Page 48 of The Broken Dawn

"Mm?"

"I think I can manage now."

Right. Of course. Jakob snatched his hands back, nearly toppling the milk pail in his haste. He grabbed his second bucket, retreating to Lornskie's stall where he could breathe without inhaling the scent of Harald's cologne mixed with his father's soap.

By the time Jakob finished with Lornskie and moved on to the goats, Harald was still working on his first cow. Sweat dampened the prince's hair at the temples, but he hadn't complained once. The sound of milk hitting metal filled the barn, punctuated by the occasional frustrated grunt from Harald when his stream faltered.

"You're thinking too hard," Jakob said, keeping his eyes firmly on his own work. "Just... let your hands remember the motion."

"Easy for you to say," Harald muttered. "You've been doing this your whole life."

"True." Jakob risked a glance over. Harald's brow was furrowed in concentration, his sleeves rolled up to reveal pale forearms dusted with golden hair. "But some things..." Jakob looked away quickly, heat creeping up his neck. "Some things just take practice."

A flash of orange and white caught Jakob's eye—one of the barn cats slinking along the wall. She was the most standoffish of the lot, so wild he hadn't even settled on a name for her. Usually she vanished at the first sign of humans, appearing only after they left to lap up spilled milk.

But to his surprise, Harald clicked his tongue softly and held out his hand. The cat paused, tail twitching. Then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, she padded over and rubbed against Harald's fingers.

"You must be a magician," Jakob said, his hands stilling on the goat's udder. "I've never seen that cat come close to anyone. Not even Rachel, and she bribes them with cream."

Harald scratched under the cat's chin, and something in Jakob's chest caught at the gentleness in his touch. The morning light streaming through the barn slats caught in Harald's hair, turning it to gold, highlighting the smudge of dirt on his cheek and the way his borrowed shirt gaped at the collar.

"I've always been good with difficult creatures," Harald said softly, not looking up from the cat. "The ones everyone else gives up on."

Because that's what Harald had done with him, hadn't he? Seen past his prickly exterior, his defensive walls, his sharp edges. Just like this wild cat, Jakob had found himself drawing closer and closer, despite all his intentions to keep his distance.

The cat pushed her head against Harald's palm, purring loud enough for Jakob to hear. She looked utterly content, as if she'd found exactly where she belonged. Jakob knew exactly how she felt.

"Sometimes," Harald continued, his voice still quiet, "they just need someone to be patient. To show them they're worth the effort."

Jakob's throat felt tight. He turned back to his work, focusing on the rhythm of milking to steady himself. But he couldn't stop stealing glances at Harald—this prince in borrowed clothes, covered in hay dust and cat hair, who somehow looked more natural here in Jakob's worn-out world than he ever had in his palace finery.

"You're good at that,"Jakob said finally. "Being patient."

Harald looked up then, meeting his eyes. The smile that curved his lips was soft and secret, meant just for Jakob. "Some things are worth being patient for."

The air between them felt charged, heavy with things neither of them were ready to say. The cat, sensing the tension, flicked her tail and disappeared into the shadows. But Harald's words lingered, echoing in the quiet of the barn like a promise.

"Last thing—mucking out the stalls." Jakob grabbed two pitchforks from their hooks, trying not to think about how natural it felt, working beside Harald. Like they'd been doing this together for years instead of hours. "This is where those nice clothes would have met their end."

Harald took the pitchfork, determination setting his jaw. The borrowed flannel stretched across his shoulders as he gripped the handle, and Jakob forced himself to look away. "Show me."

"Start at the back of the stall." Jakob demonstrated, lifting the soiled straw. "Work your way forward. Fresh straw goes down after."

They worked side by side, the rhythm of their pitchforks falling into sync. Harald's technique was clumsy but earnest, and he didn't flinch from the mess. He'd long since taken off the heavy wool sweater, folding it neatly on the milking stool as if it were cashmere and silk, not rough sheep's wool. By mid-morning, sweat darkened the borrowed flannel at his collar, and bits of straw clung to his hair.

"You know," Harald said after a while, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow, "I don't think I've ever done anything actually useful before today."

Jakob snorted. "What, all those diplomatic meetings aren't useful?"

"They're important," Harald admitted, attacking a particularly stubborn patch of straw. "But it's all just... talking. Making nice. Wearing the right clothes and saying the right things so that you leave the other side with right impression." He gestured at himself, hay-covered and disheveled. "This? This is real. When we're done, the animals will be fed and clean. The milk will be ready for cheese. We'll have actually accomplished something tangible."

The simple honesty in his voice made Jakob's chest ache. He watched Harald work—this prince who could have been anywhere else, doing anything else, choosing to be here in a dirty barn with him.

"How is it," Jakob said before he could stop himself, "that no matter how long I know you, you're never what I expect?"

Harald paused, leaning on his pitchfork. A strand of hay-strewn hair fell across his forehead, and something in Jakob's fingers itched to brush it back. "What did you expect?"

"Someone who'd take one look at the muck and run back to their silk sheets." Jakob jabbed his fork into the straw, the familiar bitterness rising. "Someone who'd struggle not to treat all this—" he gestured around the barn, but they both knew he meant more than that, "—like it was beneath them."