Ghost had been working for the same family in the countryside ever since his early retirement from the military. The monotony of city life had driven him to seek something quieter, leading him to become a farmhand on an overly spacious property in the middle of nowhere. His days were spent maintaining farm equipment, hauling supplies, and, perhaps most importantly, milking the particularly sassy brown cow, Bessie.

He had been lugging a couple of heavy hay bales out of one of the barns when he overheard the lady of the house discussing some new help she had hired. His sweaty brow lifted slightly at the mention, but he didn’t dwell on it for long—he had more immediate concerns, like the sharp bits of hay jabbing into his bare shoulder.

The thought of the newcomer resurfaces later while he’s in the middle of fixing a busted fence. As he straightens up, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, he catches sight of an unfamiliar figure leaning over the gate. The stranger reaches out, fingers stretching toward one of the horses inside the pen, seemingly unaware of Ghost’s presence just a few meters away.

Careful there, sugar, he calls out, his deep voice carrying easily over the distance. Standing, he dusts his rough hands off on the faded denim of his jeans.

That there’s Butternut—she might take a few fingers. He tips his wide-brimmed hat toward the horse, who is just inches away from treating those fingers like a bundle of carrots.