The farmer sits at her kitchen table, surrounded by open windows and the soft golden hush of late afternoon. The air smells like lilacs and disappointment. She's been trying to design a coop expansion for hours, and it shows: her hair's a mess, her shirt's smeared with graphite, and she's muttering threats at a ruler like it's personally betrayed her.
The screen door creaks open on its hinges, and there she is—Robin, framed in afternoon light like a painting that never belonged in a museum. Her boots hit the floor with that steady confidence of someone who's used to building entire homes with her bare hands. Her tank top clings in all the right places, the fabric stained with sawdust and triumph. Sunlight glints off the tools at her hip, but it's her arms that do the real damage—sleeves nonexistent, biceps flexed just enough to make the farmer forget every unit of measurement she's ever learned. She's already rolling her shoulders as she steps in, the sweat at her temples catching the light like glitter made of effort.
She peels off her gloves—finger by finger, slow and practiced—then tosses them onto the counter with a satisfying thwump. The sound alone says I know what I'm doing and you do, too.
Then comes the stretch: arms above her head, back arching just enough to lift the hem of her tank top, revealing the defined lines of her abs and a hipbone that has no business being that sharp. Her spine pops. The farmer stops breathing.
Robin exhales like she's been holding the day in her lungs. Then she shakes her head, red hair tumbling from her messy bun, cascading like she's in a shampoo commercial for dangerously competent women. Sawdust glitters in her curls. Her freckles catch the light. And she's smiling like she knows she just upstaged the gods.
She takes one look at the blueprint catastrophe on the table and arches a brow.
"Is this... a blueprint? Or a treasure map drawn by an anxious duck?"
The farmer glares but there's no heat behind it. She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Her brain has short-circuited somewhere around the clavicle. Robin crosses the room and leans over the table, inspecting the disaster. Her abs flash beneath the hem of her shirt, the flex in her arms a slow, casual violence.
"Step aside," Robin says, voice dipped in dry amusement. "Let me show you how it's done."
The farmer doesn't argue. She shifts her chair back—tries not to look too long at Robin's biceps when she stretches, or the vein tracing down the side of her hand as she picks up the pencil.
"Yes ma'am," the farmer mutters, mostly to the floor. Or the ceiling. Or the inner chamber of her overwhelmed heart.
Robin glances up, amused.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Just appreciating... good form. I mean forms. Architectural ones. Totally professional."
Robin chuckles, low and easy, like she knows exactly the effect she's having.
"Right. Well. Try not to faint. I'm about to flex geometry."
And she does. She redraws the coop with sure strokes, explaining as she goes—why this beam needs reinforcement, how airflow works, why this joint will hold better in rain. It's like watching thunderstorm poetry. Every movement calculated, confident, compelling in that oh no she's hot kind of way.
The farmer watches her hands. Then her arms. Then the delicate way she bites her lip while calculating measurements.
The blueprint isn't the only thing getting revised.
[-]
The next morning, the farmer shows up at the Carpenter's Shop under the very thin pretense of needing barn repairs. She's clutching a rolled-up blueprint that's at least 80% blank space and 20% panic doodles. The real reason? She just wants to thank Robin. For the help. For the arms. For the way she made geometry look like a religion.
Robin's outside, sanding a plank of wood with the kind of intensity that makes the farmer reconsider every life choice she's ever made. When she looks up, her face softens.
"Back so soon? Planning to build a silo for every chicken?"
"I, uh... might need help with a barn this time."
"A barn, huh?" Robin leans on the worktable. "Or just an excuse to see me again?"
The farmer chokes on her own tongue.
Inside the house, things feel… off. The living room is filled with science fair chaos—wires, printouts, a half-built robot. Demetrius is in full Proud Dad mode, narrating something about circuit boards like he's commentating the Olympics. Robin tries to get a word in edgewise but he talks over her, again. Maru looks grateful, but distracted.
The farmer senses the shift—Robin's shoulders tight, her jaw set. She laughs when she's supposed to, but there's a hollowness behind it. Eventually she excuses herself and jerks her head toward the back door.
"Come with me. I need fresh air."
They step out to the side of the house, where the trees rustle just enough to muffle everything else. Robin leans against the porch railing, arms crossed, eyes distant. The farmer doesn't say anything, just waits.
"You ever feel like you're... part of the house?" Robin says finally, voice low. "Like—you keep everything standing, you fix what's broken, you build new things, but no one stops to ask if you're okay?"
The farmer swallows hard. Nods.
Robin lets out a breath—something between a sigh and a laugh.
"I mean, I love them. I do. But sometimes it's like... if I'm not holding a hammer, I'm invisible. Demetrius is proud of Maru. And he should be. But it's like I have to yell just to be heard. And even then, he's already thinking about the next lab report."
The farmer leans a little closer. "You're not invisible."
Robin glances sideways. There's a spark of surprise in her eyes, then something warmer.
"You're sweet, you know that?"
Silence again, but this time it's comfortable. Robin picks at a splinter in the railing. Her hand brushes the farmer's where it rests on the wood. Neither of them pulls away.
"Thanks for coming by," Robin says softly. "Even if it was just about a barn."
"…I might've lied about the barn."
Robin smiles. This one's real.
[-]
The farmer drops by again two days later. This time, she's holding a flower pot with a chipped corner and a piece of paper that looks suspiciously like it was drawn in the dark by someone who's never seen a ruler.
Robin answers the door with one eyebrow already raised.
"What's today's emergency? Broken fence? Crooked floorboard? Sudden, urgent need for pergola consultation?"
The farmer hesitates.
"...I was thinking of adding a skylight?"
"To your chicken coop?"
"They deserve natural lighting!"
Robin leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and smirking in that maddening, devastating, I-know-what-you're-doing-and-I-like-it kind of way.
"You know, most people flirt with flowers or poetry. You're out here writing me up a renovation list."
"I contain multitudes."
Robin laughs and steps aside. "Come on. You're just in time to help me hold up a beam."
(...)
The workshop smells like pine and warm sawdust. Robin's got her gloves back on, toolbelt slung low, hair pinned up again but loose enough to threaten to fall. The farmer is trying very hard not to look at the way her shoulders flex when she lifts a post.
"Can you hold this beam in place?"
"Sure."
The farmer steps in, hands settling under the beam. It's heavier than she expected—solid, grounded, a little like the tension blooming between them.
Robin moves in to secure it, close enough that their shoulders brush. She looks up to meet the farmer's eyes.
And for just a second—just one heartbeat of pause—neither of them moves.
The beam creaks, slow and low, like it knows.
Robin's voice drops, softer this time.
"...You're strong."
The farmer blinks. Their breath mingles in the close air. There's sawdust in Robin's hair and something else in her gaze—fondness, maybe. Or something hungrier.
Then—
"HEY ROBIN HAVE YOU SEEN MARU'S LAB NOTES—"
Demetrius enters, celery stick in one hand, lab binder in the other. He stops. The silence crashes like a dropped hammer.
Robin doesn't move. The farmer is still holding the beam. They're basically posing for a lesbian romance book cover.
"...Oh," Demetrius says, blinking. "Am I interrupting something?"
Robin does not look away.
"Not yet," she says. Then, finally: "But you're close."
Demetrius makes a strangled sound and retreats backwards out the door like a crab.
The beam creaks again. This time, with mischief.
[-]
The coop's finished. The sun's dipping low, casting everything in golden, lazy light. Robin's wiping her hands on her jeans, but it's obvious she's been working hard—muscles taut, hair slightly wild from the wind, beads of sweat clinging to her collarbone like they're dying to be kissed.
The farmer steps inside the coop. It's sturdy now—much better than before—but the air between them? That's as unstable as the beams they've just reinforced. Every time the farmer moves, she feels it: the electric hum between them. The kind of tension you can't measure in nails or wood, but in the way Robin looks at her when she thinks no one's watching. The way her breath catches when their hands brush.
"Well, it's finally done," Robin says, taking a slow, deep breath as she steps closer. "Looks good, doesn't it?"
The farmer nods. But she's not really looking at the coop anymore. She's looking at Robin—looking at the way she stands just a little too close, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the way she wipes the sweat off her forehead like she's trying to cool down... or maybe trying to ignore the heat between them.
"Yeah," the farmer says, her voice low. "It's perfect."
For a moment, neither of them speaks. It's that kind of silence—thick, like the world's holding its breath, waiting for one of them to shatter the tension. The air smells like fresh wood and the faintest trace of lavender from Robin's skin.
Then, without thinking—because they're both past the point of no return—the farmer takes a step closer. She's breathing a little heavier now, and she's not sure if it's the sweat or the feelings burning under her skin.
"Robin..." The farmer's voice shakes just a little. "I..."
Robin looks up at her, eyes dark and focused. She doesn't say anything at first—just watches, like she's waiting for the right moment. The kind of moment when words are useless and actions are everything.
"You want to kiss me, don't you?" Robin says, and her voice is soft but steady.
It's not a question. It's a challenge. A dare.
The farmer's heart skips a beat. She's so close now, Robin's scent filling her senses, the heat of the day and the work between them pulling them together like magnets. The gap closes, and in the space of a single breath, the farmer lets go of everything she's been holding back.
Their lips meet.
It's not soft at first. It's desperate, needy, almost frantic. Robin's hands find the farmer's hips, pulling her closer as their bodies press together. Sweat slicks their skin, mingling with the faint taste of salt and something sweet. The farmer's fingers trace the outline of Robin's jaw, her thumb skimming over the warmth of her neck.
Robin's forearms flex against the farmer's side, her strength unmistakable in the way she pulls the farmer closer, deepening the kiss, her body aligned perfectly with the farmer's. They're both breathing harder now, the moment breaking free like a dam that's held too long, and it's all raw desire. The world around them falls away, leaving just the two of them in the quiet heat of the coop.
The kiss is everything—tension pouring out of them both, years of unspoken words and glances turning into an urgency they can't control. Robin's hand moves to the back of the farmer's neck, fingers threading into her hair, tugging her closer like there's no tomorrow. The farmer's hands follow the curve of Robin's back, feeling the hard lines of muscle there, the heat radiating off her.
For a moment, they stop—panting, foreheads touching, bodies flush against each other. The farmer's eyes flutter open, and they meet Robin's, full of heat, full of emotion, full of a thousand things unsaid.
"I've wanted this," the farmer whispers, her breath ragged, "for a long time."
Robin doesn't need to say anything. She just kisses her again—this time slower, deeper, more certain. Robin's lips are a promise, and she's ready to give all of it.
The coop may be standing strong, but the walls of the coop? Those are trembling now—from the weight of their touch, from the heat between them, from the need that's finally been set free.
The kiss deepens, and suddenly everything is a blur of heat and need. Robin's hands are everywhere—one on the back of the farmer's neck, the other sliding down to the curve of her waist, tugging her in closer, urging her to feel every inch of her body. The farmer's hands move instinctively, gripping the muscles of Robin's arms, her chest, her back—everywhere she can touch.
The sun has just dipped behind the trees, and the temperature drops, but their bodies are burning with the kind of heat that makes the air feel thick, suffocating almost. Robin pulls away for just a moment, her breath ragged, her forehead glistening with sweat.
"Take it off," Robin mutters, voice low and rough. "I need to feel you."
The farmer doesn't need to be told twice. Her hands work quickly, tugging at the hem of her tank top, pulling it over her head with a slight tug of frustration. The fabric sticks to her skin, damp with sweat, but she finally pulls it off, tossing it aside like it's as irrelevant as the air between them.
Robin's eyes darken at the sight of the farmer's bare skin—her muscles flexing with every movement, the curve of her waist, the way her skin glows in the dimming light. Robin swallows, biting her lip as she works on her own tank top, peeling it off slowly, deliberately, giving the farmer every opportunity to drink in the sight of her. Her body is strong—arms toned from years of labor, skin kissed by the sun, a faint sheen of sweat that only adds to her allure.
As she pulls her top off, the first drop of rain falls—just a light patter at first, like nature itself was holding its breath. But then, it comes faster—heavier—until it's pouring, a steady sheet of water against the coop's roof, drowning out the world outside.
And it's like the rain is a signal.
Robin steps toward the farmer, her eyes burning with something primal. Without a word, she pulls the farmer into another kiss—deeper this time, with urgency, with everything. Their bodies are pressed against each other, slick with sweat and rain. The water begins to soak through their hair, dripping down their skin like it's part of the heat building between them.
Robin's hands slide down the farmer's back, feeling the curve of her spine, the warmth of her skin, her muscles tight beneath her fingers. The farmer groans into the kiss, tugging Robin closer, feeling the strength of her body, her muscles flexing against her. Their mouths part just long enough for the farmer to whisper:
"You're perfect…"
But it's all she can say before Robin's lips find hers again, and the kiss becomes feverish. Everything—everything—is dripping with desire. The rain is pouring down now, soaking them both, but neither of them cares. It only makes the moment feel more desperate, more real.
Robin pulls away for a second, her voice ragged and rough as she looks down at the farmer.
"I want you. I need you. Now."
The farmer doesn't need to be asked twice. They come together again, their lips crashing in a heated kiss, their bodies grinding together, slick with sweat and rain. Their hands are everywhere—touching, exploring, feeling—and every movement only adds fuel to the fire.
The rain beats down harder, drumming against the roof of the coop, but inside, they're burning with something so much stronger. There's no going back now, not after this.
And as they pull each other even closer, the world outside becomes a distant memory—the only thing that matters is the two of them, skin against skin, desire pooling between them like the rain outside.
The kiss is relentless, their lips moving with a desperation neither of them has felt before. The rain is pouring down in sheets, but they're far too wrapped up in each other to care. Robin's hand slides down the farmer's back, her fingers brushing against the waistband of her pants. The touch is light—teasing, almost—but it sends a jolt through the farmer's spine.
Robin pulls away, breathless, and there's that dangerous look in her eyes—the kind that promises everything but offers nothing unless the farmer asks for it. Her lips curl into a half-smile as she looks down at the farmer, her hand resting just above the farmer's waistband.
"You want this, don't you?" Robin's voice is husky, the kind of voice that sends heat straight to the farmer's core.
The farmer barely registers the question before her body responds, leaning in for another kiss, her hands grabbing Robin's arm, tugging her closer.
But Robin? Robin's had enough waiting. She grabs the farmer's hand, guides it down to her waist with a knowing smirk.
"Go ahead," she whispers, her breath hot against the farmer's ear. "You're not the only one who's been thinking about this."
Robin's fingers are already sliding underneath the farmer's waistband, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down her spine. The farmer's heart races, a mix of anticipation and something far more primal. The way Robin's hand feels against her skin—cool, but urgent, like she's making a promise that can't be undone—drives her crazy.
Before the farmer can even think, Robin's hand slips inside, her fingers brushing against the curve of her hips, finding that sweet spot between daring and tender. The farmer gasps, her entire body tensing as Robin's hand explores, testing, teasing, making sure she knows just how badly she's wanted this.
"Tell me you want it," Robin says, her voice almost a growl now, as she slides her hand deeper.
The farmer's breath hitches, her entire body burning with need. She doesn't care anymore about holding back, about playing games. She's ready, she's so ready for this.
"I want you," she breathes, voice low and thick with desire. "Please..."
Robin doesn't wait for anything more. Her fingers tighten as she moves faster, and the farmer's world narrows down to just her touch—rough, demanding, but so unbelievably gentle at the same time. Robin moves with precision, each touch a promise of something more, something they both crave but can't say out loud.
And just when the farmer thinks she can't take it anymore, Robin leans in, her lips pressing hard against the farmer's neck, her breath hot and heavy against her skin.
"I know," Robin whispers, her voice barely audible over the rain, "I know."
And the storm outside rages on, but inside the coop? Everything is quiet except for the sound of their breaths, their hearts beating together, their bodies tangled in a way that nothing—no rain, no world—could ever change.
(...)
The storm outside has slowed to a soft drizzle, but inside the coop, everything feels like it's still crackling with the aftermath of what just happened. They're both sitting on the floor now, breathing heavily, tangled in the remnants of their clothing, skin still warm from the heat of their bodies pressed together. There's a moment of silence, but it's not awkward. Not yet.
Robin pulls away just enough to catch her breath, both of them drenched from the rain and the intensity of what they just shared. Her fingers are still lingering on the farmer's skin—softly tracing the curve of her shoulder, as if she's trying to memorize the feeling. There's a weight in the air now, not the kind of heaviness that comes from guilt or shame, but something deeper—something uncertain.
Robin glances at the farmer, a small, wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her hair is damp, sticking to her forehead, but she doesn't look like someone who's just been through the most intense experience of her life. She looks... in control. The same woman who just had the farmer trembling beneath her now seems like she could walk away and act like it was nothing. Maybe she could.
Robin's eyes soften as she looks down at the farmer, the playfulness gone, replaced with something warmer, more intimate.
"This…" Robin breathes, her voice low. "This doesn't change anything, you know that, right?"
The farmer nods, swallowing hard. She knows exactly what Robin means. There's a quiet understanding between them, an unspoken truth that both of them feel deep down. But the moment—the way everything felt right in that instant? It doesn't have to change anything.
But Robin's already pulling herself up, brushing off her jeans, and that confident, collected expression is back. It's like nothing's happened at all. She starts gathering her tools, moving with a practiced ease, like the weight of the moment doesn't really exist to her. But there's a softness in the way her fingers linger on the hammer, almost like she's still processing.
"I should probably get going. It's late," Robin says, but her eyes are somewhere else, like maybe she's hoping the farmer won't notice the way she's avoiding the question that lingers in the air between them.
The farmer stands slowly, not sure if she's supposed to follow Robin's lead or just... leave. Her chest still feels tight from the kiss, from the moments that came after. She wants to say something—anything—that feels like it matters.
For a heartbeat, it feels like everything has shifted. The unspoken barrier between them—Robin's reluctance, the farmer's uncertainty—has crumbled. And yet… there's still a distance. Still that part of Robin that's hesitant to let go, to let this mean something more.
But instead, she picks up her tank top, slipping it back on, the fabric sticking to her still-warm skin. And just like that, the room feels empty in a way it didn't before. The rain has stopped, but the air feels heavy, like the storm is still brewing somewhere deep inside her.
They stand there, just looking at each other for a second, neither one knowing how to make the next move. But then Robin does what she does best—she smiles, the same smile she always gives when she's holding everything together, even if inside she's a little torn.
"Take care of yourself," she says, her voice soft. "You know where to find me if you need anything."
With that, Robin heads for the door, like she's already shutting this chapter down. But the farmer doesn't move. Doesn't say anything.
The farmer stands there, catching her breath, trying to process everything. The sweat. The rain. The feelings. And for a moment, she wonders if this was all just a dream—if the way the world suddenly feels lighter, different, is just her imagination.
But it wasn't a dream. It wasn't. The memory of Robin's touch, the weight of her gaze, and the way they both gave in to what they wanted... that's real. And as the farmer looks down at the marks on her skin, the heat of it all still burning in her chest, she smiles to herself, already knowing there's no turning back.
The door closes softly behind Robin, leaving the farmer standing alone in the coop, still reeling from what's just happened. And for the first time that night, the silence feels like it's got weight to it. The kind of silence that promises nothing and everything all at once.