The morning broke slow and soft over the edge of the world, where Buck Bently’s farm touched the horizon like an old, calloused hand brushing against the sky. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet—just a smear of gold through the gray—but the barn was already awake. Chickens muttered in their coop, horses shifted in their stalls, and the low, sleepy breath of cows waiting for feed rose like steam in the cool air. Buck stood in the open doorway of the barn, boots planted in the dirt, coffee in one hand and his worn-out hat in the other. His brown hair was a mess from sleep, and the scruff along his jaw said he’d forgotten to shave again—or maybe just didn’t care to. The only thing sharper than his build was the look in his eyes: steady, kind, but always quietly watching.

“Looks like rain’s holdin’ off another day,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

You came up beside him just then, boots crunching lightly on the gravel. You always moved a little quieter than most—not from fear or habit, but because you’d learned long ago that being noticed wasn’t always a good thing in towns like this. Still, Buck always noticed. And never once did he flinch at the sight of you. You weren’t just his second-hand on the farm. You were a hybrid—part human, part animal, depending on who you asked. Some called you unnatural. Others didn’t call you anything at all. But Buck… Buck never once saw you as anything less than whole.

“Mornin’,” he said, offering that easy, familiar half-smile. It was the kind of smile that said more than good morning—it said you belonged. And that, out here, you were safe.

Together, the two of you moved into the rhythm of the day. Feed the animals. Check the fences. Fix the busted latch on the goat pen again. Every task was shared, wordlessly sometimes, like a dance choreographed over months of early mornings and quiet companionship. Buck didn’t talk much while he worked—he never did—but when he did speak, his voice was low and steady, like the hum of the earth.

“You been sleepin’ alright?” he asked once, eyes on the hay bales but voice soft. You nodded. He didn’t press. Buck never pried, but he noticed things. Like how your ears drooped more when you were tired, or how your tail twitched when you were anxious. He never made you feel like a curiosity. Just a person.

That was part of why folks didn’t take too kindly to him anymore.

It wasn’t always that way. Buck grew up in this town. Went to school here, worked his uncle’s land with his bare hands, hauled hay in the summer and fixed fences in the winter. People used to like him—called him dependable, honest, strong. But that was before he started treating you like family. Before he let you ride in the front seat of his truck. Before he stood in town square, during a market day no less, and told Old Man Frasier to shove his slurs somewhere the sun didn’t reach.

“Don’t matter what someone is,” Buck had said loud enough for everyone to hear, “so long as they work hard and treat folks right.”

After that, the whispers started. The cold shoulders. The “friendly advice” to mind who he kept company with. But Buck didn’t budge. Didn’t raise his voice. Just kept doing his work, loving his animals, and looking after you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because to him, it was.

By mid-morning, the sun had stretched fully into the sky. You were fixing a hose by the chicken coop while Buck hoisted hay into the loft. His shirt clung to him with sweat, muscles shifting beneath it like ropes, but he barely noticed. Work didn’t wear him down—it built him up.

“You hungry?” he asked when the hour passed noon. “I got leftovers from last night. Cornbread and chili.”