Morning came differently at Bryce's house. The sheets were cool where she'd been, the pillow still dented, the faint scent of her hair oil fading into the stale air. Bryce's eyes snapped open before his brain caught up — hand reaching across the mattress, finding nothing but crumpled cotton and the hollow where her body had pressed warmth into the night.
He sat up. The room was grey with early light, his work trousers draped over the chair, her jeans still on the floor. The bathroom door hung ajar.
"Saige."
His voice came out rough, scraped from a throat that had forgotten how to wake alone.
The room was quiet. No kettle in the distance. No footsteps. Just the faint ticking of the kitchen wall clock and the distant lowing of cattle from the paddock.
Then the door swung open.
She stood there, lit by the morning sun, hair loose and tangled, holding two mismatched mugs. Steam rose from the dark liquid. Her face split into a grin.
"Your turn," she said, crossing to him and setting the mugs down on the bedside before he could speak. "For me to take care of you."
She climbed onto the bed, straddling him, the weight of her thighs settling against his hips. She was wearing nothing under the loose shirt — his shirt, he realised.
Her hands pressed against him, sliding up his chest, and he felt the tension drain out of his shoulders. "I was gone five minutes."
"Felt longer."
She kissed him, soft at first, then harder, her tongue finding his, her fingers threading through his hair.
He rested a hand against her ribs, gently trying to guide her aside. But she resisted, pushing him back down toward the bed.
"No." Shaking her head. "My turn. Remember?"
— as she reached down, guiding him inside her in one smooth, practiced motion.
A groan escaped his throat as she sank onto him, her head falling back, her hair brushing her shoulders. She began to move. Slow at first, grinding in tight circles, her hips rolling against his, the friction building heat between them.
"I like that," he managed, his hands finding her hips.
She smiled, her eyes half-closed, and picked up the pace. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, full and heavy under the thin fabric. He reached up, pushing the shirt up, and her tits spilled out — pale and perfect, nipples tight in the cool morning air.
"Touch them" she breathed, as she pulled the shirt off over her head.
He cupped her left breast, thumb tracing the underside, feeling the weight of it in his palm. She moaned, riding him harder, the slap of skin filling the room as she bounced. He squeezed gently, watching her face — the way her lips parted, the way her breath caught — and she came with a sharp cry, her body clenching around him, her rhythm faltering.
"Don't stop," he said, his voice low. "Keep going."
She nodded, breathless, and tried to keep moving, but her legs were shaking, her hips losing coordination, her rhythm falling apart against his. He felt himself getting close, but the feel of her against him, just wasn't enough.
He grabbed her hips and flipped her off him, onto her stomach, before she could gasp. Her legs tangled in the sheets. He pulled her up onto her knees, her labia slick and open beneath him.
She arched instinctively, her spine curving, her face pressed into the mattress. Like she'd done this a hundred times. Like her body knew exactly what he wanted before he did.
He drove into her from behind, hard and deep, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced against the bedframe. The sound of his balls slapping against her clit was wet and raw, filling the room alongside her moans — high and keening, her fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Fuck, Bryce —"
"Come again," he growled, and she did, her body shuddering, her pussy gripping him, and he followed a heartbeat later, spilling into her with a groan that came from somewhere deep, his hips pressing flush against her ass, holding there as the wave rolled through him.
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, the morning light creeping across the floor. He pulled out slowly, and she collapsed onto the mattress, turning to face him, her face flushed, her hair wild.
"Coffee's probably cold now," she said.
He laughed, a low, breathless sound, and pulled her close, kissing her forehead. "Don't care."
She reached for the mugs. They were still warm. They drank in silence, her legs draped over his, the world outside the window waiting.
---
An hour later, they pulled into the yard at Ironstone, gravel crunching under the tires. The morning had warmed, the sun burning off the last of the mist, and the horses were already out in the paddock, grazing under the watchful eye of a figure moving through the stable yard.
Bryce killed the engine and squinted. "Who's that?"
Saige leaned forward, her hand on the dashboard, her gaze fixed on the tall, broad-shouldered man lifting a hay bale onto the back of a ute. Dark hair cropped short, pale skin with an almost iridescent sheen, movements deliberate and smooth.
"Mum didn't mention anyone coming by this weekend."
They climbed out, the door hinges creaking in the quiet. Elara emerged from the feed shed, wiping her hands on her jeans, and gave them a wave that held a fraction of a second too long.
"Morning," she called. "You're back early."
Bryce tilted his head. "Worked through the boundary fence yesterday. Thought we'd lend a hand with the morning feeds." His eyes drifted to the man, who had set down the hay bale and was watching them with an unnerving stillness. "Looks like you've already got one though."
Elara's smile tightened, then relaxed. She turned, gesturing for them to follow. "Come meet him."
She led them across the yard, her boots crunching on the gravel. The man straightened as they approached, and Bryce felt a flicker of something instinctive, something that made him want to size up the stranger in a way that wasn't hostile, but careful. The man's build was lean but powerful under the work shirt, his hands long and still at his sides. His eyes were grey, the colour of creek stone, but they held a stillness that felt ancient.
"Vael," Elara said, her voice steady, "this is my daughter, Saige, and her fiance, Bryce."
Vael inclined his head, a gesture that was almost a nod but carried more weight, as if he was cataloguing their faces, their postures, the rhythm of their breath. "You are Bryce." His voice was low, measured, with a faint rhythm that didn't belong to any accent Bryce could place. "Elara has mentioned you."
Bryce blinked. “Yeah right.”
He offered his hand automatically.
Behind him, Elara caught Vael’s eye and gave the smallest encouraging nod.
After the briefest hesitation, Vael reached out and took it.
The handshake was brief, but Bryce noticed the way Vael's fingers lingered a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and felt a strange warmth, like the man ran hotter than normal.
Then he released, stepping back, his posture relaxing into something almost human.
"Good to have you on board."
Vael's eyes met his, and for a moment, Bryce felt seen in a way that made him want to step back. Then the moment passed, and Vael turned back to the hay bale, lifting it with a fluid strength that seemed effortless.
Saige wandered closer to her mother, arms crossed, watching him work. "Where'd you find him?" she asked, keeping her voice low.
"He found me," Elara said, not quite meeting her eyes. "Said he needed work. I gave him a shot."
"He's hot," Saige said, grinning, and Elara shot her a warning look.
"He's a worker. Keep your hands to yourself."
Saige laughed, but her eyes lingered on Vael's back, on the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders. "I'm engaged, Mum. I'm allowed to look."
Elara sighed, shaking her head. She was about to say something else when her gaze dropped to Saige's legs — her short shorts, her pale skin. Something white and glistening traced a slow path down her thigh, catching the morning light.
Saige followed her gaze. Looked down. Her face went crimson.
"Oh my god."
Elara snorted, a laugh escaping before she could stop it. "You've got —"
"I know what I've got." Saige grabbed a rag from the fence, scrubbing at her leg as if she could erase the evidence.
“Looks like Bryce had a good morning.” Elara was grinning now, a genuine smile that softened the sharp lines of her face.
Saige groaned, "Mum."
"Next time, you should get rid of that before you come help with the horses."
Saige, burying her face in her hands. "Stop!"
Elara laughed, loud and warm, and Bryce turned at the sound, raising an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," Elara said, waving him off. "Just family business."
Saige shot her a look, but there was no heat in it. She tossed the soiled rag onto the fence and grabbed a bucket of feed, heading toward the paddock with exaggerated dignity. "You're never letting me forget this, are you?"
"Absolutely not," Elara called after her. "This is leverage for years."
Bryce shook his head, grinning despite himself, and moved to help with the hay. Vael was stacking bales with quiet efficiency, his grey eyes flicking between the others, learning the shape of their laughter, the rhythm of their ease.
Elara watched them for a moment — her daughter, her neighbour, the creature learning to be human — and felt something crack open in her chest. A warmth that had nothing to do with the rising sun.