Fall Day Riding Romance (non explicit)
Posted: October 11th, 2025, 1:51 pm
Chapter 1 – Gray Skies, Golden Leaves
The last few miles to the barn always felt different in autumn. The winding back road curved through sloping farmland and low stone walls, now blanketed in layers of fallen leaves. The trees—tall, half-bare, and still clinging to fire-reds and golden ambers—shivered in the wind. A gray, overcast sky hung low overhead like a lid holding in the quiet.
Inside the warm cabin of Lydia’s SUV, the silence between her and Robert was comfortable. The windshield wipers clicked once to swipe away the lingering mist, revealing the old barn nestled at the end of the drive.
“Still think we’ll beat the rain?” Robert asked, his tone casual but hopeful.
Lydia smirked faintly as she shifted down. “We’ve got a window. Long enough for a good ride—if you don’t dawdle.”
He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I’d never.”
The tires crackled over the gravel as they pulled into the yard. Beyond the fence, a few horses dozed under blankets in the paddocks, steam rising from their nostrils. The barn stood solid and familiar, its old wood darkened from the recent rain.
They stepped out of the car, the cold air wrapping around them immediately. Lydia moved first, adjusting the belt of her shiny black SBR Macintosh as she shut the door with a soft thud. The coat shifted stiffly with her movement, glossy and the skirt over her white breeches. Her rubber riding boots rose tall over her calves, polished and elegant despite the mud. The shaft just disappear underneath her shiny mac.
A riding crop dangled from her wrist, held there by a leather strap sewed into it, tapping lightly against her thigh with each step.
Robert joined her on the other side, pulling on his gloves with quick, practiced motions. His coat matched hers—slick and dark in the gray light—though he wore his collar turned up a bit haphazardly, adding a touch of casual charm. His boots were clean, his breeches tight and neat, but Lydia still cast him a glance and smirked.
“You always have something out of place,” she said, adjusting the back of his collar as they walked.
“Maybe I do it intentional to annoy you,” he replied with a wink.
They crossed the gravel slowly, savoring the quiet. The familiar scent of damp hay, leather, and wet leaves hung in the air. Hoofbeats echoed faintly from the arena. But before they reached the stable doors, a familiar voice called out.
“Lydia! Robert!”
Marcy, the barn manager, was grooming a bay gelding just outside the tack room, curry comb in hand. Her vest was dusted with horsehair, and a trail of loose mane clung to her sleeve.
They veered toward her, drawn in by habit and curiosity.
“Morning,” Lydia said warmly, resting a gloved hand on the fence rail. “How’s Jonah?”
“Much better,” Marcy said, brushing across the horse’s flank. “Holding feed again. Vet thinks we caught it just in time.”
Robert leaned over to pat the gelding’s shoulder. “He looks good. Wasn’t sure he’d bounce back that fast.”
Lydia stepped forward, letting the horse nuzzle into her palm. Her crop swung gently at her side, forgotten but ever-present.
“We upped the probiotics,” Marcy continued. “He’s practically back to his pushy self.”
They lingered a few minutes longer. The conversation turned to a new boarder who took a tumble the previous week—“Overcommitted in a canter transition,” Lydia said with a knowing look.
Marcy gestured at the sky. “You two always pick the darkest of days.”
“Moody days are quieter,” Lydia said. “And better for riding.”
Robert nodded, watching Lydia as she ran her hand down the gelding’s neck. She looked completely in place here—her SBR coat gleaming with mist, her posture elegant, her eyes steady. She had always been composed, even back when he first took lessons under her. But now, watching her like this, the mix of familiarity and attraction tugged at something deeper.
Lydia adjusted her glove, then flicked a speck of hair from her coat. Robert instinctively reached to brush a stray flake of hay from her back.
She turned her head slightly, amused. “You fuss more than I do.”
“Yeah, totally.” he said with a eye roll.
She gave him a sideways look that hovered between affection and something unspoken.
At last, Lydia checked her watch. “We should tack up before the ring gets mobbed.”
They said their goodbyes to Marcy and turned toward the barn once more. Their boots struck the gravel in rhythm, their coats rustling softly with each step. Ahead, the stable doors stood open, warm light spilling out into the gloom.
Inside, the familiar scent of horses waited.
So did their mounts.
And so did the quiet promise of a good ride, together.
Chapter 2 – Stirrup to Stirrup
As they neared the barn doors, Lydia threaded her arm through Robert’s without asking. The move brought her close, their Macintoshes brushing with soft, squeaky resistance. She leaned into his side, not for balance or drama—but for closeness. The sound of their coats shifting together made her smile. It was familiar now. Warm. Comfortable.
Inside the barn, the air was a welcome contrast to the chill outside—earthy, rich with hay and warm horses. The soft shuffling of hooves, the rhythmic clinking of bits, and distant nicker of a gelding echoed through the aisles.
Their two horses stood ready. Rochelle, Lydia’s mare, was a tall, dark bay with a refined head and the kind of self-possession that mirrored her rider’s. Baxter, Robert’s chestnut gelding, shifted slightly in place as they approached, flicking his ears forward, always alert.
Two stable hands—Cassie and Morgan, both in their early twenties—were just finishing the last touches. Cassie adjusted Rochelle’s reins while Morgan gave Baxter’s girth one final check. They worked quickly but with care, their own jackets smudged with dust and horsehair, their cheeks pink from the morning cold.
Lydia watched them for a moment, arms still looped through Robert’s. Her eyes lingered on the way Cassie flicked her eyes toward them—just once—and then looked away, as if she hadn’t meant to be caught. Morgan’s gaze followed Robert for a breath too long. There was no malice in it. Just that familiar ache of envy. Lydia had worn it herself once.
I used to be them, she thought. Scraping hooves for ride time. Wishing she always had more saddle time.
Now she had two horses, her own SUV, a pair of gleaming boots she didn’t have to polish herself every morning—and someone to share it with. Someone who enjoyed it.
She peeled away from Robert and stepped toward her mare, shrugging the hem of her SBR Macintosh back just enough to reach inside. She lifted one leg, feeding the thigh strap’s belt through the hidden loop sewn into the coat’s lining. It was stiff and stubborn, but the tension had to be just right. Otherwise the coat skirt would ride up under the saddle. She tightened it and moved to the other leg.
Robert stepped up beside her. “Want help?”
She nodded, and he knelt slightly, parting the folds of her coat with both hands. The belted thigh strap had to be fed carefully through a buckle, and he did it slowly—precise, focused. Then, with deliberate gentleness, he tightened the belt across the top of her thigh, tugging it snug and smoothing it into place with a gloved hand that lingered a little longer than necessary.
His touch skimmed down the curve of her leg—more playful than practical.
“You’re lucky I like you in this coat,” she murmured without looking down.
“I’m lucky either way,” he replied.
She fastened her helmet while Robert did the same. When she looked back at him, standing tall in his white breeches, rubber riding boots, and a now perfectly cinched coat, she couldn’t help herself.
“You know,” she said, raising her crop and tapping the side of her boot, “you look a lot better in proper gear now.”
The tap-tap of the crop echoed off the rubber. Robert caught the motion—and the way her eyes traced over him.
“Thanks,” he said, trying not to sound too affected. But his heartbeat told the truth.
Lydia stepped to Baxter’s side and bent down to re-check the girth. She could’ve asked Morgan to tighten it again, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned in close, her hip pressing softly into Robert’s thigh as she reached beneath the gelding’s belly and gave the strap a firm tug.
Robert caught the scent of her hair—clean, with a subtle floral note that somehow cut through the barn’s leather and hay. Her face hovered just beneath his shoulder, crop tucked under one arm, and for a moment he forgot entirely what he was supposed to be doing.
She straightened, smoothing Baxter’s saddle flap. “There,” she said simply. Perfectly in control.
Cassie glanced over from Rochelle’s stall. “Hope everything’s to your liking, boss” she teased, but there was admiration behind it.
Lydia smirked. “If I fall off, I’m blaming you.”
Robert added, “We’re just here for the inspection.”
Morgan rolled her eyes. “You two are disgustingly coordinated.”
Lydia smiled but said nothing. As she turned to gather Rochelle’s reins, she caught Cassie watching again—eyes flicking from Robert’s coat, to the way he moved beside Lydia, to the soft click of their boots in sync.
Cassie nudged Morgan and whispered, “I wish I had a boyfriend who rode.”
Morgan nodded. “Or one who enjoyed riding with me”
Lydia didn’t turn, but her smirk returned. She’d earned this life. Every inch of it.
With reins in hand and thigh straps secured, they stepped into the aisle. Their coats fell perfectly, skirts tight and in place, rubber boots clean, movements precise. Together, they led their horses toward the light spilling from the open barn doors.
Outside, the drizzle had returned, just enough to bead along the shiny folds of their coats.
Side by side, they stepped out into the quiet mist.
The trail waited.
Chapter 3 – Between the Trees
The sound of their boots on wet gravel echoed softly in the stillness as Robert and Lydia led their horses out of the barn and toward the arena. Rochelle walked quietly beside Lydia, ears flicking forward, her polished bay coat already catching flecks of mist. Baxter moved with a livelier step, tossing his head now and then as Robert held the reins loosely in one hand.
Their Macintoshes gleamed beneath the overcast sky, black rubber shining slick in the pale light. With each step, the skirted hems of their coats flapped lightly against their tall rubber boots—a rhythmic, muted pat-pat that matched the rhythm of their stride. The belted thigh straps kept everything secure, but there was still a satisfying motion to the way the coats moved, echoing softly across the muddy yard.
The arena came into view—outdoor, open, and thoroughly soaked. Puddles collected along the edges of the fencing, and hoofprints from the morning’s rides had already begun to melt into the muddy footing. A crow cawed once from the tree line, then fell silent.
They reached the mounting block, the only dry island in the sea of slop. Lydia halted Rochelle beside it, but before mounting, she paused and stepped to the mare’s side. She tugged firmly at the girth strap, tightening it by one more hole. Rochelle snorted and shifted her weight, but didn’t protest.
Robert watched as Lydia smoothed the saddle flap back into place.
“Still don’t trust their tack work?” he asked.
She gave him a dry glance as she tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “If Rochelle didn’t enjoy holding her breath so much, I wouldn’t have to.”
He laughed softly and climbed onto the block. Baxter stood steady as Robert swung his leg over and settled into the saddle. The leather creaked, and his coat adjusted across his thighs as he found his seat.
Lydia stepped up next, mounting with practiced ease. Her Macintosh shifted and folded around the saddle, then settled neatly as she adjusted her stirrups. She flicked a few raindrops from her sleeve and rolled her shoulders back, her crop resting across her thigh.
“Let’s stretch those legs,” she said, casting a look over at him.
They guided their horses into a walk, entering the arena’s perimeter together. The footing squelched beneath their hooves, soft and sloppy, water rising in small ripples beneath each step. Specks of mud jumped up onto their boots, staining the gleam with streaks of brown.
Their coats moved softly with every sway of the saddle, occasionally tapping against their thighs or creaking with pressure. They said little at first, the quiet of the woods just beyond the fence lapping against them like a tide.
Robert looked around. “I think the last time I rode in this arena, you made me do transitions for half an hour.”
Lydia raised an eyebrow. “You’re still alive. And now your sitting trot doesn’t make my teeth ache.”
He grinned and nudged Baxter forward slightly. Their horses walked nearly side by side, their heads bobbing in the same tempo. Lydia reached down occasionally to pat Rochelle’s neck. Her posture was perfect—balanced, easy, completely in control. Robert couldn’t help but watch her.
The way her coat followed her form—the way she carried herself without effort—it made something flutter low in his chest. She was beautiful in this world. Sharp, composed, unapologetically competent. And she knew exactly how good she looked like this.
They circled twice more in silence, the arena gate looming like a passage.
Then Lydia shifted in her saddle and steered Rochelle toward it. Robert followed. She leaned forward slightly and unlatched the gate from the saddle, pushing it open with the heel of her boot. Mud squelched beneath Baxter as he stepped through behind her.
“The trail’s all ours,” she said.
They crossed the yard slowly, riding side by side, their Macintosh skirts tied down and unmoving, boots streaked, reins held lightly in gloved hands. The barn faded behind them with each clop of hooves on gravel.
Ahead, the trail opened like a tunnel into gold and gray, the trees damp, the world hushed.
Together, they disappeared between the trees, the hush of the woods rising up to meet them.
Chapter 4 – Through the Quiet
The rain had eased into a fine mist, barely more than a breath on the air, as Robert and Lydia left the arena and crossed the barnyard at a steady walk. Baxter and Rochelle moved with quiet energy beneath them, hooves muffled by wet gravel, the occasional splash from a lingering puddle catching the edges of their boots.
Their Macintoshes moved softly with each shift in the saddle, creaking just enough to remind them of the weather, the texture, the closeness of it all. Faint beads of moisture clung to the black rubber, catching the gray light overhead.
As they passed the hay shed, Marcy looked up from a feed bucket, one eyebrow raised.
“Looking sharp, you two,” she said, her voice warm.
Lydia smiled, just a little. “We try.”
Marcy watched them a second longer than necessary, something subtle passing across her expression—fondness, amusement, understanding—before she turned back to her work.
The gravel gave way to damp earth as they reached the trailhead, and the world shifted. The first stretch of trail opened wide ahead of them, flanked by tall, slender trees. Their branches arched loosely overhead, forming a canopy of yellow and gold, leaves just beginning to fall in earnest.
Dozens of thin yellow leaves spiraled slowly down, floating in the still air as if time had slowed. Some hung, suspended, turning in the light. Others drifted onto their coats, their horses, the damp forest floor. It felt like stepping into a world between worlds—quiet, suspended, almost sacred.
Lydia let Rochelle stretch her neck, walking forward at a relaxed pace. She glanced sideways—without turning her head—and took in the man riding beside her.
Robert was focused, his posture clean, his hands steady. Baxter moved fluidly beneath him, his cues subtle but firm. There was command in his riding now—not just technique. Authority.
He’s not following anymore, she thought. He’s riding.
She watched the way he carried himself, how the black of his coat framed the pale skin of his neck, how the faint dampness made his hair curl just slightly beneath the edge of his helmet. And those blue eyes, bright and clear even under the canopy’s muted light, had the same sharp glint she’d seen during his best rides in the arena.
There’s a dominant streak in him, she thought, lips twitching at the idea. Wouldn’t mind him bossing me around now and then.
A breeze nudged through the trees and sent another round of leaves fluttering down. One landed squarely on Robert’s shoulder, pale gold against dark rubber.
Lydia slowed Rochelle by half a stride and leaned in, reaching across with one gloved hand to pluck the leaf from his coat with delicate precision.
“There,” she murmured, brushing her fingers once more across his shoulder before withdrawing.
Robert glanced at her with a small, amused smile. “You’re such a perfectionist.”
“Someone has to be,” she replied easily, settling back into the rhythm of the ride.
They continued in silence for a while, the only sounds those of hoofbeats on soft loam, the occasional creak of tack, and the rustle of leaves drifting down like whispers.
Robert was the one to speak first. “I needed this today.”
Lydia didn’t ask what for. She simply nodded. “Me too.”
Then, after a beat: “It’s different, riding with you. I don’t feel like I have to be in charge. Or on.”
Robert turned slightly toward her, his voice softer. “I'm happy you feel that way.”
The trail narrowed, and their horses moved closer, side by side in tighter formation. Their boots bumped once beneath the saddle flaps. Neither of them acknowledged it, but neither of them moved away.
The path curved, and Lydia let Rochelle take the lead. Leaves brushed her arms as they passed, catching briefly on her coat before falling away.
She didn’t have to look back to know Robert was still right behind her.
Chapter 5- The Stone Wall and Lone Tree
They slipped through a break in the trees, the woods falling away behind them, and suddenly the world opened wide. A broad field stretched out, a patchwork of muted greens and browns beneath the heavy sky. At its center stood a lone tree, weathered but still strong, with an old stone wall running crookedly past it like some forgotten boundary. Off in the distance, storm clouds gathered, their edges dark and swelling.
Robert gave Lydia a quick look, and without a word they urged their horses on. The animals surged into a fun, rolling canter, hooves drumming against the earth. Their coats gleamed, breath rising in pale plumes, and the shiny skirts of their macs flared in the wind as the two riders moved side by side across the openness. The laughter in their eyes matched the rhythm of the stride.
As they neared the wall and the tree, they slowed to a walk, circling the trunk once before coming to a halt. The ride had left both horses warm and puffing, steam lifting gently from their shoulders. They dismounted, boots squeaking against the damp grass, and tied the reins to a small iron hook embedded in the stones.
Robert followed Lydia to the tree. They stood together beneath its branches, looking out across the field. The hush of the place seemed to quiet their voices.
“It feels so different out here,” Robert said at last, eyes tracing the sweep of the grass. “Like it’s all ours.”
Lydia smiled sidelong at him. “Careful, you’re starting to sound poetic.”
He chuckled softly. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me. Or maybe it’s just your fussing earlier with my coat—you made me notice more details than usual.”
Her lips curved into a grin, but she didn’t reply. Instead, they both looked out at the horizon where the storm massed, silence stretching easily between them.
After a long moment, Robert shifted, and then, almost without thinking, he drew her close. His back found the trunk of the tree, solid and grounding, as he wrapped his arms tight across her waist just beneath her breasts. She leaned back into him naturally, her shoulder pressing against his chest, her body fitting against his in a way that felt inevitable.
One of her hands rested gently on his sleeve, fingers curled on the rubber, while the other slid lower, rubbing along his thigh in slow, absent strokes. He lowered his chin, close enough to catch the mingled scent of her riding coat and the crisp, damp autumn air. She closed her eyes briefly, drawing in the smell of rubber, rain, and him, the warmth of his breath brushing the crown of her hair.
Together they stood there, the world narrowing to the pressure of his arms, the warmth of her touch, and the quiet of the field. The storm edged closer, but neither moved. They were content to hold each other and breathe, rooted against the tree like two figures meant to share the same space.
Chapter 6- Opening of the Sky
They slipped their helmets off together, the gesture quiet and deliberate, and placed them carefully on the ground beneath the tree. The world seemed to pause with that simple act, as if both of them understood they were setting aside the routine, the rules, everything but this moment.
Robert stood close, the faint scent of rain-soaked earth rising around them, his eyes searching hers. Before hesitation could creep in, he leaned down and kissed her. Their lips brushed softly, tentative at first, like the beginning of a secret they weren’t yet sure they could share.
When they broke apart, the sky answered with the first drops of rain. It fell gently at first, tapping against the shiny folds of their Macs. The sound was delicate, like the world was listening in.
Lydia’s gloved hands moved then, sliding down the front of his chest. The rubber beneath her palms squeaked faintly with the motion, the sound intimate in its own way. She smiled, meek and unsteady, her head tilted downward. For once, the trainer who always carried herself with such composure looked almost shy, as though unsure how to bear the intensity of what she was feeling.
Robert’s hand rose, gentle yet insistent, guiding her chin upward so she met his eyes again. She tried to look away, but the warmth in his gaze held her.
“I have to tell you,” he murmured, his voice low, carried on the hush of rain. “I’ve been drawn to you for longer than I can admit. Not just for your skill, or your strength, but for you. The way you make me feel alive every time I’m near you. Lydia… I can’t stop seeing you as more than my trainer. I don’t want to.”
Her breath caught, the vulnerability of the moment laid bare.
And then he kissed her again. This time it was nothing hesitant — it was hungry, deliberate, carrying everything he’d just confessed. The rain picked up, drumming harder on their Macs, cascading from the tree branches above.
Robert’s hand traveled lower, gripping her bum with a firm urgency, pulling her body against his. The rubber of their coats pressed and shifted between them, trapping heat beneath the rain-slick surface.
Lydia let out a soft sound, half breath, half longing, and melted against him. One gloved hand clenching at his his chest, while the other slid along his thigh as if she needed more of him, closer still. She felt a burning passion awaken deep inside her, raw and consuming, chasing away the last traces of shyness.
They clung to each other beneath the storm, the world forgotten, their helmets lying abandoned in the grass as the rain sealed their secret with a deluge of water.
Chapter 7- Together
The drizzle that had first kissed their coats gave way to a steady rain, thick drops tumbling from the canopy above. Water slicked down their Macs in gleaming rivulets, pooling at their feet. The storm wasn’t violent yet, but it pressed close, the air full of weight and urgency.
Robert didn’t move away. If anything, he held Lydia tighter, his arm cinched firmly around her waist, the other still braced against her bum as though anchoring her against the storm itself. She leaned into him, yielding, her cheek brushing his shoulder, her gloved fingers tugging against the slick fabric at his sleeve. The rain made everything sharper, every shift and squeeze between them amplified by the cling of wet rubber.
Their mouths found each other again, this time with no hesitation. Lips parted, breath mixed, rain traced down their faces, but neither cared. Lydia’s gloved hands slid upward, one trailing through his damp hair, the other gripping across his shoulder, holding him like she needed him to stay tethered to her. The squeak of her gloves against the wet coat added to the rhythm of their kiss, urgent and desperate.
Robert broke away just enough to murmur against her lips. “You’re beautiful,” he said, the words half-lost in the storm. “I can’t believe I get to be here—like this—with you.”
Her chest rose sharply, her lips trembling into a faint smile before she kissed him again, softer this time, her heart pressing into every touch. “I haven’t felt this alive in years,” she confessed between breaths, almost as if the storm itself might carry her words away. “I’ve been holding it back… holding you back…”
Another clap of thunder cracked through the sky, and lightning flared on the horizon. The storm was moving closer, and yet it felt like the world had narrowed to just them. Robert pulled her in once more, deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding down and tightening over her bum to close the last inch between their bodies. She melted against him, her heart racing, her thigh brushing his in a way that made her pulse thrum faster.
The rain poured heavier, soaking their hair, dripping from their brows, running down the glossy folds of their Macs until the air smelled only of wet leaves and storm. They clung together under the old tree, the thunder rolling around them, the fire inside burning hotter than the storm outside.
At last, Lydia drew back just slightly, her forehead resting against his. Her voice was quiet, softened by the storm’s steady patter. “We should head back,” she whispered, reluctant but practical. “Before it gets worse.”
Robert lingered on her lips one last moment before nodding. “Yeah… alright.”
Neither was in a hurry to let go, but finally, with a deep breath, they parted. Together they bent to collect their helmets from the roots of the tree, fingers brushing even in that small act. As they turned back toward the stone wall and their waiting horses, the storm pressed heavier overhead, but the air between them carried the warmth of everything they had just shared.
Chapter 8- Back at the Barn and Heading Home
The rain showed no sign of letting up as they walked back to the stone wall. Rochelle and Baxter stood patiently where they had been tied, reins darkened from the wet, heads low against the weather. Robert and Lydia moved without fuss, checking girths and straps with quick, efficient motions. Now and again their hands brushed as they worked side by side, the faint squeak of rubber mingling with the drum of rain. Neither of them pulled away too quickly.
Helmets were settled back onto damp hair with practiced snaps. Robert gave Lydia a sidelong look before mounting, his lips twitching at the corners. Together they swung into the saddle, Macs shifting and settling as the horses stepped out, hooves splashing through the puddles gathered in the grass.
The field lay before them, wide and gray, its edges blurred by rain. Storm clouds rolled heavy above, and water slicked down their Macs, turning the rubber coats into glossy sheets that caught what little light the sky offered. The skirts of their Macs flapped rhythmically against the tops of their boots with every stride.
Robert leaned toward her, raising his voice over the steady patter. “You know,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth, “you look all soaked and shiny in that Mac. And those boots…” His eyes sparkled. “Hard not to stare.”
Lydia gave him a sharp shake of her head, though the curve of her smile betrayed her. Heat stirred under her ribs despite the chill, and she kept her gaze forward, pretending not to notice his grin widening.
The trees closed over them again, the trail narrowing to a canopy of dripping leaves. The branches caught some of the wind, softening the storm’s bite, though the rain still poured. Horses plodded through puddles, splashing with each step. The silence between them warm and unspoken. Lydia’s glances stole over to Robert more than once, noting how tall and steady he sat in the saddle, how at home he looked even with the storm pressing down.
They broke from the trees into the yard, the barn’s lights glowing amber against the gray. Two figures hurried out to meet them — the young stable hands, their hair plastered and coats darkened by the rain. They slipped to the horses’ sides without hesitation, each taking a bridle to steady the mounts while Lydia and Robert gathered their reins.
“Got you,” one of them said quickly, voice breathless as she wiped rain from her cheek.
The other cast a quick look up at Robert, then at Lydia — the kind of look that carried more than words could. Wistful, not bitter. Just the ache of wanting something similar.
Robert swung down first, boots landing in a splash, water streaking his face and jaw. Lydia followed, her Mac gleaming dark and perfect, droplets rolling off in rivulets. Their faces and hair were wet, water tracing down their cheeks, but beneath the rubber they were dry, warm, untouched by the storm.
They exchanged a glance in the yard’s rain-glow, quick and knowing, their breath rising in mist between them. Protected, polished, and still bound together in the thrill of the storm.
The last few miles to the barn always felt different in autumn. The winding back road curved through sloping farmland and low stone walls, now blanketed in layers of fallen leaves. The trees—tall, half-bare, and still clinging to fire-reds and golden ambers—shivered in the wind. A gray, overcast sky hung low overhead like a lid holding in the quiet.
Inside the warm cabin of Lydia’s SUV, the silence between her and Robert was comfortable. The windshield wipers clicked once to swipe away the lingering mist, revealing the old barn nestled at the end of the drive.
“Still think we’ll beat the rain?” Robert asked, his tone casual but hopeful.
Lydia smirked faintly as she shifted down. “We’ve got a window. Long enough for a good ride—if you don’t dawdle.”
He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I’d never.”
The tires crackled over the gravel as they pulled into the yard. Beyond the fence, a few horses dozed under blankets in the paddocks, steam rising from their nostrils. The barn stood solid and familiar, its old wood darkened from the recent rain.
They stepped out of the car, the cold air wrapping around them immediately. Lydia moved first, adjusting the belt of her shiny black SBR Macintosh as she shut the door with a soft thud. The coat shifted stiffly with her movement, glossy and the skirt over her white breeches. Her rubber riding boots rose tall over her calves, polished and elegant despite the mud. The shaft just disappear underneath her shiny mac.
A riding crop dangled from her wrist, held there by a leather strap sewed into it, tapping lightly against her thigh with each step.
Robert joined her on the other side, pulling on his gloves with quick, practiced motions. His coat matched hers—slick and dark in the gray light—though he wore his collar turned up a bit haphazardly, adding a touch of casual charm. His boots were clean, his breeches tight and neat, but Lydia still cast him a glance and smirked.
“You always have something out of place,” she said, adjusting the back of his collar as they walked.
“Maybe I do it intentional to annoy you,” he replied with a wink.
They crossed the gravel slowly, savoring the quiet. The familiar scent of damp hay, leather, and wet leaves hung in the air. Hoofbeats echoed faintly from the arena. But before they reached the stable doors, a familiar voice called out.
“Lydia! Robert!”
Marcy, the barn manager, was grooming a bay gelding just outside the tack room, curry comb in hand. Her vest was dusted with horsehair, and a trail of loose mane clung to her sleeve.
They veered toward her, drawn in by habit and curiosity.
“Morning,” Lydia said warmly, resting a gloved hand on the fence rail. “How’s Jonah?”
“Much better,” Marcy said, brushing across the horse’s flank. “Holding feed again. Vet thinks we caught it just in time.”
Robert leaned over to pat the gelding’s shoulder. “He looks good. Wasn’t sure he’d bounce back that fast.”
Lydia stepped forward, letting the horse nuzzle into her palm. Her crop swung gently at her side, forgotten but ever-present.
“We upped the probiotics,” Marcy continued. “He’s practically back to his pushy self.”
They lingered a few minutes longer. The conversation turned to a new boarder who took a tumble the previous week—“Overcommitted in a canter transition,” Lydia said with a knowing look.
Marcy gestured at the sky. “You two always pick the darkest of days.”
“Moody days are quieter,” Lydia said. “And better for riding.”
Robert nodded, watching Lydia as she ran her hand down the gelding’s neck. She looked completely in place here—her SBR coat gleaming with mist, her posture elegant, her eyes steady. She had always been composed, even back when he first took lessons under her. But now, watching her like this, the mix of familiarity and attraction tugged at something deeper.
Lydia adjusted her glove, then flicked a speck of hair from her coat. Robert instinctively reached to brush a stray flake of hay from her back.
She turned her head slightly, amused. “You fuss more than I do.”
“Yeah, totally.” he said with a eye roll.
She gave him a sideways look that hovered between affection and something unspoken.
At last, Lydia checked her watch. “We should tack up before the ring gets mobbed.”
They said their goodbyes to Marcy and turned toward the barn once more. Their boots struck the gravel in rhythm, their coats rustling softly with each step. Ahead, the stable doors stood open, warm light spilling out into the gloom.
Inside, the familiar scent of horses waited.
So did their mounts.
And so did the quiet promise of a good ride, together.
Chapter 2 – Stirrup to Stirrup
As they neared the barn doors, Lydia threaded her arm through Robert’s without asking. The move brought her close, their Macintoshes brushing with soft, squeaky resistance. She leaned into his side, not for balance or drama—but for closeness. The sound of their coats shifting together made her smile. It was familiar now. Warm. Comfortable.
Inside the barn, the air was a welcome contrast to the chill outside—earthy, rich with hay and warm horses. The soft shuffling of hooves, the rhythmic clinking of bits, and distant nicker of a gelding echoed through the aisles.
Their two horses stood ready. Rochelle, Lydia’s mare, was a tall, dark bay with a refined head and the kind of self-possession that mirrored her rider’s. Baxter, Robert’s chestnut gelding, shifted slightly in place as they approached, flicking his ears forward, always alert.
Two stable hands—Cassie and Morgan, both in their early twenties—were just finishing the last touches. Cassie adjusted Rochelle’s reins while Morgan gave Baxter’s girth one final check. They worked quickly but with care, their own jackets smudged with dust and horsehair, their cheeks pink from the morning cold.
Lydia watched them for a moment, arms still looped through Robert’s. Her eyes lingered on the way Cassie flicked her eyes toward them—just once—and then looked away, as if she hadn’t meant to be caught. Morgan’s gaze followed Robert for a breath too long. There was no malice in it. Just that familiar ache of envy. Lydia had worn it herself once.
I used to be them, she thought. Scraping hooves for ride time. Wishing she always had more saddle time.
Now she had two horses, her own SUV, a pair of gleaming boots she didn’t have to polish herself every morning—and someone to share it with. Someone who enjoyed it.
She peeled away from Robert and stepped toward her mare, shrugging the hem of her SBR Macintosh back just enough to reach inside. She lifted one leg, feeding the thigh strap’s belt through the hidden loop sewn into the coat’s lining. It was stiff and stubborn, but the tension had to be just right. Otherwise the coat skirt would ride up under the saddle. She tightened it and moved to the other leg.
Robert stepped up beside her. “Want help?”
She nodded, and he knelt slightly, parting the folds of her coat with both hands. The belted thigh strap had to be fed carefully through a buckle, and he did it slowly—precise, focused. Then, with deliberate gentleness, he tightened the belt across the top of her thigh, tugging it snug and smoothing it into place with a gloved hand that lingered a little longer than necessary.
His touch skimmed down the curve of her leg—more playful than practical.
“You’re lucky I like you in this coat,” she murmured without looking down.
“I’m lucky either way,” he replied.
She fastened her helmet while Robert did the same. When she looked back at him, standing tall in his white breeches, rubber riding boots, and a now perfectly cinched coat, she couldn’t help herself.
“You know,” she said, raising her crop and tapping the side of her boot, “you look a lot better in proper gear now.”
The tap-tap of the crop echoed off the rubber. Robert caught the motion—and the way her eyes traced over him.
“Thanks,” he said, trying not to sound too affected. But his heartbeat told the truth.
Lydia stepped to Baxter’s side and bent down to re-check the girth. She could’ve asked Morgan to tighten it again, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned in close, her hip pressing softly into Robert’s thigh as she reached beneath the gelding’s belly and gave the strap a firm tug.
Robert caught the scent of her hair—clean, with a subtle floral note that somehow cut through the barn’s leather and hay. Her face hovered just beneath his shoulder, crop tucked under one arm, and for a moment he forgot entirely what he was supposed to be doing.
She straightened, smoothing Baxter’s saddle flap. “There,” she said simply. Perfectly in control.
Cassie glanced over from Rochelle’s stall. “Hope everything’s to your liking, boss” she teased, but there was admiration behind it.
Lydia smirked. “If I fall off, I’m blaming you.”
Robert added, “We’re just here for the inspection.”
Morgan rolled her eyes. “You two are disgustingly coordinated.”
Lydia smiled but said nothing. As she turned to gather Rochelle’s reins, she caught Cassie watching again—eyes flicking from Robert’s coat, to the way he moved beside Lydia, to the soft click of their boots in sync.
Cassie nudged Morgan and whispered, “I wish I had a boyfriend who rode.”
Morgan nodded. “Or one who enjoyed riding with me”
Lydia didn’t turn, but her smirk returned. She’d earned this life. Every inch of it.
With reins in hand and thigh straps secured, they stepped into the aisle. Their coats fell perfectly, skirts tight and in place, rubber boots clean, movements precise. Together, they led their horses toward the light spilling from the open barn doors.
Outside, the drizzle had returned, just enough to bead along the shiny folds of their coats.
Side by side, they stepped out into the quiet mist.
The trail waited.
Chapter 3 – Between the Trees
The sound of their boots on wet gravel echoed softly in the stillness as Robert and Lydia led their horses out of the barn and toward the arena. Rochelle walked quietly beside Lydia, ears flicking forward, her polished bay coat already catching flecks of mist. Baxter moved with a livelier step, tossing his head now and then as Robert held the reins loosely in one hand.
Their Macintoshes gleamed beneath the overcast sky, black rubber shining slick in the pale light. With each step, the skirted hems of their coats flapped lightly against their tall rubber boots—a rhythmic, muted pat-pat that matched the rhythm of their stride. The belted thigh straps kept everything secure, but there was still a satisfying motion to the way the coats moved, echoing softly across the muddy yard.
The arena came into view—outdoor, open, and thoroughly soaked. Puddles collected along the edges of the fencing, and hoofprints from the morning’s rides had already begun to melt into the muddy footing. A crow cawed once from the tree line, then fell silent.
They reached the mounting block, the only dry island in the sea of slop. Lydia halted Rochelle beside it, but before mounting, she paused and stepped to the mare’s side. She tugged firmly at the girth strap, tightening it by one more hole. Rochelle snorted and shifted her weight, but didn’t protest.
Robert watched as Lydia smoothed the saddle flap back into place.
“Still don’t trust their tack work?” he asked.
She gave him a dry glance as she tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “If Rochelle didn’t enjoy holding her breath so much, I wouldn’t have to.”
He laughed softly and climbed onto the block. Baxter stood steady as Robert swung his leg over and settled into the saddle. The leather creaked, and his coat adjusted across his thighs as he found his seat.
Lydia stepped up next, mounting with practiced ease. Her Macintosh shifted and folded around the saddle, then settled neatly as she adjusted her stirrups. She flicked a few raindrops from her sleeve and rolled her shoulders back, her crop resting across her thigh.
“Let’s stretch those legs,” she said, casting a look over at him.
They guided their horses into a walk, entering the arena’s perimeter together. The footing squelched beneath their hooves, soft and sloppy, water rising in small ripples beneath each step. Specks of mud jumped up onto their boots, staining the gleam with streaks of brown.
Their coats moved softly with every sway of the saddle, occasionally tapping against their thighs or creaking with pressure. They said little at first, the quiet of the woods just beyond the fence lapping against them like a tide.
Robert looked around. “I think the last time I rode in this arena, you made me do transitions for half an hour.”
Lydia raised an eyebrow. “You’re still alive. And now your sitting trot doesn’t make my teeth ache.”
He grinned and nudged Baxter forward slightly. Their horses walked nearly side by side, their heads bobbing in the same tempo. Lydia reached down occasionally to pat Rochelle’s neck. Her posture was perfect—balanced, easy, completely in control. Robert couldn’t help but watch her.
The way her coat followed her form—the way she carried herself without effort—it made something flutter low in his chest. She was beautiful in this world. Sharp, composed, unapologetically competent. And she knew exactly how good she looked like this.
They circled twice more in silence, the arena gate looming like a passage.
Then Lydia shifted in her saddle and steered Rochelle toward it. Robert followed. She leaned forward slightly and unlatched the gate from the saddle, pushing it open with the heel of her boot. Mud squelched beneath Baxter as he stepped through behind her.
“The trail’s all ours,” she said.
They crossed the yard slowly, riding side by side, their Macintosh skirts tied down and unmoving, boots streaked, reins held lightly in gloved hands. The barn faded behind them with each clop of hooves on gravel.
Ahead, the trail opened like a tunnel into gold and gray, the trees damp, the world hushed.
Together, they disappeared between the trees, the hush of the woods rising up to meet them.
Chapter 4 – Through the Quiet
The rain had eased into a fine mist, barely more than a breath on the air, as Robert and Lydia left the arena and crossed the barnyard at a steady walk. Baxter and Rochelle moved with quiet energy beneath them, hooves muffled by wet gravel, the occasional splash from a lingering puddle catching the edges of their boots.
Their Macintoshes moved softly with each shift in the saddle, creaking just enough to remind them of the weather, the texture, the closeness of it all. Faint beads of moisture clung to the black rubber, catching the gray light overhead.
As they passed the hay shed, Marcy looked up from a feed bucket, one eyebrow raised.
“Looking sharp, you two,” she said, her voice warm.
Lydia smiled, just a little. “We try.”
Marcy watched them a second longer than necessary, something subtle passing across her expression—fondness, amusement, understanding—before she turned back to her work.
The gravel gave way to damp earth as they reached the trailhead, and the world shifted. The first stretch of trail opened wide ahead of them, flanked by tall, slender trees. Their branches arched loosely overhead, forming a canopy of yellow and gold, leaves just beginning to fall in earnest.
Dozens of thin yellow leaves spiraled slowly down, floating in the still air as if time had slowed. Some hung, suspended, turning in the light. Others drifted onto their coats, their horses, the damp forest floor. It felt like stepping into a world between worlds—quiet, suspended, almost sacred.
Lydia let Rochelle stretch her neck, walking forward at a relaxed pace. She glanced sideways—without turning her head—and took in the man riding beside her.
Robert was focused, his posture clean, his hands steady. Baxter moved fluidly beneath him, his cues subtle but firm. There was command in his riding now—not just technique. Authority.
He’s not following anymore, she thought. He’s riding.
She watched the way he carried himself, how the black of his coat framed the pale skin of his neck, how the faint dampness made his hair curl just slightly beneath the edge of his helmet. And those blue eyes, bright and clear even under the canopy’s muted light, had the same sharp glint she’d seen during his best rides in the arena.
There’s a dominant streak in him, she thought, lips twitching at the idea. Wouldn’t mind him bossing me around now and then.
A breeze nudged through the trees and sent another round of leaves fluttering down. One landed squarely on Robert’s shoulder, pale gold against dark rubber.
Lydia slowed Rochelle by half a stride and leaned in, reaching across with one gloved hand to pluck the leaf from his coat with delicate precision.
“There,” she murmured, brushing her fingers once more across his shoulder before withdrawing.
Robert glanced at her with a small, amused smile. “You’re such a perfectionist.”
“Someone has to be,” she replied easily, settling back into the rhythm of the ride.
They continued in silence for a while, the only sounds those of hoofbeats on soft loam, the occasional creak of tack, and the rustle of leaves drifting down like whispers.
Robert was the one to speak first. “I needed this today.”
Lydia didn’t ask what for. She simply nodded. “Me too.”
Then, after a beat: “It’s different, riding with you. I don’t feel like I have to be in charge. Or on.”
Robert turned slightly toward her, his voice softer. “I'm happy you feel that way.”
The trail narrowed, and their horses moved closer, side by side in tighter formation. Their boots bumped once beneath the saddle flaps. Neither of them acknowledged it, but neither of them moved away.
The path curved, and Lydia let Rochelle take the lead. Leaves brushed her arms as they passed, catching briefly on her coat before falling away.
She didn’t have to look back to know Robert was still right behind her.
Chapter 5- The Stone Wall and Lone Tree
They slipped through a break in the trees, the woods falling away behind them, and suddenly the world opened wide. A broad field stretched out, a patchwork of muted greens and browns beneath the heavy sky. At its center stood a lone tree, weathered but still strong, with an old stone wall running crookedly past it like some forgotten boundary. Off in the distance, storm clouds gathered, their edges dark and swelling.
Robert gave Lydia a quick look, and without a word they urged their horses on. The animals surged into a fun, rolling canter, hooves drumming against the earth. Their coats gleamed, breath rising in pale plumes, and the shiny skirts of their macs flared in the wind as the two riders moved side by side across the openness. The laughter in their eyes matched the rhythm of the stride.
As they neared the wall and the tree, they slowed to a walk, circling the trunk once before coming to a halt. The ride had left both horses warm and puffing, steam lifting gently from their shoulders. They dismounted, boots squeaking against the damp grass, and tied the reins to a small iron hook embedded in the stones.
Robert followed Lydia to the tree. They stood together beneath its branches, looking out across the field. The hush of the place seemed to quiet their voices.
“It feels so different out here,” Robert said at last, eyes tracing the sweep of the grass. “Like it’s all ours.”
Lydia smiled sidelong at him. “Careful, you’re starting to sound poetic.”
He chuckled softly. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me. Or maybe it’s just your fussing earlier with my coat—you made me notice more details than usual.”
Her lips curved into a grin, but she didn’t reply. Instead, they both looked out at the horizon where the storm massed, silence stretching easily between them.
After a long moment, Robert shifted, and then, almost without thinking, he drew her close. His back found the trunk of the tree, solid and grounding, as he wrapped his arms tight across her waist just beneath her breasts. She leaned back into him naturally, her shoulder pressing against his chest, her body fitting against his in a way that felt inevitable.
One of her hands rested gently on his sleeve, fingers curled on the rubber, while the other slid lower, rubbing along his thigh in slow, absent strokes. He lowered his chin, close enough to catch the mingled scent of her riding coat and the crisp, damp autumn air. She closed her eyes briefly, drawing in the smell of rubber, rain, and him, the warmth of his breath brushing the crown of her hair.
Together they stood there, the world narrowing to the pressure of his arms, the warmth of her touch, and the quiet of the field. The storm edged closer, but neither moved. They were content to hold each other and breathe, rooted against the tree like two figures meant to share the same space.
Chapter 6- Opening of the Sky
They slipped their helmets off together, the gesture quiet and deliberate, and placed them carefully on the ground beneath the tree. The world seemed to pause with that simple act, as if both of them understood they were setting aside the routine, the rules, everything but this moment.
Robert stood close, the faint scent of rain-soaked earth rising around them, his eyes searching hers. Before hesitation could creep in, he leaned down and kissed her. Their lips brushed softly, tentative at first, like the beginning of a secret they weren’t yet sure they could share.
When they broke apart, the sky answered with the first drops of rain. It fell gently at first, tapping against the shiny folds of their Macs. The sound was delicate, like the world was listening in.
Lydia’s gloved hands moved then, sliding down the front of his chest. The rubber beneath her palms squeaked faintly with the motion, the sound intimate in its own way. She smiled, meek and unsteady, her head tilted downward. For once, the trainer who always carried herself with such composure looked almost shy, as though unsure how to bear the intensity of what she was feeling.
Robert’s hand rose, gentle yet insistent, guiding her chin upward so she met his eyes again. She tried to look away, but the warmth in his gaze held her.
“I have to tell you,” he murmured, his voice low, carried on the hush of rain. “I’ve been drawn to you for longer than I can admit. Not just for your skill, or your strength, but for you. The way you make me feel alive every time I’m near you. Lydia… I can’t stop seeing you as more than my trainer. I don’t want to.”
Her breath caught, the vulnerability of the moment laid bare.
And then he kissed her again. This time it was nothing hesitant — it was hungry, deliberate, carrying everything he’d just confessed. The rain picked up, drumming harder on their Macs, cascading from the tree branches above.
Robert’s hand traveled lower, gripping her bum with a firm urgency, pulling her body against his. The rubber of their coats pressed and shifted between them, trapping heat beneath the rain-slick surface.
Lydia let out a soft sound, half breath, half longing, and melted against him. One gloved hand clenching at his his chest, while the other slid along his thigh as if she needed more of him, closer still. She felt a burning passion awaken deep inside her, raw and consuming, chasing away the last traces of shyness.
They clung to each other beneath the storm, the world forgotten, their helmets lying abandoned in the grass as the rain sealed their secret with a deluge of water.
Chapter 7- Together
The drizzle that had first kissed their coats gave way to a steady rain, thick drops tumbling from the canopy above. Water slicked down their Macs in gleaming rivulets, pooling at their feet. The storm wasn’t violent yet, but it pressed close, the air full of weight and urgency.
Robert didn’t move away. If anything, he held Lydia tighter, his arm cinched firmly around her waist, the other still braced against her bum as though anchoring her against the storm itself. She leaned into him, yielding, her cheek brushing his shoulder, her gloved fingers tugging against the slick fabric at his sleeve. The rain made everything sharper, every shift and squeeze between them amplified by the cling of wet rubber.
Their mouths found each other again, this time with no hesitation. Lips parted, breath mixed, rain traced down their faces, but neither cared. Lydia’s gloved hands slid upward, one trailing through his damp hair, the other gripping across his shoulder, holding him like she needed him to stay tethered to her. The squeak of her gloves against the wet coat added to the rhythm of their kiss, urgent and desperate.
Robert broke away just enough to murmur against her lips. “You’re beautiful,” he said, the words half-lost in the storm. “I can’t believe I get to be here—like this—with you.”
Her chest rose sharply, her lips trembling into a faint smile before she kissed him again, softer this time, her heart pressing into every touch. “I haven’t felt this alive in years,” she confessed between breaths, almost as if the storm itself might carry her words away. “I’ve been holding it back… holding you back…”
Another clap of thunder cracked through the sky, and lightning flared on the horizon. The storm was moving closer, and yet it felt like the world had narrowed to just them. Robert pulled her in once more, deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding down and tightening over her bum to close the last inch between their bodies. She melted against him, her heart racing, her thigh brushing his in a way that made her pulse thrum faster.
The rain poured heavier, soaking their hair, dripping from their brows, running down the glossy folds of their Macs until the air smelled only of wet leaves and storm. They clung together under the old tree, the thunder rolling around them, the fire inside burning hotter than the storm outside.
At last, Lydia drew back just slightly, her forehead resting against his. Her voice was quiet, softened by the storm’s steady patter. “We should head back,” she whispered, reluctant but practical. “Before it gets worse.”
Robert lingered on her lips one last moment before nodding. “Yeah… alright.”
Neither was in a hurry to let go, but finally, with a deep breath, they parted. Together they bent to collect their helmets from the roots of the tree, fingers brushing even in that small act. As they turned back toward the stone wall and their waiting horses, the storm pressed heavier overhead, but the air between them carried the warmth of everything they had just shared.
Chapter 8- Back at the Barn and Heading Home
The rain showed no sign of letting up as they walked back to the stone wall. Rochelle and Baxter stood patiently where they had been tied, reins darkened from the wet, heads low against the weather. Robert and Lydia moved without fuss, checking girths and straps with quick, efficient motions. Now and again their hands brushed as they worked side by side, the faint squeak of rubber mingling with the drum of rain. Neither of them pulled away too quickly.
Helmets were settled back onto damp hair with practiced snaps. Robert gave Lydia a sidelong look before mounting, his lips twitching at the corners. Together they swung into the saddle, Macs shifting and settling as the horses stepped out, hooves splashing through the puddles gathered in the grass.
The field lay before them, wide and gray, its edges blurred by rain. Storm clouds rolled heavy above, and water slicked down their Macs, turning the rubber coats into glossy sheets that caught what little light the sky offered. The skirts of their Macs flapped rhythmically against the tops of their boots with every stride.
Robert leaned toward her, raising his voice over the steady patter. “You know,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth, “you look all soaked and shiny in that Mac. And those boots…” His eyes sparkled. “Hard not to stare.”
Lydia gave him a sharp shake of her head, though the curve of her smile betrayed her. Heat stirred under her ribs despite the chill, and she kept her gaze forward, pretending not to notice his grin widening.
The trees closed over them again, the trail narrowing to a canopy of dripping leaves. The branches caught some of the wind, softening the storm’s bite, though the rain still poured. Horses plodded through puddles, splashing with each step. The silence between them warm and unspoken. Lydia’s glances stole over to Robert more than once, noting how tall and steady he sat in the saddle, how at home he looked even with the storm pressing down.
They broke from the trees into the yard, the barn’s lights glowing amber against the gray. Two figures hurried out to meet them — the young stable hands, their hair plastered and coats darkened by the rain. They slipped to the horses’ sides without hesitation, each taking a bridle to steady the mounts while Lydia and Robert gathered their reins.
“Got you,” one of them said quickly, voice breathless as she wiped rain from her cheek.
The other cast a quick look up at Robert, then at Lydia — the kind of look that carried more than words could. Wistful, not bitter. Just the ache of wanting something similar.
Robert swung down first, boots landing in a splash, water streaking his face and jaw. Lydia followed, her Mac gleaming dark and perfect, droplets rolling off in rivulets. Their faces and hair were wet, water tracing down their cheeks, but beneath the rubber they were dry, warm, untouched by the storm.
They exchanged a glance in the yard’s rain-glow, quick and knowing, their breath rising in mist between them. Protected, polished, and still bound together in the thrill of the storm.
