his boots now and then, talking about everything and nothing: a silly video Bri sent you, a song stuck in your head, the way your aunt still folds your laundry when she thinks you’re not looking.

He listens, humming a response here and there, throwing in a quiet, “Yeah?” or “She does that?” at the right times, more focused on the sound of your voice than the actual content. Something about the way you talk makes the work feel lighter, even when the tasks are the same as always.

At one fence post, he kneels in the grass to tighten a loose wire, jeans gathering at his knees, fingers steady as he works the metal. 

You stand beside him, one palm resting on the warm top of the post, and shade your eyes with your other hand, squinting at the bright sky. The clouds above are soft and slow-moving, smeared across the blue.

“Okay,” you decide out loud. “That one looks like a rabbit. That’s a horse. That’s—I don’t know, a potato.”

He can’t help smiling even as he huffs under his breath, tugging the wire flush. “Hand me that,” he says, nodding toward the tool sitting right by your foot.

“The… plier thing?” you ask, peering down at the cluster of metal, trying to note the name to the tool.

“Pliers.”

“Right.” You stare for a second, brain shorting out on all the shapes, then pick up the tool.

He takes it gently anyway, hand closing over yours for a second as he relieves you of it. He sets the wrong tool down behind him without comment and tips his head toward the right one, mouth quirking. “Other one, sweetheart.”

Embarrassed laughter bubbles up your throat as you trade it for the correct tool, face warming. “You know this is, like, my volunteer community service, right?”

“You’re doin’ fine,” he says, and means it more than you realize. You don’t see the way his expression softens as he glances up at you. “Even if you can’t tell a wrench from a paperweight.”

By late morning the heat builds, settling over the fields in a shimmering veil. Sweat collects along his hairline and darkens the back of his shirt again, fabric sticking to his spine. A curl at his temple clings stubbornly to his skin. Yours gathers at the hollow of your throat and between your shoulder blades, making your top cling more than it should. 

Another small circuit of the property, another round of small tasks—checking the old gate that always wants to sag, tossing a stray limb off the path where the tractor wheels will roll, refilling a salt block while the cows watch with slow, bored interest. 

You still complain about the bugs, swatting at a gnat that will not leave you alone, about sweat, about your hair frizzing at the edges, but every time he glances at you, your mouth is still curved up, eyes soft and content, like the complaining is a bit you’re committed to and not real misery.

Later, by the shed, he’s hauling a bale of hay when you step up and place your hands under the rough twine like you’re about to help. The dry, scratchy edges bite lightly into your palms. The weight nearly pulls you forward.

“Oh my god, that’s heavy,” you squeak, stumbling half a step toward him as the bale doesn’t budge the way you expected.

He immediately shifts, muscles flexing as he takes the full load from you with effortless strength, arms tightening. “Here, I got it.”

“I loosened it for you,” you say, nose wrinkling, trying to salvage your pride as you shake out your stinging hands.

“Yeah,” he answers, amusement warm in his chest. “You sure did.”

He carries it inside while you stand in the doorway, shadow falling across the threshold. 

You watch his back, the stretch of his shirt over his shoulders, the way his arms bunch beneath the cotton when he lifts the bale onto the stack. 

Heat curls low in your belly all over again. Once he disappears behind the stack, you fan yourself quietly with both hands, blowing out a silent breath, then pretend you’re examining a rusty nail on the doorframe when he comes back out, feigning intense interest in the flaking metal.

“Hungry?” he asks after a while, glancing up at the sky where the sun has edged closer to noon. “Looks like it’s near lunchtime.”

“At last,” you groan dramatically. “I’m wasting away.”

He shakes his head, but there’s a fondness in his eyes that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. “C’mon. I’ll find us somethin’ in the kitchen.”

Inside, the farmhouse feels cool compared to the late-morning heat outside. The screen door slaps shut behind you with a familiar clatter. The faint smell of coffee lingers in the air, threaded with whatever his grandma cooked earlier—maybe bacon, maybe gravy—and a hint of cleaner from the counters. The old linoleum floor is smooth under your soles, a little worn where people have stood in the same spots for years.

You hop up onto the worn surface without being asked, palms pressing against the cool counter as you boost yourself, sliding onto the space beside the sink. Bare thighs stick slightly to the smooth, sun-warmed surface as you wiggle into place, heels tapping lightly against the cabinet doors in a soft, rhythmic thud.

He opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it, cold air spilling out around his legs. Jars clink softly as he shifts them, muttering under his breath about leftovers and what counts as “still good.” 

You lean back on your hands and watch him, letting your eyes trace the line of his shoulders as he bends to peer into the bottom shelf, the way his shirt pulls snug across his back.

“Wow,” you say lightly, voice echoing just a bit in the quiet kitchen. “Domestic.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Just makin’ sandwiches.”

“Still counts,” you reply. “It’s hot when you cook.”

His ears turn pink immediately. “This ain’t exactly cookin’.”

“Hot when you assemble, then.”

He huffs, but you catch the tiny smile he hides by turning back to the fridge. 

You watch him pull out deli meat, cheese, a jar of pickles, mustard, mayo, a container of something his grandma must have made the night before. 

He moves around the kitchen with an easy familiarity, grabbing plates from the cabinet by the stove, knives from the drawer that sticks a little, paper towels from the roll by the sink, like he’s been doing this his whole life, which he has. The domesticity of it twists pleasantly in your chest.

The quiet moments feel good, thick but not uncomfortable. You talk just to fill them, to keep the silence from turning shy.

“That jar is so cute,” you comment as he unscrews the pickles and the sharp vinegar scent hits the air. “It’s like farmhouse cottagecore.”

He pauses, lid in hand. “… It’s a jar.”

“Yeah, but it’s, like, a cottagecore jar.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You don’t have to,” you say kindly, swinging your legs. “I’m fluent for both of us.”

He shakes his head, setting bread down on the counter between the two of you. The knife slices through the loaf with a soft rasp, crumbs scattering across the wood. The scents of mustard and cold cuts mix with the clean lemon of the counters and something warm that just smells like home—like his home, which you’re slowly learning by heart.

As he lays slices of cheese and ham onto bread, your foot nudges his hip. 

“Thank you for feeding me,” you say around a grin. “Or I’d just fade away into nothing.”

“I ain’t lettin’ that happen,” he replies without thinking.

The words hang there for a beat, heavier than the joking tone that carried them.

His hands keep moving—mustard spread in thin arcs, bread pressed together, pickle slice added with unconscious care—but his eyes flick up, catching yours for a second longer than normal. Something passes there, softer than the heat from earlier, quieter than the two of you moaning into each other’s mouths, but no less real. 

You break it with a small grin, because if you don’t, you might say something you’re not ready to say yet. “Is it too early to ask what dessert is?”

“You just got lunch,” he says, recovering. “Eat this first.”

“Ugh, you sound like my aunt.”

“Guess that makes two of us lookin’ out for you.”

That earns him another flutter beneath your ribs, warm and buoyant.

He finishes the second sandwich and sets both plates down, one beside you on the counter, one on the small space beside the sink for himself. 

You take a bite, hum approvingly at the taste, and swing your legs again, watching him through your lashes as he leans one hip against the counter to eat, close enough that his hip almost brushes your knee.

In the days that follow, the farmhouse starts to feel less like a place you visit and more like somewhere you’re quietly circling toward. 

His grandma draws you in without trying. One afternoon she calls you over to the kitchen table while Remmick is still outside and sets down a bowl of snapped beans. 

You sit opposite her, nails painted and bracelets sliding down your wrists, awkward for about half a second before she starts talking about everything from old neighbors to which church ladies can’t cook worth a dime. 

She shows you how to break the ends cleanly, how to pile them just so. You end up talking about your aunt, your dad, all the places you’ve tried to live in before getting shipped down here. 

By the time Remmick finally comes in for water, there’s a small pile of neat green beans by your elbow and his grandma is telling you that you have “good hands for work when you bother to use them.”

On another day, she pulls you into the living room while some old movie plays low on TV. You sit with a cushion in your lap while she knits, and she asks you which color yarn looks nicest for a baby blanket. You pick something soft and bright, and she nods like that was a test you passed without knowing.

You start staying later without being asked. 

There are days when your aunt doesn’t have to call twice to ask where you are because she already knows you’re on the farm, fussing at chickens or trailing after Remmick with a water bottle you keep forgetting to drink yourself. 

Sometimes you help his grandma set the table, humming while you line up forks. Sometimes you’re on the porch, painting your nails while he works on some small repair nearby, each of you content in the presence of the other.

Evenings at the farmhouse become their own little rhythm. Dinner with his grandma, dishes shared, then some excuse to drift off down the hall. 

You end up in his room more often than not—sometimes on the bed, sometimes on the floor with your back against the mattress, sometimes sprawled on your stomach flipping through one of his old paperbacks while he pretends not to stare at how your backside looks in whatever shorts you picked that day.

Tonight is another one of those evenings.

Dinner is simple and good, and you eat until you’re comfortably full, laughing at some ridiculous comment his grandma makes about a neighbor’s cat, and when she shoos the two of you away from the sink with a firm little wave, you don’t protest. 

The hallway feels familiar as you walk down it side by side, the old floorboards creaking softly under your steps. Remmick’s door closes behind you with that gentle click you’ve started to like.

He sits on the floor first, back against the side of the bed, arms resting loosely on his knees. 

You drop down beside him, legs stretched out, toes nudging his foot just to see if he moves. The room smells faintly of him—soap, cotton, a hint of hay and warm skin. A crack of the sunset slips through the blinds, striping the floorboards and the lower half of the bed.

For a while, you just talk about nothing. You tell him some half-remembered story about a friend trying to bleach her brows in high school. He shakes his head in disbelief, asks why anyone would do that on purpose, then gets sidetracked telling you about a kid he knew who tried to impress a girl by riding a steer bareback and ended up with a broken wrist and a lifetime of embarrassment.

The conversation drifts, easy and looping. Your bracelets slide up and down your forearm each time you gesture, beads clicking gently. He watches the motion, eyes thoughtful.

At some point, without really deciding to, you reach over and grab his right wrist.

He startles a little, muscles tightening under your fingers, but he doesn’t pull away. “What’re you doin’?” he asks, brow furrowing—not upset, just confused.

You bring his hand closer, turning his palm up, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse at the base. “Hold still,” you murmur, squinting slightly as you tuck his forearm toward your chest. “I’m measuring.”

He blinks once, then again, watching as you slide your fingers around his wrist. “For what? My blood pressure?”

“No,” you say, distracted, frowning at the span between your thumb and forefinger like it’s a ruler. You shift your grip again, trying to ‘measure’ the circumference in your own clumsy way. “I’m trying to get the size for a bracelet.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“A bracelet,” he repeats.

“Yes.” You lift your head to look at him, as if that should be obvious. “I’ve been making them since, like, junior year. I used to sell them at little pop-ups and online and stuff. Haven’t made you one yet. That’s a crime.”

His expression softens, something fond curling in his eyes. “You sell ’em?”

“Mm-hmm.” Your focus returns to his wrist. “Used to pay for going-out outfits and nail appointments my dad didn’t approve of. He didn’t know I was making money off it at first, he just thought I had ‘mysterious extra cash’ and kept checking my room like I was hiding stolen goods.”

That earns a quiet laugh out of him. “You runnin’ a bracelet empire on the side?”

“Working on it,” you say, nodding solemnly. “I wanna redo my online shop while I’m here. Different pictures and new designs. But I need your exact size so it doesn’t look dumb on you.”

His eyes drift down to where your fingers are wrapped around his skin. Your bracelets jingle lightly against his forearm—delicate beads, tiny charms, soft colors that somehow don’t look out of place next to the roughness of his hand. “You could’ve just asked,” he points out.

“I am asking,” you say, offended. “With my hands. This is hands-on research.”

“That ain’t how measurements work.”

“It works enough.” You lean back a bit, still holding his wrist, head tilted as you squint at your fingers. “You’re, like… between two knuckles.”

“That ain’t a unit of measure,” he says, but he sounds amused.

“It is now.” You let go at last, dropping his hand gently back onto his knee. “I’ll remember. I eyeball things.”

“You gonna make it pink and sparkly?” he teases lightly.

You pause as if seriously considering it. “I mean… I could. But you’re more like… earthy colors. Browns, greens, maybe a little metal. You seem like a burnt orange person.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.” You wave it off. “You’ll see. It’s just… I’ve been thinking about doing some new stuff, and it felt weird that I hadn't made you anything when you’ve been letting me bother you every day.”

He shifts, leaning his head back against the mattress, watching you with that soft, quiet gaze that always feels a little too intense when you catch it. “You don’t bother me.”

“You did think I was annoying at first,” you remind him, smirking.

“Still do sometimes,” he admits, but his voice is warm. “Don’t mean I don’t like you here.”

The words land in your chest in a way that makes you feel oddly light. You look away before he sees too much, reaching for one of your own bracelets and rolling it up and down your wrist.

“Good,” you say, trying to sound breezy and not like your heart just skipped something. “Because you’re getting a bracelet whether you like it or not. Custom. Very limited edition.”

He huffs a small laugh. “An exclusive, huh?”

“Exactly,” you reply. “It’ll match your eyes or your soul or something.”

“My soul?” He raises a brow. “You know what color that is, do you?”

“Rusty green,” you decide. “With little gold flecks. You have a very… mossy spirit.”

He shakes his head, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh that makes his chest move under his shirt. “You say the strangest stuff.”

“And yet,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, “I’m still allowed in this house.”

“That you are,” he answers softly.

The room settles into a comfortable hush, but it doesn’t feel empty. 

You sit there on the floor beside him, backs against his bed, ankles almost touching, your mind already sorting colors and bead shapes and little patterns that will sit just right on his wrist. 

He doesn’t know you’re planning more than one—one for him, one to keep, maybe a third for his grandma if she lets you measure her too—but that’s fine.

Saturday arrives with heat already in the air and a list in his grandma’s neat cursive sitting on the kitchen table. You’re halfway through a biscuit, swinging one leg under your chair, when she taps the paper with her fingertip.

“Farmer’s market day,” she says. “I’d go myself, but these knees are fussin’. So I’m sendin’ the two of you.”

You blink, crumbs sticking to your lip gloss. “Like… to sell things? To strangers?”

“That’s generally how markets work,” she replies mildly.

Remmick is rinsing a mug at the sink, shoulders twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “I can handle it, Grandma. She don’t have to—”

“Hush.” Grandma cuts him off with a look, then smiles at you. “You help load the truck. He’ll show you how to set up. Smile pretty, be polite, don’t let nobody short you on change.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” you mutter, even as interest sparks in your chest. “I wasn’t told there’d be math.”

“There’s a cash box and a calculator,” she says. “You’ll live.”

The drive into town feels different with the truck bed stacked high—crates of tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, jars of pickles and preserves lined carefully in milk crates, a couple of cartons of eggs if they don’t crack on the way. 

You sit close enough that your bare thigh brushes the worn denim on his leg every time the truck hits a bump.

“I’m gonna mess this up,” you announce as the town limit sign passes. “I’ve never sold… anything that grew out of the ground.”

“You sold your bracelets,” he points out, one hand steady on the wheel.

“That’s different. Those were sparkly. Nobody gets excited over… zucchini.”

“Lot of folks do,” he says, amused. “Just gotta find the right ones.”

Stalls line the town square by the time you arrive, a scattered patchwork of tents and tables. Some vendors are already talking with customers. Others are still unloading. The air smells like kettle corn, grilled something, and sun-warmed fruit. You hop down from the truck, shading your eyes with your hand.

“It’s… cute,” you say. “Like a tiny festival, but with more vegetables and less glitter.”

He chuckles under his breath and starts unloading, motioning toward the folding table strapped in the back. 

You help, in your own way—dragging the legs out, getting one corner stuck, almost pinching your fingers until he steps in behind you and fixes it with a practiced thump.

“Here,” he murmurs, sliding the table into place. “We’ll set the stuff up in rows. Tomatoes up front, jars in the back so nobody knocks ’em over.”

Arrangement is something you understand. While he hauls crates, you start playing with display—tilting baskets, lining up jars, making little pyramids of squash that you insist look artistic. He watches you fuss with the tomatoes until one of them rolls off and you squeak, catching it at the last second.

“You’re stressin’ yourself out,” he says, setting a crate beside you. “Folks are just here to buy dinner.”

“They’ll buy more if it’s pretty,” you reply, concentrating hard. “Presentation matters.”

The first few customers wander over just as you’re finishing your third tomato pyramid. An older couple inspects the cucumbers. A dad with two toddlers in tow asks about eggs. You freeze for a beat, suddenly hyper-aware of the cash box, the prices Grandma scribbled, the fact this is all very real.

Remmick steps in smoothly, voice calm and friendly as he answers questions. He weighs produce on the hanging scale, counts out change with practiced ease, nods and thanks and smiles in that quiet way of his. 

You stand beside him, trying to look like you’re helping. When someone asks a price, you glance at him. When someone hands cash, you double-check the amount in your head twice before handing it back.

The first time you try to talk, the words come out slightly jumbled. “Our tomatoes are… round.” You want to disappear.

A woman with a reusable bag raises a brow. “I’d hope so, sugar.”

Blood rushes to your face. “I mean—ripe. Very… juicy. Organically… sun… kissed.”

Behind you, Remmick clears his throat like he’s choking on a laugh. Somehow, the woman still ends up buying a pound and asking if you’ll be here next week.

After a few more sales, your panic fades enough to notice something important: people like attention. They like being seen, complimented, handled gently. That you can do.

A man hesitates by the pickles, frowning at the label. “My wife’s picky,” he says. “Never can get the brine right.”

“They smell amazing,” you tell him honestly, leaning a little closer to the jar. “Way better than the store ones. And they look so cute on a shelf? Very old-fashioned kitchen vibes. Your wife’ll think you’re thoughtful.”

He blinks, taken off guard. “You think so?”

“Definitely.” You nod, bracelets clinking as you gesture. “Plus the jar is great. She can reuse it. It’s like a two-for-one.”

He buys two jars.

A teenager hovers near the squash, clearly sent on an errand. He mutters something about not knowing which ones his mom likes. 

You grin, hand on your hip. “Grab these,” you say, plucking three that look particularly nice. “They’re pretty and they’ll roast up real nice. Your mom’ll think you paid attention.”

His shoulders relax. “Yeah? Thanks.”

More customers wander by. You start calling people “hon,” smiling wide, telling one woman her hat is adorable, another that her nails “totally match the peaches”. People laugh, linger, buy more than they planned. You forget you were nervous.

Remmick watches you out of the corner of his eye between weighing produce and making change. He notices how quickly people warm up to you, how your silly compliments taper their edges, how they walk away smiling. More than once, someone says, “She’s good for business,” and he agrees quietly in his head.

Mid-morning, the sun climbs higher. You fan yourself with the paper list while he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. 

A trio of local girls wanders through the stalls, giggling among themselves. One of them—a dark-haired woman in cutoffs and a tank top—spots your table and veers toward it with interest.

“Hey, Remmick,” she says, voice bright. “Didn’t know you’d be working the market today.”

He looks up from the cash box. “Mornin’, Aaliyah.”

She sidles closer, resting her hand on the edge of the table. “These your grandma’s?” she asks, glancing at the vegetables, then back at his face. “They look good. You been takin’ care of ’em?”

He nods, shifting his weight. “Best I can.”

“You always do.” Her smile turns a shade softer. “Remember when you helped my daddy fix that flat on the highway? He still says you saved him a tow.”

“That was a while back,” he says. “Wasn’t nothin’.”

She laughs lightly. “You’re always sayin’ that.”

There’s a familiar ease between them, small-town history layered in their words. You stand a little straighter, attention drawn like a magnet. Her elbow leans on the table, bringing her closer to him. Her lashes flutter just a fraction more than necessary.

“You here every Saturday now?” she asks. “Maybe I’ll have to swing by more.”

The little pinch in your chest arrives so suddenly you almost miss it. It’s not big. Just a tight, low curl of something unfamiliar that makes your smile waver. Your gaze flicks from her arm, to how near her hand is to his, to his mouth when he answers.

“Far as I know,” he says. “Grandma likes the company.”

She hums, eyes sliding down his chest for a second. “You look good behind a table.”

Heat creeps up your neck. That’s your thought.

Without thinking, you shift closer to him, shoulder brushing his arm. It’s a small movement, but you feel it—staking space, sliding into his orbit. One hand rests lightly on the stack of jars, fingers inches from his. Your body angles toward him instead of the stand.

Aaliyah’s gaze flicks to you then, just noticing you’re there. “You helpin’ out today?” she asks, voice polite in that way that makes it clear she’s trying to place you.

“I am,” you say, bright and sweet. “His grandma sent us. He’s the muscle, I’m the… marketing.”

Her eyes sweep over your gloss, your bracelets, your not-at-all practical outfit. Something sharp passes through them before her expression smooths. “You from around here?”

You tip your head, replying with your home city. “Temporary exile.”

That earns a tiny, reluctant smile. “Well. Welcome to the middle of nowhere.”

You smile back, but the pinch in your chest doesn’t fade. It sits there, simmering quietly while she buys a few tomatoes and a jar of pickles. She touches his forearm when she hands him the cash, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“We’re having a cookout tonight,” she says lightly. “You should come by. Mama would love to see you.”

“Got chores tonight,” he answers. “Maybe another time.”

“Don’t wait too long.” Her glance skims over you once more. “Nice to meet you.”

She walks off with her friends, laughter trailing behind them.

For a moment, the sounds of the market go a little muffled around the edges. You stare at the space where she was standing, then at the spot on his arm where she touched him. The feeling in your chest twists, not painfully, but insistent.

He starts stacking change back into the box, jaw a touch tighter than before. “Aaliyah’s family’s had land near ours for years,” he says after a moment, like he needs to explain. “We all grew up ’round here.”

“That’s cool,” you say. The words come out light, breezy, practiced. “She’s pretty.”

He glances at you, brows pulling in. “Guess so.”

There’s a beat of silence. You adjust a basket that doesn’t need adjusting, suddenly annoyed at the way your bracelets feel too tight on your wrist.

“She definitely likes you,” slips out before you can stop it.

Color rises along his neck. “She likes flirtin’ with anything that can swing a hammer.”

“Oh.” Your mouth twists. “So that’s… community service flirting.”

He huffs, something close to a laugh, but his eyes stay on you a second longer, trying to read what’s underneath your tone. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.” Your smile feels a little stiff around the edges. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Tomatoes,” you say quickly. “And customer engagement. And how I’m probably gonna need you to carry me to the truck when my feet give out.”

He watches you quietly, like he can see there’s more but doesn’t know how to reach it yet. Another customer approaches and the moment dissolves under questions about cucumbers and exact change.

Still, as the morning wears on and you go back to calling people “hon” and telling them their kids are cute and their hats are iconic, that small pinch of jealousy sits right where it started, a new, sharp little awareness.

You care that other people look at him.

And that means something you’re not quite ready to say out loud yet.

The truck rumbles along the back road on the way back, windows cracked just enough to let hot air snake through, carrying the faint smell of dust and whatever’s left of the market on your clothes—kettle corn, tomatoes, sun.

You’re slumped against the passenger door, legs tired, bracelets resting quiet on your wrist for once. The cash box is wedged between your feet on the floorboard, no longer terrifying now that you’ve survived a whole morning of using it without losing anyone’s change.

Beside you, Remmick drives one-handed, the other arm resting along the open window frame. His shirt is damp at the front, collar dark with sweat, hair a little flattened from the heat. He looks tired in a good way. 

Your brain is not calm.

The moment with Aaliyah keeps replaying in your head like a loop: her leaning in, hand on his arm, easy little laugh that said I know you and I’ve known you a long time. Your eyes keep flicking to that forearm, resting now on the wheel, skin dusted with sun and faint pale lines from old scrapes. 

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. But the pinch in your chest hasn’t gone away.

The quiet stretches until it feels too big.

“I didn’t like that lady touching your arm,” you blurt.

The words drop into the cab like a rock in water. Both of you go still for half a second. You feel your face heat so fast it’s like someone turned you toward the sun.

“I mean—oh my God,” you groan, bringing a hand to your forehead. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand tighten briefly on the wheel. He glances over, brows raised. “Aaliyah?”

“Yes, Aaliyah,” you say, sinking lower in your seat. “Little hometown cutie with the nice crop. I know she’s nice, whatever. I just… didn’t like her touching you. It made my chest feel weird.”

His expression shifts—surprise first, then something softer. “We’ve known each other since we were kids,” he says slowly. “She’s like that with everybody.”

“I’m not everybody,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

He goes quiet again. The road hums underneath the truck, trees blurring past in green smears. You roll your glossed lips together, wishing you could stuff everything you just said back into your mouth.

“Sorry,” you add quickly. “That was possessive. And weird. You’re allowed to have your arm touched. By whoever. I don’t own your arm. It’s a free arm.”

He huffs, a short surprised laugh that loosens something in the air. “A free arm,” he repeats.

“Yes,” you say, doubling down because you’re committed now. “I’m pro–free arm.”

He shakes his head, a half-smile curling at his mouth before fading into something more thoughtful. “I didn’t think anything of it,” he says. “Didn’t feel nothin’ special when she did that. Just regular talkin’.”

“You didn’t?” you ask, glancing over, unable to help yourself.

His eyes flick from the road to you and back again. “No,” he says simply. “I don’t… look at her that way.”

The pinch in your chest eases, just a little. You look down at your hands, twisting one of your bracelets between your fingers. “Okay.”

He waits a beat. “You jealous?” His tone isn’t mocking, just curious, like he’s holding something gentle in his hands and trying not to crush it.

You think about lying. It would be easy to laugh it off, to say no, to claim you were just being territorial about the table or the produce or some nonsense. But your mouth chooses honesty before your brain can censor it.

“Yeah,” you say, voice low. “Maybe a little. I didn’t like how she looked at you. Like she already had half a claim.”

His grip shifts on the wheel. The truck dips over a small rise in the road. “You’re the one who put your shoulder on me soon as she came over.”

You blink, startled. “You noticed that?”

“Hard not to when you got all up in my space,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. If anything, he sounds pleased. “I didn’t mind.”

You stare out the windshield, a smile pulling at your mouth despite your best effort to stay mildly irritated. “Good,” you say. “Because I’m probably gonna keep doing that.”

He doesn’t answer right away. 

The farmhouse slides into view, the white siding catching late light, porch newly painted, fields rolling out behind it. He turns into the drive, dust puffing under the tires.

“I don’t mind,” he says finally, voice quieter. “When it’s you.”

The truck rolls to a stop in front of the house. Instead of pulling around the side like he sometimes does, he leaves it right there, engine idling for a moment before he cuts it. The sudden quiet clicks in your ears.

Through the front window, you can see a flicker of movement—curtains, maybe his grandma passing by—but no one comes to the door. The world feels strangely small. Just the truck, the porch, the two of you sitting close in a suddenly too-still cab.

You turn toward him slowly. “You really didn’t like it?” you ask, softer now. “Her touching you?”

His eyes meet yours. There’s no hesitation in them this time. “Didn’t even think about it,” he says. “I was too busy watchin’ you sell my grandma’s cucumbers like they were luxury goods.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of you. “I am an excellent salesperson.”

“You are,” he agrees. “And… I was thinkin’ more ’bout you than anyone else the whole damn time.”

Heat flares in your cheeks, spreading down your neck, settling warm between your thighs. Your hand finds his arm—the free one—the same one Aaliyah touched. You rest your fingers there deliberately, thumb tracing a slow little circle on his skin.

“Well,” you say. “I like this more.”

His breath hitches. “So do I.”

The cab feels smaller by the second. You can hear your heartbeat, the faint ticking of the cooling engine, a dog barking faintly somewhere off on the road. Your aunt’s house is far enough away. His grandma is inside, probably moving around the kitchen or folding something in the living room, but she isn’t at the window right now.

You lean in without fully deciding to. He meets you halfway, lips pressing to yours in a kiss that starts off soft—testing—and then deepens quickly when you sigh against his mouth.

The angle is awkward, but you don’t care. One of your hands slides up to his jaw, thumb brushing the roughness there, while the other abandoned his arm to clutch at the front of his shirt. He tilts his head, lips parting, the kiss turning warm and a little messy as your tongue brushes his.

He makes a low sound in his throat—one of those rough, unrestrained noises he only makes when he’s stopped worrying about whether he should—and shifts closer on the bench seat. The move brings your bodies into better alignment, knees bumping, shoulders pressing.

Outside, the porch and yard sit innocently in the sun. Inside, the cab fills with the slick sound of lips moving, the small gasps you let out when his hand finds your hip, fingers squeezing just a bit tighter, thumb stroking under the hem of your shirt. 

You angle your body toward him, one leg sliding up onto the seat so you can twist closer, effectively half-kneeling as you chase his mouth.

“Remmick,” you murmur against his lips, breathing him in.

“Yeah,” he answers, his breath warm against your mouth, voice already wrecked.

“This is… kind of risky, right?” you say, though you don’t pull back, your fingers still fisted in his shirt. “Your grandma could totally walk out.”

“Windows are high,” he murmurs, but he glances at the house anyway, just long enough to check. “Can’t see the truck from the sittin’ room. I think.” His eyes flick back to you, darker now. “You wanna stop?”

“No,” you say, immediate and honest. “I like it.”

He groans softly, forehead pressing to yours for a second like he’s trying to steady himself. Then he pulls you in again, kissing you harder this time. His hand slides further around your waist, palm spreading across the small of your back, dragging you closer until your chest presses to his.

Your heart drums against your ribs. Every little sound feels loud in the cab, but not loud enough to make you let go. Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging gently at the curls at the nape of his neck. He reacts with a shuddering breath, body leaning into yours in a way that pins you between him and the steering wheel, thigh pressed firmly against the inside of your leg.

“You keep doin’ that,” he murmurs against your mouth, “and I’m gonna forget we’re parked right in front of the house.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” you whisper, grinning against his lips.

His answering smile is quick and helpless before he kisses you again, slow and deep, hand splaying fully across your lower back, thumb dipping just under the waistband of your shorts. 

Your skin prickles under his touch, heat pooling low. A small, involuntary whine slips out of you when he rolls his hips the slightest bit, not enough to be obvious, just enough for you to feel how much this is affecting him.

You’re both breathing harder now, kisses dragging longer, mouths opening, tongues brushing. Somewhere in the back of your mind is the knowledge that anyone could walk by the road and see two figures tangled in the front seat of the old truck. Somehow, that makes you press closer.

“Remmick,” you whisper again, his name turning into more breath than word.

He pulls back just a fraction, breathing as hard as you are, eyes dropping to your kiss-swollen mouth and then back up. “We should probably go inside,” he says, though his hand doesn’t move from your back. “Before I talk myself into somethin’ we don’t have time to finish.”

Your smile curves slow and warm. “Then maybe don’t talk yourself out of continuing later.”

He swallows, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing it. “Count on it.”

You steal one more quick kiss—soft, sweet, a tiny contrast to the heat you just stirred up—before you slide back properly into your seat and adjust your hair with your fingers. He clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, makes a show of checking the cash box like that was what he’d been focused on all along.

From the porch, the front door rattles faintly. His grandma’s silhouette passes by the narrow window, none the wiser.

You both get out of the truck, trying not to look as flustered as you feel.

By the time night settles in fully, the house feels smaller and quieter, like it’s wrapped in its own blanket. 

Your aunt has gone to bed already, bedroom door shut, hallway light off. The TV in the living room clicks off not long after, leaving only the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the cool.

In your room, a little pool of lamplight spills across the bedspread. On the mattress in front of you sits an old plastic organizer, each compartment filled with beads you’ve dragged from place to place since high school—glossy glass ones, matte little rounds, thin metallic tubes, imperfect stones with veins of color running through them.

You sit cross-legged in the middle of it all, a too-big sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder. Your fingers move through the beads in practiced motions, bracelets on your own wrists clinking softly as you drag them through small pools of color.

His wrist is easy to picture now. Broad, strong, just a little bigger than you expected that first time you wrapped your fingers around it on his bedroom floor. Warm under your touch. Solid in a way that makes you feel anchored.

Burnt orange and mossy green. That’s what you said. Earth tones. Something that looks like sun on old wood and pasture after rain.

Your hand hovers over a section of green glass beads—some deep and foresty, some lighter like new leaves. You pluck out a handful of the darker ones, letting them tumble into a little pile on the sheet. Next, you reach for the coppery ones—not perfect orange, but something that gleams warm when the light hits. A few antique brass spacer beads follow, small and understated, little anchors between the colors.

Thread is already cut, one end tied in a loose knot. As soon as you pick it up, your body falls back into a familiar rhythm: bead, bead, spacer, bead. Thumb and forefinger work in tiny, practiced pinches. The line slowly fills with pattern—three dark greens, one copper, three greens, one brass. You adjust spacing, squinting a little, lips pursed in concentration.

This isn’t like the bracelets you made for city girls and online customers—bright neon, chunky plastic, little gold letters spelling out inside jokes and petty phrases. This one feels quieter. More grounded. 

You don’t want anything too flashy on his wrist, nothing that wouldn’t look right when he’s out in the field with dirt on his hands and straw clinging to his shirt.

Somewhere between threading the third and fourth repeat of the pattern, your mind wanders back to the farmer’s market. His shoulders at your side, the way he weighed squash like it was second nature. The little lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Aaliyah’s hand on his arm. Your own body sliding closer to him before you even fully realized what you were doing.

Jealous. You’d actually been jealous.

The admission still makes your stomach flip a little, but not in a bad way. More in a is this what being serious feels like way. There’s a warmth in your chest now when you think of him, mixed with something possessive and something deeply, embarrassingly soft.

The bracelet grows, inch by inch, as the pattern repeats. Every now and then, you pause to wrap the half-finished length around your own wrist, gauging whether it looks right, picturing how it’ll sit on his. You remember the way his pulse felt under your thumb when you were “measuring”—steady and strong—and add another green bead, another flash of copper, a brass piece to break the rhythm.

A small piece of you is tempted to make it too tight, just so he has to stretch it over his hand and think of you when it snaps into place. In the end, you leave it a little looser, knowing he likes room to move.

When the length seems right, you tie it off carefully, fingers working the knot close and tight. The ends get trimmed, the excess tucked neatly away. The finished bracelet lies in your palm, a neat little circle of moss and rust and warm metal, catching the lamplight in soft glints.

On the blanket beside you, your phone lights up for a second with a random notification. 

For half a breath, you wonder what he’s doing right now—lying in his own room across the fields, maybe on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking too much like he always does. Maybe thinking about you. Maybe replaying the way you leaned into him in the truck, how your hand felt on his arm, how your mouth tasted.

The bracelet rests against your bracelets on your own wrist for a moment as you slip it on to test the look. It fits a little loose on you, beads clicking softly as you twist it. Two of them sit right over the bones on the top of your wrist, shining green and copper in the light.

It feels right. 

You slip it back off, rolling it between your fingers before reaching for the little cloth bag you keep your nicer pieces in. 

The bracelet goes inside gently, tucked safely among other small treasures. A silly thought creeps up—wrapping it, or putting it in his palm and closing his fingers around it, or slipping it on him yourself, thumb pressing against his skin afterward in a way that makes his breath trip.

Sleep creeps up around the edges of your mind, soft and insistent. Beads get poured back into their compartments. The thread is wound up and tucked away. The organizer closes with a faint snap and gets set aside on your nightstand, the little bag with his bracelet placed next to your phone, where you’ll be sure to see it in the morning.

When you finally slide under the covers, the room changed from bead-strewn workspace back into a simple bedroom.

The bracelet rides in your pocket all morning.

You keep reaching down to thumb the little cloth bag, feeling the shape of the beads through the fabric as you walk up the drive. 

Sun climbs slow and steady over the fields, burning off the last of the dew, and the farmhouse looks so normal that it feels almost unreal to be hiding something small and precious in the pocket of your shorts. 

You tell yourself you’ll give it to him after chores. Or before lunch. Or when you finally stop chickening out.

Remmick is already busy when you get there, boots planted in the dirt beside the barn. He’s got a post-hole digger sunk into the ground, shoulders working as he pulls and lifts and twists. 

You stand there for a second just watching him, your fingers curled loosely around the bracelet bag.

“Morning,” you call.

He glances up, expression easing in a way you feel more than see. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m fixin’ that corner fence after I feed the cows. You can go say hi to the horses if you want. I’ll meet you in the barn after I’m done here.”

“Okay,” you say, relief warm in your chest. You can give it to him in the barn, you decide. Horses around you, him close, your hand on his—all very romantic. Extremely cottagecore.

You head toward the barn, sneakers kicking little puffs of dust, the smell of hay and animals growing stronger with each step. Inside, it’s cooler than the yard, shadowed and familiar. Dust motes float in shafts of light cutting through the open doors. You hear a soft snort, the shuffle of hooves, the faint clink of a chain.

“Hi, babies,” you murmur, slipping down the aisle between stalls. “It’s just me. I’m here to gossip.”

You pause at each stall: a gelding who pushes his nose against the bars for a scratch, another who tosses his head like he’s above all this. 

Then you reach the one you always drift back to—your favorite mare. A broad, gentle creature with a pale mane and a blessfully patient expression who decided she liked you on the first day you gave her an apple behind Remmick’s back.

“Hey, pretty girl,” you coo, already reaching up to touch her nose. “I missed you. Did you have the most boring night without me?”

She doesn’t come over.

She stands in the back of the stall, shifting her weight, head low. Her flanks twitch. There’s a sheen of sweat along her neck that glistens in the strip of light from the window. Her tail flicks once, twice. She lets out a deep, restless huff, then stamps gently and turns in a tight little circle.

Your heart stutters.

“Hey,” you say, voice softening with concern. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You step closer, fingers wrapping around the stall door. Up close, she looks all wrong—too fidgety, eyes a little wild, sides working harder than usual. She doesn’t nuzzle your hand like normal. She flicks an ear and shifts again, almost bumping the wall.

Panic spikes sharp and fast.

“Remmick?” you call, but it comes out thin, too quiet. You swallow, throat tight. 

Maybe she’s overheated. Maybe she ate something bad. Maybe something is really, really wrong and you didn’t notice soon enough because you were out here thinking about bracelets and kissing him in trucks and—

Your eyes sting.

You spin on your heel and practically run back down the aisle, tripping a little over a stray bucket and catching yourself on the wall. Outside, the light feels too bright all at once, the air too hot. Remmick is still by the fence line, but the second he sees you barreling toward him with your face crumpled and your breath hitching, his whole body goes alert.

“Hey,” he says, dropping the digger and stepping toward you. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s sick,” you blurt, grabbing his sleeve, fingers tightening like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “Your mare—my mare—the one I like—she’s in her stall and she’s all sweaty and restless and she won’t come to the fence and she’s breathing funny and I think she’s dying, Remmick, I think—”

Your voice cracks. Tears sting harder now that you’ve said it out loud. Some part of you knows you’re spiraling, but the image of her shifting and blowing and not looking like herself is stuck in your head with flashing alarm bells around it.

“Alright, slow down,” he says quickly, hand coming up to rest warm and steady on your shoulder. “Which stall?”

You tug on his arm like that’ll make his legs move faster. “The fourth one down, the girl with the white blaze. She looks really bad, Remmick, I’m serious—”

He doesn’t waste another second arguing. He follows you at a fast walk toward the barn, strides longer than yours. You stay glued to his side, breath hitching, your hand still latched onto the crook of his elbow like a lifeline.

Inside, you point with a shaking finger. “There.”

He approaches the stall calmly, not rushing, not flinging the door open like you half expect him to. He leans on the wood, eyes scanning the mare with a practiced, assessing gaze—head, sides, legs, the way she carries herself.

She shifts again, lets out that low restless snort, paws lightly at the straw. Her tail flicks. Her sides ripple in a wave that makes you catch your breath.

“See?” you say, voice wobbly. “She’s freaking out. She never freaks out. Did she get out? Did she eat something? Is she—”

He lifts a hand, palm up, a gentle gesture that puts your words to rest. “Easy.”

Those brown eyes soften as he watches the mare, piecing together small signs you can’t read. Then, to your surprise, his mouth curves slightly.

“She’s fine,” he says.

Your jaw drops. “She is not fine. She looks miserable.”

He glances at you, amused despite himself. “She’s uncomfortable,” he agrees. “But she ain’t sick.”

“How do you know?” you demand, already bracing for him to list ten horrible farm illnesses she could have that you don’t know about.

He points with his chin. “Watch her sides.”

The mare shivers along her flank again, skin rippling, muscles tightening and relaxing in a way you recognize suddenly, like a memory snapping into place.

Remmick shifts his hand to your back, thumb brushing absently along your spine in a soothing little motion. “She’s in foal,” he says gently. “Remember? I told you couple weeks back that she was bred. That belly’s been gettin’ bigger every time we come through.”

You blink, mind flipping back to some earlier conversation when you probably nodded along while thinking more about his hands than his words. “You said she was pregnant,” you manage. “But I thought that was in, like… horse months. I didn’t know it was now.”

“Gestation’s about eleven months,” he says. “She’s near due. Been keepin’ an eye on her. She’s just feelin’ those contractions startin’ to warm up.”

The word lands heavy and surprising. “Contractions,” you echo, staring at the mare with new eyes.

“She ain’t all the way into labor or I’d have her in the foaling stall,” he adds. “But she’s gettin’ close. That’s why she won’t settle. Body’s practicin’ for the real thing.”

You stoop a little, peering through the bars, suddenly noticing all the details you missed in your panic—the way her udder looks fuller, the slightly hollowed spot in front of her hips, the waxy little beads at the tips of her teats. 

It all clicks in a messy collage of google searches you did years ago on bored nights, half-watching animal videos and half-texting friends.

“But she’s okay?” you ask, voice small.

“She’s okay,” he repeats, steady as a promise. “Uncomfortable. Probably a little cranky. But not in danger. We’ll keep checkin’ on her. If anything looks off, I know who to call.”

The relief hits so hard your knees go a little weak. You sag against the stall door, forehead nearly touching the wood. “Oh my God. I thought she was dying and I was gonna have to plan a funeral.”

He laughs quietly, hand still warm at your back. “You really thought the worst.”

“I like her,” you protest, lifting your head, eyes already damp. “She likes me. We have a bond. You didn’t see her face, she looked so miserable. And horses… can, like, colic and stuff. And twist their insides. And just… drop.”

He nods, serious again. “They can. You’re right to be watchful. But see how she’s still movin’? Still interested in what’s goin’ on around her? She ain’t checked out. That’s good. She’s just ridin’ it out.”

You sniff, wiping beneath one eye with the back of your wrist. “I almost started crying.”

“I noticed,” he says, soft. There’s no teasing in it, just this warm thread of fondness that makes your cheeks heat for a different reason. “Means you care. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

You study the mare again, the lines of her body, the strong curve of her neck. “She’s gonna have a baby.”

“She is,” he says. “Wanna feel ‘em kick?”

Your eyes widen. “I can do that?”

He nods, unhooking the stall latch and slipping inside with quiet, confident steps. The mare turns toward him, recognizing his scent, ears flicking forward. He murmurs something low under his breath, a soothing string of nonsense and her name, hand running down her neck.

“C’mere,” he calls softly to you.

You hesitate at the doorway. “What if I mess something up?”

“You won’t,” he says. “I’m right here.”

You step inside, heart in your throat, hyper-aware of the big animal beside you. He takes your wrist gently and guides your hand to the mare’s side, pressing your palm flat against the curve of her belly, just in front of where she begins to slope toward her hindquarters.

“Hold it there,” he says. “It might not do anythin’ right away. Just wait.”

You do. For a few seconds, all you feel is warmth, the rise and fall of her breath, the shifting of muscles as she shifts her weight. You’re just about to say you don’t feel anything when something nudges against your hand from the inside—a firm, brief bump, like someone tapped once and withdrew.

Your breath catches. “Oh.”

He smiles, watching your face more than her side. “Feel that?”

“They kicked,” you whisper, eyes wide, voice reverent. “There’s, like, a whole horse in there.”

“A whole horse,” he nods lightly. 

You keep your hand there a moment longer, hoping for another nudge. The mare shifts again, letting out a deeper sigh that sounds less distressed now that you know what’s happening. You look up at Remmick, palm still on the horse’s side, your other hand resting against his forearm where he stands close.

“Next time she looks like that,” you say softly, “you’re supposed to tell me she’s pregnant before I have a breakdown.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Thought I had.”

“Well, say it louder,” you huff, though there’s no real bite behind it. “She’s very important to me.”

He studies you in that quiet way he has. “I’m startin’ to realize you’re very important to her too.”

You look away before you can melt entirely, patting the mare’s side once more.

“Do we… stay with her?” you ask. “Like… when she has it?”

“If we can,” he says. “Sometimes they foal in the middle of the night just to be difficult. But I’ll show you signs when we’re closer. If she starts waxin’ heavier, layin’ down a lot, lookin’ at her sides more, we’ll move her where it’s safer.”

You nod, absorbing each detail with more focus than you’ve ever given any classroom lecture. He squeezes your wrist very gently before letting go.

“C’mon,” he says. “We’ll check her through the day. For now, she’s alright.”

You step out of the stall, glancing back once at the mare, who flicks an ear and seems almost smug now that your panic has been replaced by awe. 

His room is warm that night, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint hum of cicadas. 

You’ve been pacing for the better part of ten minutes, socks sliding on the old wood floor as you leap from topic to topic—your aunt’s casserole, the mare’s baby, the weird dream you had last night, whether horses know they’re pregnant, whether roosters have feelings, whether you should get a haircut.

Remmick lies stretched across the bed, back propped against the headboard, damp hair curling where it meets his neck. He’d showered earlier while you watched TV with his grandma before she left for her sister’s for the night.

He has a book open in his hands, but it’s been stuck on the same paragraph for the last five minutes because he’s listening to you—not interrupting, not telling you to slow down, just following every twist your mind takes with that soft half-smile he does when he’s trying not to show how fond he is.

“You know what I learned today?” you say suddenly, spinning on your heel, bracelets jingling. “Baby horses have to stand up, like, immediately. Imagine if human babies did that. I would simply pass out—”

You stop dead.

Like a light flicking on in your head, you remember.

“Oh! Oh my God—come here.”

Before he can ask, you cross the room in three quick steps and climb straight into his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, the book nearly knocked from his hands. 

His breath catches a little—not in shock, just in that way he does when you surprise him in ways he secretly likes.

“Well—hi,” he murmurs, steadying the book so it doesn’t fall. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you say, leaning forward so your chest brushes his, fingers diving into the pocket of your shorts. “I forgot something. Well I didn’t forget, I just—remembered that I forgot to give you something.”

He blinks up at you, hands hovering lightly at your hips because he still asks permission with his body even when you’re sitting on him. “Give me what?”

You pull the little cloth bag out and plop it right onto his chest with a soft thud.

“This!”

He places the book aside carefully, one brow raised, then pinches the drawstrings between two fingers. “What’s this for?”

“Just open it,” you say, grinning, palms pressed flat against his warm shoulders like you need to hold him in place.

He loosens the ties and tips the bag, letting the bracelet slide into his palm—a circle of mossy green and warm copper and antique brass that glints softly in the lamplight. 

You watch his face shift—surprise first, then something softer. Something that makes your stomach swoop.

“For me?” he asks, almost quiet.

“Obviously,” you say, flicking his forehead lightly. “Who else has wrists that size around here? It’s custom. Don’t lose it.”

He turns it in his hand, thumb brushing over the beads as though he’s afraid they’ll bruise. “Did you make this last night,” he asks.

You shrug, pretending your heart isn’t pounding. “Maybe.”

His eyes lift back to yours, softer than you’re ready for. “It’s real pretty.”

“It’s supposed to be,” you reply, leaning back enough for him to see it on you for comparison, then tapping his wrist. “Give me your arm.”

He offers it, hesitant but obedient. You slide the bracelet up over his hand, working it past his knuckles until it settles against his skin. Perfect fit—exactly the size you memorized when you pretended to “measure” him with your fingers.

The sight hits you harder than expected. It looks… right. Like it belongs there.

He turns his arm over, watching the beads catch the light. Then his other hand rises to your thigh, steady but gentle, anchoring you.

“I’ve never had jewelry before,” he admits, voice low. “Not real jewelry, anyway. Never thought anyone’d make me somethin’ like this.”

Your throat tightens—embarrassingly sentimental. You try to cover it by checking your nails. “Well, now you do. Because you’re important.”

His eyes lift fast. “To who?”

“To me,” you say without thinking—soft, honest, dangerously close to too much.

His breath leaves him in one quiet exhale, like he felt the words land somewhere deep. You shift a little in his lap, suddenly aware of every place your body touches his—the warmth of his chest under your palms, the subtle rise and fall of his breath, the way his thighs tense slightly beneath you.

The bracelet rests on his wrist, perfect and still glowing in the lamplight.

“You like it?” you ask, softer now.

He doesn’t look away from you when he answers.

“I love it.”

His thumb strokes once along your thigh, slow and uncertain, like he’s testing whether he’s allowed to want more. 

You lean in before he can second-guess himself, mouth brushing his in a soft, warm kiss that deepens almost immediately.

He exhales hard through his nose, fingers tightening around your hips as if the feel of you settling fully into his lap hits him all at once. 

The bracelet you made clinks softly as he moves his hand to your waist, the beads catching the lamplight with every shift.

You kiss him again—fuller, hungrier, lips parting against his. He meets you halfway, a quiet sound slipping out of him as your tongue traces the seam of his mouth. His hands slide up your back, fingertips skimming under the hem of your shirt before pushing it higher.

Your body leans into him instinctively, chest pressed against his, thighs tightening around his hips. The connection pulls a soft gasp from your lips, swallowed quickly by another kiss, slower now, deeper, like he’s letting himself drown in it.

His book is long forgotten on the bed beside him. The only thing he’s holding now is you.

When your fingers slide into his hair, tugging lightly at the ends, something in him breaks loose. He lifts his hips just a fraction—barely a shift, but enough to let you feel the heat building between you. 

One hand slips to the small of your back, guiding you down as he slides lower, shoulders inching off the headboard until his spine meets the mattress. You go with him easily, still straddling him, still kissing him like the air in the room belongs to both of you.

Your hands plant on the mattress beside his head as he settles beneath you, chest rising under yours in steady, hungry breaths. He looks up at you for half a second—eyes dark, lips swollen, hair mussed—and whatever softness lived in the moment before melts into something heavier, closer to a need he doesn’t have words for yet.

You lower yourself until you’re flush against him again, your breasts pressed to his chest, your hips snug over his. The kiss turns messy—your mouths sliding, your breath mixing, his hands exploring your waist.

“Come here,” he murmurs against your lips, voice concentrated and breathless.

“I am here,” you whisper, kissing him again, deeper now, rolling your hips just enough to make him gasp into your mouth.

His head tips back against the pillow, throat exposed, lashes fluttering. You trail a slow kiss along the edge of his jaw, then down to the warm skin beneath his ear. His hands grip your hips harder at the sensation, fingertips digging in through the thin fabric of your shorts.

“Darlin’…” His voice cracks on the word, soft and helpless.

You smile against his neck, breath warm on his skin as you grind down the smallest bit, the heat of him pressing perfectly beneath you, trapped and growing harder by the second.

His chest lifts into yours on instinct, body arching up for more contact, seeking it without thinking. Your bracelets slide against his collarbone, tiny chimes marking every delicious shift of your weight.

When you lift your head to kiss him again, he meets you halfway—mouth warm, eager, unsteady, his breath mixing with yours in rushed little sighs that make your stomach twist with something sharp and hungry.

He’s not shy with his hands anymore. Not with you leaning over him like this. Not with your bodies lined up and your heartbeat pushing against his ribs.

Your palms slide down the sides of his torso, feeling the heat beneath his shirt, the firmness of his stomach as he pulls you closer, like he’s savoring every second he gets to have your weight on top of him.

The bracelet glints on his wrist each time he cups your waist, and the sight of it—your work on his skin—only pushes you closer, your hips sinking down to meet the hard shape beneath his jeans again.

He gasps into your mouth. You bite lightly at his lower lip. 

His hands roam your sides with a tentative hunger, fingers pushing your shirt higher, thumbs brushing the bare skin just under your ribs.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and the friction catches you just right, sending a sharp, hot pulse through your body that makes your breath hitch against his mouth. 

He murmurs your name, voice low and frayed at the edges, and you whisper his back,  biting his lower lip gently before soothing the skin with your tongue. 

You lean back enough to tug your shirt up over your head, hair brushing his chest as the fabric slides away. His eyes follow the motion, going dark when your bare skin is revealed. Whatever air was left in his lungs leaves in a quiet rush when he sees your tits in the soft lamplight, nipples tightening under his gaze.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless, like you didn’t just completely undo him by sitting there half-naked on his lap.

His hand rises, cupping one breast, palm warm, a little rough, thumb brushing slowly across your nipple. The soft drag makes you inhale sharply, hips shifting without you meaning to. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, helpless honesty spilling out before he can catch it.

Heat curls up your spine at the way he says it—like he’s seeing something heavenly instead of a girl who didn’t even match her sleep shorts to her nail color. 

You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, letting the weight of your chest press into his hand. His fingers tighten, thumb rolling over your nipple in clumsy circles that feel so good they make your toes curl.

You feel yourself getting wetter with every small grind of your hips, the slick heat of you dragging along the line of his erection. Your panties are damp, clinging, and the denim beneath you grows warm where your body presses down. He shifts under you, breath breaking, trying to keep still and failing.

“Remmick,” you murmur into his mouth, “take your shirt off.”

He obeys like you flipped a switch. Both hands leave you long enough to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head in one quick movement, hair musing, chest revealed.

You run your palms over him, exploring every inch you can reach. His muscles jump under your touch, especially when your fingers trace along that lines of his side.

“If you touch me there much longer,” he says, voice ragged on a soft chuckle, “I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” you say softly, smiling, even as your own pulse beats hard between your thighs. “I have a solution, though.”

His brows knit in confusion for half a second, and that’s all it takes for you to reach down and pop the button on his jeans. The zipper drags down with a soft rasp, releasing pressure. His stomach tightens under your hands.

“Lift,” you tell him.

He does, hips rising so you can shove denim and boxers down enough to get what you want. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, brushing against your inner thigh with a weight that makes your breath catch hot in your throat. 

“Lord,” he murmurs, color rising in his cheeks when he feels your gaze linger. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around the base of him, relishing the way his breath stumbles. “Like I want to sit on it?”

His hand clamps around your hip, fingers digging in. “You say things that make my head spin.”

“Good.” You give him one slow, firm stroke, feeling the heavy twitch in your grip, the way his cock swells even thicker. “Then you won’t overthink it.”

You lean over him, chest pressing into his again, lips brushing his ear. “Remember when you said you wanted me on top?”

He groans quietly, the sound raw and deep. “I do.”

“You’re about to get what you wanted,” you whisper.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment like he’s thanking every force in the universe he believes in, then snap open again when you lift your hips, shifting your weight forward. He reaches toward his nightstand automatically.

“Condom,” he says, a little breathless. “We—”

“Already on it,” you reply, twisting to snag the drawer handle and tug it open. Foil crinkles faintly as you fish out a packet and tear it with your teeth, feeling his gaze locked on you the entire time. You roll the condom down over his length with both hands, smoothing it along the veined shaft until the latex hugs every inch snugly.

He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling under yours, hands both back on your hips like he needs to hold onto something or float away.

You shift your body so you’re kneeling over him properly, his cock poised just beneath the damp crotch of your panties. Hooking your thumbs into your waistband, you strip your panties down in one fluid motion, tossing them off the side of the bed. Cool air hits your slick folds, and you shiver. 

Remmick watches it all, growing even harder at the sight.

You reach between your legs and guide him to your entrance, the thick crown nudging against you. Even just lining him up makes your body pulse, the anticipation almost unbearably sharp.

Then, with one slow, controlled movement, you sink down.

The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, stretching you around the broad width. Your mouth opens in a soft, broken sound as your body clenches, trying to accommodate the sudden fullness. 

He grabs the sheets with one hand, the other still clamped on your waist, eyes slammed shut as if he’s on the edge of something too bright.

“You’re so…” you breathe, voice trembling, trying to relax your muscles as you take him deeper, inch by thick inch. 

“Don’t say it,” he chokes out, jaw tight, eyes squeezed closed. “I’m tryin’ not to… ”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, though you can already guess what he was about to say. You sink farther, thighs trembling, feeling the drag of him inside you—rubbing against every sensitive place, forcing you to stretch around him in a way that borders on overwhelming. 

Your walls hug him tight, clutching at the intrusion of him sliding deeper and deeper until you finally bottom out, pelvis pressed to his.

You sit there for a moment, braced with your hands on his chest, both of you panting. Your pulse is everywhere—between your legs, in your throat, pounding behind your eyes.

He opens his eyes slowly, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you like he’s never seen anything more arresting. His voice comes out hoarse. “I don’t know what to do...”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say, breathless but smiling, rolling your hips just a little to feel him shift inside you. The sensation makes you gasp, your body fluttering around him. “I’ve got it.”

You lift yourself up, only an inch or two, feeling the delicious slide of him moving. The air seems to thicken around you as you drop back down, the sound of your bodies meeting a soft smack that makes his cheeks flush.

“Mercy,” he groans, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to anchor you to him. 

You begin to find a rhythm—slow lifts, deep drops, your thighs already burning with the effort, your cunt clenching greedily around that thick, perfect stretch. 

Each time you raise your hips, you feel the ridge of his head drag along a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Each time you slide back down, your body swallows him whole again, that overwhelming fullness settling deep in your belly. 

Your breath picks up, little noises falling out of you every time gravity helps you take him back in.

He watches you, utterly entranced—the bounce of your tits with each movement, the way your mouth falls open, lips shiny from kissing and parted in pleasure. His hands move from your hips to your waist, then up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in circles that make your back arch.

“You look…” He swallows hard, words failing. “You look… so good up there.”

“You like it?” you ask, managing to breathe the words out between moans.

“I—love it,” he admits, voice cracking. “Been thinkin’ about this since the first time I ever saw you walk through that barn door.”

The confession makes something molten slip down your spine. 

You push yourself a little harder, picking up the pace—riding him with more confidence, more need, letting your body chase the friction you’ve been hungry for. The sounds grow louder, your slick coating him where he disappears into you, dripping down to the base of his cock.

You reach between your legs without really thinking, your fingers finding your clit as you bounce in his lap. The added pressure sends a sharp jolt of pleasure racing through you. A gasp tears from your throat.

Your thighs tremble, the muscles starting to shake from both effort and rising pleasure.

He can’t help it anymore—his hips start to move, thrusting up to meet your rhythm. It throws you a little higher each time, makes him drive deeper, thick cock hitting that sweet spot so directly you almost see white. The bed creaks softly beneath you. The bracelet on his wrist flashes each time his hands grab your waist and pull you down harder, greedier.

You lean forward to kiss him, swallowing his broken moan as you grind down harder. Your chest presses to his, your nipples dragging across his skin with every movement, pleasure sparking everywhere you touch.

Your rhythm begins to fall apart from how close you are. Your fingers on your clit move almost frantically now, little circles matching the erratic thrusts of his hips. Your body tightens around him, walls clamping down as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

“I’m… oh God, I’m close,” you gasp, forehead pressing to his. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop—”

His grip on you firms, fingers digging into your waist as he drives up into you with a desperate, uneven rhythm, clearly hanging by a thread. “I’m right there with you,” he manages. 

Heat unspools through you in a rush, your body seizing around him as a sharp, broken cry spills from your mouth. 

Your cunt pulses around his cock in tight, rhythmic waves, milking him, pulling him deeper as your body shakes in his lap. Your thighs clamp around his hips, muscles trembling as you shudder and gasp against his mouth.

He lasts maybe two thrusts more.

The feel of you convulsing around him, squeezing him so hard it almost hurts, drags him straight over the edge. 

His head falls back, a moan ripping from his chest, breathless and raw. His cock throbs inside you, thick pulses shooting heat into the condom as he comes hard, hips jerking helplessly up into your still-clenching body.

He groans, voice ragged, hands pulling you down to keep you as close as possible while his release floods out of him.

You ride it out together. You, shaking and whimpering, still grinding slowly through the aftershocks as your orgasm rolls over you in lingering waves. Him, buried deep, moaning into your shoulder, body trembling beneath you as each twitch of your walls wrings another broken sound from his throat.

Eventually, the intensity ebbs into something softer. Your fingers slip away from your clit, trembling. Your breaths sync slowly, chests rising and falling together, sweat cooling on your skin where you’re pressed so tightly you might as well be one person.

You stay like that for a long moment—still joined, still full of him, his cock softening gradually but still snug inside you, your body reluctant to let go.

He runs one shaking hand up your spine, pausing at the back of your neck to cradle it gently. The bracelet glints at his wrist, beads catching the lamplight as his thumb strokes your skin.

“You alright?” he asks, voice hoarse and quiet, like he’s afraid to break the spell.

You lift your head just enough to look down at him, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes hazy with satisfaction. A slow smile curves across your face.

“I’m perfect,” you say. “You rode that… very well.”

His cheeks redden. “I thought you were the one… ridin’.”

“I was,” you say, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “But you helped.”

His chest shakes with a breathy laugh, and his arms wrap around you fully now, pulling you down to rest against him. He’s still inside you, still warm, still exactly where you want him.

And with your body lax over his, your bracelet on his wrist, and his hands splayed over your back, it’s very clear that this was more than a position he wanted to try.

standing missionary . back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist

remmick's got you hoisted like you weigh nothing, hands locked under your thighs, your back slammed flat to the wall while your legs cinch tight around his waist. every thrust rocks your whole body, makes the plaster shudder behind you, his hips snapping forward like he’s trying to fuck you through it.

his shirt’s half off, sleeves bunched at his elbows, chest slick with sweat and heaving with every breath. curls plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched so hard it trembles, lips parted and shaking as he pants through his teeth.

your arms are looped tight around his neck, nails digging in while you moan straight into his ear, breath hot and messy.

he’s got you split open, cock stuffed to the hilt, fat and thick and dragging through your cunt like it owns the place. the head keeps smushing against your cervix every time he rolls his hips forward, making your body jolt and your pussy gush around him.

every time you clench, your cunt fluttering tight around him, he lets out this pathetic little whine, like the sound is ripped straight out of his chest. his cock twitches hard inside you, pulsing like it’s begging to blow.

“you feel—you feel too damn good,” he stammers, breath hitching, forehead knocking against yours. his whole body’s shaking now.

you lock your legs tighter around him and he shudders hard, cockhead slamming even deeper into your guts, a strained, broken gasp tearing out of him as his voice pitches high and desperate.

“ohh—lord—don’t—don’t squeeze me like that—”

but he doesn’t stop. he keeps fucking you harder, faster, hips smacking into yours, sweat dripping down both of you, thighs trembling from the effort of holding you up while he fucks you.

you drag your mouth along his jaw, whisper his name all sweet and ruined, and that does him in.

he moans straight into your neck, loud and breathy and gone, cock throbbing inside you while your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to milk him dry.

pronebone. face in the sheets, ass arched

you’re face‑down in his bed, cheek mashed into the pillow, spit soaking the fabric while your whole body goes slack under him.

the only thing moving is your ass—jerking forward over and over from how deep he’s fucking you.

your thighs are pressed together, cunt drooling slick, back bowed just enough for him to stay buried at that brutal angle that knocks the breath straight out of your lungs every time he slams home.

he’s over you, hands locked on your hips, thumbs digging into your lower back like he’s anchoring you in place. his cock is drilling into your soaked, swollen pussy, slow and heavy, grinding in deep enough that you can feel the length of him dragging along that spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes.

“m’gonna lose it,” he pants, voice wrecked, breath shaking.

his chest is heaving above you, pecs bouncing hard with every thrust, sweat dripping off him and onto your back.

your cunt is a mess. cum from earlier keeps leaking out around the base of his cock and he just fucks it back in, grinding harder like he’s trying to get deeper.

“you hear that?” he gasps, hips snapping harder now. “hear how wet you got me, sugar?”

you can barely answer—just a choked whimper into the pillow—and he groans like it hits him right in the gut.

his cock twitches violently inside you, thrusts turning sloppy. one hand leaves your hip and grabs a fistful of your ass, spreading you open wide so he can see it—see your cunt stretch and swallow his cock.

“look at this,” he pants, eyes blown wide. “god—i’m soaked.”

and he is. balls sticky and slapping your ass, cock dripping, thighs smeared with slick. the whole room reeks of sex and sweat and your body’s twitching underneath him, shaking so hard you don’t know if you’re about to come again or black out.

laying sideways. your back to his chest, his hand between your legs

you’re tangled together on your sides, sheets damp and wrinkled beneath you, your back pressed flush to remmick’s chest while his cock sits buried inside you. one of your legs is hooked over his thick thigh, keeping you open, keeping him deep, and every slow roll of his hips makes your cunt squelch around him.

his arm is heavy around your waist, pulling you back into him, and his other hand stays between your legs—fingers already slick, dragging slow, messy circles over your clit like he knows exactly how long he can keep you right on the edge.

you whine—can’t help it—body going soft and pliant while he pants into your neck, mouth open against your skin as he moans every time you twitch around him.

“so wet f’me,” he whispers, voice shaking, wrecked.

his cock feels huge like this—thick and dragging, stretching you slow with every inch as he pulls back just enough to slide forward again.

you feel every ridge, every vein, the way his length pulses when you squeeze. and when you do—when your cunt clenches tight around him—he lets out a broken moan. face buried in your hair as his cock twitches hard inside you.

he starts moving faster then, still deep, still slow enough to feel it, but with more need.

his hand never leaves your clit. fingers keep working you until your hips start jerking back into him, until you’re crying into the sheets and your cunt starts spasming around his cock.

remmick moans when he feels it.

“that’s it,” he gasps. “there you go… milk it outta me, baby…”

and then he’s gone.

after, his mouth brushes your shoulder, breath warm and spent, voice rough but sweet as he whispers,

“gimme a minute… then i’ll give you another.”

lotus position. legs wrapped around his waist as he sits

you’re straddled in his lap, knees bent, ankles locked tight at his lower back, chest pressed flush to his. your arms are loosely looped around his neck, holding him there as he rocks his hips up into you.

your bodies sticking together, skin slick with sweat and sex.

his arms are locked tight around your waist, fingers digging in firmly. his face is buried in your neck, as he lets out these ragged, breathy moans every time your pussy clenches around him. and it does—over and over—fluttering tight around his cock like it knows exactly how close he is.

you feel him throb there—feel how hard he’s fighting it, how badly he wants to spill.

“you’re squeezin’ me, sweetheart,” he pants, voice barely holding together. “gonna make me finish too soon—i swear—”

you grind down harder, rolling your hips so he sinks even deeper. your arms tug him closer, mouth brushing his temple, your breath hot in his ear—and a moan tears out of him as his hips jerk up into you harder.

your clit drags against the coarse hair at the base of him with every grind, and the sensation makes you shake—makes you cry out right into his ear.

his body jolts beneath you, cock twitching violently inside your cunt as he fucks up into you like he’s chasing the edge and falling over it at the same time. his grip tightens, thighs shaking, mouth open against your neck as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

bridal-style lay. your back against his chest, while he lifts you

you’re laying on your side across remmick’s chest like a warm, panting gift—head tipped back on his shoulder, legs draped over his thick arm as he holds you up, lets your ass hover just above his hips. one of his hands is hooked beneath your thigh, the other gripping your ass to keep you open.

it’s a lazy kind of rhythm. he rocks up into you from below with slow, thick thrusts that make your whole body jolt, hips lifting off the bed just to meet the drag of his cock.

he moans against your temple, breath shaky and hot, sweat dripping from his hairline down onto your shoulder as he murmurs something unintelligible. 

you try to say something back, but all that comes out is a moan when he tilts his hips and drives up harder.

“that’s it,” he pants, thrusting up slow, then fast, then slow again, deep like he’s trying to ruin the shape of you from the inside. “grip me like that—yeah, jus’ like that, i can feel it—”

he shifts his grip, one hand sliding lower under your ass to lift you higher, and you cry out when the angle changes and he slams up so much deeper.

you’re drooling, shaking, slick dripping off both of you and down his balls. he’s losing it, chest heaving, hips pistoning up like he’s possessed, chasing your orgasm and his at the same time.

and when your body clamps down and you come around him, he follows with a cry, burying his cock to the hilt and spilling everything into you in hot, thick waves. your body jerks with each pulse, filled to the brim, held wide and open and still in his arms.

he keeps fucking into you—pushing it deeper, like he can’t stand the thought of pulling out just yet.

“gonna keep you right here, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips pressed behind your ear. “jus’ like this. plugged up and full ‘til you feel me all night…”

Remmick moves like he’s afraid to touch you and terrified not to, stealing glances at your lips, at your hips, at the faint tremble in your thighs from kneeling too long.

By the time the door clicks shut behind him, the air feels thick enough to choke on.

He stands there for half a breath, chest rising and falling fast, eyes dragging down your body like he’s memorizing something he never expected to see. 

You take a step toward the bed, thumbs hooked in the waistband of your shorts, and his gaze follows the movement like he’s being led by instinct.

The shorts come off. Then your panties.

He goes still.

You lie back on the bed, spine arching slightly as you settle into the mattress, legs falling open in an invitation even he can’t pretend to misunderstand.

“C’mere,” you breathe.

His body obeys before his mind can catch up.

He moves onto the bed, onto his knees, large hands sliding beneath your thighs. His fingers curl, lifting, adjusting—guiding your legs up until they hook over his broad shoulders. 

The position forces you open completely, pussy exposed to the hot air of the room, folds glistening and already swollen from how wound up you’ve been since the couch.

He looks down at you from between your legs, face flushed, breath shaky.

“Tell me if I’m doin’ anything wrong,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh softly, breathlessly. “Baby… you just have to put your mouth on me.”

His pupils blow wide.

And then his face lowers.

There’s zero hesitation. No warm-up.

He buries himself in you.

His mouth seals to your cunt with a hunger that almost knocks the air from your lungs. His nose presses hard against your clit, smushed up against it, the pressure so sudden and perfect your hips jerk up off the bed. His tongue dives between your slick folds, hot and eager, tasting you with long, greedy strokes that make a broken sound escape your throat.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, fingers flying to his hair. “Remmick, you—fuck—”

He groans into you, the vibration rolling through your cunt like a shock. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you higher, pulling you onto him until your pussy is fully smothering his mouth, his face nearly disappearing between your legs.

Your clit drags over the bridge of his nose as he licks deeper, tongue flattening to lap you up like he’s been starving for days. 

You grind without meaning to, cunt sliding against his mouth, wetting his lips and chin with every slick pass.

He moans again—louder this time—and the sound shoots straight through you.

“Don’t stop,” you pant, pulling him closer by the hair. “Please—don’t stop, don’t stop…”

He doesn’t.

He keeps you right where he wants you—legs thrown over his shoulders, cunt pressed so tight to his face you can feel every breath he takes. 

His tongue works your opening, fucking into you in slow, messy thrusts before he drags up again to suck your clit into his mouth, lips closing around it in a wet pull that makes your vision flicker.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

Your hips can’t stay still.

He holds you steady anyway, as if eating you out is something he’s been waiting to do without even knowing it.

And you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything except moan his name like it’s the only language you know.

The pressure builds fast—too fast. Your thighs twitch against his cheeks, your stomach tightening like a wire pulled taut. The wet drag of his tongue, the suction around your clit, the messy glide of spit and slick across every part of you—it’s all too much.

Your hips stutter upward once, twice, and then freeze with a shudder.

“Remmick,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m—I’m coming—”

And you do.

You come with your thighs clenched tight around his head, back arched off the bed, your cunt leaking all over his mouth. 

He groans into it, licking you through it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, his hands holding you in place while your body trembles and bucks. 

Your cunt pulses hard against his tongue, spasming around nothing, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet room.

It takes a moment for you to breathe again.

When you finally peel your eyes open, his face is soaked—chin shiny, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

You reach for him.

“C’mere.”

He’s still catching his breath when you pull him up by the collar of his shirt, dragging him up for a kiss. 

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into it, legs wrapping around his waist, hands fumbling to undo his jeans again.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper against his mouth.

He groans like it’s painful.

“Please, baby,” you add, slipping your hand between your bodies to help push his pants down. 

His cock springs free—already leaking again at the tip—and you shift beneath him until your hips align, your folds slick and swollen and so ready.

You grip the base of his cock, angle it down, and start to guide it through your folds—letting the fat head nudge at your entrance.

“God,” he breathes, “are you sure?”

But you’re already nodding, already rocking your hips up to press the head in—and that’s when the sound hits you.

Tires on gravel.

A distant car door slam.

Then another.

He freezes.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god—”

Remmick scrambles backward like he’s been electrocuted. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and twitching, and he fumbles to yank his pants up while you throw yourself off the bed, digging for your shorts with shaking hands and a squeal.

“That’s Grandma,” he says in horror, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“No shit!” you hiss, trying to pull your panties up with one hand and smooth your hair with the other. Your lip gloss is smeared, your thighs are sticky, and you’re still twitching from your orgasm.

He’s tucking himself away, red-faced, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You nearly trip pulling your shorts on.

By the time his bedroom door opens again, both of you are fully dressed—barely.

He glances at you. You glance at him.

Neither of you says a word.

Not about the way your panties are still wet, or the way his cock is still half-hard behind the zipper, or the fact that if she had come home even five minutes later, he would’ve been buried inside you by now.

Remmick clears his throat.

“I should, uh… probably see if she needs help with any groceries she may have gotten after church.”

You nod quickly, still breathless. “Y-Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

He leaves the room, and you flop back onto the bed with your heart pounding like you just robbed a bank.

The bath didn’t help as much as you hoped.

You’d soaked in it until your fingers pruned, head leaned back against a folded towel, steam curling around your lashes and the scent of sweet vanilla bath oil drifting through the room. You even washed your hair, shaved your legs, scrubbed between your thighs twice. But it hadn’t chased the heat away—just made it worse.

Dinner was pointless. A plate of lukewarm leftovers and a slow pick at your food. The bath hadn’t helped, and food wasn’t going to, either.

Now, back in your room, the house quiet around you, you shut the door and twist the little gold lock into place.

Your bare feet pad across the soft rug as you glance around—your makeup-stained vanity, the pink throw pillows on your bed, the little twinkling LED lights you stuck around the edge of your mirror when you first arrived.

Everything’s cute. 

And yet your mind won’t stop circling back to something else entirely.

The way his hands felt wrapped around your thighs. How wet his face had been when he pulled away. How easily he let you tug him around, mouth open, eyes big and eager like he’d do anything you asked. How close you got—so close—before it all fell apart.

You lick your lips.

Your legs feel warm again. Your panties are already damp.

You rise slowly, like you’re not even thinking.

It’s not even a decision—more of an instinct.

You walk straight to your dresser.

Second drawer, left side, tucked beneath a lacy lavender bralette and a tangled mess of satin panties is the soft, velvet-textured toy you haven’t touched since you got here. 

You pull it out without thinking, your fingers already twitching in anticipation, your thighs pressing together from the ghost of pressure alone.

A moment later, you’re crawling into bed, the hem of your oversized sleep shirt sliding up your thighs, no panties underneath. You settle back against the pillows, legs falling open, the cool air kissing the sticky mess already gathered between them.

Your fingers guide the toy over the soft curve of your mound. You’re already wet—slick, warm, throbbing in a dull, pulsing ache. The first pass over your clit makes your hips twitch. The second draws a breathy little whimper from your lips. By the third, your thighs are clenching around your wrist and your eyes are rolling back.

You press harder.

The vibration stutters against your clit, soft at first, then sharper as you angle it just right. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice catching.

Your other hand comes up to palm your chest, fingers pinching at your nipples through the cotton of your shirt. Your mind is buzzing, not just the toy—you. Thinking about him.

How big he felt in your hand. How he looked at you when you kissed the head, like he was about to fall apart.

The toy grinds harder.

You circle it, slow then fast, letting your imagination fill in the blanks. What he’d feel like inside you. How your walls would stretch around that thick cock. How it would feel to ride him, his big hands shaking on your hips, trying not to come too fast while you’re bouncing on his lap and laughing into his throat.

The orgasm hits hard. 

You gasp, legs trembling, cunt clenching on nothing as you press the vibrator tight to your clit, riding the rhythm until you can’t anymore. Your toes curl. Your thighs twitch. And then you go still—boneless, buzzing, your mouth parted and your chest flushed with warmth that creeps all the way to your scalp.

The toy drops from your hand.

You lay there, lips slick with spit, chest still heaving, heart kicking in your ribs.

Remmick’s face lingers behind your eyelids—soft and needy, lips bitten, eyes begging.

You close your thighs slowly.

You’ve never wanted a boy this much.

He barely slept. Not because his room was warm or because the old fan in the corner rattled itself silly through the night, but because every time he closed his eyes he felt your thighs tightening around his shoulders again, the heat of you pressing up against his mouth, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as if you had marked him from the inside out. 

His pillow still smelled faintly of the soap he used after he washed his face—twice—yet he swore he could still catch traces of the sweetness that clung to your skin. 

He tossed beneath the sheets with his chest tight and his cock aching, unable to shake the image of how you had looked, eyes half-lidded, breaths broken, lips parted in a helpless little moan each time his tongue curled just right. 

Sleep never stood a chance.

By morning his whole body felt raw with wanting you, though he did his best to move through the chores like nothing had changed. 

He fed the chickens, checked the sheds, filled the troughs, all while trying to ignore the echo of your voice from the day before. He lingered longer than usual by the fence line, pretending to re-tie a latch that didn’t actually need re-tying. The quiet of the early hours usually settled him, but today it only made the memory sharper.

When he hears your steps on the dirt road, he straightens too quickly, nearly fumbling the feed bucket. 

You move toward him with your usual brightness, travel cup in one hand, your glossy mouth wrapped around the straw as you hum to yourself. 

Your sunglasses perch crooked on your nose, and the soft yellow top you’ve chosen fits you in a way that makes his stomach dip. You smile easily, greeting him as though yesterday’s near-fall into something too intimate to ignore had never happened.

“Morning, Remmick,” you say, swirling your drink as if this is simply another day. “Did you feed the little guys already?”

You mean the chickens.

He grunts.

“Uh. Yeah.”

You gasp like he just told you your favorite boutique burned down. “Without me? I like feeding them now.”

“You were running late,” he answers, trying to keep his tone steady.

“I was picking a lip combo,” you say with artistic emphasis, as if it explains everything. “It’s important.”

The faintest tug pulls at the corner of his mouth before he smooths it away. 

He tells himself not to look at your lips again, but they shine in the sunlight and make it nearly impossible.

The day continues with you trailing behind him while you talk about things he only half understands—your show, your nail polish plans, a perfume sample you want to try. 

He nods at the right moments even though his attention keeps drifting. He can’t look directly at your thighs now without a jolt rising through him. 

You bend down to scoop feed into the tin and your shirt shifts, revealing the soft rise of your chest, and he feels a quick sweep of heat up the back of his neck. He grips the fence harder than necessary and silently begs his body to behave.

After a while, you drop onto a wooden crate with a dramatic sigh, dust puffing around you.

“You alright?” he asks, still not looking.

“I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “But I thought today we were gonna paint the porch too. You said we would on Sunday.”

“It is Sunday,” he replies, keeping his gaze on the latch he’s checking.

You blink slowly, tilting your head as if piecing together a puzzle that refuses to cooperate. “Wait. Seriously? Today’s Sunday?”

He inhales through his nose, long and steady, letting the air cool whatever heat is creeping up his chest. 

You pop your gum and swing your foot idly in the dirt, completely unaware of the chaos turning in him. 

When he finally turns toward you, you’re watching him with that bright, helpless sweetness that always gets under his skin. You smile without hesitation, as if yesterday’s intimacy was simply part of the afternoon and not something that has kept him up half the night.

He looks away quickly, terrified that if he holds your gaze any longer he’ll reach for you, pull you in close, and finish what nearly happened in that bedroom. His heart kicks hard against his ribs at the thought.

You go on chattering about something small—maybe your horoscope, maybe your new lip gloss—and he tries to nod, tries to answer, but the words don’t settle right in his throat.

You’re being yourself, unaware of the storm inside him, and he cannot believe how deeply he wants you. It feels dangerous. It feels close. And it feels entirely, horribly wonderful.

He realizes then that liking you isn’t something he can avoid anymore. It has already happened quietly, slowly, in the space between chores and conversation—and now, after yesterday, there is no turning back.

You brighten at something and call his name. He looks up automatically.

You’re smiling.

And he knows he’s done for.

The porch paint cans sit beneath the steps exactly where his grandma left them, the metal warm from the sun, the brushes stiff but still usable. The late morning light filters through the pecan trees, softening everything it touches—dust, railing, your bare legs swinging lazily over the edge of the steps. 

Remmick brings out a drop cloth and spreads it carefully across the boards, smoothing the creases with slow, deliberate strokes of his palms. You watch him for a moment, chin propped on your knee, noticing the way the sunlight catches in the faint curls at the nape of his neck.

“So this is what we’re doing today?” you ask, nudging an unopened paint can with your foot.

He kneels beside it, tapping the lid with a flat tool until it loosens. “Your idea. Said you wanted to make the place look nice.”

You shrug as if this is obvious. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“I said it last week.”

“I thought you forgot.”

He lifts his gaze then—slowly, steady, with an expression that borders on gentle amusement. “I don’t forget things you say.”

Your breath catches a little, though you hide it by glancing at the screen door. He doesn’t seem to notice, already turning toward the brush in his hand, dipping it into the pale cream paint with careful precision.

You grab your own brush, plopping beside him on the porch floor. Your first stroke goes on uneven, streaked with tiny ridges, and he glances sideways.

“You’re pressin’ too hard.”

“No I’m not,” you insist, even though you absolutely are.

He shifts closer without thinking, one hand hovering near your wrist. “Here. Try easin’ up. Like this.” His fingers wrap briefly around your hand to guide the motion. “You just let the paint sit on the wood. Don’t make it fight you.”

You blink down at your hand in his. “You make it sound so poetic.”

“It’s just paint,” he replies softly.

“Mm. You say that, but you’re making a whole metaphor.”

His ears flush, and he pulls his hand back quickly, focusing on the railing instead.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm—brushes dragging softly across the porch boards, the gentle clink of metal lids shifting in the breeze, the faint sounds of chickens pecking in the distance. You hum a song you half-remember from a playlist your friends made for the drive upstate. He listens, glancing over now and then with a curious tilt of his head.

“So,” he says after a while, voice low but steady, “what happened up north?”

Your brush pauses mid-stroke.

He doesn’t push the question, just keeps painting a smooth line along the trim, like he’s giving you space to answer or ignore him freely.

You force a small, breezy laugh. “What makes you think something happened?”

He shrugs lightly. “Folks don’t usually get sent across state lines unless somethin’ went sideways.”

“Nothing went sideways,” you say quickly.

He glances over, and you can tell he’s not convinced.

“It was just… stuff.” You wave the brush vaguely, splattering a dot of paint on your thigh. “Dumb drama. City people being city people. You don’t wanna hear about it.”

He watches you longer than he should, but the moment you look back, he drops his eyes and dips his brush again.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

You swallow, the guilt settling strangely. You don’t want him to think you’re shutting him out. Or maybe you don’t want to poke at the wound yourself.

So you shift the conversation quickly.

“What about you?” you ask, leaning into him slightly. “You ever think about leaving this place? Or are you just gonna stay here forever and ever until the cows take over?”

His smile is small but real. “It ain’t that bad.”

“I dunno,” you tease, lifting your brush again. “Feels like a hostile chicken takeover is imminent.”

“There’s only six of ’em.”

“That’s enough.”

He shakes his head, but his shoulders relax a little. 

The tension melts from the air, replaced by that quiet warmth that’s started settling between you more and more lately. 

He tells you about the porch—how he helped his grandpa fix the boards years ago, how the nails always loosen after a storm, how his grandma likes to sit here in the evenings with her lemonade.

You tell him about your favorite nail salon back home, about how your friends once got into a screaming match over a pair of heels, about how you used to sit on your apartment balcony pretending you liked the smell of the city even though it made your head hurt.

You paint until the sun climbs higher, both of you speckled in dots of cream and gold, both pretending not to notice when your elbows brush, when your knees knock, when you laugh and he looks at you a little too long.

He doesn’t ask about the north again. But the look he gives you—quiet, patient, almost concerned—tells you he’s still wondering.

He can wait.

He’s good at that.

You’re the one who’s starting to feel uneasy with how easy it is to talk to him now.

By the time the two of you finish the last stretch of railing, the afternoon sun has dipped enough to cast a honeyed glow over everything—the fresh paint, the porch boards, even the little flecks of color stuck to your legs. 

You sit back on your heels and admire it with a satisfied sigh, brushing a smear of paint off your thigh and only smudging it further.

“It looks adorable,” you announce proudly, even though there are definitely a few uneven patches. “Like… way better than before. I think I’m a natural.”

Remmick lifts his head from where he’s wiping down a brush. “I did most of it.”

“I supervised,” you correct, nodding as if this explains everything. “Supervision is important.”

He huffs, something like a laugh tugging at his mouth before he hides it by leaning over the bucket. 

You pull your knees to your chest, wiggle your toes, and glance around with satisfaction while the breeze lifts your hair off your neck. 

Everything feels soft and calm, peaceful in a way you can’t quite name.

The screen door creaks behind you.

“Well now,” his grandma says as she steps onto the porch, dish towel still draped over her shoulder. “That came out real nice.”

You brighten instantly, popping up a little straighter. “Doesn’t it? I helped.”

Her gaze dips to your smeared legs and paint-speckled fingers. “Mm-hm. I can see that.”

Remmick mutters something under his breath that might be a quiet apology for your enthusiasm, but his grandma just smiles wider. She reaches out, running a gentle hand along the railing.

“Pretty work,” she says. “You two should be proud.”

You beam, delighted. “I am proud. And sweaty. And hungry. But mostly proud.”

Her eyes warm, fond and amused all at once. “Well, lucky for you, dinner’s just about ready.” She tilts her head toward the door. “You joinin’ us, sugar?”

You blink, caught off-guard for a second. “Me? Like—inside?”

“That’s usually where folks eat,” she teases gently.

You nod quickly, brushing your hands down the front of your shorts even though it only spreads the paint around. “Oh! Right. Yes. Okay. I mean—yeah. If you’re sure. I don’t wanna, like, mess the vibe.”

“What vibe?” she asks with a soft chuckle.

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. 

Remmick coughs into his sleeve, trying—and failing—not to smile.

His grandma waves a hand, ushering you toward the door. “Honey, you’ve been helpin’ out here for weeks. You come sit down and eat.”

You hesitate only a heartbeat before glancing at Remmick. His eyes meet yours—quick, hopeful in a small, careful way you don’t fully understand yet.

“Is it okay?” you ask him quietly.

He nods. “It’s okay.”

You perk up immediately. “Then yes. Totally. I’m absolutely starving. Almost-dead starving.”

His grandma laughs as she steps back into the house. “Well let’s fix that.”

You hop to your feet, excited and lightly bouncing on your toes as you brush dust from your skin. 

Remmick watches you stand there with paint on your legs, and a bright, earnest smile that looks far too proud for the amount of actual painting you did.

He gestures toward the doorway, cheeks faintly pink. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”

You nod, already stepping toward the kitchen and mumbling something about hoping there’s cornbread because “your last meal was a single iced coffee.” He follows after a moment.

Dinner leaves you full in a way you hadn’t expected—warm belly, warm cheeks, warm everything. 

His grandma cooked like she was trying to heal something invisible inside you, and you didn’t realize how much you missed that until you were scraping the last of the mashed potatoes off your plate. 

She fussed over you, filled your glass twice, asked if you wanted more cornbread even after you’d said yes three times already. 

By the time she excused herself to wind down for the night, you felt strangely settled, like some piece of you that had been drifting finally touched ground.

The house grows quiet in her absence, soft and humming with the evening crickets outside. 

Remmick gathers a few dishes while you stand uselessly with your hands hovering near the sink, not entirely sure how to help without knocking something over. 

He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Every time he glances your way, there’s this small curve at the corner of his mouth like he's amused you’re even trying.

When the kitchen is spotless, he shifts awkwardly, rubbing a paint-smudged thumb against his palm. 

“If you wanna… uh… hang out a bit longer,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours and then away just as fast, “we can go upstairs. Grandma’s room is on the other side of the house, so she won’t hear us talkin’.”

Your chest jumps with a flutter you pretend isn’t there. “Yeah,” you say, nodding quickly. “I mean—obviously. I wasn’t gonna just leave after cornbread.”

He laughs under his breath, head ducked, and leads the way toward the stairs.

His room is the same space you saw yesterday, but this time it isn’t blurred by adrenaline or the thumping of your own heartbeat. 

You step inside slowly, taking it in with both eyes fully open.

It smells faintly of clean cotton and cedar, with a hint of whatever soap he uses lingering in the air. A stack of worn paperbacks sits on the nightstand beside an old lamp with a shade slightly crooked. 

His boots are lined up neatly near the door, socks tucked inside. The window is cracked open just enough to let the nighttime breeze drift across the simple quilt folded at the end of the bed. 

A few handwritten papers—his journaling, maybe—peek out from beneath a book whose spine has surrendered to repeated reading.

It’s simple, soft, lived-in and so him that you feel a little dizzy.

“You can sit—uh—wherever,” he says, gesturing vaguely, though he’s already lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, shoulders a little tight, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

You drift around the room, fingertips trailing the bookshelf, the edge of his dresser, the uneven frame of a photograph of him and his grandparents. 

“It’s cute,” you murmur, nose wrinkling with a smile. “Like… boy cute. Clean but messy. Cozy. Intimidatingly organized.”

“Intimidatin’?” he echoes, startled.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to look at him fully. “My room looks like a makeup store exploded. Yours looks like you actually know where your stuff is.”

His laugh escapes before he can trap it in his throat. “Ain’t much stuff to lose.”

You shrug and keep exploring. Your eyes skim over the worn denim jacket hanging behind the door, the jar of pennies on the dresser, the calendar pinned crookedly to the wall, the soft indentation on the pillow where he slept last night—probably tossing, turning, thinking.

Finally, you cross the room and stop in front of him. He straightens an inch, eyes lifting to yours with careful expectation, though his expression stays muted, almost shy. 

The lamplight softens him, rounds the edges of all that quiet longing he tries so hard to hide.

You sit beside him on the bed, thigh brushing his for the briefest moment. 

He watches you with a steadiness he doesn’t dare turn into a touch, hands resting still in his lap, fingers tightening once like he’s steadying himself. 

There’s a question hovering behind his eyes, unspoken but unmistakable.

You look around his room one last time before turning back to him, leaning the slightest bit closer. “It’s nice up here,” you say softly, your tone drifting, warm. “Feels calm.”

He nods, throat moving as he swallows. “Yeah.”

“Mm,” you hum, gaze dropping briefly to his mouth without meaning to. “Like somewhere you’d kiss somebody.”

His breath leaves him in a shaky hush.

You smile, absolutely oblivious to how devastating it is.

You lean in slowly. Drawn forward like he’s made of something warm you want to taste again. 

His breath softens, eyelids lowering a fraction, shoulders loosening as if he’s preparing himself to finally feel your mouth on his again.

But then your gaze flicks to the side.

A single, crumpled corner of paper sticks out of his desk drawer—barely an inch, but enough to snag your attention like a loose thread begging to be pulled.

You pause, squint.

He frowns slightly, following your line of sight. “Uh—wait—”

But you’re already standing, brushing off your shorts as you cross the room with that breezy, purposeful float that always unnerves him because it looks careless and confident at the same time.

“That’s gonna bother me,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Everything else is so organized and then that—” You flick your fingers toward the drawer. “It’s like a squeaky wheel or whatever.”

“Don’t—” he starts, rising just a hair too slow.

You pull the drawer open.

And freeze.

Several glossy covers stare back at you—retro-styled, slightly worn Playboy magazines stacked in a neat row, pages ruffled from use, one lying open under the others as if he’d been reading it not too long ago.

“Oh.” The word slips out of you in a small, stunned puff.

Behind you, Remmick goes absolutely still.

Not stiff like anger. Stiff like mortification.

His entire soul falls out of his body and hits the floor. “I—uh—that’s—um—those ain’t—”

You turn slowly, holding the edge of the drawer between two fingers like you’re afraid it might bite. 

Your expression is blank for one long moment while your mind catches up, eyes moving from the magazines then back to him.

He looks like a man awaiting execution—cheeks blazing red, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, lips parted in helpless panic.

You blink once, twice, then whisper:

“… You read these? Like… for fun?”

He winces. “I don’t ‘read’ ’em, exactly—”

“I mean, I guess the articles are famous,” you say thoughtfully, nodding to yourself like you’re piecing together a puzzle with far fewer brain cells than required. “My aunt used to talk about those. Or wait—were those the newspapers? Ugh, I always mix these things up.”

“No, I—uh—listen, you weren’t supposed to—”

You tap one glossy cover where a model poses in a satin bikini, arching dramatically over a couch. Then you point at another where a woman has hair that looks like it was sprayed with a fire hose. “They look vintage,” you murmur. “Like museum vintage. Did you get them at a thrift store? Or were they your grandpa’s or something?”

“No,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “They ain’t Grandpa’s.”

“Oh.” You nod solemnly. “Right. Because that’d be weird.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping in defeat.

You glance back at the drawer, then at him again, lips pursed slightly. “Wait—are these for your… um…  personal hobbies?”

He noises something between a cough and a strangled plea. “Can we please not talk about—”

“I just didn’t know guys still used magazines,” you continue, genuinely surprised. “I thought everyone used their phones now. Or laptops. Or tablets. Or those weird VR things. Do those even work? Bri said they gave her cousin a headache.”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for mercy.

You look at him for another beat, head tilting as a thought finally clicks into place and lights up your expression like a sparkler.

“… Wait. So you were looking at these and not, like… actual videos because you’re shy?”

His eyes snap open.

Then dart away.

Then back.

Then away again.

You gasp softly, hands clasping together. “Oh my gosh, that’s adorable.”

He flinches like you slapped him with a flower.

“I ain’t adorable,” he mutters, ears glowing red.

You grin wide—bright, delighted, entirely unbothered by his public execution. “Yes, you are,” you say breezily. “You totally are. This is like… so old-fashioned and sweet. You’re like a historical reenactor but for… horny stuff.”

He chokes.

You keep going, unaware you’re destroying him.

“I mean, don’t worry. I won’t tease you. Much. But honestly? The girls in these are super pretty. Like, wow. Their tits are really symmetrical.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders curling inward, dignity leaking out onto the floorboards.

“Please,” he begs softly, “for the love of—can you close that drawer?”

You blink, glance at the magazines again, then gently push the drawer shut with one finger.

Then you turn back around with a soft smile—almost innocent in its sincerity—and say:

“It’s okay, Remmick. Everyone likes stuff.”

You sit back on your heels, hands resting primly on your thighs as if you didn’t just peel open his drawer and catch him red-handed with a whole collection of glossy, soft-lit sin. 

Remmick still hasn’t moved from where he sits on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, eyes trying not to meet yours again for too long.

But then he risks it. He looks up.

And you’re smiling.

Not teasing or smug, but unnervingly earnest.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” you say gently. “Seriously. Like—everybody does stuff. I mean, maybe not with magazines, but you’re just a little old-fashioned. That’s cute.”

He groans softly, hands scrubbing at his face.

“And if it makes you feel better,” you go on, crossing your legs criss-cross on the floor in front of him, “I’ve totally done things too.”

His hands fall away from his face. His ears go pink. “… Things?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm. With my vibrator. She’s hot pink and glittery. She has settings, like, levels? Sometimes I use level two if I’m tired but still wanna finish.”

He full-on chokes.

You blink. “What? I thought we were sharing.”

He sputters. “I—I didn’t—I wasn’t asking—”

“You didn’t not ask,” you point out, chipper. “Besides, I think honesty is a sign of maturity or whatever.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like it belongs to someone having a minor heart attack.

You're still talking. “I mean… I guess I always imagined stuff too, but not with, like, photos. I just imagine stuff happening. Like someone touching me a certain way. Saying stuff. Grabbing my thighs. Or biting. Or like, humping a pillow. But I didn’t really know what I was doing until my roommate showed me how to edge properly—”

“Okay!” he nearly yells, hands flailing up. “Okay. You—you can stop.”

You blink innocently, lips forming a small ‘o.’ “Oh. Sorry.”

You reach for a random trinket on his desk and begin fiddling with it, looking unbothered. “I just thought since I saw the magazines and all…”

He’s staring at the floor, trying not to die. Or combust. Or leap out the window to escape whatever just happened.

Then you glance at him again, head tilted, eyes soft and a little dreamy now.

“… Do you think I could be in one of those magazines?”

He turns to look at you like you’ve completely lost your mind.

“I mean,” you continue, fluttering your lashes, “they’d probably wanna airbrush me a little. I got a tiny mole somewhere and my thighs are soft—but like, do you think they’d wanna take pictures of me all naked and shiny and laid out like that?”

His throat bobs. His hands clench into fists on his thighs.

You lean forward a little. “Or would you look at them differently if it was me?”

He opens his mouth.

No sound comes out.

He’s not even sure what you just asked him. Or if he’s hallucinating. But his jeans feel tighter again and your eyes are wide and blinking like you just asked him if he prefers apple juice or orange, not whether he’d jerk off to you in glossy centerfold spreads.

“… Girl,” he whispers, almost hoarse. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

You pout. “Yes, I do. I just said it.”

He exhales slow, heavy, ragged.

You twirl the trinket in your fingers and hum softly. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh, voice dry as dirt. “You got no idea.”

And when you finally rise to your feet again, brushing your shorts down and giving him a little smile before plopping beside him on the bed once more, his entire body is fighting to stay still—because now all he can think about is you laid out across satin sheets, lips parted, eyes low, glittery toy discarded to the side as you beckon him closer.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

You bump his shoulder with yours and say, “You’re real quiet again. You sure you’re okay?”

“… Peachy,” he mumbles.

You nod, pleased. “Good. Wanna watch something?”

He shrugs, stiff. “Yeah. Sure.”

You grab the remote, settle in beside him like nothing ever happened, still humming some bubblegum pop tune under your breath.

Meanwhile, he’s still hard in his jeans, and all you’ve done is exist.

The two of you end up watching something on his tiny, slightly crooked TV—not really paying attention, not really talking either, just sharing space in that warm, quiet way that only happens when something invisible has already shifted between two people. 

Every so often you lean a little too close. Your shoulder brushes his. Your knee bumps his. You smell like vanilla body mist and fabric softener, and every time you sigh, he feels his stomach do this small, helpless drop.

Eventually, your phone buzzes with a reminder from your aunt, and you stretch your arms overhead, spine arching lightly, shirt lifting just enough to show a sliver of soft skin above your waistband. 

You slip off the bed, slow and lazy. “Guess I should go,” you murmur, smoothing your hair. “My aunt will freak if I walk in after midnight. Again.”

He stands too, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide how nervous he is… or how badly he wants you to stay.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.

You step closer, hand lifting to his cheek with an easy, casual softness that makes his breath stutter. “Thanks for hanging with me,” you say, thumb brushing just barely under his eye. “You’re always so sweet.”

Before he can respond, you press your mouth to his—soft enough to feel innocent but lingering enough to make his pulse kick.

He freezes.

You kiss him again, slower this time, your hand curling behind his neck.

And then—like you suddenly remember something—you lean in and place a third kiss just behind his ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin where his jaw meets his throat.

“See you tomorrow,” you whisper, and you pull away with a grin.

He stands there, stunned silent, as you float out the door with your bag over your shoulder, humming to yourself, hair bouncing with every step. 

You call goodnight to his grandma downstairs. The screen door clicks. Your footsteps fade down the path.

The following days fold into one another. Morning chores, porch repairs, fence checks, feed runs—every task falls into place like always, yet the air around you two carries something stretched thin between what happened and what hasn’t been discussed.

Remmick feels it constantly.

It settles behind his ribs whenever you walk toward him, when your perfume drifts close enough to distract him mid-task. It lingers each time you smile at him like nothing happened.

He wants to mention the way your lips had felt on his, the heat of your thighs around his face, the quiet sounds you made as you tipped closer to falling apart, but each time he looks at you, you greet him like nothing unusual ever happened. 

You wave, smile, wrinkle your nose at the heat, and talk about whatever floats into your head, unaware that every casual brush of your voice against his memory drives him further into distraction.

Three days pass.

At first he tells himself he’ll wait for you to bring it up. 

Maybe you need time to think. Maybe you’re shy. Maybe you don’t want to talk about it around his grandma or while knee-deep in chores. 

But as the days pass, you remain breezy and unbothered, happily feeding chickens, brushing horses, humming songs that get stuck in his head long after you go home. 

You tease him about his lack of fashion, ask him if goats have best friends, complain about your lip gloss melting, and then drift into a tangent about how you once tried hot yoga and nearly passed out from “all the sweating and bending.” 

Meanwhile, he can’t forget how you kissed him lightly behind the ear before leaving as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Eventually the weight of it follows him everywhere. 

He fumbles tools, drops feed scoops, nearly walks into a fence post because your perfume drifts too close to him. Even his grandma eyes him one morning as if she can sense some inner disarray he is entirely unwilling to explain. 

By the fourth day, he’s collected enough courage—shaky but present—to finally confront the silence building between you.

It happens in the barn late in the afternoon, where the sunlight filters through slats in long beams that illuminate drifting motes of dust. You stand beside a young heifer, palm flat and open as she nudges into your hand, and you giggle softly, brushing hair away from your cheek with the back of your wrist. 

He watches you for a few seconds longer than he means to. Then he clears his throat. You turn immediately, smiling as though the question in his chest isn’t tightening every muscle in his back. 

“What? Do I have hay in my hair again?”

“No,” he says, taking a small step toward you. “Just… wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay,” you reply, turning fully toward him. “Talk away.”

He hesitates only a breath before moving closer, the barn air thickening around him as he tries to choose his words with care.

“I been waitin’ for you to bring up what happened the other day,” he says, words quiet but unshaking now. “But you ain’t mentioned it once.”

You go quiet, feed still resting in your palm as the heifer noses at it with slow, patient nudges.

He continues, trying not to lose his nerve. “And I ain’t complainin’. I just… I can’t tell if you wanna pretend it never happened. Or if maybe you’re expectin’ me to pretend.”

You shift your weight, chewing softly at your bottom lip.

He steps closer again. “I just—” His voice drops. “I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it. And I ain’t sure what you—”

You interrupt without meaning to with an honesty so simple it nearly knocks the breath out of him: 

“Oh. I thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

His breath catches.

“I didn’t mention it because I figured if you wanted to, you would,” you explain, shrugging lightly. “Plus, I wasn’t really sure if you regretted it or if you were embarrassed or something. I didn’t wanna make you feel weird.”

It hits him like a blow—your complete lack of calculation, your unfiltered sincerity.

It leaves him with nowhere to hide.

Heat rises in his neck as he steps even closer, one deliberate shift of weight slightly closing the gap, voice steadying:

“I didn’t regret a single second.”

Your lips part slowly.

The heifer nudges your hand again, but you hardly notice.

Your lips part slowly. Your gaze drifts down his chest before returning to his eyes, soft and curious. When you finally speak, your voice is low, almost daring:

“… Then what do you wanna do about it?”

He draws a deeper breath, dust swirling in the golden light between you as the air thickens around the moment you just opened. 

It takes approximately four minutes before the two of you are inside the farmhouse, moving without remembering who reached for whom first. 

The hallway is dim, curtains filtering the afternoon sun into soft gold that settles over the framed photographs lining the walls. A faint trace of lemon polish clings to the air from his grandma’s morning cleaning.

Your back presses to the wall on the second floor just beside the stairs, and Remmick’s mouth is already on yours—hesitant for half a second, then hungry in a way that betrays how long he’s been thinking about this.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging him close; he stumbles a little, chest brushing yours, breath shaking against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s terrified you’ll change your mind if he pauses, lips warm and firm, his hands hovering before finally settling at your waist with a careful grip.

He murmurs your name against your mouth, the sound rough around the edges.

You gasp softly, head tipping back, lips parting just enough for him to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes yours, clumsy at first, then surer, guided by the small whimper you let out when he slides one hand up your spine.

The farmhouse is quiet. His grandma is gone—off at the market, her list long enough to buy the time neither of you should trust but both of you cling to anyway.

He pulls back just a breath, eyes lowered, lips flushed. “Tell me if—if you wanna stop.”

You shake your head before he even finishes the sentence, sliding your hands up to frame his jaw. “I’m not stopping unless you do.”

Color rises along his throat. You don’t give him time to respond; you tug him in again, kissing him with more certainty than he can manage, and he melts into it, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your hip through the soft fabric of your dress.

You push gently at his chest, guiding him backward. He follows without protest, steps slow and uneven, matching each retreat with another kiss. 

His heel bumps the edge of the runner rug in the hallway; he steadies himself with a shaky laugh you swallow immediately with your mouth.

The two of you inch down the hall in a stumbling dance of lips, hands, breath. 

Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, brushing warm skin beneath it. His breath stutters each time your chest presses to his. He tries to speak once—some half-formed thought—but you kiss him again and the words dissolve on his tongue.

He barely remembers he has a bedroom.

But you do.

Your hand catches his, tugging him toward the doorway. He follows, heart pounding, the hallway tilting around him as though the house itself recognizes what’s building between you.

Just outside his room, you pause long enough to kiss him harder, lips parting with a little sigh that sends heat rushing through him. 

You whisper against his mouth, already knowing the answer, “Your room?”

Remmick exhales shakily, nodding.

He pushes the door open without looking away from you, stepping backward into the familiar space with you pressed to him as the door swings shut behind you.

He backs toward the bed without breaking the kiss, knees brushing the mattress before he sits. His palms slide instinctively to your hips as you follow him down, settling into his lap in one smooth, eager motion. 

The weight of you steals a quiet sound from him—half gasp, half groan—your thighs bracketing his, your dress sliding up an inch as you shift to get comfortable. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, your mouth warm and soft and hungry against his. His head tilts to meet you. 

The kiss grows messy in small ways—your tongue brushing his, his breath catching, the faint drag of your lip gloss smearing against the corners of his mouth as you angle yourself closer.

Your fingers skim the hem of his shirt, the rough cotton damp from work and heat. You tug at it lightly, testing him, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes. 

His breath stumbles. He tries to steady it, tries to keep kissing you like nothing has shifted, but you can feel the tension in his chest, the flutter beneath his ribs each time your hands move higher.

“You don’t gotta—” he starts, voice a raw whisper into your mouth, but you cut him off with another kiss, your hips rolling the faintest bit over the hard shape straining against his jeans. 

His breath leaves him in a startled exhale. Your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt again, nails grazing his stomach, tracing the line of muscle there. 

“I wanna,” you murmur against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re so warm. Let me take this off.”

His fingers curl into the fabric of your dress, gripping lightly as if he needs the anchor. He nods before he can process the decision, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling faster with every passing second. 

You smile, bright and wicked in your sweetness, and tug the shirt up. He lifts his arms awkwardly, obediently, and the fabric peels away from his skin in one smooth pull before you toss it aside.

His chest is broad and solid, lightly dusted with hair down the center, muscles shifting beneath warm skin as he tries to figure out where to put his hands. 

You slide your palms over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him under your fingers. Your thighs tighten around his hips as you settle deeper into his lap.

“Remmick,” you whisper, voice warm with want.

The kiss that follows is nothing shy of hungry. 

His grip tightens on your hips, guiding your movements without meaning to, each slow grind making his breath hitch in a way that feels dangerously addictive. 

You feel him beneath you, and each shift of your weight presses a little more pressure against him.

Your fingers drift down to work open the button of his jeans, slow and teasing. 

You kiss him deeper, lips plush and warm, your tongue brushing his. “Touch me,” you whisper into his mouth, your voice soft but edged with hunger. 

The request hits him like heat pouring low in his spine. His fingers slide slowly up your thighs, thumbs sweeping along the soft skin as your dress rides higher, inch by inch, until he’s cupping you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

Your breath stumbles, hips rolling into his palm, searching for pressure. His nose brushes yours as he exhales shakily.

His fingers trace the curve between your thighs, feeling the heat gathering there, your body shifting eagerly into his touch. “You want me to…?”

“Yes.” The word slips out without hesitation.

The mixture of boldness and innocence in your voice almost undoes him. Still, he obeys. His hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the fabric up your hips until the cool air hits your panties. His fingers hook under the edge and slip inside, trembling slightly as they finally meet your bare heat.

You’re wet for him—soft, slick, warm in a way that makes his entire body tense beneath you.

“Oh—” he whispers, the sound choked and awed. 

Your head falls against his shoulder as his fingers slide through your folds, slow and careful at first, tracing you like he’s trying to memorize every curve. 

You grind into his hand, needy and shameless, breath hitching with each pass of his fingers. The slick sound of it fills the quiet room, subtle at first, then unmistakably erotic as he grows bolder and your hips move more insistently.

“Remmick,” you breathe, voice warm and trembling as your lips skim his neck. “Inside.”

He groans into your hair, unable to resist you for even a second longer. Two fingers slip inside you, slow but steady, sinking into the wet heat he’s been aching to feel again. 

Your body tightens around him immediately, and a broken little moan spills against his throat. 

He curls his fingers gently, testing how you react, and the needy whimper you let out nearly unravels him.

You roll your hips into his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers in slow, desperate motions that make his breath stutter every time you squeeze around him. 

His thumb brushes your clit, hesitant at first, then more sure when your whole body trembles in his lap in response.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice barely holding together.

Your breathing doesn’t settle, not even close. 

Suddenly, the impulse hits: you want him to see you, all of you, no hesitation, no pretending you weren’t aching for this the entire time.

You grab the hem of your dress and pull it up without warning. 

His eyes widen instantly, tracking the slow rise of fabric over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. 

The second you lift your arms and drag the dress over your head, he forgets to inhale. Your panties cling to your heat, still wet from his hand. Your bra strains against your chest, your skin flushed and warm as you toss the dress aside.

He stares like you’ve taken the world out of his mouth.

“God…” he whispers, voice breaking.

You unclasp your bra with a quick tug, letting the straps fall down your arms. The second it hits the floor, his gaze snaps downward—straight to your breasts. His breathing deepens, chest rising harder beneath you as your nipples tighten in the cool air.

He reaches for you without thinking, palms sliding up your waist before they close over your breasts. His thumbs brush your nipples slowly at first, then firmer when you arch into him with a soft, needy sound. 

You feel the heat in his hands, the roughness of his fingertips, the heavy drag of calluses against sensitive skin. 

His cock jumps under you, the denim doing nothing to hide the shape of him. He groans low in his throat, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself.

“You feel me?” you murmur against his jaw.

He nods, but his breath stutters when your hips press again, harder this time. The friction pulls a broken sound from him.

You kiss him hungrily, chest sliding against his, your nipples brushing his warm skin with each shift. 

He responds instantly, mouth opening for you. One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your hips jolt; the other slips back between your thighs, fingers pushing aside your panties to feel your slick again.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth when he feels how wet you still are. “You’re drippin’.”

You moan at the rough honesty in his voice, grinding down on his hand as he slides two fingers inside you again—deeper this time, confident now, curling into that spot that makes your thighs shake. 

His thumb presses against your clit again, light at first, then with a bit more pressure when you grab his shoulders and gasp against his throat.

“You like that,” he mutters, voice thick and shaking. 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

He continues to finger-fucking you. Your slick coating his knuckles while you ride his lap, bare chest pressed to his, hips moving with a rhythm you can’t control anymore. 

“Remmick,” you pant against his ear, “I want more.”

He groans and pulls you harder against him, mouth finding your neck. His tongue drags over your skin, his teeth grazing lightly, his breath hot and uneven. Your body trembles, cunt gripping his fingers with every thrust.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice trembling with something hot and breathless. “I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. 

His entire body tightens beneath you. The sound he makes is completely unguarded. Your nipples drag across his chest as you pull back from his lap, and the loss of your weight hits him like a shock; he almost reaches for you without thinking.

But you’re already moving.

You slide off his thighs and settle beside him on the bed, breasts still flushed and warmed from his hands. Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans with a teasing sort of ease.

He doesn’t waste time—not with you looking at him like that. He unbuckles his belt quickly, fingers clumsy with urgency. 

The metal clinks, the leather slides loose, and he shoves the denim down enough to free himself completely. His cock springs out, flushed dark from how long he’s been hard. 

He wraps a shaky hand around the base, like he’s trying to steady himself for you, but you’re already leaning in—soft, eager, ready.

“Let me,” you murmur.

He lets go instantly, breathing hard.

Your fingers wrap around him, warm and slick from your own arousal still shining on his knuckles. His breath breaks as soon as you touch him, a hoarse, helpless exhale that seems to shiver right through his body. 

You stroke once, and the weight of him in your hand pulls a pulse of heat between your legs all over again.

“Jesus…” he groans, head tipping back. “Sweetheart—”

You stroke again, your grip sliding easily along the thick length of him, thumb brushing over the bead of precum already gathering at the swollen tip. He jerks, hips twitching, thighs tensing. 

He’s bigger than you remembered from the day you had him in your mouth—harder now, thicker, the veins along the length pushing against your palm with every upward glide.

“You’re so hard,” you whisper, leaning close enough that your breath grazes him. “You get like this just from touching me?”

His eyes flutter half-shut. “You know I do.”

You kiss his jaw, your hand pumping slowly, your thumb teasing the underside of the head the way you remember made him shake. His cock throbs in your grip, heavy and desperate for more.

He looks at you, at your hand around him, at your bare chest rising and falling with each slow stroke, and another broken sound slips from him—a quiet, strangled groan that proves just how close he already is.

His voice cracks on your name, low and strained, as he watches your hand pump him again. “I’m ready….”

The desperation in his tone sends a hot shiver through your stomach.

You smile and give him one last slow, tight stroke before letting go. He nearly falls forward from the loss of contact. You scoot back on the bed, settling onto your elbows with your thighs parting just enough to invite him closer.

“C’mere.”

He rises from the mattress carefully, cock thick and heavy in his hand, chest flushed, breath shaky as he steps between your open legs. 

The sight alone makes heat pool low in your belly—his broad shoulders, the faint trail of hair leading down his stomach, the way his cock twitches as he looks at you lying back for him.

His breath wavers.

Yours does too.

Then something flickers across your expression—and you huff a small, breathless laugh. “Wait—condom.”

He blinks, like he genuinely forgot the concept of protection existed. “Oh. Right.”

You reach toward the nightstand beside his bed and pull open the drawer. Inside lies a small stack of items—loose receipts, a pen, an old watch—and one crinkled foil packet wedged toward the back. You grab it and hold it out to him.

He swallows hard, takes it from your hand, and his fingers shake just a little as he tears open the wrapper.

You watch him roll it down his flushed length, your breath catching as the rubber stretches over the head and down the shaft. His cock twitches when your eyes follow the movement, and he lets out a soft, ragged breath that brushes heat across your chest.

Your legs fall open a little wider, the bed dipping under your weight.

“There,” you murmur, voice low and warm. “Now you can come here.”

He moves closer until his thighs brush the edge of the mattress. 

One hand slides beneath your knee, lifting it gently while the other drifts down your thigh, fingers hooking the waistband of your panties. 

They’re soaked—warm, clinging, useless now—and he exhales sharply as his thumb grazes the damp fabric.

“Let me take these off,” he murmurs.

You lift your hips without hesitation. 

He pulls the panties down slowly, the wet fabric dragging lightly over your swollen folds before slipping past your thighs, your knees, your ankles. 

The moment your feet are free, he drops the panties somewhere on the floor—not caring where—because his eyes have already drifted back to the place he just uncovered.

You’re bare. Open. Slick and glistening in the soft bedroom light.

His breath trembles.

He brings one hand to your thigh and nudges it wider. Then wider still. The sight of your cunt, flushed and wet from his fingers, makes his cock twitch against his stomach.

“Get up here,” you whisper, voice hushed and earnest.

He climbs onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing circles into your skin as he positions himself. 

The rubber-clad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and thick, the pressure enough to make your breath catch.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says softly.

You shake your head, fingers curling at his shoulders. “I want it. Put it in.”

He exhales your name, then tilts his hips forward. 

The blunt head presses into you— stretching you open around him. Your mouth parts instantly, a soft, breathy sound catching in your throat as the thick width of him slides deeper, inch by inch.

He groans low, the sound raw and aching. 

You grip his arms harder, nails digging lightly into his skin as the stretch builds—deep, intense, pulling a helpless roll of your hips as your body adjusts around him. 

He pauses only long enough to let you exhale, then pushes farther, the length of him gliding through your slick until the first deep thrust bottoms out inside you.

Your breath breaks.

His does too.

“God…” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours, “you feel warm… squeezin’ me already…”

Your legs tighten around his hips as you gasp his name, the fullness of him overwhelming and perfect all at once. 

He moves slowly at first, pulling back just an inch before sinking forward again, letting you feel every ridge, every throb, every hot pulse of his cock buried deep inside you.

You cling to him, body trembling with each controlled thrust. “Remmick… more… please…”

His hands slide up your ribs, sweeping under your tits, then back down to your hips as he starts a deeper rhythm—pushing into you with thick, satisfying force. 

He kisses you while his hips roll into yours.

Your nails drag up his back, searching blindly for something to hold on to as the slow grind of his hips pushes deeper, thicker, warmer into you with every thrust. 

He groans into your neck, the sound shaking through his chest as he tries to keep his pace steady. But the way you’re clenching around him, soft and wet and eager, makes it nearly impossible for him to think straight.

You slide one hand up into his hair, fingers slipping into the soft strands at the nape of his neck. 

When you curl your grip and tug him down for a kiss, he makes a sound into your mouth that sends heat rushing between your thighs.

Your mouth opens for him as your hips lift to meet his next thrust. He moans into the kiss, louder now, the sound vibrating against your lips. His rhythm falters for a moment—not from hesitation, but from pleasure crashing into him all at once.

You whisper against his mouth, breath ragged, “Faster… Remmick, come on…”

He nods against your cheek, swallowing hard, breath shaking. “Alright—just—hold on.”

His hands tighten on your hips, grip firmer now, guiding your body up into his as he draws his cock back and pushes in again with more force. The deeper thrust steals a gasp out of you, your nails digging into his shoulders. He hears it—feels it—and something wild flickers through him.

He thrusts again, faster this time, less careful, driven by the raw sound of your breath catching with every stroke. 

The bed creaks softly beneath the two of you, your bodies rocking together with messy, loud rhythm. 

Your slick coats him, making every push easy and filthy, each movement met with a wet, downright pornographic sound that would’ve embarrassed him if he wasn’t already drowning in how good you feel.

“You’re… fuck—” you gasp, pulling him in for another kiss, “you’re doing so good—don’t stop—”

He moans loudly, hips bucking harder as he sinks into you over and over, inexperienced but fueled entirely by your voice, your heat, your body tightening around him. 

His breath comes out broken each time he bottoms out, thighs trembling against the inside of yours.

Remmick tries to talk, to say something, anything, but the only thing that comes out is a desperate, strangled sound as you tug his hair again and kiss him deeper—open-mouthed, hungry, loud enough to fill the whole room.

You’re loud too.

Every time he thrusts just right, your voice breaks into a moan that makes his cock twitch inside you. Every gasp, every cry of his name pushes him closer to the edge. 

He wasn’t prepared for this—your body taking him so well, your voice so raw and unfiltered, the way you beg without shame.

Remmick pants against your mouth, completely undone. “I—I can’t—sweetheart, you’re—God, you’re squeezin’ me so—”

You pull him down, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths as he fucks you faster, louder, harder than he thought he knew how. 

Your breasts bounce against his chest, your thighs shake around his hips, your nails scratch down his back in frantic, filthy encouragement.

“Just like that,” you beg, voice cracking on the words. 

He loses whatever control he had left.

His thrusts become hard, rhythmic, desperate, each one angled a little deeper as he chases the sound of you coming apart beneath him. His moans get louder, shameless, spilling from him with every thrust, breathless and needy and overwhelming.

Your body rocks under him, every slide of his cock pulling your hips higher, needier. His breath is hot against your cheek, his chest pressed to yours as your hand slips between your bodies.

The moment your fingers touch your clit, your whole spine arches. The pressure is perfect—hot, tight circles that drag pleasure upward with dizzying speed. 

You gasp against his mouth, hips jerking.

He feels the change instantly.

Your walls clamp down around him, and his groan breaks apart, loud and helpless. 

His thrusts falter for a heartbeat, then slam forward again, harder, driven by the sudden squeeze around him.

Your fingers move faster, catching the rhythm of his hips, circling your clit while he drives into you with messy, uneven thrusts that make your breath stutter. Your thighs shake around his waist, slick smearing across his skin, your body opening for him with desperate urgency.

“Remmick—” you moan, barely able to speak through the pleasure building so fast.

His forehead presses to your temple, his breath ragged as your hand works your clit and your cunt squeezes him harder with every thrust. His hips buck without rhythm for a moment—just raw need, sloppy and deep—before he forces himself back into a pace, groaning through clenched teeth as you tighten around him.

“Darlin’,” he gasps, voice cracking on the word, “I—I’m real close…”

Your fingers circle faster, slippery with your own arousal as you push yourself higher and higher. 

He’s panting openly now, moaning into your neck, hips slamming forward with a desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pulse of your clit.

He chokes on a moan so loud it vibrates through your chest as his fingers dig into your hips.

“I’m—sweetheart, I’m gonna come—”

Your free hand drags up your stomach, trembling with the force of every thrust he drives into you. 

The pleasure builds fast—too fast—your clit throbbing under your fingers, your walls gripping him tighter every second.

You reach higher—past your ribs, past the quick rise of your chest—until your fingers brush your nipple.

The touch is electric.

You pinch lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between your fingers, and the shock of sensation tears a gasp from your throat. Your cunt clenches around him instantly.

His voice shatters around your name, hips jerking forward in a rough, uncontrolled thrust that drags the head of his cock against your sweetest spot.

Everything inside you snaps at once.

The orgasm hits mid-thrust—sudden, sharp, overwhelming—your body seizing around him as a cry rips out of you. 

Your fingers clamp on your nipple, the other hand circling your clit in frantic, trembling strokes as your climax slams through your whole body. Your cunt pulses around him, rhythm wild, squeezing him over and over.

He doesn’t last a second more.

The moment your climax hits, the moment he feels you clamp down on him, gripping him like you’re trying to pull him deeper, he breaks.

His head drops against your shoulder as a raw moan tears out of him. His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself as deep as the condom allows, his cock throbbing in your tight heat as his orgasm rips through him. His whole body shakes—thighs flexing, breath stuttering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave warm impressions on your skin.

You moan into his ear, voice high and breathless.

He groans against your neck, long and unrestrained.

Your orgasm milks his, each pulse dragging another broken sound from his throat. His cock twitches inside you, filling the condom with thick, hot release while your slick keeps dripping around him, soaking the base of him and the sheets beneath your hips.

You can feel his heartbeat through his chest—fast, pounding, wild.

And for a long, trembling moment, he keeps thrusting in tiny, helpless motions, riding the last waves of pleasure as your cunt continues to flutter around him, overstimulating him beautifully.

He finally collapses onto you—heavy, warm, panting against your throat—still buried deep, still shaking.

“Oh… ” he whispers, breath uneven. “That… that was somethin’ else…”

For a long stretch of slow, shaking breaths, neither of you moves. His weight sinks into you, heavy but comforting, his chest rising against yours in uneven waves as he tries to catch his breath. Sweat cools on both your bodies, your legs still trembling faintly where they hang around his hips, your fingers loosely curled in his hair.

You feel him soften inside you, still nestled as deep as the condom allows, still giving the occasional small pulse like the last remnants of his orgasm haven’t quite figured out how to stop. 

A soft, tired little sound slips out of you at the sensation, and it makes him groan quietly into your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t mean to… keep pressin’ on you like that.”

“You’re fine,” you whisper back, stroking the damp curls at the back of his neck. “Feels nice.”

He melts at that—actually melts. His whole body relaxes on top of you, muscles softening while he nuzzles lazily into the crook of your neck. The shyness returns only now, after everything, creeping softly into the edges of his voice.

“You okay?” he asks, gentle and earnest.

“More than okay.” Your hand slides down his spine, fingertips following the slick warmth of sweat between his shoulder blades. “You were, like… really good.”

He makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a bashful laugh and disbelief. “I just… wanted to make sure you felt good.”

“I did,” you say, and the honesty in your tone leaves him speechless for a second.

He lifts his head enough to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen from kissing, curls sticking to his forehead. 

His eyes soften when he takes in your face—your own flushed skin, your parted lips, your hair messy against the pillow. Something tender flickers in his expression, warm and unguarded.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your collarbone before he even realizes he’s doing it. Then, like the words slipped out too freely, he hesitates. “If—if that’s okay to say.”

Your heart gives a small, unexpected squeeze. “It’s okay.”

He smiles then, small but genuine, like he’s proud of himself for saying it out loud. His hips twitch reflexively, making both of you gasp at the sudden overstimulation. He winces, blushing more.

“Think I should, uh… pull out,” he says, sheepish.

You nod, letting your legs fall open. He pulls back slowly, careful, his cock slipping free of you with a warm, sensitive glide that makes him grunt and makes you exhale softly at the sudden emptiness. The condom stays intact, drooping slightly at the tip.

He ties it off, still blushing, and gets up long enough to toss it in the tiny trash bin beside his dresser.

Then he comes right back to you.

He lies down beside you on the mattress, close enough that his thigh brushes yours. 

One arm slips beneath your shoulders, tentative at first, then more confident when you curl into him without hesitation. 

His body is warm, still humming faintly from the heat of everything that happened. His hand drifts over your hip, thumb tracing absent, sleepy circles along your skin.

Silence settles—soft, peaceful, nothing heavy or awkward.

Just two warm bodies in a small farmhouse room, wrapped in the quiet aftermath of something they both wanted far more than either was ready to admit.

“You stayin’ awhile?” he asks quietly, voice thick with exhaustion and hope.

You smile into his chest. “Yeah. I like being here.”

He exhales slowly, the breath warm against your hair, his hand still tracing gentle circles along your hip.

A few seconds pass. Maybe a minute. Long enough for both of your breathing to settle, for the heat on your skin to cool.

Then you tilt your head up toward him, eyes sleepy but bright with that familiar mischief he’s slowly—painfully—getting used to.

“Hey, Remmick?” you murmur.

“Mm?” His voice comes out soft, half-drowsy.

You trail your fingers lightly down his stomach, stopping just above his soft cock. His breath catches—not enough to make him tense, just enough to remind you how sensitive he still is.

“Next time…” You give him a lazy, teasing smile. “Which position do you wanna try?”

He goes completely still.

A flush creeps up his cheeks so fast you feel the heat rise against your palm. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—like he’s trying to respond but his brain is sputtering along with his heartbeat.

“I—uh—well—darlin’, I—” He swallows hard, voice pitching embarrassingly high before settling again. “I don’t… I mean, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Yes you have,” you tease softly, nudging his thigh with your knee. “I can tell.”

He hides his face in your shoulder for a moment, groaning quietly in pure embarrassment.

You grin, fingers stroking along the light hair at his navel. “C’mon. Tell me.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Maybe… maybe the one where you’re on top.”

You grin, slow and wicked and entirely pleased.

From the kitchen, your aunt’s voice carries down the hallway. “Don’t forget your water bottle today.”

A muffled groan disappears into your pillow. “I didn’t even forget it yesterday. I chose not to bring it.”

“That ain’t the same thing,” she calls back, already halfway into her morning routine.

By the time you’re back on the dirt road, your mood is already trailing behind you like a storm cloud.

Another pair of cute shorts, another top that has no business anywhere near livestock, hair pinned back and frizzing at the edges before you’ve even made it a quarter mile. Your sandals kick up dust with every step, and the deeper you go into the countryside, the more the silence presses in around you.

The farm comes into view gradually, the faded red of the barn bleeding into the pale sky, fences stretching outward in uneven lines.

He’s already there when you spot him, bent over a gate near the fence line, sleeves rolled up, shirt darkened with sweat as though yesterday never ended for him.

There’s a fleeting urge to turn around, just to prove a point. Instead, you clear your throat loudly enough to announce yourself without actually saying hello.

Remmick straightens, surprise flickering across his face before he reins it in. His gaze travels from your shoes to your face like he’s trying to decide if you’re real or just another heat mirage.

“Mornin’,” he says, quiet and polite as ever.

“Morning,” you reply, flatly.

The pause that follows is thick, awkward, full of everything neither of you says. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking down the road behind you, perhaps half-expecting your aunt to appear and drag you back herself.

“I thought you weren’t comin’ back,” he admits, voice low.

“Well, I did,” you answer, folding your arms across your chest. “Because apparently leaving when I feel like it is now a crime.”

A faint wince crosses his face as his hand drifts to the back of his neck. “Wasn’t tryin’ to get you in trouble.”

“You called my aunt.”

“Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.” His gaze drops to the dirt near his boots, ears faintly pink. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

The explanation only irritates you further, even though part of you understands it. “I’m not a toddler,” you mutter.

He stays quiet for a beat before replying, careful. “Didn’t say you were. Just… worried.”

“Well, you can relax,” you reply, sweeping a hand toward the fields. “I’m here now.”

He nods once, reserved, then reaches for his tools as though the conversation has been properly closed. “We’ll start with the easier stuff today.”

“Because yesterday traumatized me,” you mutter under your breath.

He pretends not to hear it, but the slight tightening of his jaw gives him away. Without looking back, he starts toward the chicken coop. “They’re calmer in the mornin’.”

“They are not calm. They’re aggressive.”

“They’re birds.”

“So are seagulls, and those are evil too.”

A reluctant hint of a smile threatens before he smooths it away. He pauses briefly, just long enough that you nearly run into him, then steps aside to let you pass. His eyes flick toward you, quick and unreadable, before he looks back to the path.

“If you’re gonna stay,” he says quietly, “you might as well learn somethin’.”

You roll your eyes at his back. “Inspirational.”

Neither of you apologizes. Neither of you brings up yesterday again. The petty tension hums between you louder than the cicadas in the trees, making the walk toward the coop feel heavier than it has any right to.

The rest of the day passes in fragments, stitched together by heat and irritation and moments neither of you quite knows what to do with.

You spill grain again before noon, shrieking when it dusts your legs, hopping around like it’s lava while Remmick silently crouches to fix it.

He doesn’t tease you, doesn’t scold you, just keeps working with that quiet patience that makes you want to either apologize or push him harder.

You choose the second option, complaining loudly about how farm dirt is “stickier than regular dirt” until he clears his throat and asks if you want gloves.

You say no because gloves are “ugly,” then immediately regret it when splinters bite into your palms.

He notices without pointing it out and leaves a pair folded on the fence post where you’ll find them five minutes later.

Later, you wander off in the middle of him explaining how to latch a gate, distracted by a calf wobbling toward you on unsteady legs.

He has to jog after you, hat slipping crooked, asking gently but firmly that you please not get trampled on your second day.

You pout, claiming the cow “looked friendly,” and he rubs his face like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

At lunchtime, you sit in the shade with your legs sprawled dramatically in the dust while he eats in silence a few feet away.

You announce that sweet tea should legally be considered medicine, and that your phone battery is at seventeen percent and therefore so are you.

He listens to all of it, nodding in small, polite intervals, offering you the last of his water when you forget yours back at the house.

By mid-afternoon, the tension shifts into something quieter. He shows you how to brush down one of the horses, guiding your hand along its flank when you hesitate. You chatter nervously about being bitten, about lawsuits, about how horses are “basically really tall dogs,” while he murmurs reassurances under his breath, voice low and steady, eyes never quite meeting yours.

There are moments you almost like him—like when he brings you a cold apple from the farmhouse fridge without making a big deal out of it, or when he waits for you to catch up without pointing out that you’ve fallen behind again.

There are moments he almost looks like he likes you too, until you complain that the barn smells weird and he stiffens just slightly, shoulders drawing in before he smooths it away.

The sun sinks slow and heavy toward the treeline, turning everything copper and soft.

You’re exhausted in a way you’ve never been before, limbs aching, gloss long gone.

He watches you sway on your feet while pretending to fix a loose hinge, and when you finally announce that your body is “shutting down forever,” he only nods and says it’s probably time to call it a day.

You walk back down the dirt road later with sore legs and dust on your ankles, not turning around when he tells you to be careful.

He stays where he is, leaning against the fence, eyes following you longer than he means to, already bracing himself for tomorrow.

The farmhouse is quiet in the evenings, a deep, settled quiet that feels older than electricity. By the time Remmick finishes locking up the barn, the sky has gone dark-blue and heavy, stars beginning to poke through like pinholes. Crickets scream from the tall grass, and the cicadas finally give up their racket as the air cools just enough to breathe.

He washes up at the old sink by the mudroom, scrubbing his hands until the dirt stains fade to pink. The water runs brown at first, then clear. He keeps scrubbing anyway, like he can rinse the day off him entirely if he tries hard enough.

Up in his room, he changes slow, methodical. Boots by the door. Hat on the hook. Shirt folded instead of tossed. It’s the same routine he’s had since he was a boy, the sort of habits that don’t leave you even when everything else does.

Still, his mind won’t quiet down the way it usually does.

You drift into his thoughts uninvited—your voice carrying across the fields, complaining about bugs and heat and dirt like the farm personally wronged you.

The way you stare at things that don’t matter, then miss the things that do. How you call him “cowboy” just to see if he’ll react. How you left early yesterday without a backward glance.

He exhales slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed to tug off his socks. Annoying is the first word that comes to mind. Annoying in your wandering attention, in your endless questions, in the way you look like you belong nowhere near a place like this.

And yet.

He remembers the way you tried to lift the feed bucket like you were determined to prove something, the way you flinched at the chickens and then glared at them like they’d done it on purpose. The way you kept coming back anyway, even when you clearly didn’t want to.

Remmick lies back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling fan as it turns slow circles overhead. He tells himself he only thinks about you because you make the days louder than usual, harder to ignore.

Because patience is easier when you aren’t constantly tested by someone who doesn’t know the rules and doesn’t care to learn them.

Still, he plans tomorrow in his head—simpler chores, nothing too heavy, maybe show you the orchard instead of the coop. He tells himself it’s just practical, just easier that way.

His eyes finally drift closed, the hum of night wrapping around the farmhouse, and the last thing he thinks before sleep is that politeness shouldn’t feel like effort.

With you, it does.

The days start stacking on top of each other in a way that makes time feel thick, like syrup left out in the sun.

Mornings begin with you dragging yourself down the dirt road, hair in some new variation of chaos, sandals dusted before you even reach the fence.

Remmick always spots you first. He never waves, never calls out, just straightens a little and pretends he wasn’t watching for you at all.

You spend one afternoon complaining about how the cows stare too much, insisting they’re judging your outfit.

He answers with quiet hums and the occasional polite “Yes, ma’am,” even though his mouth tightens each time you say something particularly ridiculous.

You catch the tiny signs now—the way he presses his lips together, the way his hand rubs the back of his neck when he’s trying not to react.

Another day, you wander off mid-task again, trying to get photos of a cloud shaped like a heart.

He has to jog halfway across the pasture to bring you back, breath slightly heavier than usual.

When you thank him, all sugar-sweet and absentminded, he stares at the ground and mutters that it’s no trouble even though his ears are burning red.

By the third morning, the farm almost feels familiar.

You still don’t like the dirt, still hate the heat, but you know where the shade falls in the afternoon and which fence posts wobble. He notices. You don’t notice that he notices.

Then comes the day it finally slips.

It’s mid-afternoon, the air heavy enough to press against your lungs.

Remmick is showing you how to latch the gate properly—how to make sure the chain catches just right so the cattle don’t push it open.

He explains it carefully, slow, patient, repeating himself when you interrupt with questions that have nothing to do with the gate.

“So if I don’t do this, they just… escape?” you ask, leaning your weight against the fence.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “They’ll get out and wander the road.”

You glance down the long dirt stretch behind you. “That sounds like not my problem.”

The words fall out easy, careless.

He stops moving.

At first you don’t notice, too busy brushing dust from your shorts. Then the silence stretches, heavier than it’s ever been. When you look back, he’s standing perfectly still, hands resting on the top rail, jaw tight.

“That is your problem,” he says, voice low but not soft anymore.

You blink at him. “I was joking.”

“It don’t sound like a joke.” He finally turns to face you fully, eyes steady, something firmer sitting behind them than you’ve seen before. “This isn’t a game. If that gate’s not latched right, someone gets hurt. Could be one of the animals. Could be a person.”

The sharpness in his tone surprises you so badly that you don’t have a clever answer ready. You open your mouth, then close it again.

He exhales slowly, the anger already fading, leaving behind something that looks like regret. “I’m sorry,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

But the damage is already done. The air feels different now—charged, unsettled. You stare at the chain in your hands, suddenly aware of its weight.

“I’ll… do it right,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

He nods once, stepping back to give you space. The politeness is back in place, but it doesn’t sit as smoothly as it did before.

For the rest of the afternoon, neither of you jokes.

You latch every gate carefully, checking it twice, and he doesn’t say anything about it. Still, every now and then, you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye, as if he’s trying to decide whether he went too far—or not far enough.

The next morning starts like all the others, heat already clinging to your skin by the time you reach the barn.

You expect him to send you off toward something simple—sorting tools, rinsing buckets, waiting in the shade while he handles anything sharp or heavy.

Instead, he doesn’t.

Remmick is working near the tractor, sleeves rolled up, hands dark with grease as he adjusts something under the hood.

When you wander over, he glances up once, hesitates, then nods toward the open toolbox at his feet.

“Hand me that wrench,” he says.

You blink. “Which one?”

He pauses, clearly reconsidering the request, then points. “The long one. On the left.”

You crouch beside him, knees bending carefully, and pass it over with a little flourish. “I feel very important right now.”

A faint huff of amusement escapes him before he can stop it. He doesn’t comment, just goes back to work, letting you stay where you are instead of shooing you away.

The space between you is closer than it’s ever been. Close enough that you can hear his breathing, steady and slow. Close enough to notice the way his shoulders tense when the wrench slips, how he mutters apologies to the machine under his breath like it can hear him.

You start asking questions—different ones than before.

“What happens if you don’t fix it now?”

“Does it break a lot?”

“Is that why you always check it twice?”

He answers all of them. Not rushed. Not annoyed. Just careful, choosing his words like he wants you to actually understand.

Later, when you move on to mending a section of fence, he doesn’t stand back with his arms crossed. He stays beside you, close enough that his elbow brushes yours now and then. When you fumble with the wire, he reaches in without thinking, guiding your hands, then freezes as if realizing how close he is.

He pulls back slowly. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t move away.

“You’re gettin’ better at this,” he says instead.

You look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods once. “Yeah. You’re payin’ attention now.”

The words settle heavier than you expect. You try to brush them off with a joke, but it comes out softer. “Guess I’m a fast learner.”

He doesn’t argue.

By the time the sun reaches its highest point, you’re still there—still beside him, still working through things together.

He hands you tools without explanation now, trusting you to know which ones he means. When you get it right, he doesn’t smile, but his shoulders ease like something has unclenched.

At one point, you wander toward the shade out of habit, then stop when you realize he hasn’t suggested it. You hover there a second, then drift back to his side instead.

He notices, but says nothing.

It’s only later, when you’re both quiet, sweat-damp and tired, that it hits you: he hasn’t tried to put distance between you once all day.

That night, the house settles into its usual hush—the low hum of the fan in the hallway, crickets starting up outside the open window, your aunt’s television murmuring somewhere down the hall.

Your room smells faintly of body wash and the lemon cleaner your aunt swears by. Skin still warm from the shower, you sit cross-legged on the bed with your phone propped against a stack of folded clothes.

The screen flickers to life with your friend’s face, perfectly lit by some neon lamp you recognize instantly.

“Oh my God,” she says, already laughing. “Why does your room look like a grandma’s airbnb?”

“It’s vintage,” you reply, pouting into the camera. “I hate it here.”

She snorts. “You said that last time, too. You still alive?”

Barely.

You launch into a long, dramatic recap—how the sun feels like it’s out to get you personally, how your aunt is a dictator in floral aprons.

She listens with wide eyes, interrupting only to gasp at the mention of dirt under your nails or the absence of decent coffee.

“So,” she says after a while, propping her chin on her hand. “Any hot country boys yet?”

You scoff. “No. There’s just this farmer guy who doesn’t talk and stares at the ground like it personally offended him.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh my God. You like him.”

“I absolutely do not,” you insist, twisting a lock of hair around your finger. “He’s annoying. And quiet. And he says ‘ma’am’ like I’m his teacher.”

She grins knowingly. “That’s how it starts.”

The call stretches on, drifting through old gossip and mutual friends you haven’t thought about in weeks. Midnight sneaks up on you, the air cooling just enough to make the curtains flutter.

Then she straightens suddenly, excitement flashing across her face. “Wait—speaking of us… I talked to Toni and Lila today.”

Your heart sinks a little. “Why?”

“Because we’re bored, and you’re in the middle of nowhere,” she says like it’s obvious. “We’re coming to visit you.”

You blink. “Like… to say hi?”

“No, like visit. Weekend trip. Bring wine. Catch up like old times.” Her grin widens. “We’ll survive the chickens.”

Your stomach flips, part dread, part something else you can’t quite name. “You can’t. My aunt will kill me.”

“She’ll love us,” your friend says breezily. “We’re charming.”

You look around the tiny room, the quilt, the sagging dresser, the fan rattling overhead. Then, without meaning to, your thoughts drift to the farm—to quiet mornings, to the way Remmick’s shoulders ease when he’s focused, to the way he lets you stay close now.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “This place… isn’t really your vibe.”

“That’s why it’ll be fun,” she replies. “We’ll text you dates tomorrow. Miss you.”

The call ends before you can argue, the screen going dark in your hand.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it clicks and spins, heart beating a little faster than it should. The thought of the city crashing into this quiet place feels wrong somehow—too loud, too bright.

And, for reasons you don’t want to unpack yet, you already know exactly who’s going to hate it the most.

The second morning after your friends arrive, the world feels louder somehow, like the quiet has been dented.

Yesterday was a blur of shrieking hugs in the hotel lobby, perfume clouds and iced coffee sweating onto your hands while you all talked over each other.

They had found a mall not far from you—big, shiny, full of glass and air-conditioning—and by the time you finally escaped back to your aunt’s house, your phone was buzzing with plans for today.

Come after you’re done with whatever farm thing you have to do, one of them texted.

We’re not leaving without you.

So here you are again, standing in the soft churned dirt of the farm, heat already climbing even though it isn’t yet noon.

The chickens scatter as you pass, dust clinging to your calves, your mood caught somewhere between giddy and distracted.

Remmick is by the shed when you find him, coiling a hose with the same careful precision he brings to everything else.

He glances up when you approach, giving you that small, reserved nod that has quietly replaced the distant politeness of the first days.

“You’re early,” he says.

“My friends are in town,” you reply, leaning against the doorframe like the farm is just another errand on a very full schedule. “They wanna go to the mall today.”

He hums, not quite a question, not quite an answer. You trail after him as he heads toward the orchard, helping where you can, passing him tools when he asks, catching your phone before it slides out of your pocket for the third time.

For a while you chatter about the hotel, about how the beds are “heavenly,” about the bar downstairs that has lights built into the bottles. He listens the way he always does—quiet, patient, filing the information away without comment.

The question slips out when you’re walking between the rows of trees, the shade breaking up the sun.

“Do you wanna come?” you ask.

He stops so abruptly that you almost walk into him. His brows knit together, confusion plain across his face. “Come where?”

“To the mall,” you clarify, swinging your bag higher on your shoulder. “Meet my friends. Hang out.”

There’s a beat of silence where he just looks at you like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence. “Why’d you invite me?” he finally asks.

The words catch you off guard, not because they’re rude but because they’re honest in a way you’re not used to. You shift your weight, toeing at the dirt.

“Because I want all of my friends to know each other,” you say, simple as that. Then, softer, “And because, even though you kinda get on my nerves sometimes, I’ve kinda… grown to like your company.”

The orchard hums around you—bees, leaves whispering, the faint creak of branches in the breeze.

Remmick stares at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t really belong in a place like that,” he murmurs.

“You don’t know that,” you reply quickly. “There’s stores. Food. Air-conditioning. You’ll survive.”

A corner of his mouth lifts despite himself. “That’s your sales pitch?”

“It’s a strong one.”

He thinks about it longer than you expect, eyes drifting over the rows of trees like he’s measuring the distance between this world and the one you’re offering. At last, he exhales.

“I’ll… consider it,” he says.

It isn’t a yes, but it isn’t a no either, and somehow that’s enough to make your afternoon feel lighter as you get back to work.

A little later in the afternoon, the heat finally loosens its grip enough for Remmick to call it a day.

He disappears into the farmhouse to clean up while you wait on the porch, phone in hand, already fielding excited texts from your friends about what stores they’ve hit first.

When he comes back out, it takes you a second to recognize him.

The grease-streaked jeans have been swapped for a cleaner pair, the faded shirt replaced with something softer that still fits his broad shoulders just right. His hair is damp, combed back with more care than usual, and he holds his keys like they might bite him.

“My grandpa’s truck still runs,” he says, almost apologetically. “Ain’t pretty, but it’ll get us there.”

The truck is parked under the oak tree like it’s always been there, paint dulled by years of sun, the hood nicked and dented in places that look earned.

When he opens the door for you, it creaks in protest. You climb in anyway, perching on the worn bench seat like it’s a throne.

The drive into the city feels like crossing a border. The dirt road smooths into asphalt, trees thinning out until storefronts and traffic lights start taking over.

Remmick drives with both hands on the wheel, posture stiff, eyes tracking everything like he’s bracing for something to go wrong.

The mall parking lot is already packed when you arrive, glittering glass doors reflecting the late-day sun.

Your friends spot you immediately, shrieking your name and rushing over in a flurry of designer bags and manicured hands.

“You look alive!” Toni laughs, squeezing you tight.

“I am alive,” you reply, spinning them around. “Barely.”

Their eyes slide past you, landing on Remmick where he lingers a step behind, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s not sure where they’re supposed to go. The chatter stumbles, just for a second.

“This is…?” Bri prompts, gaze skimming him the way people glance at store windows they don’t plan to enter.

“This is Remmick,” you say brightly. “He works on the farm with me.”

“Oh,” she says, the word polite but thin. “Nice to meet you.”

He nods, shy as ever. “Nice to meet you too.”

They exchange looks—quick, subtle, unmistakable. Your friends don’t say anything outright, but you can feel the shift, the way their smiles tighten, the way they look at him like he’s part of the scenery instead of the group.

You don’t miss the way Remmick’s shoulders draw in, just a little, as if he’s already shrinking himself to fit into a space that doesn’t feel made for him.

The mall swallows you whole the second you step inside—air-conditioning rushing over your skin, lights gleaming off glass storefronts, music thumping faintly from somewhere overhead.

It feels like coming up for air after weeks underwater, and you soak it in with a grin so wide it almost hurts.

Your friends scatter in all directions, dragging you from store to store in a blur of mirrors and perfume clouds. Bags pile up on your arms until you can barely see over them, and every time you glance back, Remmick is still there, walking carefully, eyes darting from display to display like he’s afraid he might knock something over just by standing too close.

At one point, you spin on your heel in the middle of a men’s clothing store. “You need new shirts.”

He blinks. “I just bought one.”

“That was probably, like, two years ago,” you say, already rifling through hangers. You shove a soft flannel at his chest, then another. “Try these.”

“I don’t need—”

“You absolutely do.” You steer him toward the fitting rooms before he can protest.

When he steps out again, sleeves rolled a little too far up his forearms, you clap your hands together. “Oh my God. You look… normal. In a good way.”

His ears turn pink instantly. “They’re expensive.”

“So am I,” you reply, swiping your card before he can argue.

By the time you’ve hit the third store, he’s carrying half your bags, insisting quietly that he doesn’t mind while you keep piling things on his arms anyway.

Your friends watch with raised brows and little smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes, whispering to each other when they think you’re distracted by a shoe display.

Eventually the weight of it all drives you toward the food court, your stomach growling loud enough to make one of them laugh.

You slide into a booth with relief, kicking your feet out in front of you while Remmick sets the bags down carefully like they’re fragile.

Toni eyes him across the table, straw tapping against her lip. “So,” she says, tone sugary, “what do you even do out there all day? Milk cows or something?”

He hesitates. “I, uh… help run the farm.”

She hums. “Must be nice. So simple.”

Something in her voice makes your head snap up. You don’t fully register why it bothers you, only that it does.

“It’s not simple,” you say, a little too fast. “It’s, like, hard. There’s tools and animals and… dangerous stuff. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

Toni blinks. “I was joking.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny,” you reply, frowning at your fries. “Also, he drove me here in his grandpa’s truck and it didn’t even break down, so that’s already impressive.”

The table goes quiet for a second, all eyes on you. Remmick stares at his napkin like it’s suddenly fascinating.

You huff, not entirely sure what you just defended, only that it felt necessary. “He’s just… not a mall person. That doesn’t mean he’s weird.”

His fingers curl slightly around the edge of the table. He doesn’t look up, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth anyway.

By the time the lights of the mall start dimming into evening mode, your arms are aching from the weight of shopping bags and your voice is hoarse from laughing too hard.

The group lingers near the entrance, everyone half-talking over each other, already planning what store to hit first tomorrow.

“You better text us when you get back,” one of your friends says, hugging you tight. “We’re not done with you yet.”

“I will,” you promise easily. “We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

They wave as you and Remmick head toward the parking lot, the glass doors sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss.

The sun has dipped low enough that the heat finally loosens, the sky streaked pink and gold as you cross the asphalt to the old truck waiting patiently at the far edge.

He unlocks it and you climb in, already digging through one of your bags. The engine coughs to life, steady and stubborn, and he eases out of the lot with more caution than the ride in.

Silence settles over the cab, but it isn’t the uncomfortable kind. It hums softly, filled by the radio crackling to life and the sound of tires on pavement.

Remmick keeps his eyes on the road, hands relaxed on the wheel, thoughts circling back to the food court and the way your voice cut through the table when your friend crossed a line.

It hadn’t been eloquent. It hadn’t even made complete sense. But you’d meant it.

He swallows, glancing briefly at your reflection in the windshield, then back to the road.

Maybe you weren’t as careless as you pretended to be. Maybe, underneath all the chatter and gloss and noise, there was something solid after all.

Beside him, you’re completely unaware of any of this, already testing lip glosses in the side mirror, pouting at your reflection.

You slide one ring off and replace it with another, admiring how it catches the fading light, then hold your hand up toward him.

“Which one’s cuter?” you ask.

He glances over, startled out of his thoughts. “Uh… the left one,” he says, uncertain but honest.

You beam, swapping them immediately. “Knew it.”

The truck rolls on toward the darkening countryside, the city lights shrinking in the rearview, and for the first time since meeting you, Remmick finds himself almost looking forward to tomorrow.

The next few days blur into a strange split life, half city gloss and half red dirt.

Mornings still belong to the farm.

You show up with your hair half-done and yesterday’s bracelets still clinking on your wrist, asking Remmick questions that actually make sense now—where to put things back, how to tell when a gate is really latched, why the orchard needs checking before the animals.

He answers each one carefully, sometimes glancing at you like he’s surprised you’re asking at all, and you pretend not to notice the way his shoulders relax a little more every time you don’t wander off mid-task.

Afternoons pull you back toward your friends.

You meet them at the hotel or the mall, drifting through bright stores and cafés, trading the smell of hay for perfume clouds and air-conditioning.

Your phone fills with selfies and plans, with reminders that this—this shiny, loud world—is supposed to be where you belong.

One afternoon you’re all sprawled across a row of couches in the hotel lobby, shopping bags at your feet. Bri kicks her heels up onto the armrest and tilts her head at you.

“So when are you actually coming back home?” she asks.

You shrug, twisting a ring around your finger. “Daddy said I’m staying out here until stuff blows over.”

Toni wrinkles her nose. “That sucks.”

You nod, like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Wouldn’t have even happened if Carter didn’t get that dumb idea in the first place.”

They all groan at the name, launching into their own versions of the story while you zone out, watching people drift past the front doors.

Somewhere between their laughter and the soft hotel music, your mind slides back to the farm—to the quiet, to the way he waits when you lag behind instead of pretending he doesn’t notice.

By evening you’re back on the dirt road again, bags in one hand, sandals dusty before you’ve even made it halfway home.

The worlds keep colliding in small ways, and you’re starting to realize you don’t rush to switch between them quite as fast as you used to.

The heat sits heavier now that your friends are gone.

There’s no more split between two worlds—no mall plans waiting in the afternoon, no bright hotel lobby to retreat to. Just the stretch of open sky, the hum of cicadas, and the creak of the porch swing when you sit out too long after sundown.

You’ve been back on the farm every day since, the work coming easier now, less awkward in your hands.

You don’t whine as much, or if you do, Remmick’s learned to just shake his head and hand you the right tool without saying a word.

Late morning finds you perched on a stump near the chicken coop, arms wrapped loosely around your knees, eyes half-lidded in the sun.

The chickens peck lazily at the dirt nearby, unbothered now by your presence. You watch one scratch aimlessly at a patch of grass and mumble under your breath, “Don’t you ever get bored?”

The bird doesn’t answer. You blink slowly, sweat beading along your shoulders beneath the thin straps of your tank top, the summer air thick and syrupy. The chickens don’t seem to care that you're wilting. They just keep pecking and scratching, unbothered by everything.

Then footsteps crunch through the dry grass behind you—familiar, even-tempoed.

You look up just in time to see Remmick walking past the coop, headed toward the barn with a shovel over one shoulder and his eyes squinting into the sun.

And that’s when it hits you.

The shirt he’s wearing is one of his old ones, thinner than the others, damp with sweat and clinging in all the wrong ways. Or maybe all the right ones, depending on how long you’ve been staring.

Faded cotton, tighter in places it normally doesn’t, made clingier by the sweat that’s started to soak through.

It hugs his torso tighter than usual, pulled across the curve of his back, the subtle flex of muscle in his biceps, the dip just beneath his ribs. It’s darker around the collar and down his chest where it’s stuck to his skin, outlining everything—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the faintest line of hair trailing down from his navel before disappearing beneath his belt.

You blink slowly.

Okay.

You might be drooling a little.

Not literally, but spiritually. You shift where you’re sitting, adjusting your legs as if that’ll help cool the warmth that’s started to bloom low in your belly.

You don’t mean to look that hard.

But the line of his collarbone is there, dusted with sun, and his neck is slick and red where the heat’s been clinging to him. There’s a curve to his shoulders when he walks that you suddenly can’t stop watching. Like every part of him is built to carry things, made to hold more than he says out loud.

He doesn’t even notice. Just walks past you like it’s nothing, like he isn’t accidentally staging a scene out of your newly unlocked fantasy life.

You smile, maybe a beat too slow. “You look hot,” you blurt, and instantly regret it.

He pauses mid-step, turns toward you with that cautious, unreadable expression. “I—uh. Yeah. Sun’s rough today.”

You nod quickly, eyes darting anywhere but back at him. “Totally. That’s what I meant. Like... the sun. Not—you. The sun is hot.”

He shifts his grip on the shovel, brow faintly furrowed, like he’s not sure if he should be confused or embarrassed.

“I’m gonna check the shed,” he says after a second, voice a little quieter than usual.

“Okay,” you murmur.

As he walks away, your gaze drops straight back to his back—his very broad back—and the way his jeans cling just enough to make your face burn.

You take a slow breath, fanning yourself with your hand.

The chickens blink at you, completely unimpressed.

You glance back at the animals, who seem equally unbothered. “You guys saw that too, right?” you whisper.

One of them squawks and pecks the dirt.

The shift between you begins quietly, so subtle it folds into the routine without drawing too much attention to itself.

Remmick starts noticing the way your perfume clings to the air when you pass him—sweet and soft, like something expensive and unnecessary that somehow doesn’t feel out of place anymore.

He watches how your hands move when you talk, all glittery rings and expressive little gestures that make even nonsense sound convincing.

When you laugh, full and unfiltered, it rings out over the fields and lingers longer than it should.

There’s a morning he catches you tying your hair up with a red ribbon, fingers fumbling at the nape of your neck.

You mumble that the heat’s driving you crazy.

He says nothing at the time, but later, when he’s alone, the image floats back to him—your bare shoulders, the fine sheen of sweat on your skin, the ribbon falling crooked against your spine.

You start noticing how rough his hands are when they pass you tools—scraped at the knuckles, strong and sun-worn.

He doesn’t flinch when they brush yours anymore, doesn’t pull back like he used to. The curve of his mouth stays with you after he smiles, rare and real, tugging more to one side than the other.

There’s a moment when he’s fixing something above the barn door and his shirt lifts, just barely, revealing the slope of his waist and the slight dip at his lower back.

You look away too fast and drop the screwdriver you were holding. He doesn’t ask why.

He notices how you hum to yourself when you think no one’s listening, the little half-tunes drifting across the fields while you work. You notice how his voice softens when he calls the animals by name.

Before long he’s pressing your gloves into your palm before you even think to ask, and you’re leaving cold drinks on the fence rail for him without ever explaining why.

From there it slides naturally into something closer.

The distance between you shrinks in increments—barely-there brushes of fingers, offhand comments delivered with that glossy smile and bright, airy voice that never quite sounds serious even when it is.

One morning you show up in shorts that are definitely shorter than usual, cinched with a little bow at the waist, insisting it’s because it’s “boiling out here” and that your aunt “said it’s fine,” which may or may not be true.

Remmick keeps his mouth shut, but his ears go pink all the same when you stretch overhead and fake a yawn that shows just enough skin to make him look away a beat too late.

When he’s crouched beside the feed bin, focused on something rusted and stubborn, you linger behind him, pretending to look at the sky.

“Is your back always that broad,” you ask casually, “or is it just today?”

He startles, just slightly. His head turns like he’s trying to figure out if you’re teasing him or not. You smile, all innocent lips and glinting sunglasses.

Later, when he’s showing you how to tie a rope knot—something with your hands close to his, fingers fumbling—you lean in too far.

He steps back out of reflex, not abruptly, just enough for your hands to miss the mark.

“Oh,” you say softly, pouting just enough to notice. “You don’t like being close to me?”

“It’s not that,” he says quickly, voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. “i just—wasn’t expectin’ it.”

You hum, unconvinced. “You should expect me more often.”

He doesn’t answer. His hands are fidgeting with the rope longer than necessary.

Over the next few days, it becomes a pattern.

You start wearing gloss again, even though the heat melts it off within the hour. You bend lower to pick things up. You make vague, strange comments that don’t land the way they should—but they make him blink, or clear his throat, or adjust his hat like it’s suddenly too tight.

“Would you say you’re strong enough to carry me?” you ask once, swinging your legs idly from a fence rail.

He glances at you, caught somewhere between confused and amused. “That somethin’ you need often?”

“Not yet,” you murmur, biting down on a smile. “But you never know.”

He turns back to his work without replying, but his cheeks are red again, the flush rising down his neck.

There’s a growing awareness now—mutual, unspoken, steady as the heat rolling through the fields.

He keeps his distance, polite and quiet, but he doesn’t avoid you. He stays close when he doesn’t have to, watching you longer than he means to.

And every now and then, when you lean in too close or laugh too loud, his gaze lingers just a beat too long before flicking away.

You’re still all airhead sweetness and flirt-slick charm. But something underneath it is sharper now—something hungry and playful.

The evening settles slow over the farmhouse, blue and gold fading into the hush of night. The windows are open, letting in the chirr of crickets and the cool whisper of wind through the trees. The dishes are done—Remmick always washes them now, even though it’s just him and his grandma left in the house.

Tonight, it was her favorite floral-edged plate from the cabinet, the one she never uses anymore but asked for anyway. He’d washed it gently, like it meant something.

He dries his hands on a clean towel, folds it neatly, and pads barefoot down the hall to his room.

The light on his nightstand glows soft and amber. The little journal he keeps tucked under the bed frame waits for him, worn at the edges, pages rippled from the humidity.

He pulls it out, sits back against the pillows, and flips to a clean page.

The pen fits awkwardly in his hand at first. He doesn’t write often, not unless something sticks in his chest too long.

August 9. Warm again today. Chickens are fussy. Fence behind the well’s leaning in bad.

She wore something short again. Not complaining. Just noticing.

He pauses, scratches at the side of his neck, then keeps going.

I think she does it on purpose now. The bending. The way she leans close and pretends like she don’t know she’s touching me. Smiles like it’s all nothing. Keeps askin’ if I’m blushing. I probably am.

His hand slows, the pen hovering.

She’s loud. Airy. Like she don’t got a thought in her head sometimes. But then she asks questions. Good ones. Remembers what I told her last week about the feed line. Said she likes my company. Thought about that all night.

The words stretch out like an exhale.

She’s got this way about her. Laughs at things that aren’t funny. Drops stuff on purpose, maybe. Gloss all over her mouth and still talks like she’s surprised I look at her. I try not to. But she knows what she’s doing. I know she knows. That’s what makes it worse. Or Better? I don’t know.

His handwriting’s gone sloppier, slower.

I like it.

His hand hesitates again. The page stays open in his lap. His chest feels tight, like he’s trying to breathe around something warm and unspoken.

By the time he sets the pen down, it’s quiet except for the creak of the ceiling fan.

The light buzzes soft beside him, and he stays still for a while, eyes on the page. His hand drifts down before he even thinks about it—slow, tentative, pausing over his sweats like he’s not sure if it’s allowed, or if this is about you, or just the way he’s been feeling lately.

It’s probably both.

He shifts against the mattress, breath catching when he presses down lightly.

His cock’s already thickening beneath his pants, heavy with the weight of too many afternoons spent pretending not to notice the way you stretch, the way you say his name, the way your thighs look in those shorts.

He stays like that a while—hand hovering, the page still open, your laugh echoing somewhere in his memory as he nurses the ache you’ve left him with, too proud to touch himself and too wound up to sleep.

Sunday comes soft and slow, the sky brushed in pale blue and gold, the heat not yet settled heavy on the earth. The air feels quieter than usual, like it’s holding its breath.

His grandma leaves early for church, dressed in one of her soft-pressed floral dresses, the same one she wears every Sunday unless it’s raining.

Remmick walks her to the car, watches her pull out of the gravel drive with a wave, then heads back toward the shed to double-check the hinges he’s been meaning to fix.

You show up not long after, hair pinned back, earrings glittering in the sun like you forgot it was a workday.

You say something about the heat as you kick at the dirt with one sandal, and he grunts in agreement, though his voice comes out lower than he means it to.

The chores move slower than usual. There’s not much to do—it’s Sunday after all—and by midday, the both of you are slick with sweat and barely pretending to be productive.

You lean against the fence and swipe at your forehead, your lip gloss already worn thin.

Remmick watches you pause, fingers curling around the rail, eyes half-lidded like the heat’s weighing on you.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” he hears himself say.

You look up. “Like… from your house?”

He nods, a little hesitant. “Yeah. Cold tea, I think. Lemonade too.”

You brighten immediately. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads the way up the porch steps and holds the screen door open for you.

The house smells like old wood and lemon cleaner, cool and dim after the brightness outside.

You follow him in slowly, eyes drifting to the framed photos on the hallway wall, the crocheted blanket folded neatly on the arm of a chair, the soft tick of a clock somewhere down the hall.

He pours the drinks in the kitchen without saying much, and you trail your fingers along the edge of the table while you wait.

When he hands you a glass, your pinky brushes his, light and quick. He pretends not to notice, though his shoulders twitch just slightly.

The two of you drift into the living room without deciding to. You settle on the edge of the couch with your knees tucked up, sipping slowly. He sits beside you, careful to leave space, glass balanced on his knee.

For a while, there’s only the sound of the fan overhead, its gentle whir filling the silence. Sunlight filters through the curtains in soft lines, catching the dust in the air, making everything look a little slower.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

It’s not awkward, but it’s not easy either.

He takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t look at you.

You twist your ring around your finger.

The fan hums overhead, pushing warm air across your skin, and the sweat from earlier has started to dry in sticky patches along your neck and lower back.

You take another sip of your drink and glance at Remmick from the corner of your eye.

He’s still staring ahead, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, the other loosely around the glass sweating in his lap.

His shirt clings in places from the heat and work, and there’s a single bead of moisture tracking down the curve of his neck, disappearing under the collar. His lashes are thick. His bottom lip looks soft. You wonder, in a sudden intrusive flash, what it’d feel like to bite it.

You turn toward him a little, your socked foot brushing his knee. “Do you think cows know when they’re naked?”

His head turns, slow. His expression shifts from distant to confused, then lands somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“What?” he asks.

You shrug, serious for no reason. “I just think they’d be really embarrassed if they, like… realized they don’t wear clothes. Don’t you think?”

He stares at you, not answering, just blinking like maybe he didn’t hear you right.

You take another sip of lemonade and bat your lashes, playing innocent even though your brain is not innocent, not even a little.

Then something shifts in his expression.

Something subtle.

The disbelief softens into something warm. That shy reserve you’ve gotten used to watching him hide behind cracks, just a little. His eyes drift lower—to your lips, to your hand wrapped around the glass, to the bare skin of your thighs as you sit half-curled on his grandma’s floral couch.

He exhales through his nose.

“You always say things like that?” he asks, voice low, quiet but rougher than before.

You grin. “Like what?”

“Stuff that don’t make sense.”

“Mm, sometimes. Why?”

He studies you for a moment longer, mouth parted like he might say something else.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

The question lands heavier than it should—thicker, quieter, more serious than the moment had any right to be.

You blink slowly, heartbeat stalling just slightly.

Then you set your glass down and smile at him, all sugar and sweat and something softer curling underneath it.

“Took you long enough to ask.”

He doesn’t move at first, just looks at you like he’s still trying to decide if this is real or something he’ll wake up from later.

His hand twitches against his thigh like he’s resisting the instinct to reach for you too quickly.

You’re the one who shifts forward—closing the small, buzzing space between you, one slow breath at a time.

And when you lean in, pressing your lips to his, it’s softer than you expected. Like he’s still afraid of breaking something that hasn’t even begun yet.

But you kiss him again, and again, and by the third time, he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in the door.

The hesitation breaks.

His hand comes to your hip first, fingers curling tight like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. Then the other cups the side of your face, rough palm warm against your cheek as he kisses you deeper—open-mouthed and breathless, with a sort of focused hunger that makes your head spin.

You climb into his lap without thinking, thighs straddling his denim-covered ones, the heat of your body pressed close to his chest.

His breath stutters against your lips when your hands slide into his hair, nails skimming lightly along his scalp. He groans, soft but low in his throat, as his hands grip tighter—one splayed at your waist, the other pressing low against your back, keeping you close like you might slip away.

He tastes like lemonade and heat, and kisses like someone who’s spent weeks trying not to imagine this exact moment. There’s something unpolished about it—no slick choreography, no practiced moves. Just need, and instinct, and the soft, wet sound of mouths moving fast, open, messy.

Your hips shift slightly in his lap, more from instinct than purpose, but the effect is immediate.

He stiffens beneath you—breath hitching sharply—and you feel the pressure growing beneath your thighs.

His cock, thick and hard, presses up through his jeans where it’s caught between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything about it, but you can feel it—how tense he’s gone, how his grip flinches for just a second before tightening again.

You pull back slightly, lips swollen, eyes gleaming. “Is that for me?” you whisper, teasing just enough to watch him flush.

Remmick’s throat works as he swallows hard. He looks like he’s on the verge of apology, or retreat, or something else self-contained—but then his eyes flick back to your lips and he leans in again, kissing you like maybe he doesn’t want to answer out loud.

You roll your hips against him once, and he lets out a choked breath into your mouth, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

Your mouth leaves his just long enough to breathe, but you don’t pull back far.

Instead, your lips skim over the edge of his cheekbone, soft and slow. His breath hitches. The stubble there catches faintly on your skin, rough in a way that makes you want more of it.

He stays perfectly still beneath you, only his chest rising and falling faster now, hands still gripping your waist like he’s unsure where to go next.

You press a kiss just under his eye, then another to the line of his jaw. He tilts his head slightly as if by instinct, baring more of his neck, offering it without asking.

You take your time with it. Lips parting against the skin there, warm and salt-slick from the heat of the day, tasting the sweat gathered along the pulse point beneath your mouth. You drag your lips over it, then nip—soft, experimental—and he jerks beneath you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice cracked and low.

You smile, lips brushing the edge of his collarbone. “For what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You kiss lower.

The collar of his shirt is damp, sticking slightly to his skin, and you push it aside as your mouth trails down, each press slower, hotter. His grip on you tightens when you press your tongue to the hollow of his throat. He tries to bite back a sound and fails.

It makes you bold.

Your fingers trail down his chest as you shift lower, slow and smooth between his thighs until you’re kneeling in front of him.

The living room is quiet around you, the fan still whirring above, but his breathing is sharp now—noisy in a way it wasn’t before.

You glance up as you settle between his legs, and he’s already looking down at you like he doesn’t know whether to speak or just watch.

And then something clicks.

His hands go to his belt—not clumsy, but urgent. He fumbles with the button, then the zipper, not because he’s unsure, but because he suddenly understands what’s about to happen and he’s terrified if he doesn’t move fast enough, you’ll change your mind.

He gets it undone in a few quick motions, hips lifting just enough to free the pressure there. The fabric falls open, denim parting, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you first kissed him.

You place your hands on his thighs, firm and warm, and smile up at him—gloss smeared, eyes bright, lips already parted just enough.

“You good?” you murmur, voice soft but glittering with something far more dangerous.

He nods once, shallow and shaky, then again—more certain this time. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice rough. “Yeah.”

And he means it. Even if his hands are trembling. Even if his heart’s pounding. Even if you’ve undone him with nothing more than a kiss to the neck and that look in your eyes.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his briefs, dragging them down with a slow, teasing tug.

The fabric peels away from his skin, damp with sweat and heat, catching slightly at the base before slipping over the thick weight of his cock.

It springs free heavy and flushed, resting against his stomach for a moment, the head swollen and glossy with arousal, a bead of precum already gathered at the tip. Your breath catches low in your throat.

He’s fat—thick enough that your fingers would barely touch wrapped around the shaft, the skin flushed a deep, aching red that fades into the paler, veined underside. The base is dark with hair, and the head is blushed and leaking, twitching slightly under the sudden rush of air.

You stare a second too long, lips parted, mascara a little smudged. “Jesus,” you breathe. “This… doesn’t match your whole shy-and-sweet thing.”

Remmick lets out a ragged breath, fists clenching in the cushion beneath him. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed.

You hum softly, one hand curling around the base, testing the weight of him.

He groans—low and hoarse, hips twitching toward your palm as you slowly stroke him once, then again, thumb sweeping along the underside. The skin is hot to the touch, silky-soft over the thick, pulsing muscle beneath.

“You’re hard as a rock,” you murmur, half teasing, voice syrupy and light.

He swallows hard, his voice a rasp. “You think I wasn’t gonna be?”

You lean in slow, lips parted, breath warm against the slick head. Your tongue flicks out, barely grazing the bead of arousal gathered there, and the taste hits your tongue—salty, thick.

His whole body jerks beneath you.

You press a kiss to the tip.

Not deep. Not fast. Just a kiss—soft and wet, lips parted around the crown as your tongue teases just beneath it. His thighs tense under your hands, stomach jumping as he grips the couch cushion harder, breath punching out of him in a gasp.

“God—” he hisses, voice cracking.

Your lips part a little more, letting the head slip between them again as your tongue licks slow and deliberate along the ridge. The length twitches in your hand, heavy and pulsing against your palm. A wet noise fills the room when you suckle lightly on the head, spit already beginning to slick your lips.

Remmick’s head falls back against the couch, eyes screwed shut, mouth open. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven bursts as you keep going—one slow pass of your mouth at a time, filthy and unhurried.

And beneath it all, his cock stays rock-hard and twitching, so thick your jaw already aches just from the first taste.

He’s quiet, but the noises he does make—guttural, broken sounds deep in his chest—tell you everything you need to know.

You lift your eyes to him while your tongue circles the tip, just lazy enough to tease. His head’s still tipped back, throat taut, but you can tell he’s trying not to look—trying to keep his composure like it’ll save him.

“Remmick,” you say softly, lips brushing the head as you speak. Your hand gives a slow squeeze near the base. “Why’re you looking at the ceiling when I’m being all cute down here?”

His head turns toward you with effort, eyes glassy. “You ain’t bein’—you know what you’re doin’.”

A sweet smile curls your lips as you drag your tongue flat along the underside again. He watches, jaw clenched, lips parted.

“Mm,” you hum, deliberately letting spit pool on your tongue before letting it drip down, sliding thick and warm over the head. “You’re just so big… I’m trying to be nice and get you all wet first.”

Remmick lets out a harsh breath through his nose, hips tensing. “That ain’t… you don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you say, batting your lashes just once as you kiss down the side of his shaft, tongue trailing wet stripes over the veiny length. “And you taste so good.”

He groans.

A real sound, pulled from deep in his chest—frustrated and turned-on and so completely undone by the sight of you licking and mouthing all over his cock like you’ve been thinking about this for weeks.

Your hand strokes the base, slowly twisting, thumb catching under the ridge while your mouth opens again, wider this time, guiding the thick head past your lips and sinking down.

His stomach twitches when you take more of him. You can feel the stretch in your jaw, how he fills your mouth fully, how the weight of him presses heavy against your tongue.

You suck, soft and slow at first.

The drag of your lips, the wet sound of spit gathering, the quiet suction that grows stronger with each bob of your head. It’s messy already—strings of drool coating his cock, spit clinging to your lips and chin—but you don’t care.

You like it messy.

He does too. Even if he won’t say it out loud, his hips twitch every time you moan around him—those high, wet noises muffled by the thickness of his cock in your mouth. His fingers twitch against the cushion like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

When you glance up again, his eyes are locked to yours.

It nearly makes your pussy throb—seeing the way he looks at you, flushed and desperate, like he can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

You draw back, slowly, letting the head slip from your lips with a wet pop. A string of spit connects your bottom lip to the tip of his cock.

Then you murmur, voice syrupy and breathy, “You ever had anyone do this before, Remmick?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking down to where your hand’s still stroking him, lips shiny and chin damp.

He hesitates.

“… No.”

You blink slowly, grinning. “Aw. Well, guess I gotta make it real special, huh?”

And with that, you take him deeper.

Your lips stretch wide, hand working what your throat can’t take yet, tongue dragging along the underside with each pass.

You build a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, wetter, sloppier, until you’re choking softly every third stroke, throat fluttering around him while tears prick the corners of your eyes.

He’s moaning now—quiet, but it’s there. Little helpless sounds slipping past his teeth as he watches your mouth glide over him like it’s your favorite thing in the world.

He stammers your name, voice cracking, “I ain’t gonna last—I can’t—please…”

You don’t stop.

Not when he’s squirming, not when his thighs are trembling under your palms, not when your tongue keeps teasing that sensitive spot under the head and his cock jumps in your mouth.

You just look up at him, pretty and fucked-out and a little teary, and moan around him again.

It’s too much. He gasps, his whole body going rigid, and you feel it the second he tips—cock pulsing, thick spurts filling your mouth as he shudders and grabs at the cushion like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He tastes hot and salty, heavy on your tongue.

You swallow around it, messy and eager, and pull back only when he’s twitching from overstimulation, a broken noise slipping out of his throat.

Your lips are puffy, wet with spit and cum. You smile up at him, sweet and smug.

“You did so good, Remmick.”

He’s still panting, wide-eyed, looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

“… Sweet Lord above.”

The silence after is full of breathing. His chest rising, yours falling, the thick air between you gone still.

You’re kneeling prettily between his legs again, hands in your lap now, and your lips are still shiny, pink and a little swollen. There’s a smudge of spit across your chin, a faint glisten of cum on your bottom lip you haven’t even bothered to wipe.

Remmick’s staring.

He tries not to, shifting on the couch like he can tuck himself away from the weight of what just happened, but he can’t stop his eyes from flicking up and down, from your face to your knees to your hands, back to your mouth.

You lick your lips with a tiny hum. “You good?”

He swallows hard. “Y-yeah. Yes.. I’m—good, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Mean to what?” you ask, head tilting.

His hand rubs the back of his neck. He’s flushed again, lips parted like he’s fighting off the urge to apologize for something he hasn’t done.

“I ain’t ever… had someone do that before,” he mumbles, “and you just… you look real pretty right now, that’s all.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re sweet.”

His gaze dips again—down, not to your face, but between your legs this time. Where your thighs are clenched together a little tighter than before. Where your shorts are snug against the shape of your cunt now.

He notices.

You can tell.

His throat bobs.

“… Can I do that to you?” he blurts.

It comes out raw and hoarse, like he tried to stop it but it slipped anyway.

You blink, lips parting. “What?”

He clears his throat. Tries to say it again, slower. “I mean—only if you want—but I’ve always wondered what it’d be like, doin’ that for a girl, and you—you looked so good for me just now, I was thinkin’, maybe…”

He trails off flustered, eyelashes lowered.

And something burns hot between your legs.

“… You sure?” you ask, voice airy, head cocked.

His ears go red. “Y-yes.”

You smile, slow and sugary. “You got a bed, don’t you?”