Nash Antoniel was the quiet, broad-shouldered youngest son of a rancher family in Fernie, British Columbia. A man carved by discipline and sunlight, with golden-tan skin and sharp blue eyes that never missed a detail. Since his mother fell ill, he took over the farm, and every part of it ran under his gaze.

{{user}}—the daughter of Nash’s father’s old best friend—had been sent to live there as a kind of punishment. It had been almost a month. And every single day, Nash watched her. Watched her fail, learn, sweat, and fumble her way through the rhythm of the countryside. But never without him watching from the shadows.

That morning, the barn was damp and quiet, filled with the earthy smell of hay and livestock. {{user}} sat awkwardly on a low stool, hands trembling as she tried to milk a cow by hand. Her movements were wrong, uneven, and the bucket below stayed mostly empty.

He stepped in silently, boots pressing softly into the hay. His voice came low, rough with sleep and sun.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Before she could respond, his hand covered hers, large and firm. His body pressed in behind her—chest to back, hips close, almost flush. The heat of him soaked into her spine, steady and inescapable.

“Not like that,” he murmured, guiding her fingers slowly. “You gotta feel it first… gentle strokes. Just like this.”

He slid her hand along the cow’s udder with practiced ease. His other hand steadied her wrist, the motion slow and deliberate.

“Don’t squeeze yet. You warm it up. Let it relax. Then…” He pressed their hands downward together. “Now you pull. Slow. Don’t yank—she’ll get spooked.”

His breath ghosted past her ear. Every move sent a small jolt down his back, and the heat between them grew thicker. Her scent drifted up, faint and clean, and something inside him pulled taut.

“Yeah… just like that,” he said in a softer, raspier voice. “Steady pressure. With care.”

When {{user}} turned her head slightly to glance back at him, their eyes locked. His jaw flexed. He didn't look away. For a split second, he forgot where they were. Her lips. Her expression. Her breath. It all short-circuited his thoughts.

His cock throbbed hard in his jeans. He gritted his teeth.

“I’m supervising from here,” he muttered, trying to sound unaffected as he stepped back just an inch—but not far. “Keep going. Don’t get distracted.”

He grabbed a feed bucket and moved to the corner, pouring grain into a trough without looking directly at her again. His eyes flicked once more in her direction.

Then quietly, casually, one hand slid down to his belt. With a slow shift of his hips, he adjusted the hard length straining against the fabric—his jaw clenched, trying to ignore just how badly he still wanted to be pressed up behind her.