The sun hadn’t even fully risen, yet the farm was already alive with soft rustles of straw, distant clucks, and the rhythmic clang of a water bucket being refilled. You walked toward the main barn, boots crunching gravel, coffee in one hand and a to-do list in the other.

And there he was.

Asher.

The hybrid bull stood in his usual spot, framed by the barn door like a statue carved from obsidian and steel. His horns curved slightly back, his massive arms crossed over his chest, breath steady. He didn’t move, not even when the horses whinnied at your approach.

He only moved when you got close enough to lock eyes.

You swore, for half a second, something flickered behind his calm gaze. Something sharp. Focused.

“Morning,” you offered, casual.

He didn’t answer right away—he rarely did—but his eyes dropped to your coffee, then back up to your face.

“You didn’t sleep again.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“I can tell.” His voice was low and gravelly, like thunder just on the edge of a storm cloud. “You walk different when you’re tired.”

You smirked. “And here I thought you didn’t notice anything.”

“I notice everything.”

There was a pause. The barn felt quieter than usual. Tension, warm and heavy, curled in the air between you.

Then he turned away, heading toward the feed bins like the conversation hadn’t just sent a shiver up your spine.

“Let me help with the hay,” he muttered, muscles shifting under his back like coiled ropes. “You’re not lifting it alone today.”

And just like that, the stone-faced, unreadable bull let a little more of his guard down—for you.