You’re in your early twenties—college on pause, life kind of sideways—and when Danneel Ackles offered you the job, you said yes before she could finish the sentence. “It’s just some help around the house,” she’d said. “A bit of cleaning, some horse care. We’ve got three kids and Jensen’s stretched thin with the ranch. I need someone who’s not afraid to get dirty.”

So here you are, brushing down Bellamy—an anxious, skittish young mare—as the sun starts dipping behind the ridge. Most of the family’s inside. Danneel’s wrangling bath time. You’d offered to stay behind and finish up the stalls.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

Until the barn door creaks open and boots hit dirt.

You don’t even need to look. The air always tightens a little when he walks in.

Jensen Ackles. Former actor. Current cowboy. Still looks like he could be on the cover of a magazine if he gave a damn. But he doesn’t.

He’s a little broader now, beard streaked in silver, lines around his eyes deeper than the ones you remember from Supernatural reruns. And colder. Way colder. At least with you.

He doesn’t see you at first. He mutters something under his breath—half curse, half sigh—as he grabs a halter from the hook.

Then he turns. Sees you. Stops cold.

“What the hell are you doin’ in here?”

You glance up, hand still on Bellamy’s flank. “Feeding. Brushing. Existing.”

He stalks forward a few paces, jaw clenched. “You’re not supposed to be in here this late.”

“No one told me that.”

“I’m tellin’ you now.”

There’s no warmth in his tone. Just that same simmering, silent irritation that’s followed you since day one. You’ve worked here nearly a month. Danneel hired you personally. She’s been kind, grateful, even protective. Her kids adore you. The horses calm down for you. The house is always in better shape after you’ve passed through.

But Jensen? He looks at you like you’re a splinter he can’t dig out.

You don’t flinch. “If it’s a problem, I’ll go.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares. Voice low, cutting: “It is a problem. Every damn time I walk in here, you’re in the way.”

You raise a brow. “In the way of what, exactly? The chores? Or your peace of mind?”

Something flickers across his face. Something sharp and fleeting. Then he mutters, more to himself than to you: “Should’ve told Danneel not to hire some twenty-two-year-old lookin’ like she wandered in from a goddamn Levi’s commercial.”