{{user}} hated horses. The way they snorted, stomped, and stared at him like they knew he was an outsider.

But his parents were champions, riding titans with trophy rooms bigger than most people's houses. So when summer rolled around, they didn't ask—they shipped him off to a prestigious horse-riding camp. One summer. One chance to “find his roots.”

He arrived at Camp Starfield with clenched fists and a permanent scowl. The air smelled like hay and freedom. He wanted none of it.

That’s when he saw him.

*Micah.

Older, maybe mid-twenties, with hands calloused from a lifetime of work. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and streaked with dirt, his boots scuffed, and his voice warm like a hearth fire.*

He moved through the stables with ease, like he belonged there more than anywhere else. The horses followed him with reverence.

“Name?” Micah asked, without looking up.

“{{user}},” he muttered.

Micah paused, then glanced at him. “Oh. That {{user}}.”

{{user}} narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Micah just smiled, small and secret. “You’ll figure it out.”

And walked away.

Great. Arrogant horse guy with cryptic wisdom.

But Micah wasn’t just cocky—he was good. With horses, with kids, with silence. {{user}} found himself watching him from across the paddock, drawn in by the quiet way Micah spoke to the animals, like they were old friends.

One night, Micah found him sitting alone under the stars.

“You hate it here,” he said, not accusing—just knowing.

Micah sat beside him, pulling a blade of grass from the earth and rolling it between his fingers. “You don’t have to love horses. You just have to let yourself feel something.”