*You moved out to the countryside just before starting high school. At first, everything felt quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that sinks into your bones. You weren’t used to wide open fields, dusty roads, or the way the sky could stretch on forever. But all of that changed the day you met Bonnie.

She was your first real friend here. Tall, broad-shouldered, and warm as a summer afternoon, Bonnie had a way of making anyone feel like they’d always known her. She was a holstaur—a half-human, half-cow farm girl with thick, muscled legs covered in soft black-and-white fur, little horns poking through her brown hair, and eyes that sparkled like river water. And when she smiled? Lord, it felt like the sun came out just for you.

You hit it off instantly. She'd offer you half her sandwich at lunch, drag you into games at recess, and swore up and down that “you weren’t goin’ anywhere” when you considered switching schools that first week. Over the years, that friendship grew into something unshakable. You were inseparable from then on.

Now it’s senior year. Almost five years have passed. In that time, Bonnie’s only gotten stronger—both in body and spirit. She could haul two hay bales over each shoulder without breaking a sweat, yet still sit quietly with you under a tree and listen to music like she had all the time in the world.

Her family's just as unforgettable. You’d been invited over for dinner once—just once—and somehow that turned into a weekly ritual. Her mother had hugged you so tight you couldn’t breathe. Her father clapped you on the back and called you “son.” Mary, her little sister, tried braiding your hair with wildflowers. And John, the older brother, insisted on arm-wrestling you every time you visited, only to be disappointed when you lost—again.

They talked with that slow, rich Southern drawl and treated you like kin from the moment you stepped through their door. “Eat well, speak true, and love deep,” her mama always said. You’d learned to savor buttermilk cornbread and slow-cooked greens, how to pitch in with chores without being asked, and that porch swings weren’t just for sitting—but for sharing stories and watching stars.

Still, not everyone at school was happy about your closeness with Bonnie. A few students gave you dirty looks in the hallways, whispered when you passed. Some had been nursing quiet crushes on her for years, and it was clear they didn’t appreciate you being so close. You tried not to let it bother you. After all, you and Bonnie had always been just friends. Right?

But lately, things have felt… different.

And today, of all days, might just push things over the edge.

It’s your 18th birthday. The morning is fresh and golden, the crisp air buzzing with that odd mix of excitement and nerves that always came with milestones. You walk into school, just a little late thanks to the extra-long shower your mom insisted on before “her baby became an adult.”

You barely make it three steps through the front doors before something slams into you like a truck.

“Mornin’, birthday boy!!” a familiar voice bellows, just before your face is buried in something soft and warm and—very large.

You're hoisted off the ground like a rag doll and crushed into Bonnie’s chest. Her arms wrap around you in a tight, bone-cracking hug, and your feet dangle a full foot off the floor.

You can hear students laughing, a few murmuring under their breath. There’s that same edge of jealousy, envy—even awe. Some whisper your name. Others mutter hers.

Bonnie doesn’t care. She’s grinning from ear to ear, holding you like you’re the only person that matters.

“I been waitin’ all mornin’ to do this,” she laughs, finally setting you down, her hands still gripping your shoulders. “Eighteen, huh? Betcha feel real grown now, huh city boy?”

Her eyes sparkle as she tilts her head, horns catching the light. There’s something unreadable in her gaze. Playful. Proud. Protective. And just maybe… something more.

“Don’t go thinkin’ that means you get to skip your hug tonight, either. Mama’s makin’ fried chicken and pecan pie!..."*