By Linc

The farm was finally quieting down. Harvest was done, irrigation lines rolled up, and the air carried the crisp bite of change. Days still started early, but they didn’t run long. Not anymore. Jack found himself restless. Not from lack of sleep, not from too much work, but from too little to do. So when Ethan asked if he wanted a ride into town, Jack didn’t hesitate. He jumped at the chance, the belt by now as familiar as his boots.

Ethan gave him a look, glancing to Jack’s waist then chin tipping toward the main house in a silent question. Jack just shrugged, and hopped in the truck.  he ten-mile drive went by in a blink. They stopped at the bar around half past six after picking up provisions for the coming weeks. They had a beer each, enjoying the quiet hum of the place. An hour in, Ethan glanced toward the window, then back to Jack. “I’m heading home. You want to stay awhile?”

Jack considered it, weighing the quiet of the farm against the possibility of something—anything—different. “Yeah. I’ll stay a bit.”

Ethan gave a small nod. “Text when you’re ready.”

“Will do.” Jack watched him leave, then turned back to the room.

It wasn’t much of a bar: brick facade, half-lit sign, no music until someone fed the jukebox. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone, or acted like it.

Jack lingered at the counter, nursing his beer, letting the room wash over him. He’d long since given up scanning for anyone interested; rural bars weren’t exactly brimming with options.

About another hour in, the ride, the beer, and the two glasses of water he’d downed all caught up with him. He made his way to the men’s room, weaving through a few regulars who barely looked up.

On the way, he passed a guy about his age — dark jeans, hoodie, a clean-cut face that didn’t quite match the small-town bar. Their eyes didn’t linger, not yet.

The last stall was free. The lock didn’t work, but it was the only one open. Jack shrugged, stepped in, and sat — the belt giving its muted metallic note against the seat. A sound long faded into background for him.

He barely noticed the shadow of boots pausing outside the stall.

“You good in there?” The voice said, unfamiliar but not unkind.

Jack tensed. “Yeah. All good.”

A beat. Then a quiet chuckle. “Hey, no judgment. If it’s a PA or somethin’, I get it.”

Jack stayed quiet.

The man leaned just enough to offer a smile—and froze.

“Oh,” he said quickly, stepping back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Just… wasn’t expecting to see that.”

The wooden door thudded closed, the silence sharp enough to bring Jack back to the task at hand.

He finished up, adjusted himself, and washed his hands. When he stepped out, the stranger was waiting near the door.

“Hey,” he said. “Not trying to be weird. I just… don’t think I’ve ever actually seen one in person. You don’t have to explain. But if you want to, my place is a block up. Quieter than here.”

Jack blinked. The guy looked steady — late twenties, fit, with the kind of posture that came from hours behind a desk instead of a plow.

“Owen,” he offered, leaning against the bar counter with an easy posture. “IT work, remote. Moved out here for the space, not the scene.”

“Jack,” he replied, shifting his weight, boots scuffing the worn floor. “Farmhand. Yeah, this place can get loud quick—different kind of loud.”

Owen tilted his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Sounds like you’ve got stories. Come on, got a stout at my place you might like. Quieter than this.”

The night air hit them as they stepped outside, cool and still along the desolate street. Owen’s questions hung unspoken—Jack could see them in the way his eyes flicked toward him, curious but held back. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged, until Owen broke it, voice low.

“So… it’s your choice? To wear it, I mean?” His tone was careful, like testing thin ice, more curiosity than doubt.

Jack exhaled, surprised by his own willingness to answer. “Yeah. My choice. Complicated, but mine.” He glanced at Owen, catching a flicker in his expression—not pity, not judgment, but something like respect mixed with intrigue.

Owen nodded, letting the topic settle as they reached his duplex—a neat brick place just off the main drag. Inside, it was lived-in but orderly: succulents lined the sill, their green edges catching the soft glow of monitors in the corner, shelves sagging with paperbacks. No creak of wood, no scent of diesel—just a quiet that felt foreign to Jack, like a pause he didn’t know he needed.

They cracked open stouts from the fridge, the hiss of the caps breaking the stillness. Owen leaned against the counter, casual, while Jack perched on a stool, tracing the bottle’s label with a thumb, the cold glass grounding him.

“So,” Owen said, grin crooked, “that thing you wear—every day, or just for kicks?”

Jack paused, bottle halfway to his lips. The directness caught him off-guard; with Ethan, the belt was a fact, not a conversation.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough. “Been a while now. Three, maybe four weeks since I last got it off. Strange to say it out loud, but… I’ve stopped losing sleep over it.”

Owen’s eyes lingered, curiosity plain but gentle. “That’s… dedication. Does it ever drive you crazy? Or does it feel more like a challenge?”

Jack shrugged, a wry smile tugging at him. “Both, depending on the day. Keeps me honest. Summer was the hardest — heat didn’t help.”

Owen chuckled softly, taking a sip. “Fair. I can’t imagine. There’s a part of me that’s… curious, though. What it feels like, you know? The control.”

Jack tilted his head. “Most people only picture the obvious part. But it’s the little things that get you.”

“Like?” Owen leaned forward, genuinely interested.

“Work, mostly. Can’t exactly bend the same in a field when I’m fixing an irrigation line. Belt shifts, digs in. Long days mean you just… live with it.” Jack shrugged, like it was no bigger deal than sunburn.

“Cleaning?” Owen asked carefully, almost like he was worried about crossing a line.

Jack smirked. “Built for it. Solid piece, covers everything. But the little holes aren’t just for show. —they handle both drainage and irrigation. Practical as it gets. You learn to be efficient.”

Owen’s eyebrows lifted, more impressed than anything. “That’s… actually kind of clever.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, lifting his bottle. “Simple, but it works. Beats having to explain an odd smell.”

Owen nodded slowly, letting that sink in. “And, uh — bathroom?”

Jack gave a small laugh, more amused than embarrassed. “Figured you’d ask. Not as complicated as you’d think. More sit than stand, less aim to worry about. The rest is just… routine.” He left it there, matter-of-fact, no hint of apology.

Owen smiled faintly. “Guess I’d never thought about it like that. Online, it’s always about the fantasy. Never the Tuesday morning reality.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, lifting his bottle. “Reality’s where the challenge is.”

The admission hung between them, shifting the air. They drifted to the couch, swapping stories like old friends — Owen pulling up a folder of downloads on his laptop, Jack laughing at a few he recognized from his city days, back when late-night Wi-Fi was his escape. The nostalgia stung, a mirror to a life he’d shelved, but Owen’s easy laugh softened it.

The conversation ebbed into quieter territory — rural life, the town’s rhythms. Owen’s knee brushed Jack’s thigh, a casual touch that lingered. Jack didn’t pull away, letting the warmth seep in, a contrast to the belt’s cold press. Owen’s hand rested on his shoulder, light but intentional, and Jack leaned into it, the contact a relief he hadn’t realized he craved.

Owen shifted closer, his breath warm against Jack’s ear. “You okay with this?” he murmured, voice low.

Jack nodded, pulse quickening. Their mouths met — slow at first, then deeper, hands exploring with a tentative urgency. Owen’s fingers traced the belt’s edge, pausing where metal met skin. He pulled back, brow furrowing, then gave a sheepish grin. “Hell of a thing to live with.”

Jack laughed, rough and raw. “Yeah. Tells me when to stop.”

Owen studied him, then leaned back, respecting the line. “Fair enough. Curious as I am, I’m not about to wrestle that thing off.” His tone was light, but his eyes held something thoughtful.

They stayed on the couch, shoes kicked off, the fridge’s hum filling the silence. Jack felt the frustration settle — sexual, sure, but also a clarity sharpening beneath it. Owen was kind, attractive, intrigued by the belt’s story, not just its presence. But it wasn’t just about Ethan’s key; it was about what the belt meant — a choice he wasn’t ready to unravel alone.

Exhaustion crept in, and they stretched out, shoulder to shoulder. Owen’s breathing steadied beside him, a quiet anchor. Jack closed his eyes, not at peace but not running either—just present, the belt a silent partner in the stillness.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the floor. Jack woke to the ache in his back and the stout’s aftertaste, memory flooding back with the belt’s familiar weight. Owen stirred, stretching with a groan. “Morning,” he said, voice rough. “Want coffee before you head back? No rush — your guy’s not expecting you at dawn.”

Jack managed a nod, the knot in his stomach easing. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

The drive was short, barely ten minutes, but felt longer with every passing block. Owen filled the silence with small talk about his remote projects, the quiet pace of town, the convenience of having decent coffee within walking distance. Jack nodded when he was supposed to, but his mind was elsewhere — replaying last night, the heat of it, the way it stopped cold against steel. And the unanswered question gnawed at him: what would Ethan think?

They pulled into the farmyard a little after ten. The pickup was already parked by the sheds, tools stacked neat in the back. Ethan was there, sleeves rolled, moving fence posts like he’d been at it for hours. Solid. Steady. Unshaken.

Jack climbed out of Owen’s car, suddenly aware of how late it was. “Thanks for the lift,” he muttered, eyes on the gravel.

Owen just gave him a nod and a half-smile before pulling away.

Jack squared his shoulders and crossed the yard. Ethan didn’t pause in his work, didn’t even look up at first. When he finally did, it was with that same flat calm that made Jack’s chest tighten.

“You’re late,” Ethan said.

Jack scrambled for words, an apology half-formed on his tongue. “I—sorry, I should’ve—”

“Nap first,” Ethan interrupted, setting another post. “We’ll get back at it after lunch.”

That was it. No lecture. No heat. Just matter-of-fact. And somehow that was worse. The absence of anger left space for Jack’s imagination to run wild. Furious under the surface? Testing him? Or did last night not matter at all?

By the time he reached the bunkhouse, Jack’s pulse was louder than the creak of the floorboards. He dropped onto the cot, exhaustion dragging him under before the questions had anywhere to go.

Sleep claimed him, but answers didn’t. By the time the porch bell rang at noon, he was no closer to peace.

The porch bell rang sharp at noon, dragging Jack out of a half-suffocated nap. His body wanted another three hours, but the smell of something hot and savory tugged him toward the main house.

Ethan was already at the table, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a rinse at the pump. He didn’t say anything when Jack slid into the chair across from him. Just passed the plate. Meat, potatoes, bread. Simple, filling.

They ate in silence. Not the easy kind Jack had grown used to, but something thicker. He kept waiting for Ethan to cut in: a jab, a question, anything. Nothing came. Only the scrape of forks, the steady rhythm of chewing.

Halfway through, Jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He froze. Ethan’s eyes flicked up once, then back to his plate. No comment. Just that grunt he gave when something registered.

Jack fished the phone out anyway, thumb sliding across the screen.

Owen: Had a good time last night. You alive out there?

His pulse spiked. He swallowed too fast and nearly choked on bread. Ethan didn’t look up, but Jack felt the weight of his presence all the same.

“I’ll be out by the truck in twenty,” Ethan said, voice even, not breaking the rhythm of his meal.

Jack shoved the phone back into his pocket like it might burn him, then stuffed down the rest of his plate in frantic gulps. The silence pressed harder with every bite. He couldn’t tell if Ethan was ignoring the phone on purpose or if that was just Ethan being Ethan. Either way, it left Jack’s mind racing with every possibility — furious, indifferent, disappointed — until none of them made sense anymore.

By morning, nothing had changed — except the weight in Jack’s chest.

The next couple of days crawled by. Work got done, but nothing felt settled. Ethan carried himself the same as always — steady, focused, saying little — but to Jack it felt like a performance. Or worse, like indifference.

Jack found the silence unbearable. Hauling sacks, checking irrigation, even just riding in the truck left too much space for his mind to gnaw on itself. Every grunt from Ethan felt loaded, every pause intentional, until Jack couldn’t tell if he was imagining it all.

Jack tried small talk. Tried jokes. Tried working harder, faster, longer. None of it broke the surface. Ethan nodded, maybe grunted, but gave nothing back. And in the gaps, Jack’s imagination flooded in.

By the third evening, he snapped.

“You’re just not gonna say anything, huh?” Jack blurted as they stacked sacks of cover grain in the shed. “Not a word about the other night, about me disappearing, about you picking up all the slack? You’re just… fine with it?”

Ethan hefted another sack like it weighed nothing. “You came back. You worked. That’s what matters.”

“That’s it?” Jack’s voice cracked. “That’s all you’ve got? I screw up, I—” he bit the words back before Owen’s name could slip out — “I lose a night, and you don’t even care?”

Ethan turned then, slow, eyes flat but not unkind. “You want me to care like you imagine it. That’s different.”

The words landed like a slap. Jack’s chest burned. “So what, none of this means anything to you? The belt, the chain, the—”

Ethan didn’t let him finish. He caught Jack by the elbow and steered him out the shed door without raising his voice. Jack stumbled, protesting, but Ethan didn’t stop until they reached the pole barn. The big door groaned open, shadows stretching long across the floor.

Jack’s heart hammered. “What the hell are you—”

The chain was around his neck before he finished, the padlock clicking shut with one decisive motion. Loose enough not to hurt. Firm enough to remind.

Jack’s rage spiked. He pulled against the chain, words spilling fast and wild. Accusations. Questions. Pleas. Was Ethan jealous? Was he angry? Was he punishing him?

Ethan said nothing. Just folded his arms, stepped back, and went back to work to let the storm burn itself out.

Jack’s voice grew hoarse, shouts breaking into ragged edges. Wood echoed with punches they both knew would never land on skin. His chest ached. His throat burned. Finally the fury cracked into something smaller, sharper. Tears blurred his vision, his knees buckling as he sank to the floor.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I don’t even know what I want from me.”

The barn settled into silence but for his sobbing. Outside, the night cooled fast, the smell of hay and earth mixing with the ache in his lungs. Time stretched until even his crying felt hollow, leaving him shivering and curled up on the floor of the pole barn.

The distant sound of gravel crunching beneath bootsteps drew closer. Ethan appeared and crouched beside Jack, one heavy hand settling on his shoulder.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

Jack nodded, too spent to speak.

Ethan didn’t unlock the chain right away. He didn’t need to. The touch on Jack’s shoulder was enough. Firm. Grounding.

“Then get some sleep,” Ethan said simply. He put the key in the lock holding the chain around Jack’s neck, the chain clinking softly as it fell.

Jack lay down right there on the boards, throat raw, chest hollow, but the panic slowly gave way to exhaustion. The chill bit deeper until he finally found enough strength to stumble back to the bunkhouse. For the first time in hours, his body gave him something like peace.

The morning came somehow cold even though the sunbeams hitting him felt warm on his skin. Jack woke stiff and hollow, the chain’s ghost still heavy around his neck. His throat ached from shouting, his eyes raw from tears.

For a moment, he lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’d already lost everything. If last night had been the point where Ethan decided he wasn’t worth the trouble.

But when he finally dragged himself outside, the faint smell of coffee in the crisp morning air hit him first. His mind was a little clearer when he saw the familiar second cup of coffee waiting on the porch. The sight left him both confused and relieved.

He made his way over, each step both too short and strangely heavy.

Ethan sat there like it was any other morning — boots planted, shoulders loose, watching the horizon. He didn’t look up until Jack eased onto the steps.

Without a word, Ethan nudged the full cup closer.

Jack’s hands shook a little as he took it. The first sip scalded his tongue, but the warmth settled into him, slow and steady.

Ethan raised his cup in a quiet hello before asking, “You ready to tell me what the hell last night was about?”

They sat like that for a while, the only sound the wind shifting through the dry grass.

Jack opened his mouth — and shut it again. The words stuck like stones in his throat.

Ethan studied him a moment, then tipped his chin slightly. “Need a day?”

Jack managed a nod, staring down at the step like he could burn a hole through it.

“I can handle the farm a bit,” Ethan said evenly. “You take the time. Sort yourself out. Then we’ll talk.”

It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t even advice. Just space, offered plain with a door still open.

Jack gripped the cup tighter, a knot in his chest loosening just enough to breathe. He didn’t trust his voice yet, but he managed another nod.

Ethan gave the smallest of nods back. Then he sipped his coffee, eyes already drifting toward the horizon, as if the conversation had landed exactly where it needed to.

Jack sat there a while longer, the steam from his cup rising slow, his pulse steadying for the first time since the barn.

For the first time since the bar, he understood the silence wasn’t punishment at all, but invitation.

Note: This story originally appeared on LockedMEN