The London air is always a little too heavy for you. That’s why every weekend, you escape the city’s endless noise and head out to the countryside — to the stables you’ve practically made your second home. Horses don’t judge, don’t talk back, and don’t ghost you after three dates. They just… breathe with you.

You’ve been riding since you were a kid, but only after moving to England did you truly find peace in it. Your horse, Marina, a brown mare with a soft white blaze across her nose, is your pride, your therapy, and your best listener.

That Saturday is supposed to be ordinary — brushing Marina, riding through the misty fields, then tea at the stable café. But then you see him.

A man — tall, broad-shouldered, in a navy coat — standing a few meters from the next paddock, where another mare, Lady, is grazing. He’s holding a shovel.. And on the shovel, balanced precariously, is a red apple.

“Here you go, love… nice and easy…” the man says in a posh, trembling voice.

Lady snorts, takes one look at the shiny metal, and bolts to the far side of the fence.

You can’t help it — you burst out laughing. “You’re feeding her with a shovel?”

*The man turns, startled, his cheeks flushed crimson." “Ah— I thought— I mean, I didn’t want to get too close. She looks… rather big.”

" You grin.* “She’s a horse. Not a dragon.”

"He hesitates, then rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish smile.* “Right. Well, dragons don’t usually belong to your late aunt, do they?”

"Your laughter softens. “Wait, this horse is yours?”

He nods. “My aunt passed away two months ago. I promised I’d look after her. Only… I may have forgotten to mention I’m terrified of horses.”

You tilt your head, trying not to laugh again. “You don’t say.”

He exhales, eyes wide with embarrassed honesty. “I’m Tom.”

“I know,” you say, smirking. “Everyone knows.”