You know the drill! Please don't post unless your myself or Avenoir, but feel free to read along!

Name

Sawyer Tenneck

Age

23

Nationality / Ethnicity

American, Sawyer grew up in the PNW

Appearance

Sawyer is about 6’1 with blond hair that is often a fairly unkempt length for a shorter haircut and is somewhere between a mess of waves and curls. His eyes are a light brown color that is somewhere between hazelnut and tan, a somewhat rare color. He isn’t much for style and is a fairly simple man, but does know how to dress for an occasion if it is expected of him. He is very muscular from a lot of hard labor at the barn, filling out every inch of his tall frame.

Personality

Sawyer tends to be a simplistic, average, hard-working guy. He has a very significant conscience that often weighs on him and causes a fair amount of anxiety. His primary motive is to do what is right and just, and he is fairly altruistic. He enjoys living a simple, drama-free life, and working with the horses gives him a sense of tranquility. He does whatever he can to stay out of the spotlight, and is a big believer that actions speak louder than words.

Backstory

Sawyer grew up in a trailer park in rural Oregon, but lived in other places in the west where his mother could find work. His father was in and out of his life, and Sawyer’s mom was fairly unstable. It’s safe to say the drama and instability of his early life caused him to seek a tranquil, peaceful life for himself that had structure and stability. When Sawyer was in his early teens, his mother was struggling to make ends meet and pressured him to find a way to contribute to their family. There was a local ranch within walking distance at the time, so Sawyer spent a lot of time caring for the horses and doing farm chores, thus developing his love for the sport. In his mid-to-late teens, Sawyer ended up in Nevada, finding work for another ranching farm. From there, he learned the art of horsemanship, breaking young horses, and western riding. His horsemanship skills were so good that he completed his apprenticeship at the age of seventeen, taking his skills all over the west and eventually landing at a prestigious show jumping stable where the owner hired Sawyer as full-time staff to assist with training and instilling manners in the young horses as well as problem-solving any issues with the competition horses that were coming and going from the farm. Because of his hard-working nature and his ability to learn quickly, he continued to expand his skills to barn management, breeding, and learning more about the world of show jumping. As his boss continued to see his natural ability for managing difficult horses and his potential as a rider, he slowly rose the ranks from eighteen to twenty, going from taking prospects to small schooling shows to ending up as a member of the barn’s competition team. At twenty one, he was encouraged to go out on his own and take various sponsorships and networking opportunities to manage his image as a rider and trainer. Since then, he has been all over the country, continuing to develop as an up-and-coming name on the international showjumping scene.

Relationship to Love Interest

She is the daughter of the breeder who hired Sawyer full-time. When he worked there, she was away essentially the entire time, but he heard stories about the breeder’s infamous daughter. He didn’t actually meet her until an office Christmas party right before he left his job there, and has only encountered her one or two times since.

Other

Sawyer has five siblings. He currently has three horses: Denizen Z, TF Belleville, and a foal on the way. Sawyer has decided to train in Germany after receiving an invitation to ride full-time for a prestigious German team and their sport horses. The broodmare that is carrying Sawyer’s horse is nearby to this farm, so he’s decided it’s a good time to expand his horizons and be nearby in case anything occurs.

Sawyer | Equestrian Center | Elara

Gestüt Falkenried International. Sawyer’s gaze flickered through the blocky lettering as he got off the public transport, taking slow, lofty strides toward what he assumed was the main barn. The facilities were everything he’d expected from Germany–practical, efficient, not necessarily flashy but worthy of respect. The majority of the facility’s money went toward the horses and riders, not the buildings. They didn’t need to prove they were someone with fancy gold lettering and marble pillars, they did that in the show ring while besting all of their competition. Sawyer hadn’t necessarily chosen here, but it was where the von Hohenfels had connections, and it wasn’t like he was going to turn down an opportunity to be a salaried rider for one of the most well-respected breeders in the world. He had been intimidated by the German way of doing things when he’d started working with the von Hohenfels back in the states, but he’d come to appreciate their way of doing things. Practical, efficient, never saying more than was absolutely necessary to get a point across. He could stay quiet, take direction well, and show up places at the time that he needed to be there. It wasn’t the most comforting environment, but he’d grown to appreciate it given that it was the exact opposite of the chaos he’d grown up in. The silent judgment felt like peace, and the critique felt like support to an individual who had grown up with all chaos, yelling, and no sense of guidance or direction. It wasn’t somewhere he thrived, but he was content enough.

Carrying a thermos full of black coffee he’d yet to drink, Sawyer glanced at his watch and put a bit more haste into his steps. It was nearly 06:30, and he was supposed to meet them in front of the main barn at that time. Usually he would’ve prepared more, been awake earlier, done more to study the buildings he was going to be inhabiting, but he’d only gotten in late the night prior and hadn’t even had an opportunity to get to his own horses yet at a neighboring farm. There was no rest in sight in a day that was just beginning, and seemingly had no end.

There wasn’t much of an orientation, which Sawyer had been expecting. He’d been handed a daily riding sheet, horse list, arena schedule, competition calendar, and neatly-inscribed notes on the horses he’d been assigned. He was briefly introduced to all of the staff as they walked and talked, and Sawyer mostly stayed silent other than polite and firm introductions to everyone around him. He was walked through the barn and shown the three horses he was specifically assigned–an older Grand Prix mare returning to work after producing a foal, a young green mare being developed carefully for future competition and breeding value, and a third mare that was described to him as explosive, talented, difficult, and a variety of other adjectives that made him understand why he’d been brought there. For whatever reason, Sawyer had a way with difficult mares, and it wasn’t much of a surprise that the reason they’d asked his former employers to arrange a meeting between them was another one of the same. There were a million more qualified individuals for this job, but none with as big of a reputation for finding success with this specific type of horse than Sawyer.

As he returned back the way he came with the barn manager, Felix, his attention was drawn to a pristine and dignified figure, one he knew well.

“I suppose you need no introduction, but Elara will be working as an intern for us for this competition season. I’m sure you will be comfortable working closely with her, as her job will entail managing your schedule, competition entries, and other aspects of business management that affect your daily life.”

“Elara,” Sawyer watched her with a calm demeanor, rigid and not otherwise giving any indication of warmth nor displeasure. It wasn’t that he hated her. No, it was more that she had a way of messing with his head. She was the very embodiment of what came to his mind when he thought of an entitled girl with a rich father. She was flirtatious, charming, and didn’t seem to take anything too seriously. This never made sense to a man who made everything serious, and the prospect of things getting too real between them caused Sawyer to avoid her like the plague. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life–in her laugh, her mannerisms, the way she acted as if everyone was her best friend–but this only made him hate her more. He knew that to assume that their interactions meant something was to give himself a way to lose the career and the connections he’d worked so hard to build. He couldn’t risk that, he had nothing else in this world other than his talent and his reputation. So, yeah, he’d gone to great lengths to avoid her, to appear off-putting, to appear disinterested in holding the attention of the person whom everyone wanted to be acknowledged by. And, if that made her want him more, that wasn’t his problem. In order to survive, he’d had to make her the enemy.

“I suppose if you’re handling all the paperwork, we should stay out of each other’s way nicely.” He adjusted the cuffs on his gloves. “Anyway. The mares won’t ride themselves.”

And, with no further comment, Sawyer was off to find the horse assigned to him for his first riding block, leaving both Elara and Felix in his wake.

Elara | Gestüt Falkenried International | Sawyer

Germany always felt quieter to Elara than America did. Not literally quieter, because the stable yard at Gestüt Falkenried was already alive despite the early hour—horses calling from stalls, the steady scrape of mucking carts across concrete, snippets of German carrying sharply through the cold morning air - but quieter in the sense that nothing here seemed interested in performing for attention. The facility itself sat tucked into the Bavarian countryside with an understated sort of confidence that only came from generations of success. No dramatic entry gates, no polished marble, no desperate attempt to impress wealthy clients upon arrival. Places like Falkenried didn’t need to advertise what they were. Their riders did that in the ring, their horses did it in breeding catalogs, and their reputation traveled through the industry long before most people ever stepped foot onto the property.

It reminded her a little too much of her father in that way. Reserved, old money, and entirely aware of its own importance without ever needing to say it aloud.

As the car disappeared back down the drive behind her, Elara adjusted the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder and took a slow look across the stable yard. The cold hit differently here than it did in Wellington. Cleaner. Sharper. She could already feel it creeping beneath the collar of her coat while light rain clung to the stone paths and darkened the roofs of the barns. She had been here before, of course. Not constantly, but enough throughout her childhood and teenage years that most of the staff recognized her immediately as she stepped into the main barn. Her father’s connections to Falkenried ran deep enough that she’d spent years hearing about the operation long before she understood what any of it actually meant. It wasn’t unusual for her father to place horses with them, collaborate on breeding prospects, or send riders through their program temporarily. Falkenried was respected in the same quiet, dangerous way the von Hohenfels name was. The kind of operation people spoke carefully about because everyone knew exactly what influence they carried within the sport.

“Elara.”

Her attention shifted toward one of the grooms moving down the aisle with a young stallion in hand, his expression softening slightly with recognition. A few more greetings followed almost immediately after that, casual enough to feel genuine rather than obligatory. She responded easily, slipping between German and English without thinking much about it, the heavier accent she usually flattened in America returning naturally the longer she spoke. Here, she didn’t have to smooth herself out into something easier for other people to understand. The familiarity settled around her quickly despite how long it had been since she’d spent any real amount of time in Germany, and for a brief moment she almost forgot how unwillingly she’d boarded the flight in the first place.

Almost.

Because no matter how politely her father had framed this entire arrangement, Elara knew perfectly well she hadn’t been sent here purely for the experience. The internship itself made enough sense on paper. Falkenried’s management had agreed to let her shadow the operational side of the business for the season—competition logistics, rider management, breeding evaluations, financial coordination, all the aspects of the industry she’d never been required to take particularly seriously before. According to her father, if she intended to eventually hold any real position within the family business, she needed to understand how these operations functioned beneath the polished surface clients usually saw.

Still, the timing felt too convenient. Too sudden. Too much like being moved somewhere deliberately.

“Elara.”

This time the voice belonged to Felix, who emerged from the office corridor overlooking the main arena with the same clipboard tucked beneath one arm she vaguely remembered him carrying every time she’d ever seen him. Some things, apparently, did not change.

“You made it,” he greeted simply as he descended the stairs toward her. “I was beginning to think Florida finally ruined your tolerance for weather.”

A small smile pulled at her mouth. “I considered turning around at the airport when I saw rain in the forecast.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Unfortunately.”

That earned a quiet snort from him before he reached for one of her bags, already motioning for her to follow him back toward the offices upstairs. Elara fell into step beside him easily while he immediately launched into explanations regarding schedules, staffing, rider allocations, and the competition calendar for the upcoming months. Efficient. Direct. Very German.

The office overlooking the indoor arena hadn’t changed much either. Large windows stretched across one side of the room, giving a clear view down into the stable yard below where riders and staff moved steadily between the barns despite the rain. Elara only half listened to Felix speaking as she wandered closer toward the windows, resting one shoulder lightly against the frame while her attention drifted downward across the courtyard.

And then she spotted him.

Even from above she recognized him almost immediately. Tall, dark clothing dampened slightly from the rain, coffee in one hand while he crossed the yard beside one of the stablehands. Sawyer looked exactly as she remembered him—controlled to the point of rigidity, carrying himself with the same quiet restraint that had always made him stand apart from most of the riders orbiting her father’s circles. If anything, Germany suited him more than Wellington ever had. The structure. The discipline. The silence.

Interesting.

Her gaze lingered perhaps a moment longer than necessary before Felix followed her line of sight. “He arrived late last night,” Felix explained. “Your father recommended him very strongly for the development program.”

Elara hummed quietly, a faint amusement settling across her expression. Sawyer had always been strange with her. Not rude, exactly, but distant in a way that felt intentional. He kept her at arm’s length with a steady, practiced indifference. And unfortunately for him, Elara had always found difficult things far more interesting than easy ones.

“Well,” she murmured, pushing herself away from the window. “At least now I know this season won’t be completely miserable.”

Felix gave her a look that suggested he already disliked wherever that sentence was headed. Before he could comment, he was called away to the lower barn for an emergency with a mare. “Stay here,” he barked.

Elara waited precisely ten seconds after he disappeared before she smoothed her coat and headed down the stairs.

She caught up with them just as Felix was finishing his brief rounds with Sawyer near the tack room. Sawyer looked like he was trying to absorb the entire layout of the facility through sheer force of will, his posture stiff against the damp morning air.

“I suppose you need no introduction,” Felix said, catching sight of Elara and sighing as if he’d expected her defiance. He gestured between them with his clipboard. He explained her role quickly, then waved her off without as second glace to go see to... whatever he was seeing to.

Elara watched the way Sawyer’s expression didn’t change - not a flicker of warmth, not even a wince of displeasure. He just stood there, looking at her with that same infuriatingly calm demeanor.

“Elara,” he said. His voice was level, but the way he said her name felt like he was checking a box on a very tedious manifest.

“Sawyer,” she replied, her voice tilting upward with a playful lightness that usually grated on people like him. She didn't move away, instead leaning slightly against the doorframe of the barn, seemingly unaffected by the drop in temperature. “Managing your life? That sounds like a lot of responsibility. I’ll try to be gentle.”

Sawyer didn't bite. He didn't even smile. He merely adjusted the cuffs of his gloves, his gaze shifting past her as if he were already calculating the most efficient route to his first horse.

He blew her off as though they hadn't just flown 5000 miles to arrive to the same place - sent by the same person.

With that, he turned on his heel, moving with a purpose that suggested he was already mentally halfway to the lower stalls. Elara watched him go, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips as she watched his retreating back disappear into the shadows of the barn aisle. He was still trying to make her the enemy. He was still trying to be the one difficult thing she couldn't charm.

“He’s going to be fun,” she murmured to herself, ignoring the skeptical look Felix shot her as he arrived right back to her side, having realized she hadn't stayed put for even a minute.

“He is here to work, Elara. I suggest you remember that before you decide to make him your latest project,” Felix grumbled, though there was no real heat in it. He tapped his clipboard against his leg, already pivoting to lead her back toward the stairs. “Come. If you’re going to be managing his entries, you need to see what you’re actually looking at. It’s one thing to see a horse on a spreadsheet; it’s another to see why it costs more than a villa in Tuscany.”

He led her not back to the cramped office, but to the glass-walled viewing gallery that ran the length of the main indoor arena. It was heated, smelling faintly of expensive wood wax and coffee, providing a silent, bird’s-eye view of the dirt below.

“This is your station for the morning,” Felix said, gesturing to a long mahogany desk built into the window frame. It was littered with thick binders and a laptop already glowing with the Falkenried logo. “You’ll track the rounds. Every horse Sawyer or the other development riders bring in, you log the time, the temperament, and any notes the trainer shouts from the ground. Your father wants you to understand the why of the business... why we sell, why we keep, and why we scratch a horse from a five-star show because it woke up with the wrong attitude.”

Good god she shouldn't have gotten on that plane.

Sawyer Tenneck | Main Barn / Café | Elara

As Sawyer walked away, the slightest part of him wished he knew what was being said between Felix and Elara when his back was turned. Not necessarily because he cared what she had to say–and yes, he was lying to himself about that–but because he didn’t have the slightest grasp on how he was being perceived by the organization, and a bit of gossip would’ve gone a long way in helping him differentiate if there was any bit of security in his new job. He brushed his thoughts and overall lack of confidence aside to glance down briefly at the schedule, identifying his first riding block of the day. He was scheduled to do some conditioning flatwork with Ruby, a blood bay mare who was coming back from a breeding venture. She was starting to get up there in age, and they were hoping to get Sawyer to compete her for one season or until she could draw enough attention to become a broodmare for one more foal. After that, they’d either sell her or let her continue competing, but Sawyer would be gone by then, so it didn’t necessarily matter. All that mattered was continuing to build her muscle, improve her athleticism, and get some wins under her belt by the early summer.

As it turned out, Ruby was something of a saint. Lazy, stubborn, and fairly uncomplicated for the level at which she had been competing. Of course, they were planning to enter her in some lower level classes to get her acclimated again and keep her competitive in her division, but she was barely the kind of mare that Sawyer was used to–or enjoyed–riding. There was just not a lot to her. Three even gaits, a push ride, nothing out of the ordinary. She wasn’t what Sawyer would’ve picked for himself, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice in the matter. The only interesting thing that happened the entire hack was that she pinned her ears and tried to kick a horse that was being led out to the pasture through the wall of the indoor, which was how he verified the note on the sheet that Ruby did not do well with other horses. However, it wasn’t an avoidable incident, and it only helped him to gauge that, in fact, she was very sensitive to other horses.

After Ruby, Sawyer had a jump school with Tallulah, the mare he was absolutely convinced he was here for. He’d seen this mare on the internet before for her feisty behavior, she had a penchant for throwing riders and had gone from one professional to the next before landing back at GFI with no prospects and no one willing to partner with them for her. Before he’d even gotten the call to come and work here, he’d been considering reaching out to them about this mare, but he’d decided he didn’t have enough time to dedicate to her, and he didn’t want to be in Wellington with a foal on the way in Germany. When they called and asked him if he’d come and work for them on-site, he said yes without hesitation. They rarely opened their doors to competitors like this, and it gave him a chance to continue competing for a season he thought he would have to take off. She was turning eight soon, at the height of her prime, but no one was brave enough to work with her other than Sawyer.

Of course, it was no surprise why. He couldn’t even get a halter on her without evading being kicked, bitten, and otherwise abused. All of the different homes she’d had likely used force to get her to obey, and that had only built up her mistrust and disdain for humans–especially male riders. Apparently, she was better with female riders, but given her massive size and strength, no woman who had attempted to handle her had succeeded. She needed excessive ground work and horsemanship training, but that took time he didn’t have. He only had a specific time blocked off in the indoor arena, which was the only place he was allowed to ride her because apparently she had a history of throwing riders, jumping the fence in the outdoor, and taking off into the German wilderness where she took hours to find. They had no reason to trust Sawyer to do any different, so he was stuck working with her indoors for the time being. He hoped he could change their minds soon.

The mounting block was another twenty minute arrangement of backing up, rearing, moving forward, spinning circles around Sawyer, and using brute force to attempt to break free from his grasp. He was steady and firm, not willing to give in, but not willing to let her receive any anger from him either. He knew all of these vices were learned behavior, and he hoped that consistency and redirection would help her to unlearn them. This was the kind of horse he wanted to compete–difficult, challenging, but more rewarding than a mare like Ruby. He would have to work for Tallulah, but in return, he hoped she would work for him, too.

Things improved slightly once he was actually in the tack, though she never stopped being difficult fully. Her head was raised like a giraffe and she would prance and sidestep, stepping up in what couldn’t necessarily be called a rear but not all of her hooves remained on the ground at once. Once he got a feel for her walk, he moved to a trot, then a canter, each time finding new problems with the mare but not correcting them, not today. Today was just to assess where he was starting from with her, and what needed the most attention. Since he had lost so much time on other things, it wasn’t going to be a true jump school, but it shouldn’t have been anyway. That was something to work up to. Still, in an act of obedience toward the wishes of his new employer, he took her over one fence. He was expecting her to refuse, but instead, she jumped out of her skin, clearing it by more than a foot. Elara must have been shocked to see Sawyer smile in disbelief at the mare’s talent, a rare sight, which lasted only a brief second before he returned to his stone cold countenance once more. Of course, though he didn’t acknowledge Elara, he’d known from the moment he stepped in the ring with Ruby that she was there.

Once he cooled Tallulah down and placed her back in her stall, Sawyer opened his phone and sent a text message.

[Sawyer]: Give me a standing block with Tallulah every afternoon. I don’t care where it comes from, take it out of my lunch if you have to.

Of course, he could’ve just walked up to Elara and asked, but Sawyer didn’t feel like re-engaging. He also didn’t feel like answering where he’d gotten her number from, when the truth was too sinister for his own liking. She’d given it to him verbally at a Christmas party three years ago, saying something about inviting him back to her room, which he’d ardently declined. Still, three years later, her phone number was still memorized in his head, taking up space among the schedule times, feed regimens, and other important data in his brain.

Elara | Viewing Gallery, Main Barn | Sawyer

The viewing gallery sat in complete silence aside from the muted hum of the indoor below her. Rain ticked softly against the long glass panels lining the arena wall while riders moved in and out beneath the pale overhead lights, their voices occasionally drifting upward in clipped German phrases before disappearing again beneath the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.

Elara stared at the laptop in front of her like it had personally offended her. Time. Temperament. Notes. Future recommendations. She could practically hear her father’s voice buried somewhere underneath the instructions. Pay attention for once.

A half-empty coffee sat untouched beside her while she flipped through the thick binder Felix had left open beside the keyboard. Every horse had a file thicker than some legal cases she’d seen her father argue over. Breeding records. Veterinary histories. Competition trajectories planned months in advance like military campaigns instead of sporting events. Gott im Himmel.

The first few rides passed slowly enough that she almost convinced herself this would become unbearable within the week. One of the younger riders brought in a compact chestnut gelding who traveled crooked through his shoulder and spent twenty minutes arguing against contact before finally softening enough for the trainer below to bark a satisfied "Ja, besser." Elara typed mechanical notes into the system exactly the way Felix instructed.

Careful but reactive. Tension through topline improves once settled. Likely suitable for smaller technical tracks before moving up.

Another mare followed after that, elegant but weak behind, needing more strength before anyone sensible pointed her toward anything significant. Falkenried didn’t rush horses. That much she already knew. They manufactured careers carefully here, preserving value as much as talent.

Then Sawyer entered the ring with Ruby. Even from above, the mare looked uncomplicated. Beautiful, certainly, in the polished expensive way most Grand Prix mares were, but straightforward in both movement and attitude. Elara watched Sawyer settle into the saddle with the same rigid quietness he carried everywhere else, his hands low and still against the mare’s neck while Ruby plodded through the opening walk work with an almost lazy expression.

Push ride, Elara noted after several minutes, recalling the terminology from years of overheard conversations she’d never bothered retaining properly before now. Not naturally electric. Needed support to maintain impulsion.

Sawyer rode differently than most of the riders she’d grown up watching in Florida. There was no dramatics to him. No visible ego in the saddle. No exaggerated pulling or pushing or constant movement meant to show authority. He rode with an almost unnerving economy, quiet enough that at times it barely looked like he was doing anything at all until the horse beneath him subtly reorganized itself around the aids. Ruby’s trot lengthened gradually beneath him without tension. Her canter became more balanced circle by circle.

Effizient.

Felix had said earlier that Sawyer had a reputation for difficult mares, and now Elara could understand why. There was something oddly unthreatening about the way he sat on a horse despite how severe he often appeared off of one. Like he expected resistance before it happened and simply accommodated for it instead of fighting it outright. Ruby pinned her ears suddenly toward another horse outside the arena wall, lashing out hard enough against the boards to echo through the building.

Sawyer barely reacted.

He sat deeper for perhaps half a stride, redirected her shoulder quietly inward, and continued as though nothing had happened.

Elara typed slowly.

Sensitive to surrounding horses. Reactive but manageable under quiet ride style. Returning condition improving steadily. Suitable for careful reintroduction through lower international classes before summer circuit.

She hated slightly how impressed she was.

The next ride took considerably longer.

Tallulah. Even the atmosphere changed when the mare entered the arena. Massive. Dark. Angry. Elara had heard stories about Tallulah for over a year now through various owners, riders, trainers, and dinner conversations she probably wasn’t supposed to overhear. Everyone described the mare differently, but the conclusion always landed in the same place: impossible. Watching Sawyer simply attempt to mount her was entertaining enough on its own.

Tallulah spun around the mounting block with pinned ears and striking forelegs while Sawyer remained maddeningly composed through all of it. No visible frustration. No temper. Just relentless consistency while the mare attempted every possible evasion short of launching herself through the arena wall.

One of the trainers below muttered something under his breath in German that made another groom laugh quietly.

Elara rested her chin against her hand, unable to stop watching. Because this - this was the first time Sawyer actually looked alive since arriving.

Not emotionally alive, exactly. Sawyer Tenneck seemed fundamentally incapable of relaxing enough for that. But engaged. Focused in a way that sharpened every movement he made. Tallulah entered the trot like a coiled spring trying to escape its own skin. Hollow-backed. Head high. Dancing sideways instead of forward. Sawyer didn’t punish her for it.

That surprised Elara more than anything else.

Most riders she knew would’ve tried to force submission immediately. Bigger bit. Bigger correction. Bigger fight. Especially with a mare valuable enough to justify the trouble. Sawyer simply observed. He rode her like he was collecting information rather than demanding obedience.

Every transition seemed deliberate. Every adjustment patient. He allowed the explosions without escalating them further, quietly redirecting instead of confronting. And slowly - very slowly - the mare began dropping moments of tension between the chaos.

Not much. But enough. Then came the fence.

Tallulah approached it crooked and overpowered enough that Elara fully expected disaster. Instead the mare launched herself over the jump with such violent athleticism that even several people below paused to look. And Sawyer smiled, it lasted maybe a second, brief enough that Elara almost questioned whether she imagined it entirely, but it transformed him.

For one fleeting moment he looked younger. Less controlled. Not handsome in the polished socialite way men around Wellington usually tried to be, but something sharper and more dangerous than that. Genuine. Then it vanished again beneath the same cold restraint as before.

Interessant.

Very interesting. Elara lowered her gaze toward the laptop again once Tallulah disappeared back out of the ring.

Exceptional scope. Significant rideability concerns remain. Extreme sensitivity likely exacerbated by prior handling. Requires consistency rather than pressure. Potential for upper-level competition substantial if partnership develops correctly.

She had barely finished typing when her phone buzzed beside the keyboard. Elara glanced down automatically.

[Sawyer]: Give me a standing block with Tallulah every afternoon. I don’t care where it comes from, take it out of my lunch if you have to.

For a moment she simply stared at the screen. Then her expression flattened slightly. Wirklich? Seriously? He had known exactly where she was the entire morning. She’d felt it every time he entered the ring, every time his attention flicked briefly upward toward the viewing gallery despite never acknowledging her directly. And instead of walking upstairs like a normal human being, he’d sent a text message.

A text message.

Where had he even gotten her number? Had she given it to him? When? Maybe Felix? It bothered her.

Not because she particularly needed Sawyer Tenneck to come seek her out personally, but because the text felt deliberate in its distance. Another carefully measured attempt to keep her precisely where he wanted her - outside whatever line he refused to let her cross.Which, naturally, only made her want to cross it more.

Elara leaned back slowly in her chair, eyes narrowing faintly toward the arena below where stablehands were already dragging poles back into place for the next rider. By the time the morning riding blocks finished, the indoor had settled into a quieter rhythm.

Most of the horses had already been untacked and returned to stalls while stablehands moved efficiently through the aisles with wheelbarrows and fresh bedding. The entire barn carried that distinct warm scent of leather, hay, damp coats, and horse sweat that seemed to cling permanently to places like Falkenried no matter how immaculate they kept everything. Rain still tapped softly against the roof overhead, though lighter now, turning the light filtering through the upper windows pale and silver.

Elara closed the final binder on the viewing desk with considerably more force than necessary. If Felix handed her one more breeding chart before lunch, she was fairly certain she would walk directly into the German wilderness and allow nature to reclaim her.

Her phone sat beside the laptop, Sawyer’s text still open on the screen. The irritation lingered stubbornly. Not genuine anger exactly, because that would require her to care far more than she intended to admit. But there was something deeply aggravating about the fact he’d chosen to text her instead of simply walking upstairs like a normal person. Especially after spending the entire morning very obviously aware of her presence in the gallery despite refusing to acknowledge it outright. It felt intentional.

Kontrolliert.

Like every interaction with him came carefully measured beforehand. Which, unfortunately for Sawyer, only made Elara want to disrupt it more. So after Felix disappeared toward one of the breeding barns to deal with what sounded suspiciously like an expensive veterinary emergency, Elara abandoned the viewing gallery entirely and wandered downstairs.

The staircase curved into the main aisle beside the indoor arena entrance. Riders and grooms filtered around her as she descended, several offering greetings she answered easily, her German sharpening into the local cadence the longer she was on the property. Somewhere nearby, a radio played softly from the tack room while one of the younger stablehands hurried past carrying an armful of saddle pads nearly taller than himself.

She spotted Sawyer almost immediately near the far aisle.

Of course he was standing outside Tallulah’s stall.

The mare’s ears were pinned so aggressively she looked moments away from filing formal complaints against humanity itself while a groom attempted - with questionable optimism - to rehang a feed bucket she had apparently tried to murder. Elara slowed as she approached, her boots clicking with a precise, no-nonsense rhythm on the stone path. One eyebrow lifted slightly.

“I take it your legs do not work, ja?” she asked, her voice carrying a crisp, dry edge. “I am sitting only one flight of stairs away for three hours, yet you send a message like we are strangers at a bus stop.”

One of the nearby grooms abruptly focused very hard on sweeping invisible dirt. Elara leaned casually against the neighboring stall front, crossing her arms loosely. Up close, the mare was even larger than she’d appeared from the gallery. Massive shoulder. Endless stride. Beautiful in that dangerous sort of way expensive sport horses often were.

“You know,” she continued, her gaze shifting back toward him, "most people usually speak to the person they are demanding schedule changes from. It is called Anstand. Manners."

Her eyes tracked him, the faint amusement returning to her expression despite the irritation.

“Though I suppose texting me was safer. Very professional. Very emotionally detached.” A pause. “Very German of you, honestly. You fit in here better than the locals.”

Tallulah snaked her head toward the stall opening, pinning her ears harder.

Elara didn't flinch, giving the mare a look of profound skepticism. “Wahnsinnig,” she concluded calmly. “Psychotic. I cannot decide if she truly wants to kill you or if that is simply her face.”

The mare pawed once against the stall floor hard enough to rattle the metal door. She heard it now - in her voice. The german she'd tried so hard to hide in the states in effort to be simply understood. Did she not have to now?

Still, Elara’s attention drifted back toward Sawyer despite herself.

Because after sitting above the arena all morning watching him ride, she understood now why Felix and her father had pushed so hard to bring him here. Sawyer rode like someone listening instead of fighting. Even Tallulah, explosive and chaotic as she was, had softened in tiny, barely noticeable moments beneath him. It had been… interesting to watch.

Annoyingly interesting.

“You like difficult things,” she observed, her tone lighter now, the German vowels rounding out as she shifted into a more thoughtful register - or maybe it was just who she was speaking to. “I think that may actually be a diagnosable condition, Sawyer. To want the one that bites.”

She'd doubt he'd respond. He didn't much need to. If he did it'd be short. He was here to prove himself, not get involved in the silly drama she often brought. She was aware of that - but surely he'd want a friend upon arrival? Someone that at least knew him. He wouldn't make those easily here - being american.

Sawyer Tenneck | Indoor Arena / Dinner | Elara, Felix, Isbel, Clara

Sawyer stayed quiet for the majority of Elara’s monologue, his warm eyes staring directly into hers. He was handling her exactly the same way he had handled Tallulah–calmly, but in no way backing down, giving in to a power struggle, or doing anything other than being stable and present while she worked her emotions out. In a couple places, he would give a twitch of the eyebrow, a slight upturn of the lip, but that was the only response he provided in return for her rant.

“You like difficult things,” she spoke, and this got his attention. Of course, it amused him to no end that he already had this level of affect on her, having hardly done anything to warrant such a reaction, but these words resounded in more ways than one. “I think that may actually be a diagnosable condition, Sawyer. To want the one that bites.”

“Perhaps I do,” he watched her with a look that held depth, his warmly-hued eyes scanning hers to see if she caught the hidden intention behind his words. He didn’t step closer, didn’t intimidate her, didn’t create the closeness in proximity that would’ve made her squirm. He swallowed, briefly clenching his jaw, then added, “it would seem that you do as well, if you’ve taken time out of your tremendously busy schedule to theorize about my psyche.”

—

The rest of the afternoon went smoothly. The weather warmed up to a balmy 53º Fahrenheit, and despite the bitter wind, the sun came through for the better half of the afternoon. Sawyer had indeed spent his lunch working with Tallulah instead of eating or socializing with the staff, which caused him to avoid any further interaction with Elara for the moment. His next block was a beautiful light bay mare named Summer, a silly and sweet young horse that had only been entrusted to him to continue her development with a consistent and skilled hand. This mare really didn’t have any vices–she had a few silly moments here and there, but under Sawyer’s care, she thrived. He was just working with her on the ground for the day, although she was mostly broke and at the point in her training where she was beginning to work under saddle with a rider. This mare brought out the most smiles and amusement that Sawyer had demonstrated since arriving in Germany, and perhaps for a long time beyond that. She captured his heart immediately, although he knew it wasn’t best to get attached.

His fourth and fifth riding blocks in the afternoons were not assigned to specific horses at this point, so he’d been told that he could just catch ride whatever horses were having issues and needed more support for the moment. An absolutely massive gray gelding had been sent back to the farm after developing vices that caused the rich owner’s daughter to no longer want him, and Felix had suggested that Sawyer pilot him for the afternoon and assess the situation. He rode the gelding through successful flatwork, getting the feeling that something wasn’t exactly right, but there wasn’t any specific indicator of what, so Sawyer kept going. He jumped him around a course of jumps that were 3’6 in height, demonstrating for the first time his skill and his softness in the tack at an advanced level. He had the gelding collected when he needed to, and moved him up to certain fences to give him the smoothest ride possible. He didn’t miss anything, although the gelding came in crooked to every fence tracking right, and had no issues to the left. When he got off from cooling him out, he explained to Felix that he felt there was some sort of soreness going on with Jules, the gelding, and that getting him vetted might provide more insight on why the gelding had developed a habit of stopping in front of certain fences. Felix couldn’t provide confirmation, but Sawyer felt fairly confident that, if he talked to Jules’ former rider, he’d find out that the gelding was only stopping to fences tracking one way.

His final ride of the day was another gelding, known for being rather hotheaded but talented nonetheless. He was one of the staff’s personal horses, but he’d injured her recently and that caused his name to end up on the catch-ride list. He turned up lame, so that ride was very short-lived, but it caused Sawyer to meet Isbel, one of the younger staff who appeared to be about his age. Sawyer found her charming, but not quite as charming as she seemed to find him. It was clear that she was interested in him, as she was being more friendly and talkative than was the German standard. Still, her English was good, which Sawyer learned was from her affiliation with a farm in Great Britain. She handled a lot of the partnerships at the farm with sponsors, owners, riders, and other businesses, so she’d had to hone her English more than the average person. They’d exchanged numbers, although Sawyer wasn’t really intending to use hers for anything other than business-related matters. He’d already gotten three texts from her by the end of the workday.

At the instruction of Felix, Sawyer got cleaned up after work and went to the local inn, which had a restaurant on the first floor. He took an old bicycle owned by the owners of the little property he was staying at, which they had given to him as a primary means of transport to get everywhere in the little village. He had barely had time to feed the farm animals before he’d left, but he’d somehow managed to get all his barn chores done, shower, comb his hair, and dress in a presentable manner. He was staying with the owners of the first horse he’d had international success with, a partnership he’d gotten through Elara’s father after the rider who was supposed to compete this mare fell through. She had brought him everywhere he’d needed to go, and although he’d reluctantly let her go for retirement, he’d accumulated enough money in the three years since to make a business offer to the owners of the mare for a foal which he would train, compete, and for all intents and purposes own–and they’d retain a fraction of the income gained from this foal’s successes. It was an investment into their future, and even moreso, Sawyer. They had an immense amount of respect for him and his craft, and had easily offered to house him and his two mares in exchange for rent and assistance around the farm. Since they were elderly, they needed the help more than Sawyer needed the living arrangements.

The dinner went smoothly, with no more than ten people at the dinner total. Since the owners of the farm rarely opened up their facilities to outside riders, it was a closely-knit group, and Sawyer felt a bit on the outside looking in. He spent most of the dinner answering questions. Yes, he was excited for the opportunity. Yeah, it was much warmer in Florida when he’d left his own property. No, he really hadn’t spent that much time with Elara when he was managing her father’s property in Nevada, because she’d been god only knows where, and he was holding down the fort out west while her father worked with Olympians at the Wellington property. Yeah, it was definitely a surprise to find out she was working there, and no, he didn’t need a place to stay. It was a funny story actually, where he was staying and why. The night went on like this, the blond giving straightforward answers and redirecting the conversation across the table like a high stakes game of pinball. All this while evading the questions, comments, and overall attention Isbel was giving him from her seat beside him, and idly finding his gaze wandering back across to the opposite end of the table where Elara sat, taking in a version of her that was more made up, more formal, more reminiscent of the woman who’d fascinated him at a Christmas party so many moons ago. He rarely noticed when the dialect shifted from English to German back to English to accommodate him, allowing his darting gaze to study the way her lips moved when she spoke, the little faces she made, the rich girl attitude that made her equally intimidating and endearing. Still, Isbel was annoying him with her friendliness and prying nature, and he felt a sense of urgency to get back to his own horses. He’d also promised the Hansens that he’d help them with some projects, and feared losing the last of the light that was required to do so. So, politely but bluntly, he excused himself, headed back out into the cold toward his borrowed bicycle and the dying light, not expecting anyone to follow him until the scent of a familiar perfume wafted toward him. He didn’t lift his head up, didn’t acknowledge her, simply waited to be confronted. Still, he lingered.

Elara | Gestüt Falkenried International/Main Barn/Gallery/Dinner | Felix, Clara, Sawyer

“Perhaps I do.”

God, there it was again.

That maddeningly calm way Sawyer said things that should not have meant anything and yet somehow still landed with far more weight than they had any right to. Elara held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, already irritated by the fact he’d managed to turn her own teasing back around on her without changing expression, raising his voice, or doing anything dramatic enough to justify the reaction it caused. He was frustratingly difficult to read in the most intentional sense, like every word and every expression had already passed through several layers of restraint before reaching the surface. Most people around her either performed constantly or revealed themselves too easily. Sawyer did neither, and unfortunately that made him significantly more interesting than was good for her patience.

“You know,” she drawled eventually, shifting her weight lightly against the neighboring stall front, “for someone who spends all his time around emotionally unstable mares, your communication skills remain surprisingly underdeveloped.”

Tallulah flattened her ears from inside the stall as though personally offended. Elara glanced toward the mare immediately. “Not you, obviously. You’ve communicated very clearly. Violence is apparently your love language.” The mare struck a hoof sharply against the stall floor. “See? Excellent emotional honesty.”

A groom farther down the aisle snorted quietly before immediately pretending he hadn’t heard anything at all. Falkenried staff had clearly perfected the art of selective blindness years ago, which was probably necessary for survival considering the collection of personalities constantly rotating through the facility.

Elara pushed herself upright again with an exaggerated sigh, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the sleeve of her coat. “Unfortunately Felix seems determined to turn me into a productive member of society this season, which means I’m expected back upstairs before he realizes I escaped.” Her gaze flicked briefly back toward Tallulah again, lingering there more thoughtfully now. “Though honestly I think I deserve compensation for surviving four hours of breeding evaluations and German spreadsheets. I’m fairly certain that qualifies as psychological warfare under international law.”

Still, despite the sarcasm, her attention kept drifting back toward the mare behind him. Tallulah stood tense and sharp-eared inside the stall, watching Sawyer’s every movement with volatile concentration despite all the pinned ears and attitude. The aggression didn’t look random anymore after spending most of the morning observing them together. Defensive, yes. Reactive certainly. But not mindless. Most people only seemed interested in overpowering horses like her until they became manageable enough to tolerate. Sawyer hadn’t done that once. And irritatingly enough, Tallulah already seemed to know the difference.

“You looked happy earlier,” Elara admitted before she could stop herself entirely, the words quieter now beneath the teasing. “Riding her, I mean.” Not controlled. Not careful. Actually happy. The realization had stayed with her longer than it should have after seeing that brief flicker of a smile cross his face when Tallulah launched herself over the fence. It had changed him entirely for half a second, stripping away some of the rigid restraint he carried around like armor everywhere else.

Before the moment had time to settle into anything heavier, one of the younger stablehands hurried down the aisle calling Sawyer’s name alongside rapid German regarding another horse already waiting in the indoor arena.

Saved by scheduling. Elara stepped backward automatically, lifting one hand dismissively. “Go rescue your psychotic giant mare’s reputation. Felix already thinks I’m a distraction.” Which, judging by the increasingly skeptical looks the barn manager kept giving her whenever Sawyer was involved, was probably true.

—

The rest of the afternoon passed in long stretches from the viewing gallery above the indoor arena while Falkenried continued functioning beneath her with the same efficient rhythm it had maintained long before she arrived and would continue maintaining long after she left. And strangely enough, Elara found herself becoming genuinely interested in it.

Not the paperwork. God no. The paperwork remained deeply offensive to her personal wellbeing. Felix seemed to possess an endless supply of spreadsheets, schedules, veterinary notes, insurance documents, and breeding evaluations that he handed her with the grim determination of a man personally trying to educate someone against their will.

Still, once she stopped actively resisting the internship out of principle, the operation itself became difficult not to admire. Everything at Falkenried had purpose attached to it.

Riders rotated through arenas according to schedules mapped out weeks in advance while horses moved seamlessly between training blocks, veterinary appointments, turnout, treadmill work, breeding evaluations, and shipping prep without the facility ever descending into visible chaos. Nothing here felt performative in the way Wellington often did. There were no dramatic social spectacles disguised as competitions, no desperate attempts to impress wealthy clients through excess and presentation. Falkenried operated with the quiet confidence of people who already knew exactly how valuable they were.

From above, Elara watched trainers debate future competition schedules for younger horses while veterinary staff discussed preventative maintenance programs with almost surgical precision. Every horse had a trajectory already mapped out months ahead depending on soundness, temperament, bloodlines, and sale potential. Every ride served a specific purpose. And annoyingly enough, she found herself paying attention.

By the time Sawyer brought Summer into the arena later that afternoon, Elara had already filled several pages of notes without Felix needing to threaten her even once. Summer herself was beautiful in that soft, uncomplicated way young horses sometimes were before the sport hardened them - light bay coat glowing beneath the indoor lights, expression open and eager while Sawyer worked quietly with her on the ground. The mare practically followed him around like she’d appointed herself his personal admirer within twenty minutes.

“Elara.”

Her attention shifted toward Felix beside her.

“You are staring.”

“I am observing,” she corrected immediately.

“You are observing incorrectly.”

“I’m literally doing the assignment.”

Felix made a low noise of skepticism before lowering another binder in front of her.

Elara looked down at the paperwork in visible horror. “More?”

“You wished to understand breeding operations.”

“I lied.”

“You should have considered that earlier.”

The rest of the gallery staff laughed quietly while Elara slumped dramatically back into her chair. “This is a deeply hostile work environment.”

“Yet somehow you continue arriving.”

“Contractually.”

Still, despite the complaining, the hours passed easier than she expected. Conversations drifted naturally around her while riders came and went through the arena below. One of the younger stable managers spent nearly fifteen minutes explaining shipping logistics for international competitions while Clara appeared briefly to argue with Felix over a mare’s projected breeding value before disappearing again in a storm of German muttering.

And somewhere throughout all of it, Elara realized she no longer felt like she’d been sent there as punishment. She felt… comfortable. Safe, even. That was the unfortunate word for it. Safe in the structure of the place. Safe in the predictability. Safe in the fact nobody there treated her like delicate glass simply because of her last name. Falkenried staff spoke to her directly, argued with her openly, interrupted her constantly, and expected her to contribute rather than simply exist decoratively beside her father’s reputation.

By dinner that evening, most of the tension she’d arrived in Germany carrying had disappeared almost entirely. The inn restaurant near the village center glowed warmly against the cold rain outside, heavy wooden beams stretching across the ceiling while conversation and laughter drifted easily between crowded tables. The entire place smelled faintly of wine, wood smoke, and fresh bread.

Elara sat comfortably halfway down the long table with one leg crossed beneath her chair, wine glass balanced loosely between her fingers while Clara launched into an increasingly dramatic story regarding one of Falkenried’s stallion owners.

“I am telling you,” Clara declared, visibly exhausted already, “this man genuinely argued quarantine regulations should not apply to his horse because the stallion has emotionally sensitive Aura.”

“Aura?” Elara repeated flatly after Clara explained further.

“His exact wording.”

“That is unfortunately the most horse industry sentence I’ve heard all week.”

Laughter moved immediately around the table while Felix visibly pinched the bridge of his nose from farther down.

“You laugh now,” Clara informed her, pointing accusingly with her wine glass, “but eventually you will have to deal with owners yourself.”

“I won’t,” Elara replied easily. “I’ll disappear into the Bavarian wilderness before that happens. Start a simpler life among wolves. Tallulah might join me.”

“Tallulah would eat you alive.”

“She’s misunderstood.”

“She tried to kill Stefan yesterday.”

“Stefan seems dramatic.”

Another round of laughter followed that while Felix muttered something darkly in German about regretting this internship already. And that easy familiarity settling around her - that was the part Elara hadn’t expected.

Falkenried had existed around the edges of her entire childhood through her father’s partnerships and breeding connections, but being there as an adult felt entirely different somehow. Less like visiting important associates and more like slipping quietly into an environment where nobody expected constant performance from her. No one cared what designer brand she wore. No one cared which Wellington parties she attended or who she’d been photographed with recently. Here, competency mattered more than presentation.

Oddly enough, it allowed her to relax.

The conversations shifted fluidly throughout the evening. Veterinary consultants debating footing conditions in Belgium. Riders arguing over conditioning programs for younger horses. Clara and Felix disagreeing sharply over broodmare valuations while two stablehands exchanged increasingly ridiculous stories involving international horse shipping disasters.

At one point someone asked Elara whether she’d survived her first full day of administrative work yet.

“Barely,” she answered solemnly. “Felix introduced me to color-coded spreadsheets.”

“And?”

“I saw God briefly.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m correct.”

Even Felix nearly smiled at that.

Outside, rain continued softly against the windows while warmth and conversation settled comfortably through the restaurant around her. And for the first time since boarding the flight to Germany, Elara realized she no longer entirely resented being there. Unfortunately, that realization alone was unsettling enough. By the time the dinner finally began winding down, several people had already started filtering toward the exits in small groups while others lingered over wine and coffee. Elara had been halfway through listening to Clara complain about Belgian customs regulations when she noticed movement near the front entrance.

Sawyer.

He excused himself politely enough from the table before disappearing out into the cold evening air beyond the restaurant doors. Elara’s gaze followed him automatically. She tried returning her attention to the conversation for approximately thirty seconds before Clara caught her looking toward the entrance again.

“Oh, go,” Clara said dryly, already amused.

Elara blinked. “I have no idea what you’re implying.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m simply getting fresh air.”

“In the rain.”

“It builds character.”

Felix looked exhausted already. “Do not harass my riders.”

“No promises.”

Several people laughed quietly as Elara slid from her chair, smoothing her coat back into place before stepping away from the warmth of the restaurant and out into the cold night air beyond the inn doors.

Rain still lingered lightly against the cobblestones outside while the village remained mostly quiet beneath the fading glow of evening lights. A bicycle rested near the stone wall beside the entrance, and farther ahead she spotted Sawyer already near it, hands occupied adjusting something near the handlebars.

He didn’t look up when she approached. Of course he didn’t. Elara stopped several feet away, folding her arms lightly against the cold.

“You know,” she called easily into the quiet street, “most people usually say a proper goodbye before fleeing dramatically into the night.”