The Handler

The sun hadn't fully broken over the mountains yet. The land was still painted in soft grays and quiet blues, the kind of morning that held its breath.

Sebastian Wescot sat on the wide wooden porch beside John Dutton, both nursing cups of coffee in easy silence. It had become something of a ritual—Sebastian showing up just after dawn, either with notes about a pregnant mare or just an excuse to sit where the view stretched endless.

John didn't mind the company. In fact, he found he looked forward to these mornings more than he expected.

"Those calves you checked last week," John said, lifting his cup, "still doing alright?"

Sebastian nodded, gaze trained on the distant fencing where a few cattle milled in the low light. "Gaining weight. One of them's favoring a leg, but nothing serious. I'll keep watching it."

John grunted in approval. "I appreciate that. You got a good eye."

Sebastian didn't respond right away. He shifted slightly in his chair, clearing his throat as he looked down into his mug. The tops of his ears turned a little pink.

John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching faintly. "You get all shy when you're complimented, don't you?"

Sebastian exhaled a quiet huff, somewhere between a laugh and a protest. "I... just don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," John said easily. "You just gotta learn how to take it."

Sebastian took a sip of his coffee to hide the faint smile tugging at his mouth.

A few moments passed in silence before John asked, "You ever think about doing anything else? Besides animals?"

Sebastian shook his head. "No. Never wanted to."

John nodded, content with that answer. Then, almost out of nowhere, he said, "You know any other weird animal facts? You seem like the type to have a brain full of 'em."

Sebastian blinked, surprised. "Uh..."

John leaned back, amused. "C'mon. Hit me with something. I got time."

Sebastian shifted, setting his mug down on the porch rail. "Well... did you know horses can't throw up?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Can't throw up?"

"They don't have the same muscle structure in their esophagus like humans or dogs do. Their digestive system only works one way. That's why colic is so dangerous—it builds up with nowhere to go."

John let out a low whistle. "Poor bastards."

Sebastian nodded. "Yeah."

A pause.

"Give me another."

Sebastian looked slightly panicked, which only made John smirk more.

"Uh..." Sebastian searched his mental file, rubbing the back of his neck. "Cows... they have best friends. If they get separated, their stress levels spike."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Sebastian replied with a small, almost bashful grin. "They'll moo more, eat less. You can measure the cortisol levels. It's real."

John chuckled, deeply amused. "Cows got more emotional intelligence than half the men I've known."

Sebastian gave a rare full smile at that, his eyes crinkling faintly. But the moment he realized John was looking at him, that smile faltered just a bit, like he was embarrassed he'd let it slip.

John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You ever get tired of holding everything in, son?"

Sebastian's expression shifted—gentle, not guarded. "I don't know how to be loud, sir."

"You don't have to be loud," John said, voice low. "Just don't forget that there's more to you than your silence."

Sebastian swallowed, then gave a small nod. "I'll... try."

They sat there in companionable quiet again, coffee cooling between them, the sky slowly brightening with gold and pink as the ranch began to stir.

From inside the house, the sound of Beth's heels echoed faintly on the wood floor.

John smirked. "Better keep that cow fact in your pocket. You might need it when she corners you next."

Sebastian let out the softest laugh. "God help me."