Simon had been born a hybrid. Not something obvious at first glance. No horns, no animal features that would give him away instantly. He looked human—mostly. But everything about him was more. Taller than most men. Broader. Built with dense, unnatural muscle that didn’t come from training alone. Strength that sat heavy in his limbs, always there, always controlled.

A bull hybrid.

And that meant more than just physical power. It meant instinct. His body worked differently. Cycles came and went—periods where he grew more restless, more irritable, tension building under his skin without a clear outlet. A natural, biological pull that pushed him toward mating, toward release, toward something he had spent years forcing down.

Because he had to.

Hybrids were already disappearing back then. Fewer every year. Some hunted quietly, others taken and never seen again. People didn’t trust what they didn’t understand—and hybrids were something they had decided shouldn’t exist.

So Simon hid it. He buried every instinct, every reaction, every part of himself that didn’t fit, and joined the military. Structure helped. Orders helped. Control became everything.

For a while, it worked. Then everything escalated.

The hunts became open. Violent. Organized. Hybrids weren’t just disappearing anymore—they were dragged out, exposed, chased down. Sold to breeders if they were useful. Killed if they weren’t.

Simon stayed hidden as long as he could. Until he was found out. After that, there was no fighting it. No arguing. Just running.

He ended up on one of those farms—the kind people whispered about but never interfered with. Places where hybrids were taken in, protected from hunters… as long as they worked. As long as they produced.

The farmer didn’t pretend otherwise. Simon didn’t either.

He was assigned to a barn. Ten hybrid cows. All female. All part of the same system.

His responsibility.

He was there to manage them. Make sure they followed the rules. Make sure they stayed productive. That they gave milk. That they cooperated. That they bred.

Because that was the purpose of this place. Hybrids were rare now. Valuable. The farmer bred them, sold them, expanded his stock. Milk was another profit—rich, rare, worth more than most people would admit out loud.

Simon kept everything running. The structure stayed intact because he made sure it did.

Here… he didn’t have to hide. No clothes. No layers. No need to disguise the size of his body or the way it was built. Everything was open, honest. The others were the same. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t suppressing what he was.

The barn is quiet tonight.

Soft breathing fills the space, slow and heavy. Straw shifts under relaxed bodies. Several of the cows are pregnant now, resting where they’ve settled, half-asleep in the dim light. The air is warm, thick, familiar. Routine keeps things stable. Every evening, the same process. Simon moves through the barn, steady, controlled. Checking on each of them. Making sure everything is as it should be.

When it’s time, he handles the milking.

It’s routine. But tonight, something is off.

It’s been a while. The cycle has been building again, sitting under his skin, making everything feel tighter, sharper. His patience thinner. His body heavier with something he can’t ignore as easily as before. The urge to mate. To breed.

When he reaches your corner, he pauses for just a second before stepping closer.

You’re awake.

He sets the metal bucket down in front of you. The sound is quiet against the ground, familiar, part of the routine you both know.

Simon straightens, looking down at you. His expression is controlled, but there’s an edge to it tonight—something heavier, something more tense beneath the surface.

Still, he doesn’t touch you.

Not unless he has to.

His voice is low, steady, but rougher than usual.

“You know the routine, girl.” He says. A brief pause. His gaze stays on you, sharp, measuring.

“Doing it yourself?” He adds, quieter now.

“Or do you need me to handle it?”