Shane had slept like shit.

He'd awoken to his alarm screaming red noise. The uncapped whiskey sat on his bedside table, its line of liquid far lower than he remembered. His t-shirt had been gross and clammy from sweating through the night, only one thought beating through his hungover head: you have to face William. And though a dozen clean shirts hung in his closet, he'd plucked his dirty work hoodie off the floor and struggled into its wadded sleeves.

Now here he was on the farm, looking like yesterday's garbage.

It'd always worked when he was younger, dressing this way. Keeping his head down. Making himself invisible, like a piece of litter on the sidewalk; if anyone did see him it was only to wrinkle their nose and move on. William was too kind to look at him in disgust, but imitating a dumpster had still done its job—he hadn't tried to touch Shane today.

"BACAAAW!"

Shane's bucket of water splashed to the ground as a flurry of feathers shot out from under his boot. Soaked, he stood with his heart slamming.

He'd stepped on a chicken.

He'd fucking stepped on one of William's chickens.

The scandalized bird had taken off, head bobbing, parting the sea of her sisters. Shane shook himself from the shock, and despite the beady look of loathing—which most of the birds reserved for William—he chased her down, scooping her up to check her feet. All chicken toes intact. More scared than injured, it seemed.

He released her and sank to the freshly swept floor, elbows on knees. Closing his eyes, he dug fingers through his grimy hair. It could've used another wash this morning, but just like with the dirty clothes he'd said fuck it.

He'd known the danger of thinking of William as a friend. Not acquaintance, or coworker, or a family member he'd been dumped on whether through birth or circumstance. Nope. A friend: someone who had no obligation to put up with his ass, and chose to anyway. And Shane was the worst type of person, because he couldn't have just friends. Friends showed him attention and treated him kindly, and then he fell in love with them for it.

Not that this was love. Shane knew love, every hill and valley of that soul-sucking solo journey, and he and William weren't in love. They barely fucking knew each other. They'd been working together what, a month? Probably the only reason they'd even hooked up was the size of this town, William starved for companionship and taking his kicks where he could find them. So no, this wasn't love. But it was attention, and kindness, and Shane had seen all the warning signs and gone ahead with it anyway. This was on him. Any disaster that came from it, on him. And now it was on him to keep William safe—far fucking away from Shane's minefield of an existence, especially with Corey nosing around.

He caged his head between his elbows, blocking out the cheerful sounds of the coop, staring into blackness until the worst of the wave had passed.

It took until noon to finish with the animals, far longer than most days, though at least he didn't step on any more. The sun was directly overhead and Shane glanced at the farmhouse, half-blinded and feeling sick. Did he really need lunch? Food sounded as appetizing as tar, but he knew if he didn't show William would come find him anyway.

Somehow his feet carried him out of the barn and up to the porch. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching with dread as William pulled leftovers from the fridge.

He shifted his weight, creaking one of the floorboards, and William turned at the noise. He acknowledged Shane with a nod then headed to the microwave where he popped in the container and programmed the time.

"Everything good on the animal front?" he asked, leaning against the counter and slipping his hands in his pockets.

Shane took a seat at the table. "Yeah," he said quietly. "The usual."

The plate rotated and hummed in the microwave. William didn't try to make any more small talk as it cooked, and after a few tense minutes the appliance beeped. He sat beside Shane and separated the brick of pasta into two portions, stabbing his own so that red tomato sauce oozed out.

"Look," William said, watching it steam. "About last night…"

Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this.

Shane twirled a bite of pasta. "Yeah. Sorry."

William frowned, poking at his brick again. "Why do you keep saying sorry? You keep apologizing, but…you didn't do anything wrong." He looked up. "I get it. You aren't ready to be out yet."

Shane felt like his eyes were made of lead, weighted to the plate in front of him. He was glad it was pasta today. Something to fidget with.

"Look," he said, moving a noodle from one side to the other. "I'm not gonna let it fuck up my work."

"Shane, I didn't mean that. I never said you would." In his peripheral vision, Shane could see William tugging on the knot in his hair. "I'm not going to push, okay? Yesterday was amazing. But it doesn't have to be like that all the time."

But it will be some of the time.

William didn't understand. For Shane, it didn't work that way. He couldn't do these things and expect everything to be fine. And sure, let him tell his dad he was only gay someof the time—see how well that fucking panned out.

His heart pounded, swishing through his ears like the static inside a seashell, but William didn't press any more. The rest of the meal passed in silence, nothing between them but the lowing of cows drifting in through an open window. By the time he finished eating Shane had started to hope they might drop the subject for the rest of the day, but as he was carrying his dirty plate to the sink William snagged his wrist.

"Hey," he said, squeezing. "It was good, right? That's not in my head?"

Blue eyes bored into him. Like a clap of thunder, Shane felt everything at once: from the first wrist grab all those weeks ago, to the drunken stumbling last night that had led to lying in William's bed, gazing up at his swimming face. This parade of moments stampeded through the blockades he'd spent all morning propping up, revealing them for the flimsy fucking things they were, and he didn't want to feel hopeful, but oh god—in that moment he was, hope was there, battering him with its stupid wings of 'maybe'—

Rat tatta-tat tat, tat TAT!

Shane yanked his hand from William's grip, heart beating a blistering rhythm as both their gazes shot to the door.

He knew that knock. That extravagant, fancy, signature fucking knock.

"William!" called a muffled voice. "Lewis here! Ready to discuss the fair!"

Everyone always wanted to be a damn hero. As though it'd fix their lives. As though the prestige and glory of hero-ing would improve any shitstain existence. As though it was something worth striving for. William had some bad fucking news: all it did was make things more complicated.

When he was twenty-four, the military had given him awards for hero-ing. A few months ago, Pelican Town had gifted a damn trophy for the same thing. He'd stowed the fucking eyesore in a shed, and if he'd known what was coming he would have turned it down. Instead, he'd gotten pulled into every major event their little village elected to hold. No one ever told you that when you became the Town Hero, you were as much of a figurehead as any pageant princess.

Which was why Mayor Lewis was at his farm in the middle of a Wednesday, tapping "Shave and a Haircut" on the door and interrupting the most important conversation he'd had all day.

William let go of Shane at the same time he pulled away, the jerk of his hand burning like ripped duct tape.

This. Fucking. Sucked.

But what could be done? He'd promised discretion, hadn't he?

Fuck his big fucking mouth and shitty-ass promises.

Mayor Lewis was a rotund senior citizen with a bushy gray beard. Jovial and full of stories about Pops, he'd been a friendly presence ever since William had moved to the little hamlet. Other than a raised eyebrow over foul language here and there, and one unfortunate incident with Morris, the mayor had always been cordial. William appreciated his genuine and cheerful nature.

Even though he was a nosy little gossip.

"Hey Lewis," he greeted, opening the door. "Me and Shane were finishing our lunch break. Come on in."

Lewis beamed, stepping inside. He carried a clipboard in one hand, his other hooked into brown suspenders that matched the newsboy cap he always wore on official 'business.' If grandfather benevolence were distilled into an essence, Lewis would be on the label of the bottle.

"Shane! Guess I should've expected you," he said. "Still not used to you working outside of Joja. Blame the senior citizen brain. Can never keep up with you young folk."

Shane nodded at Lewis without speaking, his expression flat as a pancake. He turned his back, shoveling in his final three bites of food while walking to the sink.

Lewis peered around the dining area and living room, his tongue giving an appreciative click. "You've certainly dossied this place up since Joseph lived here!" He faced William, squeezing the clipboard flush to his chest. "Didn't mean to interrupt your lunch, son. But perhaps when you're done here, we can get down to some business about the festival."

Behind them water ran in the sink, Shane a stormy shadow ploughing through the chore. His farmhand ignored Lewis with the studied purposefulness Ingrid used when angry at him for coming home late. William's eyes ping-ponged between them.

That is some bad fucking blood on his end.

He'd ask later.

He hooked his thumb toward the back of the house. "Got the list of farmers who gave me their confirmations in my office. C'mon. I'm done here." He put a hand on Lewis's shoulder—all the better to keep him out of areas he didn't belong. "Daniels, once you get that handled, go out and finish unloading the bins from the tractor. When I'm done with the mayor I'll meet you in the barn for afternoon milking."

"Got him doing dishes, eh?" Lewis chuckled. "Should get me a farmhand! Didn't know they came with those kinda benefits."

William gave a tight smile.

Don't help me Lewis. I can dig my own damn grave here.

"Shall we?" he asked.

Lewis tapped a cheerful pattern on the clipboard with his pen. "Righteo, Farmer Bill. Onward."

William's eyebrow twitched at the moniker, but he let it pass.

The office had not been touched by his mother. The desk in the corner was an antique he'd restored last winter. The walls were paneled with dark-stained wood. Despite them, he'd chosen light-colored furniture. Squashy chairs and a bookshelf of curated agricultural texts rounded out the decor. It faced west, and in the evenings when he was totaling out his final harvest counts, fire-orange sunsets soaked the room in warmth.

William sat down behind his desk, gesturing to one of the two leather arm chairs. It felt weird to have company in here; normally only his accountant, lawyer, or the tax man came to visit.

He retrieved the forms he'd collected from his Monday deliveries.

"Alright," he said, fanning them out, then stacking them tight before handing them over. "Forty confirmed registrations. Their checks are clipped to the top of the paperwork."

Lewis ruffled through the sheets. "Good, good, good," he murmured, white head bobbing like a dashboard accessory. He looked up after the last form. "What did we ever do before you came around? Why, that's at least a dozen more than last year!"

If William couldn't win the grange competition, he'd at least won connections within the local farming district. Selling out of his truck at the different farmer's markets had made it possible to spread the word about Stardew Valley's most lucrative event, and in the last two years they'd doubled the turn-out and participation. Small communities like Pelican Town didn't have very high taxes, and depended on the boost in tourism during those annual festivals. That increase helped pay for the maintenance of the community center William had rebuilt—no point in fixing up the damn place if they couldn't keep it in good repair. He didn't appreciate being called the Town Hero, but it did make him proud to see how a little organization had improved what was around him.

Lewis was still shaking his head in disbelief. "At this rate, we'll have to redo the set-up to make room for an extra row. I suppose that'll be a job for your farmhand! He's helping Marnie and me with the preparations Sunday." He looked up. "Working out well for you boys down here? Can't say I've ever met an employee quite like that, but looks like this arrangement is turning out fine."

Internally, William's hackles raised. Shane had issues with communication, but in terms of work he was as good as any soldier he'd ever been stationed with. Better than others. He closed up the accordion folder, eyebrow climbing.

What fresh hell is this old lady about to spew?

"Employee like what, Lewis?" he asked mildly.

"O-oh!" Lewis stammered, backpedaling. "I just meant your meeting—down at the saloon. Never saw the likes of it, an employer finding their worker in a bar fight." He waved his hand, as though he could erase any negative connotations from the air.

So that was it. Did nothing in this town get forgotten? No, of course not, and William would probably be reminded of that fistfight from now until he died.

Despite the inevitability of the rumor mill, he wasn't about to take it lying down. He held Lewis's eyes.

"Lemme set you straight. I mean, you'll understand, being that a guy like you has lived and seen the world, right? It's like this. Two guys have a disagreement. They work it out. The end."

He let the silence stretch, his face hard before leaning forward with a crooked grin, all tension melting out of him.

"What's more impressive, is how much you've grown this town. Pops would have been impressed. I made the contacts, but it was Pelican Town's sterling reputation that sealed the deal. Add on the good review the Governor gave us last summer for the Luau you planned? Piece of cake."

Lewis inhaled with pride as he spoke, because at the heart of it, men like Lewis always wanted to be praised. William had seen it dozens of times growing up. The way to make someone forget about unpleasantness wasn't to harp on it, but to redirect.

"Awfully kind of you to say so, William," Lewis said, chuffed. "But you know as well as I how it feels, seeing this little town grow. The strides you've made, the people you've helped. Were I a younger man, I'd have to keep a sharp eye on my job around you! And who knows, maybe old Joe's grandson might have some political blood after all. I won't be around forever."

I would rather be dipped in boiling oil, William thought, keeping his relaxed pose at the desk.

He'd have to be careful his mother never got near Mayor Lewis. While his parents supported his endeavors, having their son be a politician—even a politician in a podunk, nowhere-community like Pelican Town—would be the jewel in their crown.

Lewis flipped through a few of the papers again, skimming them over. "Let's hope some of these folks have an artistic eye. Would love for the Fair to make as big a splash in the papers as the Luau." He looked up. "Any idea what your display'll be?"

Back on safer ground.

"Now, that could be telling." William knocked his fist once on the desk. "I finished up my first Oktoberfest blend. Pierre and Gus won't be serving it until after the fair, but you want to take a case home on your way out?"

Lewis stood, grinning with an unspoken, you sly old dog. He offered a hand for William to shake.

"I might just have to take you up on that! So long as it stays between you and me, lad." He winked. "I've got judging to do at this fair—can't be seen accepting bribes."

"Oh Lewis," William said, shaking the proffered hand, "have I ever been one to tell a man's secret?"

When they emerged from the office, Shane was gone. He'd left a clean kitchen in his wake, the dishes stacked on the counter. William pulled out a cardboard sleeve filled with beer, the 'Bowery Brews' logo on the side.

"Here you are," he said, setting it down. "One six-pack for a family friend."

"Much appreciated. I'd be the envy of the boys, if I could tell them." Lewis picked up the beer, drawing his thumb and index finger across his mouth in an invisible zipper.

William was reminded of his own secrets. If Lewis knew for one minute what was going on, it'd be in the ears and mouths of everyone in their tiny town. Too many people knew each other's dirty laundry out here.

"Now don't forget, set-up starts bright and early Monday, 6:00 am. And thanks again." Lewis lifted his arm with the clipboard, stepping onto the threshold. "Don't see Shane around anymore. Say goodbye to him for me, will ya? And if you don't mind, maybe let him know I'll be there for dinner at the ranch tonight." He tilted his chin down, lowering his voice. "Between you and me, that one isn't much for surprises."

William kept his face smooth and nodded, walking him to his truck and waving him off down the dirt road. He sighed, rubbing his neck, looking back out at the barns. As the dust behind Lewis's truck settled, his anxiety rose.

"Sure, Lewis," he muttered, "Shane is clearly your biggest fan. I'll get right on that."

Feeding rye into the thresher was the best job for Shane's current mood. It was noisy. It was distracting. And unlike milking cows or counting eggs, it was violent. All Shane had to do was put in stalks and lean back, old-fashioned levers chugging, the heavy machine rattling grain from the chute like it was shaking down lunch money.

He stared at the mess of loose bits that had flown to the ground. That stupid arm grab. One touch, and Shane had almost lost sight of what a bad fucking idea it was to let William near him.

It was good yesterday, right? That's not in my head?

How was he supposed to answer that?

Yes William, it was good. Until after, when it fucking sucked and made me feel like an empty, homesick void.

William hadn't fucking signed up for this. Shane hadn't given him any warning of what a self-loathing leech he'd become after being shown the tiniest scraps of affection. There wasn't a sane person in the world who got into a drunken hook-up looking for thirty-one years of baggage to rifle through, and William being horny and kind wasn't permission for Shane to throw his entire grotesque existence on him.

And god, they'd been so close to getting caught, hadn't they? Lewis knew William was gay. They'd discussed it over dinner, a few days before Shane started work at The Bowery. It felt so long ago. Yet if Lewis—mayor of Pelican Town and a bigger gossip than the tabloids—found out, wouldn't it be Shane's sexuality they were discussing at family meals? Or maybe it'd be a hot topic at the next Community Center meeting. Perhaps an announcement in the paper, alongside the births and engagements: Local Farmhand Finds Solace in Farmer Boss. Then, a few weeks later in the obituaries: Relationship Dies When Farmhand is Outed as Asshole Drunk Who Can Barely Tie His Gay Shoelaces.

The more space they kept, the fucking better. The less people knew about them, the fucking better. The sooner they forgot about all this shit, and went back to just working on the farm like William was paying him for? The fucking better.

Lewis's arrival was a blessing. Nip that shit in the bud, hard and fast.

The thresher rumbled at Shane's side, the noise growing metallic and hollow as it ate the bulk of the last load. He swapped the full bag for an empty one, then tossed another armful of rye onto the belt.

He tried to focus on the work, but of course, that was another crash-and-burn endeavor.

He'd hated Lewis. What he lacked in discretion for others' business, he kept for himself in spades. He'd dated Marnie in secret for over a year before having the balls to be open, all because he was a man of position, and wanted his business away from the gossip-stained spotlight until 'sure' the relationship would stick. Yet how was Shane any different? A few days ago William had asked if he wanted to hang out after the granges were done. Secretly, because he knew Shane was ashamed. And he couldn't even do that. If anything, he was worse than Lewis: ashamed not just in public but in private as well.

Leaning back with his hand on the lever, he stared at the grains waterfalling into the new sack. When it was half full, he heard the barn door roll open.

William stepped inside.

"Safe now," he said. "Lewis is gone."

As if resuming a normal workday he got right to business, picking up one of the feed bags, sealing it, and hauling it to a pallet set up for transport.

Shane grunted in affirmation, looking back at the chute.

William lifted the next bag. "You don't seem to like Lewis that much."

"Yeah," Shane said, staring at the machine as if his focus was the only thing keeping it running. "I don't."

"Welp, that's a fucking shame."

"Like my opinion matters."

"I was just thinking that since he was going to be eating dinner at your place tonight, hating his guts might make digestion difficult."

At this Shane jerked his head up.

Mistake.

William had finished dropping off his second bag to the pallet, and now stood with his beautiful, colorful arms crossed over his chest. He stared at Shane through a lock of blond hair, escaped from his topknot.

"Great," Shane muttered, turning back to the machine as his stomach twisted.

Having Lewis for dinner was not a noteworthy occurrence anymore. He ate at the ranch at least once a week. Still, when everything else was so slippery, it was a safe and familiar irritation to cling to.

"I didn't tell him, if that's what you're worried about," William said, voice tight as he headed for another bag. "He didn't see anything. God, Lewis is so obsessed with what's going on for his prestige, it's not like he'd notice if you waved a pride flag under his nose."

Despite the mess in his brain—or perhaps because of it—Shane almost laughed. Because that's what they always called it, didn't they? Pride. Maybe in his next fucking lifetime.

He reached for another armful of stalks. "Yeah well, he's like a goddamn male Marnie, so excuse me for not wanting shit to go around."

William glared.

"Jeez, Shane. No fucking trust." He shoved him on the shoulder before grabbing the next bag.

"Didn't say you were gonna spill," Shane said, frustration burning through him at the touch. "Said I didn't want him seeing it. Fuck."

William tied the threads tight and chucked the sealed feed onto the pallet.

"What is your fucking problem today?" he snapped. "God. What did I fucking do to piss you off so bad that you have to be a goddamned storm cloud all over the place?"

Shane yanked the handle of the machine to a hard stop.

"Did I say you pissed me off?" he spat into sudden silence. "No. Maybe I'm fucking pissed off at myself. Maybe I'm pissed off at Lewis. Maybe I had a bad fucking night. So just let me do my job, and then I won't bother you again, bossman."

William's eyes narrowed. As they did, any warmth was sucked from the barn.

"Alright, Daniels," he said, slapping the side of the machine. "You wanna play like that? Fine. Finish stacking that damn pallet, and when you're done, I want you to clean every single fucking one of the vehicles in the equipment barn. And if that shit doesn't wear out your anger issues, you can report to the dairy barn and clean the hoses."

With that he turned, flipping Shane off and stalking out.

Shane stared after him.

His heart was slamming, ramping up with the same red-hot, combustive energy that formed every time things got heated between them. They couldn't go more than a few days without hitting the worst of each other's buttons, could they? When things were crap, they pushed those buttons. When things were going well, same story. He couldn't fucking stop himself from starting shit with William.

And it was easier. Easier than looking in his stupid face and saying, "I have feelings for you, and I don't fucking want to." Easier than thinking about the touches they'd shared in that dim, cool bedroom, or the inevitable end to this. Through rejection, death, or anything between, Shane knew he would never be allowed to keep something as good as William in his life. That was what the universe had reminded him of last night. Dad's phone call, his grandmother's death sentence, those empty fucking feelings after sex: all smacks on the wrist by nature's wooden ruler.

Well, if it wanted to punish him, at least it had William's help this time.

He booted the thresher back into gear, drowning his thoughts in the noise.

When the grain was done he went straight to the equipment barn. William wanted to make him pay for being a shit? Good. Let him focus on the only thing he was capable of—being alone, and doing mindless fucking work.

He dug into the grooves of the tractor, loosening mud and farm debris that had caked into compost between them. He scrubbed every surface, every corner and cranny, right down to the treads of the tires that would fill up with dirt again the first time they left the barn. The brush soothed him with each stroke until the anger began to subside, until the washing was more meditative than cathartic.

Three hours later and he'd finished. Exhausted, he tossed his polishing rag to a side table, then leaned against it and stared at the sparkling vehicles. There was no energy left to keep carrying the storm cloud William had accused him of.

He'd lost track of time when a meow pierced the air. It was a thin, delicate sound, one that matched the clearer air on this side of the argument. Moments later, William's cat slunk out from under some crates in the back, body swaying.

Swaying a lot.

Shane hadn't seen much of Ingrid lately, other than a glimpse now and then across the fields. It was the first time he'd seen her up close in weeks, and now she rolled her body against his ankles in greeting.

Her ridiculously fat, pregnant body.

William finished the afternoon milking alone. He inspected each heifer as he did, losing himself in the lowing of fifteen hundred-pound bovines. It became a pattern for every cow: take out a checklist, scan her ear, scratch down the column of health points, move onto the next. As soon as the checklists were complete, he heaved feed into the bins. It was soothing to punch open the chutes, letting the girls in and out, only to repeat the process with the next batch. Solo, the job took a little over two hours.

When he got to the processing barn he scrubbed up, meticulous as he pulled on the rubber gloves and apron that were a health requirement to handling raw dairy product. He hung the used hoses to the side for Shane to handle whenever he marched his rude ass into the barn.

Pissed at myself. Pissed at Lewis. Bad fucking night. Bossman.

Boss. Man.

Not William. Because he'd mucked this up, hadn't he? Just fucking slammed a hammer down onto something beautiful and delicate, all because of an in-the-moment impulse that he'd thought was mutual.

Bad fucking night.

What did Shane want? What was he doing here? On the one hand, at least he'd shown up this morning. On the other hand, he'd shown up looking like shit. Same clothes from yesterday. Sullen glares. One word responses.

After he'd raced out like his ass was on fire, William had focused on the logical comfort that Shane had a family to hide his secrets from. Let he who had never rushed out the door after sex cast the first stone. But how the hell could he keep justifying that last night had been good, when here they were, morning after, and Shane couldn't fucking look at him?

Because he regrets the whole damn thing.

The pasteurizer made a protesting groan when William smashed the kill-switch harder than necessary. He dragged the stainless steel canisters to the side, letting them screech their resistance against the wooden floor, and began to scrub.

Facts were, they were circling a drain of hopelessness. Whatever had happened after last night, Shane had some of that fuckshit he'd warned him about swirling around in his brain like a goddamned tornado. The only question was, what could he do to salvage anything between them?

He had no idea.

Halfway through sanitizing the metallic jars, Ingrid came waddling into the barn. She purred as she ran up against his legs, then flopped underneath the sink, rolling against the warm pipes. Behind them, the door creaked.

Shane hovered at the entrance like a guilty spectre.

He was filthy, grease stains on his clothing. Fifty dollars said if William went to check, his equipment would be sparkling. Once again he'd done what he was told; at least if he was going to be an asshole after sex, he wasn't going to quit giving it one hundred percent on the job.

Yippee.

He returned to scrubbing, waiting for him to say something, keeping an eye glued to the mirrored finish of the canister.

Shane cleared his throat.

William glanced over his shoulder. When that got him no response he looked back to the milk pail, hanging it up on one of the long hooks for drying. Irritation rolled through his fingers as he jerked the next canister into the scrub sink.

"Speak," he ordered, shoving the rough sponge harder against the stainless steel.

"Um. Congratulations."

"Congratulations?"

"Your cat…"

"What about her?"

Shane shifted his feet. "You know she's pregnant, right?"

He dropped the canister on the hook with a clang.

"Wait," he said, the words slamming through his build-up of frustration like a bulldozer. "What?"

That first night at the bar, Shane had thumped him between his eyes. Here he was doing it again, derailing one train of thought and setting it up on an entirely new set of tracks.

"Your cat," Shane said, "is fucking huge. She seen a vet or anything yet?"

His cat. They'd been together last night, and Shane was worried about the cat.

He frowned and dried his hands, eyeing the tabby butterball as she idly flipped her paws over a beetle.

"Don't fat-shame my cat. She eats a lot is all."

That earned him a look of disbelief.

"Like what? Another litter of kittens?" Shane asked.

William squinted at Ingrid, who was now on her back, stretching, belly bulging.

"Are you sure? Because...she's the only cat around here." He scratched his head then squatted down. "Ingrid, you little ho. Did you get knocked up?"

He held a hand out and she nuzzled his fingers.

"Yeah, news flash. They're never the 'only cat' when you keep 'em outside." Shane shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, staying back near the entrance.

William kept petting her, and sure enough, her belly wasn't the soft fatty chub of obesity: there was a firmness to her midsection that warned of impending furry babies. His mind raced over his schedule and when he could take her in. Was there a small animal vet close by? Maybe in Victory? No, wait—Poplarville was closer. They had a clinic. He'd call his cattle doc for a recommendation.

"Well fuck, Ingrid," he muttered. "How long until your hooker ass pops, huh?"

As if she understood him, Ingrid flattened her ears.

William looked at Shane, mystified. "How long do you think—"

He sucked back a curse when sharp teeth bit his fingers. As he pulled the wounded hand away, Ingrid darted off. The traitorous little shit curled around Shane's feet, a lofty look of superiority on her striped face.

Shane leaned down, offering her his hand to smell. She shoved her shoulder and head against it, rubbing his wrist as if he were the only one who understood her.

"She's pretty close," he said. "You only got a few weeks."

William stood and crossed over. Shane wasn't looking at him, all his focus on Ingrid and her affectionate dance for attention. She'd never taken to William that way.

"You're really good with them" he said. "The animals."

Shane shrugged. "Easier than people."

Easier than me.

William squatted again. "She going to be okay like, giving birth all over the place? She going to know what to do and shit?"

During his first dairy cow birthing season, he'd lost a young heifer who had no idea what to do. He'd been just as panicked as she was, and a knot of fear went through him at the thought of losing Ingrid the same way.

"She ever been knocked up before?" Shane asked, standing.

William shook his head. "Nah, never."

"Just, get a vet visit. See how many you're in for. And you should lock her up if you wanna actually see the kittens once they're born. She'll hate you for it, but..." He glanced at the bit finger. "Doesn't seem to care for you anyway."

Looking up at him through a lock of hair, William said, "She's not the only one."

Shane rubbed his neck. "Come on…"

"Yeah? C'mon and do what? Accept my fuzzy, street-walking daughter and unexpected grand-kittens? Or c'mon and forget it because you're done being an asshole?"

"Wouldn't hold my breath," Shane muttered.

Well, wasn't that just a kick in the nuts. Expected. But it still made his dick curl up and retreat.

He blew out a breath, focusing on Ingrid's sleepy face. "The equipment is finished?"

Leaning back against the sink, Shane crossed his arms. "Yeah."

Frustration, previously shot down by Ingrid's condition, welled up all over again. He didn't understand why every time things started to go well between them, somehow he found a way to gum up the works.

First, Shane had lost his shit at the spa. Fucker hadn't even accepted his own sexuality, and there William was pushing the issue. Second, they'd had that fight at the fence. Being an in-control and seductive genius, he'd responded maturely by smashing Shane's face. No matter how right those earthquake explosions felt at the time, it was clear from the after-shakes that they couldn't keep losing control. It wasn't fixing what was between them. Third, and finally, there'd been last night. No matter how orgasmic it was on his side, drunk, mutual masturbation had been a disaster for Shane, setting off some unknown mental landmine.

He could not keep pushing if he didn't want to shove Shane out of his reach forever.

"Thanks," William said, scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair. "Look. Call me stupid, but I'm getting the feeling you're not ready to talk to me about yesterday."

If Shane registered what he'd said, he gave no indication, his green eyes locked to the floor. William wondered if there were some answers there. If so, it'd be fucking nice if he'd share them out. Any warmth he'd had from Ingrid was gone the moment William pointed at the pink, gay elephant in the room.

"Nothing to talk about," Shane said at last. "We…did a thing. And now we're working. This is about her." He jerked his head toward Ingrid, though his eyes remained on the wooden planks and bits of straw that thatched across them.

A thing.

Not a land mine. Not even a mistake. Just an object of no consequence.

It wasn't the first time William had been someone's thing. A fling they'd woken up from and left without a second look; hurried buckles and brief thanks before going about life. It wasn't as though they needed to be more, but it stung hearing the words drip from Shane's mouth. He'd been convinced after everything that happened that he was different.

When he'd been young, defensive vitriol would have poured out of his lips faster than a thought could form. He'd curbed some of that in boot camp, but fuck if Shane hadn't been able to pull out the worst of his temper these last few weeks.

Not today.

"Right," William said, fingers running through Ingrid's fur. "There is some shit I want to talk about, but…" He raised his head. "It can wait, at least until after the fair. Tomorrow and Friday you'll be working half days. Won't even have to look at my face. Should suit you fine."

He got to his feet, scooping up Ingrid, who liked that about as well as getting a bath.

Shane lingered by the sink a few more seconds. Finally he rubbed a hand over his nose and pushed off the back.

"Yeah, well. I'm done here tonight anyway," he said, and without another look at William walked out of the barn, staring at the ground the whole way.

William wasn't going to watch him go. Nope. Not to-fucking-day. Because it felt like that's all he did lately: stood there with his thumb up his ass while Shane shambled off, full of loathing towards him.

Not that he hadn't done everything in the world to deserve it.