Jason makes his train by the skin of his teeth.

The journey passes quickly, getting him into Moreton-in-Marsh shortly before lunchtime. He checks his watch as the train slows, surprised he’s here already. This time, instead of counting down each station between London and home like usual, he’s spent the whole time replaying the last minutes he spent with Vanya.

He hadn’t meant to kiss him and then run.

He hadn’t known he was even going to do it.

But the way Vanya reciprocated….

He sets thinking about it aside as the train pulls in and he finds a taxicab.

The town is just as he remembers as he’s driven through it, its market square bustling with traders selling local produce under canvas awnings designed to ward off rain showers. They’re redundant today—the sun peeps through clouds and casts the whole town brightly golden.

He sits back as the cab passes familiar landmarks. They’re built from yellow limestone, as is the small school he can’t help staring over his shoulder at as they drive by. It was the first he attended that hadn’t been a stopgap, the first where he’d had a brother.

It’s a reminder of Andrew that helps him focus.

He’s not here to figure out when a business transaction with Vanya turned into attraction. Besides, thinking about it is pointless now their arrangement is over.

He’s here to rebuild bridges.

The cab slows as it approaches a lane split down the middle by grass. Jason stops the driver at its entrance and sets out to walk the rest of the way down into the valley alone.

Once the diesel rumble of the taxicab engine fades, other sounds take over.

There might not be any sirens, like he hears so often in the city, but his arrival is loudly signalled by blackbirds. They raise the alarm as he passes hedgerows burgeoning with a last crop of blackberries and dart between branches where sloes cluster like dull jewels awaiting a spit and polish.

The lane dips and curves, Riversmeet waiting at its end.

Jesus Christ, he’s missed it.

The cottage nestles, just as golden as those in Moreton-in-Marsh, only it stands alone here where the land meets running water. And just like during the only part of his childhood that really mattered, he takes the stepping-stones home instead of using the footbridge.

The water burbles the same as ever, and the same bell as always hangs by the cottage front door—outsized so it’s chime can be heard all the way across the furthest pony paddocks. He almost doesn’t ring it, close to letting himself in before he reconsiders, his hand dropping from the latch as if it’s red hot.

Strolling in like he owns the whole place instead of only a small percentage might add fuel to the fire of Chantel’s resentment. He rings the bell for the first time he can remember and then waits.

Chantel doesn’t answer.

A couple of minutes pass, uncomfortably and slowly, before he repeats his actions, the bell echoing once more, its chime filling the whole valley, clear and loud and lovely.

Again, there is no answer.

Chantel’s really making a point.

Or maybe he’s missed a message from her.

Jason pulls out his phone to check if she’s texted. Perhaps she’s gone to the station even though he messaged her earlier to say he’d make his own way. His inbox is empty, his own message definitely read.

There’s no excuse for her to ignore him apart from the fact that he’s ignored her for so long. He sighs. So, tit-for-tat is his penance. He straightens his shoulders and lets himself in. There’s no sign of life that he can hear from the hallway, and a set of car keys sit in a bowl on a nearby sideboard.

If her car’s still here, then surely Chantel must be as well.

Would she really have agreed to him coming all this way just to stand him up on purpose? Part of him feels vindicated. It’s petty, like he half expected. “Hello?” he calls out. “Chantel? It’s Jason.” When there’s no answer, he continues searching. There’s no sign of her in the living room. The study’s empty too, apart from the bookcases he remembers and the desk where his mum booked so many riding lessons. Now it’s covered with textbooks and a partially written essay. That only leaves the kitchen, which turns out to be empty as well, the only sound a quiet hiss of steam from something simmering on the stovetop, smelling deeply unpleasant.

He props the RSVP he brought all the way from London against the kettle and considers leaving.

After all, it’s all he came to deliver.

He can leave now and tell Andrew that he kept his side of the bargain. If Chantel can’t be bothered to try, he—

Movement catches his eye through the nearby kitchen window.

A flash of red hair glints in the distance, and in the second or two it takes to process that it must be Chantel, he sees her wave, fast and frantic.

The door to the kitchen garden slams behind him as he cuts across the garden, jumping a bed of herbs that fills the air with scent he’s barely aware of after his heels clip it. He runs hell for leather across a paddock that’s been empty of ponies since his mum died, sprinting when he sees exactly why she’s waving.

A horse lies in the water.

It’s unnaturally still, neck-deep in one of the rivers the cottage is named for, while she struggles to keep its nose out of the water.

“Oh, thank God!” Her relief carries as he runs through an open gateway, her distress clearer when he splashes through the shallows. “M-my horse.” She’s soaked and shaking, mud streaking a face that’s drawn tight. “I can’t get her up. I can’t let go of her head. She’s so tired I think she needs a shot of something before she’ll get her legs under her again.” She cranes her neck as if looking for something, and Jason turns too. There’s a cell phone abandoned on the riverbank, but Chantel stares beyond it. “Where’s your bag?”

“Bag?” He hadn’t planned to stay overnight. All he travelled down with is the RSVP he left in the kitchen. He tosses his own phone and wallet onto the soft grass and drops to his knees beside her. Fuck, the water’s icy. “What bag?”

“Your bag with the shots and… and… I don’t know what veterinarians carry. You need to give her something or—” She stops dead mid-sentence and then sounds despairing. “Oh, no. You’re Jason.”

Her bursting into tears isn’t exactly how he pictured their first meeting.

“S-sorry,” she eventually gets out, her voice shaking. “I-I didn’t recognise you, and I really hoped you were the vet….” She cranes her neck again. “I called him ages ago. Then I heard the bell chime, and—” She breaks off this time to press both hands to the horse’s neck when it whickers weakly.

Jason takes the weight of the horse’s head when its nose submerges. He offers reassurance he hopes will prove true. “I’m sure the vet will be here any minute.” Then he talks to the horse. “Hold tight, girl. The cavalry is coming.”

Ponies have grazed these paddocks forever. One thing he recalls from hanging around them for so long is a certainty that horses don’t stay down like this for no reason. “What happened?”

Chantel rubs at her nose with a sodden sleeve. “I don’t know. She just went down with no warning. She’s not due to foal for weeks.”

“She’s foaling?” She couldn’t have chosen a worse place for it. “Now?”

Chantel’s voice wavers. “I hope not. It’s far too early.”

“How did she even get down here?” The paddock behind them is fenced apart from the open gate he ran through. “Who left the gate wide open?”

“It’s my fault. She’s been off her feed for days but she’s always loved the water. It was sunny earlier. I thought a paddle in the shallows might help perk her up.” Her face crumples. That distress means it doesn’t matter that he came here sure he wouldn’t like her, Jason clearly feels strong tremors when he slings an arm across her shoulder. If the way she leans into his side is any measure, she must be exhausted. “I didn’t recognise you from the photos up at the house.”

Water soaks his smart new jeans and his pale yellow polo is a mess of mud and slobber, but Jason can’t find a single fuck to give about it. He wrecks his neatly styled hair too by running a muddy hand through it while thinking. “We’ve got to try to get her up.”

“I did try.” That would account for the amount of filth Chantel’s caked in. “I couldn’t even get her onto her knees let alone get her upright.”

Jason gives her shoulders a squeeze. “Let’s try again, together.”

It’s not easy to make any progress, not while the horse is worn out, but Jason gives it his best shot, relieved that despite being largely desk-bound these days, he’s still has the muscle to make a difference. He shoves and strains while encouraging the mare the whole time until she’s upright, her legs spread a little wider than seems natural, her head hanging and her flanks trembling by the time they hear an engine.

Jason’s not sure who’s more relieved when a Land Rover bumps across the paddock. “How long was she down?” the vet shouts as he rifles through a bag of supplies.

Chantel’s voice trembles. “I-I brought her down here at around eleven. What time is it now?”

“Almost twelve forty-five.” No wonder she sounds and looks exhausted. Jason holds the head collar while the vet administers a shot that only seems to make the mare’s trembling worse.

“She’s cold and tired and quite shocked,” the vet states. “We need to move her before this wears off.”

They cross the paddock slowly, the roundness of the mare’s belly obvious now she’s upright, as is her exhaustion when she settles onto the extra layer of bedding Jason quickly adds to the floor of her stall. Chantel kneels beside her, talking very softly, and encouraging her to eat from her hand. “Come on, Lady. It’s your favourite.”

Jason stands in the stall doorway, pretty sure it’s not just the mare who’s wiped out when Chantel’s shivers don’t stop. He locates blankets that are hairy but dry, and drapes one over her shoulders before rubbing the mare with the other. When the vet continues his examination, Jason offers to make tea.

Chantel’s smile of thanks is weak as he leaves, as is her tone when he overhears her ask if the mare and foal will make it.

He came all this way expecting confrontation—wanting it, to be honest—but this level of raw emotion isn’t what he anticipated.

Her fear is honest and awful.

The smell in the kitchen is terrible as well.

The pan that was simmering before has boiled dry, its contents scorched and unappealing. A recipe propped beside the stove suggests vegetable soup that shouldn’t smell so toxic. He soaks the pan while waiting for the kettle to boil and then uses the phone in the study to call Andrew.

He answers very quickly.

“Darling? Hold on.” There’s the muffled sound of Andrew excusing himself from a meeting before he speaks clearly again. “Is Jason being a git? Don’t let him rattle you, sweetheart. He’s all bark and no bite. A great big softy, I promise. Don’t forget that you’re lovely, and he’s going to adore you just as soon as he gets to know you.”

It’s a rush of words conveying so much—care, concern, and worry—that Jason’s speechless for a moment.

“Darling? Are you still there?”

“It’s me.”

“Jason? What’s happened?”

“Chantel’s okay but there’s something wrong with her horse.”

He overhears Andrew’s quiet curse and the sound of a door closing before he returns to the call. “Has she lost the foal?”

“No, but it’s not looking good, mate.”

This time Andrew’s curse isn’t muffled. “Fuck it all to hell.” His exhalation is a loud gust. “I’m on my way.” Then he tentatively asks a favour, one that he wouldn’t hesitate over if Jason hadn’t been such an arsehole lately. “W-will you stay with her for me until I get there?”

His throat constricts.

Were things really that bad between them that Andrew could even doubt him?

“Of course.” Their call ends at the same time as the kettle whistles.

Jason searches through cupboards that have been rearranged since the last time he made tea here. The mugs are in the same place, but finding sugar is a struggle. Eventually he locates a box of sugar lumps in the boot room, of all places, along with some mints that give him a flash of inspiration. He drops two sugar lumps into Chantel’s mug and carries a loaded tea tray back to the stable. The vet is just leaving, promising to call back later that evening to check on Lady’s progress.

Watching Chantel smile when her mare first sniffs, then lips mints from Jason’s palm is worth the nip he gets when he’s too slow to give her some more. He doesn’t know what to say when Chantel blurts, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He nods and feeds another mint to Lady. “She must be feeling better.”

“She better be.” Chantel presses her face into her horse’s neck again, and her voice is muffled. “She better be,” she repeats when she lifts her head, her smile sad, nothing at all hidden in her expression.

Love wars with worry right there on its surface.

“Now Dad won’t talk to me, she’s my only family.”