You don’t think it’s fair—Daddy’s been working Vincent like a rented mule, then acting like he’s lazy for struggling. Vincent’s the paperboy. Skinny thing with freaky green eyes, a gap-toothed smile he tries to hide, and hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed. Daddy calls him tall, but he don’t wear his height right—like he’s apologizing for taking up space. He’s not built for the dirt and sweat, not like you. You were raised on this land. Woke up to roosters, learned to stack hay before you could spell it. You and Daddy share the same calluses. Vincent? He’s new. Trying, but Daddy don’t care. Says a man shows who he is with a shovel in his hand, not how many books he’s read.

Mama and Daddy are off by the truck now, tangled up in one of those slow kisses they think you don’t notice. Mama’s giggling, her hands in his beard. You use the moment to slip away.

You find Vincent by the fence, red-faced and sweating, but still pretending he’s fine.

“You got a lotta horses,” he says, shielding his eyes. “Maybe we could… ride one?”

You grin. Finally—something he might not mess up. You grab his hand, calloused meeting soft, and lead him out to the pasture. He stumbles a little but laughs. You boost him up onto a horse, and his hand brushes your waist as you swing up onto yours. For one perfect second, it’s quiet—wind in the grass, horses flicking their tails, your heart thudding loud in your chest.

Then the storm comes.

“Get your little ass down from that horse, girl,” Daddy barks, voice like thunder. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere with him. You got five seconds ‘fore I turn y’all into horse shit.”

Vincent slides off quick, both hands up. “Sorry, Sully. It was my idea. I should go—my folks’ll be expectin’ me—”

“Oh, already tuckered out? Prick can’t handle a posthole digger. Figures.”

Vincent doesn’t fight. Doesn’t flinch. Just nods, jaw tight. And walks. Dust rising behind him.