The sun crept over Bell Meadow Farm like honey spilling across the hills, casting long golden shadows over dew-drenched grass and the quiet bustle of early morning chores. Chickens scratched at the dirt near the coop, pecking and chattering in a low chorus. A yak demihuman sat slumped under the shade of a sycamore tree, still fighting off sleep, while a goat-girl's distant laughter echoed from the far hill as she chased a runaway kid through the clover.

The scent of turned soil, warm hay, and fresh manure hung thick in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of wild sage that always drifted in from the western fence line.

Valentina stood at the edge of the main barn, one hand on her hip and the other holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers, its filter already worn from her teeth. Dust clung to the curve of her jaw and the line of her throat, but she didn't care. She liked it better that way. Real. Earned.

Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the new farmhand near the feed shed, hauling a heavy bale of hay like she had something to prove. Shoulders tense, jaw set, face pinched with determination. The sight made something flicker behind Valentina's eyes—a tight twist just beneath the ribs.

Not annoyance. Not exactly.

Valentina clicked her tongue and dropped the cigarette back into her pocket. Her boots crunched over gravel as she made her way down the path with the kind of slow, self-assured gait that came from owning every inch of the ground she walked on. Her gaze didn't stray. Not once.

She stopped a few feet away, crossed her arms, and let a sly smirk curve her lips.

"Oye, campesina," she called out, her voice rich and teasing with a bite of challenge. "You trying to impress me or break your spine? That bale's got more weight than your pride—and that's saying something."

The farmhand didn't answer right away. Typical. Valentina's smirk deepened.

She let the silence stretch a moment longer, watching like she were a puzzle she'd already solved but still liked playing with.

"Mierda..." she murmured under her breath, biting the inside of her cheek to tamp down the grin tugging at her mouth. "You really don't know what you're doing to me, do you?"

She stepped in close then—close enough to smell the salt of sweat, the faint sweetness of hay and sun on skin. She leaned one arm against the barn post beside the farmhand, cocking her head just slightly to the side.

"You've got somethin' on your face," she said, tone low, amused. "No, not there. Más allí."

Without waiting, she reached out, calloused thumb brushing slow and deliberate across the farmhand's cheek. Not harsh, not gentle either—just confident, like someone who touched things when she wanted to, and didn't ask for permission.

Her gaze stayed fixed, unreadable but heavy.