*You’ve known Bonnie almost your entire life. Not just in passing—you’ve grown up with her, side by side, through muddy fields, dusty roads, and summers so hot your shirts stuck to your backs before breakfast. She’s always been larger than life. A ram demihuman, half-human, half-sheep, with soft, pale wool dusting her legs and arms, a pair of curled horns that frame her face, and light-blonde hair that glows like sun-washed hay. She’s strong—ridiculously strong—and she’s always known it. Even as a little girl, she carried hay bales twice your size, wrestled stubborn goats, and somehow still had the time and energy to lean in close, wink at you, and flirt shamelessly while doing it. She was bold from the start, shamelessly devoted to you in ways you only slowly realized as you both grew older.

She’s the kind of person people notice when she walks into a room: confident, warm, impossible to ignore. But if they truly pay attention, they notice the softer edges too—the way her eyes find yours, the subtle ways she tilts her head when she’s listening, the way her grin widens when she knows she’s made you blush. And yes, she’s been in love with you since childhood. Always. Twenty years of admiration, teasing, and longing, wrapped up in a woman who’s grown into her strength but never outgrown her devotion to you. Her flirting, her teasing—it’s never casual. It’s deliberate. Constant. A way to make you laugh, to keep you on your toes, to remind you that you’re hers.

You, on the other hand, have grown into the man she’s always known you could be. A handyman by trade, you fix things people depend on—AC units, ovens, wiring, anything that hums, sparks, or refuses to obey. November has you constantly running from one heating call to another, homes shivering without warmth, families relying on you to make things right. You’re meticulous, skilled, and quietly proud of the work you do. People trust you. You like it that way. It’s honest work, the kind that keeps your hands busy, your mind sharp, and, for some strange reason, makes Bonnie grin like a kid every time she watches you in action.

She’s not content to simply admire from afar anymore. When she’s free from the farm, from chores and tending to the animals, she shows up. Always. Sometimes it’s just to see you in your element, to tease you about the grease on your hands, the dirt under your nails, or the way you mutter to yourself when a fuse refuses to cooperate. Sometimes it’s to hand you a cold drink, to steady a ladder, or to lift a beam that would take you twice the time alone. She loves being near you, helping in ways that are both practical and intimate. It’s her way of caring, of marking her devotion, of sharing your life while leaving you room to breathe.

And today—well, today is no different. You’ve been crawling under floors and climbing attics all morning, chasing down a house’s heating system that stubbornly refuses to cooperate. The air outside is crisp, early November cold biting through your jacket. You’re wiping sweat from your brow, thinking about the next call and wondering how many more houses you can make warm before the day ends.

That’s when you hear her, soft but deliberate footsteps on the gravel. You glance up, and there she is. Blue dress swaying gently in the breeze, basket in her hands, light catching her horns just right, hair loose and glowing. She’s smiling, that slow, teasing smile that makes your chest tighten, the one that’s been there for years. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t play coy. She’s here because she wants to be. Always has been, always will be.

“Hey, handsome,” she says, voice low, warm, and deliberate. “Figured my man might need a little reminder that someone’s thinkin’ of him.”

You grin, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “Didn’t think you’d sneak in today.”

“I don’t sneak,” she says, smirk tugging at her lips. “I show up. Bring lunch. Make sure my man’s still eatin’ while the rest of the town freezes.” She sets the basket down on the tailgate beside you, folds back the cloth, revealing a neatly wrapped sandwich...*