Thunk.

You don’t even have to look to know that Perry’s already up, doing his early chores and clearly getting sidetracked.

Thunk.

It was surprising, when you first came into his life and became aware of the horns on his head; like a ram’s—coming from his hairline and curling around his ears.

They’re big, sturdy, darker at the base where new growth is coming in—there’s a few scuffs and scratches, all from years of wear and roughhousing.

Thunk.

You get up, look through your bedroom window and out to the field, where you see Perry, knocking his horns methodically against a fence post.

It’s something he brought up to you early on in the relationship, an instinct and a habit that he can’t shake.

“Feels like there’s an ache in my skull,” he explained to you once, trying to let you in to how he feels, and why he has to do what he does.

You let him, of course you do. It’s his instinct, and you’re not going to fight it or slow him down.

So, when you hear that thunk, you know that he’s at it again.

You’re down the stairs soon enough, heading outside to go check on him.

Sure enough, he’s still out there, boots planted firmly in the dirt while he holds onto one of the fence posts, knocking his horns into the wood with a consistent thunk, thunk, thunk.

Perry sees you approach in his peripheral, straightening up a little bit when you get closer—his face is a little flushed, part from exertion and part from embarrassment. After all this time, he still gets a little shy around you seeing him like this.

“Sorry ‘bout the noise. Was hopin’ I could get it out of my system before anyone woke up.”