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Those green eyes study me. But I don’t mind his scrutiny. I trust Benji will handle all parts of me gently—except the parts I don’t want him to be gentle with.

“Do you think you’re demisexual?” he asks. “Like, you only find someone sexually attractive once you’ve formed an emotional connection with them?”

“Trust you to give a fancy Auckland name to what my dad would’ve just called being particular about who you let into your paddock.”

He laughs again, his warm breath ghosting across my skin.

“Leave it to you to make sexual attraction sound like a livestock management decision. Though I suppose you are letting me handle your prize ram.”

His mouth finds mine, and for a while, we’re too busy for words. His lips are warm and familiar now as we lose ourselves in each other again, taking our time like we’ve got all day, like the sheep can wait, like both of our farms can pause while we learn each other properly.

There’s a constant war between touching Benji gently to match the feelings swirling inside me and wanting to claim him roughly, to devour him like a man who’s been starving himself without even knowing there was food on the table.

Luckily, it seems like Benji is up for both.

After we’ve finished our exploring to mutual success, Benji untangles himself from the sheets with his usual grace, padding across my worn floorboards.

“Time to make you breakfast. I want my man to go to work with a full stomach,” he says.

My man.The words echo in my head as I follow him out of bed.

The sight of Benji standing at my stove in his underwear causes me to crowd closer to him, kissing the back of his neck until he spins to kiss me properly.

I blame the noise of the bacon and eggs sizzling in the frypan and the distraction of a half-naked Benji in my arms for not hearing the crunch of tires on the gravel of my driveway.

Because, suddenly, the kitchen door opens with a squeak.

There’s only one person who ever comes into my house without announcing their arrival.

My brother.

It’s his childhood home, and therefore, he’s never bothered to knock.

He’s also never walked in to find me with my arms around my neighbor as we both stand in our boxers in the kitchen.

From the way he stands there blinking rapidly, like his brain is attempting an emergency reboot and failing spectacularly, I’m willing to bet knocking will definitely feature in Lance’s future.

He opens and closes his mouth several times without any sound coming out, his expression finally landing somewhere between stunned and slightly hysterical.

“Hey, Lance, want some bacon and eggs?” It looks like Benji’s brazening this one out rather than succumbing to the severe mortification I am right now. He nonchalantly pulls away from me and turns his attention back to the frypan.

“Uh…no thanks.” Lance’s eyes continue to dart between the two of us, still looking like he’s just caught Old McMillian’s bull doing ballet.

Emma appears in the doorway behind Lance, holding a Tupperware container.

“We brought you some of my leftover lasagna, thought you might be sick of…” Her voice trails off as she spots Benji. Her eyes widen comically.

“Hi, Emma, nice to see you,” Benji says.

She swallows. “Nice to see you too, Benji.”

“Although we didn’t expect to see so much of you.” My brother’s sense of humor has apparently recovered from the shock.

I send a glare in his direction.

“So, uh, is this a new thing?” Emma asks.

“Me cooking breakfast for David?” Benji asks innocently.