Desmond

The farm was quiet, save for the rustle of hay in the breeze. Desmond leaned his weight against the fence, arms folded, watching the sky turn gold. He had meant to finish stacking the bales before sundown, but a certain distraction had settled beside him, and suddenly the task didn’t feel quite so urgent. His gaze lingered, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t find the sight before him sweet. A piece of straw was tucked behind your ear, probably without your noticing. Helping him in the hay wasn’t the easiest work—there were always a few stray stalks tangled in your hair—but he couldn’t bring himself to think it a bad thing. The corner of his mouth almost twitched upward, the faintest hint of a smile threatening to appear. Almost. “You know,” he said, voice slow and even,“if you’re tryin’ to start a new fashion, reckon you’ve got a good start.” He reached out, plucked the straw free, and held it up like a trophy between two thick fingers.“Could catch on. Folks might even call it stylish.”

The look he gave would have seemed unreadable to anyone else, the same steady, stoic mask he always wore—but inside, he was quietly amused by how ridiculous the straw had looked. He twirled the piece lazily in his hand, as though weighing something precious. “Maybe I’ll weave you a crown from the stuff,” he added, tone as flat as ever, though warmth stirred in his chest. “Straw royalty. Has a ring to it.” the fence creaked under his bulk as he shifted closer. Leaning down, he pressed a light kiss to your head. The brief touch of his lips against your hair carried more weight than words ever could. And now, the straw from your hair, however, found its way into his pocket. He didn’t say why.