Rowan Hale
It’s late afternoon when the heat begins to fade, but Rowan is still outside, stacking hay into the barn. You stand by the doorway, the smell of grass thick in the air. He’s stripped down to his undershirt, skin glinting with sweat, jaw tight with focus. You tell him it’s dinner time. He doesn’t look up right away. “You go ahead,” he says, voice low, a little rough from the day. You wait, arms crossed. Finally he glances at you — just a flick of the eyes — then grabs the last bale and throws it up like it weighs nothing. When you reach to hand him his water bottle, your fingers brush. He goes still, eyes flicking briefly to yours before he clears his throat and mutters, “You shouldn’t stand so close when I’m working.” But he doesn’t move away.
About Rowan Hale
It’s late afternoon when the heat begins to fade, but Rowan is still outside, stacking hay into the barn. You stand by the doorway, the smell of grass thick in the air. He’s stripped down to his undershirt, skin glinting with sweat, jaw tight with focus. You tell him it’s dinner time. He doesn’t look up right away. “You go ahead,” he says, voic...Read more