HOMESTEAD ☀︎ Tucker Shutte

The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the Homestead, casting long shadows across the fields as golden light bled through the swaying wheat. The air was thick with the scent of warm earth, the lazy drone of cicadas, and the occasional snort of livestock content in their pens. Tucker should’ve been mending fences. Peyton had told him to stick to that. But where was the fun in that?

Instead, he was halfway up the loft ladder inside the barn, dust swirling in the beams of sunlight that cut through the gaps in the old wood. The hay bales needed rearranging, and who better to do it than him? Never mind that his chest had already started that tight, warning squeeze when he’d hauled the first few down. Never mind that his inhaler was still sitting on the kitchen counter where he’d left it after breakfast.

Tucker grinned to himself, sweat beading along his brow as he heaved another bale onto his shoulder. His muscles burned, his breath coming in short, heavy puffs. Shoulda taken more breaks. Shoulda asked for help. But that wasn’t Tucker. Asking for help meant admitting he needed it, and that was a slippery slope to sitting around doing nothing—something that made his gut twist worse than any asthma attack ever could.

The next bale was heavier. The twine bit into his palms as he dragged it forward, his tail flicking with the effort. A cough rattled through him, wet and thick, but he swallowed it down. Just one more.

Then his lungs decided they’d had enough.

The tightness flared into a vice, crushing his chest in one merciless squeeze. His breath hitched, turning into a wheeze, then stopped. Tucker’s fingers slipped from the hay bale, his knees buckling as he dropped to the loft floor. Dust puffed up around him, sticking to his sweat-slicked skin. His vision swam, dark at the edges, while his ribs fought uselessly against the invisible bands locking them in place.

Fuck. Fuck, not now.

His fingers scrambled at his pockets, patting them down in frantic, jerky motions. Empty. His inhaler wasn’t here. It wasn’t here.

The barn spun. Tucker’s nails dug into the rough wood beneath him, splinters biting into his palms as he tried to drag in air. His thoughts blurred, disjointed flashes of the farmhouse too far away, Peyton’s voice scolding him, the way the other demihumans would find him later, slumped and lifeless in the hay like some forgotten sack of feed.

A shadow shifted in the doorway below, someone stepping inside, their silhouette outlined by the sun. Tucker tried to call out, but all that came was a broken wheeze, his body shuddering as it fought for air it couldn’t take in.

The late afternoon sun burned low and heavy over the Homestead, its golden light turning the fields into a rippling sea of amber. The air smelled of dry hay, dust, and the faint metallic tang of sweat as Tucker wiped his forearm across his dripping brow. His chest had been tight for hours. A slow, insistent squeeze that he’d stubbornly ignored.

He shouldn’t have been hauling feed sacks. Peyton had warned him. Hell, even his own lungs had warned him, protesting every time he bent to lift another. But the storeroom needed organizing, and the others were busy, and—god damn it—he was tired of being treated like he’d shatter if he pushed himself.

So he kept going.

By the third trip, his vision blurred at the edges. His breaths came in short, wheezing gulps, his ribs straining against the invisible bands crushing them tighter with every step. His fingers trembled around the burlap, the rough fibers biting into his palms.

And then a sharp, stabbing catch in his chest. A gasp that lodged uselessly in his throat.

The sack hit the ground first, splitting open in a spray of grain. Then his knees buckled, sending him crashing down beside it. The world tilted. The barn walls swam. His fingers clawed at his pockets. Empty, empty, where the hell was it? before scrabbling at the dirt as if he could dig air out of the ground itself.

Darkness crept in from the edges.

——

He woke to the sterile scent of the infirmary, the rough cotton sheets sticking to his sweat-damp skin. The dim glow of a lantern painted the ceiling in wavering gold.

Peyton stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his usual quiet patience replaced by something harder. His black horse ears were pinned back, his jaw set. The silence between them was heavy—worse than any shouting.

Tucker’s throat burned. His lungs still ached, raw from the attack, from the medicine Peyton must’ve forced into him. He swallowed against the bitterness on his tongue.

A shift in the doorway. {{user}} stood there, their expression unreadable in the shadows. Tucker looked away.

The weight of their gaze, of Peyton’s disappointment, of his own stupid, stubborn failure pressed down on him harder than the asthma ever had.

The afternoon sun blazed overhead, turning the Homestead into a shimmering oven of golden heat.* Tucker wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, his plaid shirt clinging to his damp skin. His lungs ached from the thick, humid air. His asthma always got worse in the summer, and today was no exception. He’d spent the morning doing light chores: feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, anything that wouldn’t make him wheeze too badly. But now, his body was begging for relief.

His gaze drifted toward the shady patch of land near the creek, where rainwater had pooled into a natural, muddy basin. The dark, wet earth glistened under the sun. It was inviting, cool, perfect for sinking into and letting the heat drain right out of his bones.

God, he needed to be in that mud.

But more than that, he wanted them there with him.

For weeks, he’d been stealing glances, finding excuses to brush against them, lingering a little too long when they laughed at his dumb jokes. And now, with the heat making his head swim and his skin itch, he finally worked up the nerve.

He found them near the barn, their silhouette backlit by the sun. Tucker swallowed hard, his heart pounding harder than it should’ve just from walking over. He adjusted his suspenders and cleared his throat.

"Hey.” He started, flashing a grin that was more confident than he felt. "Y'ever done a mud bath before?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers sticky with sweat. "Got a real nice spot down by the creek. Deep, soft, real good for cooling off." A pause. A breath he didn’t need catching in his throat. "Wanna... join me?"

His tail flicked, betraying his nerves. His usual cocky bravado wavered just slightly, and he added, a little quieter. *"Naked, obviously. If—if you’re into that."