Archive of Our Own

The train lurched to a halt, and Wylan’s stomach lurched with it. Jesper was already halfway down the aisle, long legs carrying him with the kind of restless energy that didn’t need waiting rooms or timetables. Wylan, burdened with a smaller satchel and a hundred unspoken doubts, trailed after.

He had never been this far inland. The air tasted different, heavy with soil instead of salt. Djerholm’s docks were a world away, and though Jesper had kept up a steady stream of chatter on the ride, Wylan’s silence had only thickened.

“Come on, love,” Jesper called over his shoulder, grinning like he was ten years old again. “Da’ll be waiting. Can’t have him think you’re shy.”

Wylan almost said, But I am.

Instead, he nodded, gripping the strap of his satchel tighter. He’d met one of Jesper’s Aunts once, briefly, in a way that had felt more casual than this. He’d never had to meet family like this let alone a parent: not as a business partner, not as an acquaintance, but as the boy Jesper had chosen.

Jesper bounded down the station steps two at a time, motioning for Wylan to keep up. The dirt road beyond stretched wide, lined with fields so green it hurt to look at them. Farmland. Not the cloying scent of canal water, not the soot of foundries. Wylan adjusted the cuff of his jacket, already feeling overdressed, out of place.

Jesper fell into step beside him, nudging their shoulders together. “Don’t look so tragic. Da’s going to like you.”

“You don’t know that,” Wylan said before he could stop himself. The words sounded smaller than he meant them to.

Jesper shot him a sidelong glance, softer than his grin had been. “I do, actually. Man’s survived raising me. You’ll be a vacation.”

Wylan bit down on a smile, though it twisted with nerves. He didn’t know what to do with Jesper’s confidence when his own hands still felt stained from Van Eck brick dust and fire.

The farmhouse came into view like something out of a picture book: whitewashed walls, a roof dark with age, smoke curling from the chimney. A man stood on the porch, shorter than Wylan expected, shoulders broad but posture easy. He raised a hand in greeting before Jesper had even called out.

“Da!” Jesper broke into a jog, the road dust kicking up around his boots.

Colm Fahey’s face split into a smile so warm it startled Wylan. Jesper was enveloped in a hug before Wylan had reached the gate, Jesper’s long arms thrown around his father’s shoulders like he’d never left.

The sound Jesper made—half laugh, half sigh—wasn’t one Wylan had ever heard from him before. It was something private, something old. It rooted Wylan to the spot.

Jesper finally broke away, gesturing with flourish. “Da, this is Wylan. Wylan, my Da. Colm Fahey, farmer extraordinaire, best man to ever walk Novyi Zem soil.”

Colm extended a hand, and Wylan forced himself forward. His palm was calloused, the shake firm but not crushing. Wylan managed, “It’s good to meet you, sir.”

“Colm’s fine,” the man said, eyes crinkling. “Jesper’s been writing about you.”

Jesper made a strangled noise. “Da!”

Wylan’s ears went hot. “Oh.”

Colm chuckled. “Come inside, both of you. Supper’s nearly ready.”

Jesper grabbed Wylan’s hand before he could tuck it away, tugging him toward the door with an ease that made Wylan’s heart stumble. The smell of bread drifted out into the cool evening, the kind of smell Wylan had only ever read about in books where families sat down together at long tables.

He swallowed hard. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t built for boys raised in Van Eck mansions, with marble floors that echoed like empty promises. It belonged to Jesper, to Colm, to a kind of love Wylan wasn’t sure how to step into without breaking it.

—

The kitchen was warm, lamplight soft against walls lined with shelves of jars and crockery. Wylan hesitated at the threshold, the smells—yeast, butter, something rich and savory—so unfamiliar it felt like stepping into someone else’s childhood.

Jesper, of course, moved like he belonged. He shrugged off his coat, tossed it onto the back of a chair, and kissed his father on the cheek in the same motion. Wylan hung his own jacket carefully, like he was afraid of leaving smudges.

Colm set a steaming dish on the table, the kind of food Wylan had only seen in cheap Kerch cookbooks—meat and potatoes and vegetables grown right outside. Not imported. Not plated by servants in silence.

“Sit, sit,” Colm said, gesturing broadly. “You both must be hungry after that ride.”

Jesper dropped into a chair, already spearing a potato with his fork. “Starving. Trains are slow death in food form.”

“Jesper,” Colm said, but he was smiling.

Wylan eased into the seat beside Jesper, trying not to fidget. His hands found the edge of the table, tracing the grooves in the wood. It was scarred, worn smooth in places where countless elbows had rested. The Van Eck dining table had been polished so often it reflected candlelight like glass, but no one had ever touched it without gloves.

He swallowed, reached for the water pitcher, and nearly poured too much into his glass. Jesper steadied it for him with a grin. “Careful, Wy. You’ll drown us both.”

Heat crept up Wylan’s neck. Colm caught the exchange, eyes kind but assessing. “So, Wylan,” he said. “Jesper tells me you’re an inventor.”

Jesper muffled something around a mouthful of bread. “Engineer, Da. He makes things that work.”

“An engineer,” Colm amended. “That’s fine work. What kind of things?”

The words tangled in Wylan’s throat. He hated being looked at like this—expectant, curious, open. Jesper’s gaze was encouraging, almost impatient, like Say it, Wy, you’re brilliant.

“I…design demolition charges,” Wylan managed, then winced at how harsh it sounded in the cozy kitchen. “And—other things. Useful things. Music boxes. Gadgets.”

Jesper nudged him with his knee. “Tell him about the one that makes the chickens dance.”

Colm’s brows rose. “Chickens?”

Wylan’s face burned. “It was—an experiment. For timing mechanisms.”

Jesper leaned back in his chair, grinning like a cat. “Picture it: poultry, perfectly in step.”

Colm chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

Something loosened in Wylan’s chest at the easy way he said it, no mockery in his tone. Jan would have sneered, called it frivolous, wasteful. Here, the ridiculousness of it was almost… welcomed.

Jesper launched into a story about the last time he’d been home, complete with gestures that nearly knocked over his glass. Colm corrected him here and there, filling in missing details, but mostly he let Jesper ramble, pride softening every line of his face.

Wylan listened, hands folded tightly in his lap, the edges of his food cooling on his plate. It felt like watching a play where everyone knew their lines but him. Jesper belonged to this rhythm, this laughter that folded easily over the table. Wylan sat at the edge, the boy who had never learned how to be a son.

At one point Colm turned to him again. “And your family, Wylan? Do they live in the city?”

The fork slipped in his hand, clattering against the plate. Jesper’s laughter cut off mid-breath.

Wylan forced himself to nod, eyes on the table. “My father… lives there still. I don’t see him.”

Silence pressed in. Jesper’s hand brushed his under the table, grounding, wordless.

Colm only inclined his head, gentle. “Then I’m glad you came with Jesper.”

The air in Wylan’s lungs felt sharp, too full. He managed a stiff smile, his throat thick. Jesper’s fingers lingered against his, warm and steady, until the clatter of dishes filled the space again.

—

The meal stretched on, Jesper eating with the unselfconscious gusto of someone who had always been fed with love. He tore bread into uneven chunks, balanced his fork on the edge of his plate, and kept drifting into stories that tumbled over each other.

“Remember when I tried to ride that cow?” Jesper said, waving his fork like a conductor’s baton. “I thought she was a horse—”

“You knew full well she wasn’t a horse,” Colm interrupted, chuckling.

Jesper pointed at him with the bread. “But I had the spirit of a horseman.”

“The spirit didn’t stop her from tossing you headfirst into the muck.”

Jesper snorted, nearly spilling water down his shirt. He thumped the table in delight.

Wylan pressed the rim of his glass to his lips, watching the back-and-forth with a strange ache. The teasing wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cruel. It was the kind of ribbing that circled back to laughter, underpinned by something steady. He wasn’t sure he’d ever witnessed it before.

Dessert was set down in the form of a pie, its crust golden, edges imperfect. Wylan had seen pastries plated like jewels, sugar-glazed and symmetrical, but this—this smelled like warmth itself.

Jesper leaned close as Colm sliced generous portions. “Da makes the best pie in Kerch. Don’t argue, you’ll lose.”

Wylan’s mouth quirked despite himself. “I wasn’t going to.”

Jesper tapped his fork against Wylan’s plate. “Good. Means more for me.”

Colm raised a brow as Jesper shoveled in his first bite. “Leave some for Wylan, Jesper.”

Jesper made an affronted noise around his mouthful. “Da, please. I’m a gracious host.”

Wylan tasted the pie. Sweetness, tart fruit, a flaky crust that melted on his tongue. He blinked, startled by how simple and good it was. Jesper was watching, waiting for his verdict like it mattered.

“It’s…” He swallowed. “It’s really good.”

Jesper’s grin softened into something less performative, more quiet. “Told you.”

Conversation meandered into the evening. Jesper prodded at Wylan now and again, dragging him into stories—“Tell him about the flute bomb,” “Explain how you figured out the lockbox trick”—but mostly, Wylan listened.

Colm asked questions in a way that wasn’t invasive. Where Jesper had been working. How business was in the city. Whether Wylan liked the farm so far. Each answer stuck in Wylan’s throat, but Jesper’s easy chatter filled in the gaps.

It struck Wylan that Jesper wasn’t performing here. Not really. He was exuberant, yes, but his stories weren’t armor. They were memories, laid bare without shame.

When the plates were cleared, Jesper carried them to the washbasin with a whistle, rolling his sleeves past his elbows. Wylan half-rose to help, but Colm waved him off.

“Let him do it. Boy needs to earn his keep somehow.”

Jesper shot his father a look, suds dripping down his wrists. “I heard that.”

Colm leaned back in his chair, pipe in hand now, content. The picture of ease.

Wylan clasped his hands together under the table, suddenly restless. This was what it meant to belong somewhere, to come home to someone who knew your stories before you told them. He felt the weight of his own silence pressing down on him.

Jesper dried the last plate with a flourish, turned, and leaned against the counter. “So, Da. Tomorrow I’m showing Wylan the barn. He needs the full tour.”

Colm’s mouth twitched, smoke curling from his pipe. “You mean you need an excuse to get out of stacking feed.”

Jesper clutched his chest in mock hurt. “I bring joy and charm to this household. You should be grateful.”

“Mm. Joy, maybe. Trouble, certainly.”

Jesper winked at Wylan, conspiratorial. “He means I’m the favorite.”

For a moment, the warmth of it reached Wylan too, like the edge of a fire.

—

After dinner stretched longer than Wylan expected. Colm asked questions about Wylan’s workshop, about demolitions, about whether Kerch city boys ever learned to farm. Jesper filled in most of the answers with embellishments, and Colm chuckled like he’d heard it all before.

The kitchen felt too warm, the closeness of it all pressing in on him. Jesper noticed — of course Jesper noticed — and tugged him toward the porch with a murmured, “Come on, love. You’ll like the air out here better.”

The night was sharp and still, the smell of cut hay and damp earth threading through the coolness. Jesper dropped onto the porch steps like he owned them — maybe he did — and patted the space beside him until Wylan sat.

For a while, they just listened to the crickets. Jesper leaned back on his elbows, curls catching the faint glow from the window. “Forgot how quiet it gets here. No horses clopping past, no bells, no drunks singing sea shanties at three in the morning.”

“It’s…” Wylan searched for the right word. “Peaceful.”

Jesper tilted his head toward him. “You sound surprised.”

“I don’t really know what to do with peace.” Wylan’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Jesper hummed. “I could give you a few suggestions.” His grin flashed, but there was a softness underneath it, something careful. He slid closer, arm brushing Wylan’s shoulder. “Like this.”

Before Wylan could reply, Jesper’s arm hooked around his waist, pulling him gently in. Wylan tensed, then slowly let the weight settle against him, warm and solid.

“Doesn't this feel like intruding to you?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Jesper went still, then twisted so he could see Wylan properly. “Intruding? On what, exactly?”

“On your life. Your family. You fit here, Jesper. I don’t.”

Jesper frowned, not his usual mock hurt, but real. “Wylan. You’re not intruding. You’re… adding. Always adding.” His thumb brushed Wylan’s jaw, urging his gaze up. “Da likes you already. He asks about you in letters, did I mention that?”

Wylan blinked. “He—he what?”

Jesper’s grin crooked. “Oh, yeah. Little updates. ‘How’s the demolition boy?’ ‘He keeping you out of trouble?’ He’s invested.”

Heat flooded Wylan’s cheeks. Saints.

Jesper leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to earn it. You just have to be here.”

And then Jesper kissed him. Soft, testing, but enough to knock Wylan’s breath loose. He let himself lean in, let the steady warmth of Jesper’s mouth unravel the tightness in his chest. Another kiss, deeper, Jesper’s hand sliding to his back.

The kitchen door creaked open.

Jesper pulled away just as Colm’s voice carried through. “Jesper, you mind checking the barn latch before bed? Wind’s picking up.”

Wylan flinched back like he’d been burned, heart hammering. His mind careened: caught, judged, rejected. He couldn’t breathe.

Jesper gave a jaunty, “Got it, Da!” but Wylan was already spiraling, pulse racing, hands twitching against his knees.

Jesper turned back, instantly noticing, his expression sobering. “Hey. Hey, love, breathe. He didn’t—he wasn’t—”

But Wylan couldn’t hear him past the roar in his ears.

He couldn’t get air in.

His chest seized, shallow breaths hitching into nothing. His palms prickled, numbness crawling up his fingers. The heat of Jesper’s kiss was gone, ripped away by the sound of Colm’s voice — not sharp, not angry, but it might as well have been.

He knows. He saw. He’ll tell Jesper to send me away.

The thoughts came faster than he could fight them. His throat closed up, tight and useless, and all he could see was Jan’s face, every sneer, every cold flick of disdain. Unacceptable. Shameful. Wrong. The words weren’t Colm’s, but they filled his head anyway.

“Wylan.” Jesper’s voice cut through, gentle but firm. “Hey, look at me.”

He couldn’t. His vision tunneled, stars at the edges. He pressed his hands against his knees so hard it hurt, trying to pin himself in place. He was going to fall apart right here, on Jesper’s porch, in full view of the world.

A hand brushed his arm — tentative, careful. Jesper, always careful when it mattered. “You’re safe. He didn’t see. And even if he did—” Jesper’s voice cracked, softer now. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t change a thing. Not for him, not for me.”

Wylan shook his head, breath rasping. “You don’t know that—”

“I do.” Jesper shifted, crouching in front of him, trying to catch his gaze. His hands hovered, then landed lightly on Wylan’s wrists, grounding without trapping. “I know my father. And I know you. And there is not a universe, not a Saint’s prayer, where he’d look at you the way you’re afraid of.”

Wylan wanted to believe him. Ghezen, he wanted to. But the memories clawed at him, years of being told what he was and wasn’t, what could and couldn’t be loved. His body didn’t care what Jesper said; it only knew panic, lungs locked tight.

Jesper’s voice lowered, steady as a drumbeat. “In and out with me, love. Match me, yeah? In…” He exaggerated a slow inhale, chest rising, holding it long enough for Wylan to notice. “And out.”

It took three false starts, Wylan gasping instead of breathing, but Jesper didn’t waver. His hands stayed steady on Wylan’s wrists, his gaze never leaving Wylan’s face. And slowly, painfully, the air made it back into Wylan’s lungs.

Jesper smiled, a little crooked, like he was pretending it was easy. “There you go. That’s it. Stay with me.”

Tears pricked at Wylan’s eyes, humiliating and hot. “I— I can’t—”

“You already are.” Jesper squeezed his wrists, warmth steady against the cold buzzing in Wylan’s hands. “You’re right here with me. Porch, farm, stars overhead. Not in that house. Not in that man’s voice. Just here. Just us.”

Wylan’s breaths came a little deeper, though shaky. His throat still ached, chest tight, but the roaring was easing, Jesper’s words threading through the panic like rope through water.

Jesper leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against Wylan’s. “You don’t have to be perfect for him, love. You don’t have to perform. He already likes you. And if he didn’t—” Jesper’s laugh was soft, a puff of air. “—I’d still be kissing you under his roof.”

That cracked something in Wylan — a laugh that wasn’t a laugh, a sob disguised as one. Jesper didn’t flinch at the sound. He just stayed there, pressed against him, solid and unwavering until Wylan’s shaking began to settle.

—

The first light of dawn woke Wylan before Jesper did. That wasn’t unusual — Jesper could sleep through a demolition if he was warm enough — but the quiet pressed differently here. No clanging trams, no gulls. Just wind through the trees and the creak of old wood as the house settled.

Wylan lay still for a long time, Jesper’s arm heavy across his chest, the rhythm of his breathing deep against Wylan’s shoulder. He should have been comforted by it, but the memory of last night kept needling him. The panic, the way his body had betrayed him, the way he was sure Colm’s voice had meant condemnation even though Jesper swore otherwise.

Jesper would dismiss it with a joke if he brought it up again. He’d mean it kindly, but Wylan couldn’t shake the thought: maybe Jesper only thought his father would be fine with this. Maybe Jesper didn’t realize how fathers could be.

Careful not to wake him, Wylan slipped out of bed and padded downstairs.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee already, though the pot hadn’t started perking. Colm sat at the worn table with a folded newspaper, glasses perched low on his nose. He looked up as Wylan came in, and for a heartbeat Wylan froze, the panic threatening to climb his throat again.

But Colm only smiled, easy as anything. “Morning, son.”

The word landed like a stone in Wylan’s chest. Not son the way Jan had said it — cold, clipped, like an accusation — but warm, unthinking, the way a chair might be offered. It knocked the air out of him.

“Morning,” Wylan managed, voice too thin. He crossed to the counter, pretending to busy himself with the empty mugs hanging on their hooks. His hands trembled against the clay.

Colm turned a page of his paper, the sound quiet in the stillness. “Jesper still out?”

Wylan nodded. “He… sleeps late.”

“That he does.” Colm chuckled, not unkindly. “Never could get him up before the sun unless I promised him pancakes.”

Wylan tried for a smile but couldn’t quite manage it. His pulse thudded in his ears. He wanted to ask outright — Do you know? Do you mind? — but the words clamped tight in his throat. Of course he knew. Wylan already knew he did.

Colm folded the paper, set it aside, and poured water into the coffeepot. His movements were steady, practiced. “You hungry?”

“A little,” Wylan admitted.

“Good. Helps to eat before work.” Colm’s tone was matter-of-fact, no heavier than if he’d commented on the weather. “Jesper said you’re clever with your hands. Thought you might give me a hand in the barn today.”

The words caught Wylan off guard. He blinked, startled. “Me?”

“Sure. Jesper’s not half as good with tools as he thinks.” Colm’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “Could use someone who knows which end of a hammer is which.”

Wylan’s face warmed. He stared down at the mug in his hands, not sure what to do with the sudden swell in his chest — not suspicion, not dismissal, but invitation.

Colm went on, almost casually, “Besides, I’d like to get to know the boy my son thinks so highly of.”

The mug nearly slipped from Wylan’s fingers. His throat closed again, though not with panic this time. He swallowed hard, nodding because he couldn’t quite trust his voice.

Colm only turned back to the coffeepot, humming under his breath.

The coffeepot hissed to life, steam curling into the air. Colm moved with the ease of someone who’d done this same routine a thousand mornings — filling the pot, setting bread out, slicing apples into a bowl. Wylan watched from the edge of the kitchen, every movement foreign to him.

He should help. That was what a guest did. But when he reached for a knife, Colm waved him toward the table. “Sit. You’re company.”

Wylan hesitated, then obeyed. His fingers fidgeted against the wood grain of the table, tracing grooves worn smooth. This table had held breakfasts, lunches, suppers — laughter, arguments, prayers. He could almost feel the weight of it pressing through the surface.

Colm set a plate of sliced apples down between them and lowered himself into the chair opposite. “Jesper always hated peeling fruit,” he said, almost fondly. “Said it was a crime to make a boy eat something that took longer to get into than it did to finish.”

Wylan gave a faint huff of laughter. He could imagine Jesper saying it, could almost hear the exaggerated indignation.

“You’ve got a good laugh,” Colm said. His tone wasn’t pointed, just observing. Still, heat crept into Wylan’s neck.

“I don’t… laugh much.”

“Maybe not before.” Colm poured coffee into two mugs and pushed one across the table. “But I’ve seen Jesper around you. He’s lighter. Makes me think you laugh more than you realize.”

The words hit like an arrow Wylan hadn’t braced for. He picked up the mug mostly to have something to do with his hands. “Jesper’s… he’s different around you.”

“How so?”

“He doesn’t have to be—” Wylan faltered. How to explain Jesper in Ketterdam? Sharp-edged, restless, everything a performance. “He doesn’t have to be someone else.”

Colm’s expression softened. “That’s what home should be.” He sipped his coffee, then added, “Looks like you give him a bit of that too.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath Wylan. He shook his head automatically. “I don’t— I make things complicated. I’m not—”

“Wylan.” Colm’s voice carried quiet authority, the kind that didn’t need to raise itself to be heard. “My boy writes about you. Not in the details he should — Saints know Jesper never tells a full story — but enough. He’s proud of you. That tells me more than anything you could say about yourself.”

Wylan stared down at the coffee, unable to swallow past the knot in his throat. His father’s voice screamed in his memory, liability, mistake, useless, and here was Colm, sitting across from him, saying proud like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

“Eat,” Colm said, nudging the bowl of apples toward him. “Barn won’t fix itself, and Jesper won’t get up before noon unless we drag him out.”

It was so ordinary, so easy, that Wylan almost forgot to feel out of place. Almost.

—

The apples were crisp, the coffee strong, and Wylan was still trying to find words that didn’t sound brittle when footsteps creaked down the stairs.

Jesper shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up at impossible angles, shirt half-buttoned, socks mismatched. He rubbed his eyes, squinting against the pale light.

“Morning,” he mumbled, then sniffed. “Saints, is that coffee? Thought I smelled salvation.”

Colm’s mouth twitched. “You smell it because you’re late to it.”

Jesper slid into the chair beside Wylan with exaggerated drama. “Late? No, no, I was giving the sun a chance to warm up before I joined the day. Can’t just go charging out unprepared.”

“Mm.” Colm handed him a mug. “Drink. Then you and your demolition boy can help me in the barn.”

Jesper perked at that, shooting Wylan a grin. “See, love? Already promoted. You’re officially part of the farm crew.”

Wylan ducked his head, cheeks heating.

Jesper bumped his knee under the table, lowering his voice. “You okay?”

The question was too quiet for Colm to hear, but Wylan still stiffened. He hated how obvious he must have been last night. “I’m fine,” he murmured back, though his voice betrayed him.

Jesper studied him for a beat, then squeezed his knee gently, letting the subject drop. Out loud, he said, “So, Da, what’s on the agenda? Fix the barn roof? Teach Wylan how to milk a cow? Or maybe—” He widened his eyes theatrically. “—let me drive the tractor?”

Colm snorted. “Last time I let you near a tractor, you nearly rolled it into the ditch.”

“Details, details.” Jesper waved a hand. “I was young and reckless.”

“You were sixteen.”

“Exactly. A lifetime ago.”

Wylan couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his mouth. Jesper and Colm sparred easily, like they’d been doing it forever. Jesper wasn’t performing here, not really — just stretching into an old rhythm that fit him as naturally as breathing.

It made Wylan ache with something he couldn’t name. Longing, maybe. Grief for something he never had.

Jesper caught his look and softened immediately. His grin dimmed into something gentler, like he was saying without words: You belong here too.

Colm rose from the table, gathering the empty plates. “Eat up. Sun’s climbing, and that barn won’t wait.”

Jesper saluted with his mug. “Aye aye, captain.”

Colm rolled his eyes but smiled all the same.

—

The barn smelled of hay and old wood, sun streaming in through gaps between the slats. Dust motes floated in the air, catching the light like flecks of gold.

Colm swung the doors open with practiced ease. Jesper trailed behind, still nursing his mug of coffee, while Wylan hesitated at the threshold. The space was larger than he expected, the rafters high, shadows stretching like the arches of a cathedral.

“Roof needs patching before the autumn rains,” Colm said, pointing up at the beams. “And the latch on that stall’s gone loose. Plenty to do.”

Jesper groaned dramatically. “Da, you didn’t say there’d be manual labor. I thought this was a vacation.”

Colm raised a brow. “You think food grows itself?”

Jesper winked at Wylan. “Maybe it does here. Magic farm.”

Wylan managed a small smile, though his hands twisted together. He wasn’t sure where to stand, what to touch. He was used to tools, to metal and fire and precise measurements — not the raw heft of wood and rope and nails.

Colm must have noticed his hesitation, because he stepped closer and held out a hammer. “You any good with one of these?”

The weight was familiar in Wylan’s hand, though not in this setting. “I’ve… used one.”

“Good enough. Come on.” Colm led him to the loose stall latch. The wood was splintering, the iron hinge bent. “See? Won’t hold a goat, let alone a horse. Think you can set it right?”

Wylan crouched, studying the angle. His fingers itched with the need to measure, to sketch out a plan, but instead he pressed the hinge back into place, testing the give. “Needs a new nail. And reinforcement here.” He pointed to the weak joint.

Colm nodded approvingly. “Sharp eye.”

Heat rushed to Wylan’s face at the simple praise. He bent over the latch quickly, pretending focus, but inside something trembled — fragile, disbelieving.

Jesper lounged against a beam, sipping from his mug, pretending to supervise. “Look at you, love. Already barn-certified. Next thing you know, you’ll be driving that tractor better than me.”

“Wouldn’t take much,” Colm muttered, but his eyes were kind when they met Wylan’s.

Wylan swallowed hard and hammered the nail into place. The sound rang loud in the stillness, grounding. For once, the weight of expectation wasn’t crushing him. It was just a task, clear and simple, with Colm’s quiet approval at his back.

When he finished, the latch swung clean and held firm.

“Well done,” Colm said. “That’ll keep.”

The words sank deeper than Wylan expected. Well done. He couldn’t remember the last time a father had said that to him. Maybe he never had.

Jesper slung an arm around his shoulders, beaming. “See? You’re a natural. Soon Da’s gonna forget he even had me.”

Colm chuckled. “Not likely. But he does fine work.”

Wylan’s throat tightened. He kept his gaze on the stall, blinking fast.

—

The house had settled into silence. Only the faint whistle of wind through the cracks of the old windows and the occasional creak of settling wood punctuated the night. Wylan lingered near the kitchen, watching Jesper leave for a second round of tea for them both.

Colm appeared from the hallway, slippers whispering across the floor. “Still awake?” His voice was low, steady.

Wylan flinched, caught in his own spiraling thoughts. “Yeah… just… couldn’t sleep.”

Colm leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “That right there, you don’t have to explain.” His eyes softened. “I know what it’s like, to feel out of place, even where you’re meant to be.”

Wylan’s chest tightened. “I keep thinking I shouldn’t… be here. That I’m… too… complicated.” His words stumbled over themselves, raw and hesitant.

Colm took a step closer, careful but grounding. “I’ve known Jesper all his life. Believe me, he’s complicated, full of tricks and fire and mischief. And yet here you are — somehow fitting in. Not perfectly, but enough.”

Wylan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t even know if I deserve that.”

Colm’s smile was patient, quiet. “Deserve? That’s the wrong word. You exist, Wylan. You’ve always existed. And sometimes that’s all it takes for someone to love you.”

Wylan swallowed hard. The lump in his throat felt like it might choke him. “It’s just… different here. Jesper and you… you have this rhythm, this history. I’m… an outsider. I’m afraid of screwing it up.”

Colm crossed the small distance between them, resting a hand lightly on Wylan’s shoulder. “You’re not an outsider. You’re the boy my son chose to care about. That alone gives you your place here.”

Wylan blinked back heat and unshed tears. “I panic. I… I don’t know how to stop.”

Colm crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to Wylan’s eye level. “I’ve watched Jesper get into trouble enough to know — panic happens. It passes. What matters is what comes after. And after? You’re still standing. You’re still here. You’re still part of this.”

The weight of the words settled in Wylan’s chest like sunlight breaking through clouds. His body loosened fractionally. “I just… I’m not used to this. To being wanted.”

“You are,” Colm said simply. “And I know Jesper makes it loud and messy, but I see it too. You belong. Here, with us.”

Wylan’s hands twisted together, and he finally let himself release a small, shuddering breath. Jesper’s tea clinked on the counter behind him, a faint reminder that life went on outside this cocoon of honesty.

Colm straightened, giving him a final reassuring nod. “Go on. Take your tea. I won’t bite. But remember — you’re welcome here. Always.”

Wylan lifted his head, eyes meeting Colm’s. For the first time in years, he felt like maybe he could believe it.