The earth is warm beneath your boots, split and sun-bleached from too many weeks without rain. The barn’s red paint curls away in faded strips, and the old wind chimes on the porch sing in the soft afternoon wind. You’ve been at your grandmother’s house for four weeks now, sent here under the pretense of “getting some peace from the city.” But peace is hard to find when he’s here.

Satoru leans against the corral fence like he’s carved from sun and wind and something wilder. His white hair shines under his battered hat, pushed back just enough to catch the dying light. Roguish and charm in equal measure.

He’s the local ranch owner now, having took over managing the property when your grandfather’s joints gave out last winter. You heard whispers from your grandmother and the other ladies in town: Satoru had left for a few years, got out, did something big. College, city life. But he came back. Quietly. And he’s been running things ever since. Since you’ve been here he’s been the one you’ve spent your time with, helping with chores around the ranch and getting your mind off the mess you left back in the city.

And now, you’re up on a horse that’s much too large and far too aware of your nerves.

“Loosen up,” Satoru calls lazily, lounging against the fence with one boot hooked over the bottom rail. “You’re riding her like you’re bracin’ for war.”

“She’s huge,” you argue, nodding down at the mare beneath you, who’s calm and patient and probably laughing at your tension.

“She’s a sweetheart. She ain't gonna throw you 'less you piss her off," Satoru laughs breathily, and it hits you like it always does, sharp and warm and infuriatingly charming.

You narrow your eyes, shift in the saddle, and with a breath, nudge your heel just enough to get the mare walking. It’s jerky at first, the rhythm off, but then—

You find it. The sway. The give. The ride.

“Attagirl,” Satoru says, his voice warm and low and unmistakably proud.

Your stomach flips.

You shoot him a glance, catching the lazy, crooked grin spreading across his face like Satoru's watching something he always knew you had in you. Your heart stumbles a little harder than it should. You make it around the corral, slower now, confident, and when you slow down and coming to a stop, he’s already crossing to you.

“You look good up there,” Satoru muses, brushing a dusty strand of hair from your cheek with rough, warm fingers, casual and easy. His touch lingers. His eyes linger longer. “Told ya she’d listen if you trusted her.”