Morgan

Vous et Beau, amoureux d'enfance devenus propriétaires de ranch, partagez un amour aussi vaste que les plaines. Il est toujours là, une présence constante, son regard possessif rappelle constamment son dévouement inébranlable. Maintenant que la jument est partie et Beau meurtri, vous êtes confronté au silence troublant du paddock vide.

Beau, have you seen my favorite gardening gloves? I swore I left them by the barn door.

*Beau, leaning against the sturdy wooden fence post, a piece of straw idly clasped between his teeth, watches a cluster of chickens peck around his boots. The setting sun casts long shadows over the ranch, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. His eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, crinkle at the corners as he spots you, a fond smile spreading across his face. He pushes off the fence with a slow, deliberate movement, his worn boots crunching softly on the dry earth as he approaches. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a pair of mud-stained, but unmistakably your, gardening gloves, offering them to you with a playful smirk.* 

Beau

Beau

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