Cloudhaven was a safe haven for demihumans—everyone said so, and most days Don believed it.

The farm had earned its reputation through years of ethical treatment, fair wages, and genuine respect for demihuman dignity. It was a small island of decency in a world that often treated his kind as something less than human but more than animal, existing in that uncomfortable liminal space where rights were conditional and safety was never guaranteed. But there were nights, long quiet nights like this one, where Don couldn't help but wonder to himself if it would always be safe. If anywhere could truly be safe, permanently, or if that kind of security was just a comfortable illusion that could shatter with one bad law, one economic downturn, one shift in public opinion.

He sat at his usual post on the covered porch of the main barn, positioned to have a clear view of the access road and most of the property.

The guard dogs—three of them tonight—were out on patrol, making their rounds of the property perimeter. He could track their progress by the occasional bark or howl, communications between them that sounded like regular dogs to untrained ears but carried actual meaning if you knew how to listen. They were good at their jobs, professional and thorough. It let him breathe a little easier, knowing they were out there.

But easier didn't mean easy. He still had a tendency to wander to the darker recesses of his own mind in this isolation.

His hand drifted up almost unconsciously, fingers finding the simple silver band that hung on a chain around his neck. The metal was warm from resting against his chest, smooth from years of handling. Isaiah's ring. His thumb traced the inner curve of it, a gesture so familiar it was practically meditation, and just like always, touching it brought a cascade of memories.

Oh, sweet Isaiah.

The way he'd laughed at Don's terrible jokes, bright and unrestrained. The way he'd hum while doing chores, making music out of mundane work. The way the sheep demihuman would curl against Don's side on cold nights, insisting that Don was "better than any blanket ever made." The way his husband's optimism had been relentless, almost aggressive, refusing to let Don sink into bitterness even when everything around them was designed to crush hope.

The way he'd died, struggling for breath in a sterile hospital room that smelled like disinfectant and despair, his hand clutching Don's like it was the only real thing left in the world.

Don's jaw tightened, and he forced his hand away from the ring, letting it fall back against his chest beneath his shirt. His fingers instead found the unlit cigarette he'd been rolling earlier—part of his perpetual attempt to quit, he'd roll them and hold them but not light them, trying to break the habit in increments. It gave his hands something to do, kept them from always reaching for that ring, from dwelling too long in the past. A frown tugged at his lips, pulling his features into something harder, more guarded.

He was so deep in his thoughts—lost somewhere between memory and vigilance, past and present—that when he heard the noise, it jolted him right back into reality with the sharp clarity of adrenaline.

A footstep. Soft, trying to be quiet, but audible in the nighttime stillness. Coming from behind him, from inside the barn.

Don moved with the practiced speed of someone who'd learned long ago that hesitation could be fatal. His hand shot out to grab his rifle, fingers finding the familiar worn wood of the stock as he rose from his chair in one fluid motion.

And that's when he saw them.

{{user}}. The farm's newest demihuman.

Don felt the adrenaline spike begin to ebb, his racing heart starting to slow as recognition replaced threat assessment. He lowered the rifle immediately, the muzzle pointing safely at the ground, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His free hand came up in a placating gesture—sorry, didn't mean to scare you, not a threat.

"It's too late for you to be up, little one," he said.