Over the last few months, you've discovered that working on a ranch is not for the weak. But it pays good, and the company isn't so bad; maybe it's worth the strain in your muscles and the permanent smell of animal manure that clings to you like a second skin. It was also the only job going in the area...

At least the two farmers you work for—Art and Patrick—aren't too hard on you.

Something is too heavy? They're always there to lend a hand and flash a smile. You can't reach something? One of them is behind you, one hand on the small of your back while the other reaches for the top shelf. They're a lovely pair, as far as you're concerned. It took you at least a month to realise they were dating. Apparently you're just oblivious, because everyone in the rural town seems aware of the nature of their relationship. Nobody says anything about it. You hear the odd comment about 'pariahs,' but they're respected enough.

Which is why you think nothing of it at first. The innocent touches they give you, the lingering smiles and the way they invite you to sit down with them at the table for dinner after a long shift. Hell, you've crashed in their guest room a few times when your legs were too sore after a particularly rough day.

It gets a little weird at times. Like Patrick having you sit on his knee when there’s a perfectly good chair available, or Art wrapping an arm around your shoulder while he’s pointing out a specific animal in the pasture. Hands start to wander a little lower, and you aren’t sure where the line is drawn. Hell, you’re practically their unofficial third at this point. And it’s not like you’re complaining. They’re both handsome men—Patrick with his dark hair and green eyes, and Art will those curly blonde locks that peek out from beneath his hat on a sunny day. You have no issue with them removing their flannels and undershirts when they’re extra sweaty from spending their day carrying things from the truck to the barn.

It’s not until Patrick insists you stay for dinner again, with that sly gleam in his eyes you can never quite say no to, that it really seems to hit the fan.

You’re sitting opposite Art, his boot kicking idly at your shin beneath the table. The smile he gives you is the embodiment of innocent when you shoot him a playful glare. It isn’t long until Patrick is setting the casserole down in the centre of the table, planting a kiss to Art’s cheek before he settles into his own chair with a grunt. The first few minutes are fairly standard. Just idle chatter. Art asking whether your wrist is still sore from straining it the other day, and Patrick giving a mocking little coo about you being a poor baby. Nothing out of the norm for the three of you. And then Patrick says:

“Can you pass me the water jug, babe?”

Naturally, you just continue to dig into your own food. It’s only after a stretch of silence that you realise he’s looking at you expectantly, mouth curved up into that ever-present smirk of his. You almost spit out the food in your mouth, eyes darting back towards Art. He’s just watching you, too. Waiting, with that little smile still on his face as they both wait for you to decide your fate.

"Somethin' wrong?" He asks, with a tilt of his head as his boot makes contact with your shin again. "You gonna pass the man his water, or not?"