Sleepy Fox Hollow hayride

he didn’t answer right away—just let the weight of it settle, let the wind move around them as if it too understood the quiet between a stallion and the one who watched him closer than the rest.

her voice lingered, like dew clinging to mane.

he nosed through the grass and plucked a mouthful free, chewing slow. thoughtful. his tail swayed behind him in a lazy rhythm, ears flicking back and forward as he listened—to her breath, to the breeze, to the murmurs of the band settling for the evening.

there was a lot he could’ve said. about battles, about endings, about how stallions don’t often get to age with grace. how his father had died with foam at his mouth and blood on his knees. how he was ready to do the same, if it came to it.

but not now. not tonight.

he swallowed. lifted his head just long enough to look at her.

then laugh, he said, voice low, gravel-smooth, not a command but a wish.
i’ll keep listenin'.

and with that, he bent his head once more to graze—silent, steady, content—for now.

fade here!