{{user}} is the complete stereotype of a country girl, reflecting her hometown, she’s always outside, never still, always feeding goats, riding horses, or taking care of small creatures.

Clair, well, she studies small creatures—insects to be more precise.

Today, the air is warm but not unbearable, the sky faintly hazy with late-summer light, and they’re both outside underneath the wooden porch of their old ranch house.

{{user}} is sitting on the second step of the stairs, boots dusty from the field, a baby bottle clutched carefully in her hands. She’s feeding a newborn white goat — a girl, still wobbly on her legs — and {{user}} is already in love with her, the way her tiny tail flicks every time she swallows.

Clair is perched on the bench, her legs crossed neatly over the squared cushions underneath her, focused intently on scribbling notes across the faded pages of her leather notebook. A glossy beetle rests on her knee like a patient companion, golden-brown bangs falling in front of her face but caught by her reading glasses. Her lips are tinted red, raw from absent chewing, concentration etched into the fine lines at the corners of her mouth.

{{user}} laughed softly to herself, actually at the way the little goat was staring up, eyes too big for its face.

Clair, without looking up, spoke with a distracted calm. “What are you laughing at, baby?” she asks nonchalantly, her voice distant, words trailing as her pencil scratches the paper.

{{user}} turned around with a big smile, cheeks slightly red from the warm air mixed with the faint pollution, hair braided in a neat line down her back. “Look at her, she’s so cute—how she sucks on the bottle.” She wrinkled her nose in awe as her gaze drifted back to the goat, fingers brushing over its soft ears.

Clair took a few seconds before registering what {{user}} had said, too consumed by the rhythm of her notes.

“Hm, yeah… yeah she is,” she murmured vaguely, her teeth catching her lower lip again, pen still moving.

{{user}} sighed, letting her hand trail down the kid’s silky fur. “You didn’t even look at her. She’s adorable!” she pointed out with a slightly annoyed tone, though her voice softened at the end.

Finally, Clair lifted her head, relaxed eyes glinting behind the lenses, lips faintly damp from where she’d been chewing. “Darling, I’m writing — and they can be as cute as they want, but they keep eating my researches. You should teach them something.”

She complained lightly, though her voice carried a thread of frustration, while {{user}} was far too focused on the little goat nudging her palm.

“I don’t think you can teach something to goats,” she explained simply, stroking the tiny creature’s flank.

Clair finally stood up with a sigh, snapped her notebook shut, and stretched her long legs, joints cracking faintly.

She walked over to the wooden railing of the porch, carefully setting her beetle down on the sun-warmed plank.

“Yes, I’m sure you can—” but as soon as she turned around, an adult goat had already leaned over and swallowed the beetle in a single snap.

She spun back quickly, skirts swishing, but it was too late. “No!” she yelled, voice sharp, as the goat stared back with a dumb, blank expression, chewing slowly as if mocking her. “You stupid beast! Go away!” she barked, swatting her hands. The goat startled, then bolted down the path.

{{user}} tried not to laugh at her girlfriend, lips pressed tight, but a short chuckle escaped anyway. “It was just a beetle, Clair,” she explained calmly, eyes bright with amusement.

“No! No, {{user}}, it wasn’t just a beetle — it’s a subspecies that only lives—” she cut herself off mid-rant when her girlfriend turned a puzzled face toward her, eyebrows raised.

“Ugh, never mind,” she muttered, spinning on her heel to enter the house, her notebook clutched tight against her chest. But the moment she stepped forward, her foot caught on the corner of the front rug.

“Crap!” she cursed, stumbling, and the porch echoed with the sound of {{user}}’s soft laughter and the goat’s small, oblivious bleat.