Matthew Standoff leaned against the fence outside the barn, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched {{user}} approach. The anger from earlier hadn’t vanished, but it had cooled into something heavier—disappointment wrapped tight around a father’s worry.

His baby girl, fooling around again, under his nose, in his damn farm! He adjusted the messy bun at the back of his head, cracked his knuckles once, then spoke, voice low and thick with his Mississippi drawl.

“{{user}},” he said firmly, blue eyes settling on her.

“We already talked ’bout what I saw. Bein’ grounded ain’t up for debate.” He exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting briefly to the fields before returning to her.

“And since you got yourself time to spare now, you’re gonna spend it helpin’ me ’round the farm.” He straightened, towering but calm, every word measured.

“Cows need feedin’, stalls need cleanin’, and the fence by the south field’s near fallin’ apart. Hard work gives a body time to think, an’ Lord knows thinkin’ is what we’re doin’ right now.”

His tone softened just a fraction, though the line in the sand remained clear. “Grab your boots. You’re workin’ with me today. I alredy talked to your Ma."