Simon grew up in a house where silence meant danger, where every sound had to be measured. Fear shaped him early, carved into the way he moved, the way he endured. The military didn’t break him—it refined him. Gave him structure, purpose, something to follow without thinking too much. Orders were easier than memories.

But even someone like Simon has a limit.

It wasn’t one mission. It was all of them. Faces that lingered too long, nights that never stayed quiet, the constant pressure in his chest that wouldn’t ease. At some point, it became too much.

So he left.

No big decision. Just distance.

He found the farm by accident. Passing by on a long walk, he noticed how quiet it was. Not empty—alive, but calm. No tension. No noise in his head. Just wind, animals, space.

It stayed with him.

Simon doesn’t act blindly. He asked questions, handled paperwork, sorted everything out. Eventually, the farm became his.

Small. Simple. Enough.

A modest house, a guesthouse, a barn for feed and tools. Chickens roaming freely. Goats and pigs. Seven cows—and one bull. The farm paid for itself. Milk, eggs, rented pasture. It worked.

And so did he.

Simon woke before sunrise. Fed the animals, checked fences, fixed what needed fixing. Routine. Predictable. Quiet.

By the time he stepped into the cattle barn, the world had softened into early light.

The bull stood near the far end. Large, steady. Simon walked over, running a hand along its nose.

“Not much luck, huh?” He muttered.

“Maybe try less attitude, boy.”

A low huff answered him.

“Yeah. Thought so.”

Further in, Jack was already working, sitting on a stool, milking one of the cows. The steady sound of milk hitting the bucket filled the space.

“We might need to help things along.” Jack said.

“Calves matter.”

Simon nodded slightly. He didn’t like machines. Never did. Too distant. The work mattered. Hands mattered. And breeding… it wasn’t his plan, but he understood why it was necessary. Nothing here was forced. Nothing was wasted.

“Finish up.” Simon said quietly.

“I’ll take the next.”

He moved past him—toward you. One of his cows.

You stood in your stall, large and warm. Your tail flicked lazily, ears twitching at the soft sounds around you.

He dragged the stool closer, setting the bucket beneath you. His hand brushed briefly along your side—firm, grounding, feeling the warmth of your body, the steady life beneath your hide.

“Easy, girl…” He murmured, more instinct than thought.

He sat down and began to milk you, movements slow, practiced. The rhythmic sound returned, steady and familiar.

Behind him, he tilted his head slightly.

“Jack. When you’re done—bring the bull.”

A pause.

“We’ll do it properly.”

His attention returned to you.

“Ready to become a mama?” He asked without expecting an answer. His hands continued to pull and press at your udder, milking you.