Page 5

Graham dreamed, and it was a dream so vivid that he couldn’t help but know it for what it was. He was back at the wedding, only this time everything was even more perfect than it had been in real life. He was better. His suit clung to him in a way that seemed almost unreal, tailored to perfection, and his gait was strong, fluid, effortless—the limp that had plagued him for so many years, gone. It was a transformation not just of his body, but of his very spirit.

The music swirled around them as he danced with Ciarán, each movement smooth and graceful, an elegance he’d never thought himself capable of. When the song ended, the guests cheered, clapping their hands in unison, begging for a speech. With a smile, Graham stood, his voice ringing clear and confident as he spoke words that seemed to come from some place deep inside. They were witty, heartfelt, and so charming that they brought the room to tears—tears of laughter and joy, tears of admiration, and all of it ending in a standing ovation. He felt powerful in the moment, his words like music, his presence commanding the room.

As he turned to look at Ciarán, his heart swelled with pride. His husband was gazing at him with such intensity, with such tenderness, that it took Graham’s breath away. The look in his eyes was full of wonder, admiration, and a kind of love so pure that it made Graham's chest tighten. It was in that moment, that beautiful, magical moment, that Graham leaned in. He leaned toward Ciarán’s lips, soft and slightly parted, the corners tugged into a smile, waiting for him. The kiss was electric, warm, filled with everything they had shared, and everything they would share. And—

He woke.

The reality was jarring. The dream shattered around him like glass, leaving only a strange ache behind. He lay in the barn, the hay prickling his skin, the familiar sounds of cows lowing and sheep bleating filling the air. Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the wooden boards above, casting long, golden beams across the dusty floor. It was dawn, and Graham wasn’t at his wedding. He wasn’t dancing with Ciarán, wasn’t speaking words that made the room rise to its feet. He wasn’t in the midst of any of that.

He was a married man, sure, but the reality was stark and simple. And there was work to be done.

With a weary sigh, Graham ran a hand over his face, pushing away the remnants of the dream. What exactly had Liam put in that lemonade? The memory of the night before was hazy, but he remembered drinking deeply from the sweet, strong concoction. Whatever it had been, it had surely messed with his head while he slept.

That dream. He was hardly the type of man who would stand in front of a crowd, delivering a speech that would make people laugh and cry. And as for Ciarán looking at him like that, with such admiration and love—well, that was downright ludicrous. Ciarán was a friend, a kind-hearted companion who had agreed to this arrangement out of the goodness of his heart. That’s all he had ever asked for, and that’s all he would ever have.

His cheeks burned at the memory. The dream had felt so real, Ciarán’s eyes full of something Graham had no right to imagine.

What would he offer Ciarán, anyway? What kind of man was he? He wasn’t a social one, certainly not someone who could weave through a crowd with charm. He didn’t know how to dance, he wasn’t a smooth talker, and he certainly didn’t know how to court someone like Ciarán.

He gave himself a tentative sniff. The scent of sweat, hay, and the unmistakable tang of barnyard animals clung to him. No, this wasn’t the image of a man who had anything to offer.

Shaking his head, Graham climbed carefully down from the hayloft, brushing his hand over the cows’ rumps as he passed. They mooed contentedly, and he made his way outside, squinting against the bright light of the morning. There was something peaceful about the tasks ahead, even if they were simple—filling the water troughs, tending to the soil, checking on the crops. It was work he knew well, work that left no room for dreams or complications.

He reached the well and stripped off his shirt, letting it fall to the ground. The day ahead would be long, and the sun was already warming the earth beneath him. The work was simple enough: drop the bucket down, hear the splash, pull it back up, heavy with fresh water. He’d done this a thousand times before, but today it felt different.

The coolness of the water was invigorating as he tipped the bucket over his head. The shock of it made him shiver, but it also washed away the last remnants of sleep from his body. Twice more he repeated the process, the water sluicing over his chest, over his back, his hair dripping in wet strands. It was bracing, a quick reminder of what was real, of what he was.

And then came the shout.

“Oh, mo dhia!” The voice nearly made him fumble the bucket. He turned, startled, to see Ciarán standing there, frozen in place. His nightshirt was old and worn, and it barely reached the middle of his thighs. His face was as red as the sun rising behind him, his eyes wide with embarrassment.

“Forgive me, Graham! I didn’t—I mean—oh, Lord, I didn’t realize you were awake already, I thought I could just—”

The moment was so utterly unexpected that it sent a wave of panic coursing through Graham. His face burned. He scrambled for his shirt, instinctively covering himself. His heart pounded, not just because of the exposure but because—Ciarán had seen him. He had seen the old scars on Graham’s chest, the roughness of his body, the things he had always hidden away.

Graham’s hand faltered on the buttons of his shirt as his mind raced. What did Ciarán think of him now? His pulse thudded in his ears. But as he hastily buttoned up, another thought snuck in—the soft freckles on Ciarán’s bare legs. A strange sense of warmth rushed through him, a connection he couldn’t quite explain, and it made his thoughts scatter.

“Breakfast is cooking!” Ciarán blurted, his voice still laced with panic. He turned quickly, his feet leaving prints in the dirt as he made his escape.

Graham opened his mouth to say something, to explain, but by the time he looked up, Ciarán was already gone, slipping inside the house with an almost comical speed.

Left alone in the morning light, Graham let out a slow breath, his heart still hammering.

◆◆◆

Graham worked in a haze of confusion, his mind still spinning from the morning's unexpected encounter. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t expected some awkwardness between him and Ciarán—after all, they were two strangers trying to make a life together—but the sight of Ciarán standing there, so flustered and caught off guard, had rattled him more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just the fact that Ciarán had seen him, though that was uncomfortable enough. It was the way he’d seen him—sweaty, shirtless, exposed in the soft, early morning light. It felt as though some invisible barrier had been crossed, a line that had existed between them, one that no longer seemed to matter after today.

Graham had tried to push the thoughts away as he gathered the animals for their morning routine. He was still wearing his wedding clothes—ill-fitting and strange for the work ahead of him, but he hadn’t had the chance to change yet. The silk of the shirt clung to him uncomfortably, the cuffs too tight around his wrists, the fabric too stiff to move freely. His trousers, too, felt out of place as he worked. Still, there was no real point in worrying about it; it was a necessary task, and the animals didn’t care about what he was wearing.

The cows and sheep, for their part, eyed him with confusion, their noses twitching as they sniffed at the unfamiliar fabric of his coat. He could almost imagine them wondering if he was a different person altogether, perhaps a wandering stranger who had taken up residence in the barn overnight. They were not particularly concerned by it, but they certainly seemed curious. Their bovine eyes followed him as he moved about, leading them out into the pasture with a quiet command.

The chickens, however, were entirely unfazed. They were creatures of habit, constantly in motion, heads bobbing as they pecked at the feed scattered on the ground. They barely even acknowledged his presence, beyond a few clucks of mild interest. They were the same as always—unbothered by his wedding attire or his disheveled state, more concerned with the grain at their feet than the man who brought it to them. They seemed to carry on without a care in the world.

Ginger, the old mare, was different. She always seemed to know when something was amiss, her wise, kind eyes able to see beyond the surface. She walked up to him slowly, her hooves soft on the ground as she nuzzled his shoulder, then gently tugged at his hair with her teeth, as though trying to comfort him. It was a simple gesture, but it was enough to make Graham’s heart ache. Ginger had been with him for years, through everything—the hard days, the long nights, the solitude. She had always been a quiet presence, but in her own way, she understood him better than anyone else.

"What a morning," Graham muttered to himself, running a hand over his face. His mind kept drifting back to Ciarán, his wide-eyed shock, his crimson cheeks. It was impossible to escape the image of him standing there in the soft light of dawn, flustered and embarrassed. His face, so open and expressive, had been a mirror of Graham’s own feelings—uncertain, caught off guard, unsure how to react.

But there was something else, something Graham couldn’t quite shake from his mind. Ciarán’s bare legs. Pale, freckled, with the soft light of morning catching the golden dust that seemed to float in the air. Graham had seen Ciarán’s legs before, of course—he’d been helping with the chores for a few weeks now—but this time was different. This time, the sight of them lingered in his mind. The way they looked under the worn nightshirt, how the sun kissed the freckles scattered across his skin. Graham couldn’t quite put it into words, but there was a certain softness to Ciarán that he hadn’t fully understood before.

The thoughts tumbled through his mind in a chaotic rush, and before he realized what he was doing, Graham found himself walking over to Ginger’s water trough. He needed something to ground him, something to erase the images and the strange feelings swirling inside him. Without thinking, he dunked his head into the trough, the cool water splashing over his face and soaking his hair. Ginger whinnied in irritation, clearly displeased by the sudden disturbance, but Graham barely noticed. He was too focused on the shock of the cold water, the way it stung his skin and made his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

The image of Ciarán’s freckled legs flashed again, but this time, it was muffled by the water. The image seemed to fade, slipping away as the water rushed over his face, and Graham sucked in a deep breath.

He straightened up, dripping wet and slightly dazed, looking out at the quiet pasture. He didn’t know what to do with the feelings that had risen within him, nor did he understand why Ciarán’s presence in his life had begun to affect him in ways he couldn’t explain. He was used to being alone, to keeping his distance, to maintaining a simple, practical life. But Ciarán… Ciarán was different. His kindness, his willingness to help, his curiosity about the world—it all created something Graham wasn’t prepared for.

He stood there for a long moment, the animals grazing peacefully in the distance, the sun rising higher in the sky. It was still early, and there was much work to be done, but Graham couldn’t shake the strange weight in his chest. With a deep breath, he turned back toward the barn, his thoughts still in a whirl, hoping that today would bring some clarity. But he wasn’t sure it would. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop thinking about Ciarán, about the way he looked at him, and about the strange warmth that lingered in his heart.

◆◆◆

If anyone had been watching, they would’ve thought it a funny sight indeed—Graham, a towering figure of a man with broad shoulders and calloused hands, walking up the path to his own house with a bouquet of wildflowers, his cheeks a little flushed, a touch of nervousness in his step. The flowers were carefully selected, picked from the meadow behind the barn. Bright anemones and cheerful buttercups mixed with delicate woodland stars—simple, yet beautiful, much like the world around him. His heart beat faster with each step as he approached the door, holding the bouquet with care, trying to steady his thoughts.

He was, of course, nervous. The morning had already been awkward enough, with Ciarán’s unexpected appearance at the well. Graham had meant to start the day quietly, doing his chores as usual, but everything felt off since that brief but meaningful moment. He cleared his throat before lifting his hand to knock on the door. “Ciarán, can I come in?”

From inside, he heard the muffled sound of clattering, footsteps rushing, followed by the faint rustling of cloth and the unmistakable clinking of plates. He raised an eyebrow. What on earth was Ciarán doing in there?

“Ciarán?” Graham called again, curiosity mixed with unease.

“W-wait a moment, please! I’m just—I’m just cleaning up!” came the hurried response, accompanied by more clanging sounds.

He stood there for what felt like forever, holding the wildflowers with an almost comical tenderness, the moment growing longer in his mind. His stomach twisted slightly. What had he even done to deserve these flowers in the first place? The morning had been a mess of misunderstandings and awkwardness. But maybe this was his way of doing something right, something thoughtful. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to make things right with Ciarán, even if he wasn’t entirely sure how.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the door opened. There stood Ciarán, a bit flustered, his usually neat hair a little mussed, flour streaking his face, his apron a little askew. He was breathing just a little heavier than usual, and his eyes widened as he saw Graham standing there with the flowers in hand.

“Um, breakfast is ready,” Ciarán said, his voice slightly shaky. He glanced down at the bouquet, a faint pink creeping up his neck and coloring his cheeks.

Graham felt a jolt of warmth at the sight of him. Ciarán was dressed neatly, in a shirt and pants, apron tied securely around his waist. And yet, there was something about the young man’s flustered state that made Graham’s heart beat faster. He couldn’t help but smile, even though the smile was a little awkward.

He extended the bouquet to Ciarán, feeling strangely shy at that moment. “Got these for you,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “As an apology. Didn’t mean to—make you uncomfortable, at the well.”

Ciarán’s face flushed even more, if that was possible. He reached out to take the flowers, his fingers brushing Graham’s hand. "No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I just didn’t expect you to be awake this early. I should’ve guessed, though—you’re a rancher, after all.”

Graham shrugged, his discomfort simmering beneath his words. “Even so, I know it’s—unsightly. I don’t ever mean to frighten you.”

At that, Ciarán’s face grew more confused. He took a step closer, frowning deeply. “I’m sorry, Graham, I don’t understand what you mean.”

Graham’s heart sank. He hadn’t meant to make things so complicated. He hesitated, then finally muttered, “My—my scars.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he could see the shift in Ciarán’s face—a look of horror quickly replaced by earnest apologies. “No! Oh, no, Graham, that wasn’t—you’re so—that wasn’t it at all! I was just—” Ciarán stopped, visibly flustered, and took a deep breath to steady himself. “I hadn’t expected you to be up yet, so I hadn’t—dressed properly for my trip to the well. I thought, since it was such a short walk—but, it was extremely improper, and quite a shocking display—I don’t know what I was thinking. Forgive me, please.”

Graham blinked in surprise. His mind was racing. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, his voice steadying as he realized the misunderstanding. “Guess we just have to get used to living around each other.” He gave Ciarán a tentative smile, and to his relief, Ciarán returned it, the tension easing in the room.

Quick as lightning, Ciarán set the table, his movements fluid and quick. “Sit down, please, Graham. I made pancakes. They’re, um, I thought it’d look nice to add some beet juice, to make the color. See?” Ciarán gestured at the pancakes, which had turned a lovely shade of pink, just as his cheeks had.

Before Graham could respond, Ciarán continued, “And I’ve warmed up the leftover fadge. I found a jar of raspberry jam. Do you want to try it with that and some butter? Or you can have it with eggs. I wasn’t sure how you like them, so I have scrambled and fried. What—what do you want to eat?”

The nervous energy in Ciarán’s voice made Graham smile softly. He had been worrying over this meal, over pleasing Graham, and he hadn’t even realized how sweet it all was. “I want you to sit,” Graham said, his voice firm but kind.

Ciarán stopped, blinking at him, a little surprised.

“Come sit, and eat with me. That’s what I want,” Graham repeated.

Ciarán hesitated for a moment, but then, with a soft smile, he pulled up a chair and sat across from Graham. The silence between them felt comfortable, though it was clear that Ciarán was still nervous. Graham could see his hands wringing the fabric of his apron, the way his lip worried between his teeth.

“You know that’s all I want from you, right? You don’t have to go through all this trouble just for me,” Graham said softly.

“You’ve done so much for me,” Ciarán murmured, his voice small.

Graham blinked, confused. “We’ve only just gotten married.”

“You paid for my fare, and my meals,” Ciarán replied, a little self-conscious, his eyes downcast. “And the wedding was so beautiful, and—and my tea set. I have to pay you back, somehow.” He trailed off with a self-conscious laugh.

Graham’s heart softened. “You don’t have to earn anything here, Ciarán. I meant what I said in my letters. You being here is more than enough.”

“But surely I have to help you with the chores!” Ciarán protested, his eyes wide with concern.

Truth be told, Graham would’ve been content if Ciarán spent his days wandering the prairie, watching the clouds, picking flowers, whatever made him happy. But Ciarán had come with the intention to learn, and Graham had promised to teach him. “I’ll teach you anything you want to know. And if you want to work, then we’ll work side-by-side. Ask me for help if you need it. I’m here for you, too. This is your home.”

At that, Ciarán paused for a long moment before speaking. His voice was quieter this time. “I did want to make breakfast for you, though.”

Graham’s heart swelled. “I’m glad you did. Thank you.”

As the meal cooled slightly, Graham glanced down at the table, piled high with food: pancakes, eggs, fadge, and jam. He placed two pink pancakes on Ciarán’s plate and spooned scrambled eggs onto it. The pancakes were the perfect shade of pink, fluffy, and full of warmth. He gave them a small taste and smiled. “These are good,” he said, his voice full of appreciation.

Ciarán’s smile was shy, but warm. “The beet juice adds a bit of sweetness, along with the color. I could make them again, if you’d like.”

“I would. I really would,” Graham said, smiling back.

As they ate, the quiet settled around them, and Graham realized something he hadn’t expected—this silence, this peaceful, easy companionship, was everything he’d dreamed of and more. It was better than anything he had imagined when he thought about getting married. No chatter was needed, no constant talking. This was the kind of home Graham had always wanted—a home that was filled with contentment and understanding, with Ciarán by his side.