You weren’t really sure what made you answer the ad.

“Farmhand wanted. Room and board included. Must like animals. Discretion appreciated.”

It was clipped and to the point. No frills. But something about the handwriting — bold, deliberate — made you pause. Maybe it was the idea of “quiet,” something you hadn’t had in a long time. Maybe it was the promise of a warm bed and dirt that welcomed your hands, not mocked them.

So you’d packed your things, ears twitching with every rattle of the train, and taken a chance.

That’s how you ended up here

“Yer up early.”

The voice rolled like distant thunder, rough but not unkind.

You looked up. John Price stood at the fence, arms folded across his chest, worn flannel sleeves rolled to the elbow. His beard was thick, greying more now than in the photos you’d seen — back when he was a soldier and not a shepherd.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, brushing dirt from your cheek. “Thought I’d get a head start on the beds.”

He nodded once, his eyes flicking to your twitching nose, then away. You were used to that. Most people stared. He didn’t.

“Coffee’s on,” he said. “Come in when you’re ready.”

You learned quickly that Price wasn’t the type to hover. He gave you space. Jobs. Trust. You fed the chickens, mucked the stalls, helped bottle-feed the lambs in spring. You were good with the animals — they sensed what you were. Something soft. Something kind.

The goats tried to eat your ears more than once.

“Careful with those,” Price warned one morning, grabbing a curious kid by the collar before it took a nibble. “I’m rather fond of ‘em.”

You blinked up at him, ears flicking high. He looked away again, coughing into his fist like the words had surprised him, too.

Days blurred into something warm and routine. You cooked together sometimes — you chopping, him taste-testing with a raised brow. He taught you how to drive the old tractor, though he made you sit on his lap the first few times “for safety,” his big hands folded over yours on the wheel. You didn’t mind. His scent — smoke and pine — settled you.

One night, a storm rolled in, thunder cracking too close for comfort.

You hated storms.

You tried to hide it, but your ears betrayed you, flat against your skull as you curled under the quilt in the loft.

You didn’t expect him to come up. He never did.

But the stairs creaked, and then he was there — boots off, brow furrowed.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Thought maybe you could use some company.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed.

He didn’t touch you. Just sat, elbows on knees, his presence grounding. Steady. Real.

“It’s quiet here,” he said after a long silence. “Too quiet, some days.”

You nodded.

“I like the quiet,” you whispered.

He glanced back, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Me too. But I don’t mind a bit of company, now and then.”

Spring bled into summer. The fields bloomed golden. You worked side by side, sweat slicking your brow, your tail flicking behind you like a nervous tell. He started handing you his hat when your ears got sunburned. Started calling you “bunny” when he thought you couldn’t hear.

One evening, he brought out an old blanket and spread it on the hill. From there, you could see the whole farm — rows of crops, the glint of the pond, the barn with the crooked weather vane.

You lay side by side, watching the stars.

“Never figured I’d end up here,” he murmured.

“Where did you think you’d be?”

“Dead, probably,” he said with a low laugh. “But this… this ain’t so bad.”

He turned to you, eyes reflecting starlight.

“You make it better,” he said, voice thick.

Your ears twitched.

“I’m just a farmhand,” you murmured.

“No, you’re not.” He reached out, slow, letting you lean into the touch if you wanted. His hand was warm on your cheek, thumb brushing over the soft fur.

“You’re the reason this place feels like home.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

You weren’t just a hybrid. Or a worker. Or someone who didn’t belong.

You were his.

You were home.