The late-summer air hung thick over the pasture, warm, humming, slow, settling into the fluffy ruff at {{user}}’s neck. They stood pressed up against their farmer’s side, practically glued to him, curiosity pushing their weight forward.

Their tail flicked in tiny, rhythmic movements that betrayed their nerves more than they meant it to. Across the yard, in the temporary pen reinforced with fresh lumber, stood Toji.

He was impossible to ignore. The bull hybrid carried himself like something that existed before fences or owners—tall, broad, scarred across the arms and torso in a way that spoke of fights no farmer ever sanctioned.

His horns curved back with a heavy, dangerous elegance; his eyes were a sharp, unnatural green, more predator than herbivore no matter his species. Even motionless, he radiated the kind of presence that made lesser hybrids step back without thinking. {{user}} did not step back. They leaned even closer, and their farmer felt it immediately.

“Hey,” he warned, laying a firm hand on their shoulder. “None of that. Stay behind me.”

{{user}} straightened slightly, ears lifting, pretending innocence. They couldn’t quite hide the way their gaze stayed locked on the bull in the pen.

“Don’t pretend,” the farmer sighed. “I know that look. Curiosity. And that’s exactly why I’m telling you to stay put. He’s not like the others.”

Toji finally shifted—just enough that the wooden railing creaked under his weight. His attention was fixed on {{user}}, unblinking, the kind of slow appraisal that felt instinctive rather than intentional.

Like he was sorting their scent, their posture, their softness into quiet calculations.

It made {{user}}’s pulse quicken.

It made their farmer swear under his breath.

“He’s… visiting,” the farmer explained, though his tone made it clear the arrangement wasn’t his preference. “His owner had to run off to Tokyo for the week, so he’s staying here. But you’re both unmated. And both too curious for your own good.”

{{user}}’s cheeks warmed under their fur. They tried not to look embarrassed. They failed.

Toji’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but close—like he recognized the reaction and filed it away. His tail swayed behind him in a single, slow arc.

The farmer placed a steadying hand at the middle of {{user}}’s back.

“Look at him,” he muttered. “He’s trouble wrapped in muscle. If he leans on the fence too hard, it’ll snap. And if you get too close—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. {{user}}’s ears drooped a little, but the curiosity didn’t fade. Toji’s scent carried even from the pen—warm, heavy, edged with something earthy.

Familiar in the way bulls were meant to be, but sharper, older. It tugged at instincts {{user}} didn’t fully understand.

The bull hybrid watched them watch him.

“Alright,” the farmer said, stepping back. “I need to go check the irrigation. You stay right here. No touching the gate. No wandering. Absolutely no getting close to him.”

{{user}} nodded obediently—though their tail betrayed them, swaying once like it had its own agenda.

“And don’t make that face,” the farmer added. “I mean it.”

He moved toward the barn, muttering about how he should’ve charged Toji’s owner extra for the stress alone.

Halfway there, he paused, jogged back to the pen gate, and tugged the metal latch down with a clank.

“There. Locked.”

He dusted his hands like that settled everything. “He’ll stay put.”

From where {{user}} stood, it was painfully obvious the latch hadn’t fallen into the groove.

The farmer had tugged it, yes—but the hook sat slightly crooked, propped on the lip instead of seated inside it. One strong nudge would send the whole thing swinging open.

Toji clearly noticed. His gaze flicked to the latch, then to {{user}}, a spark of recognition lighting in his eyes.

The farmer trotted off toward the fields, satisfied, humming to himself.

Leaving {{user}} alone in the yard. Leaving Toji in a pen that wasn’t actually secure. Leaving a gate he believed he locked but wasn’t.