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The moonlight slanted in, passed the clouds and the roof and the curtains, turning the room that shade of reflective dark blue that only happens early in the morning. Before the sun really starts to rise, but when the stars have already started to go to bed. The best possible time to see any planets, though Kip couldn’t remember which one was usually in the sky.
The window across from their bed was cracked to let in a breeze, and with it, the noise Kip assumed had woken him.
“Baa!”
Planning a honeymoon in Europe could have taken a lot of different forms, and there was a version of this trip that involved a lot more beaches and fancy hotel dining rooms. But when his dad had casually mentioned that Ireland was the kind of place where nobody expects hockey stars to stay on a sheep farm, Scott’s face had lit up like a kid being offered candy as a snack.
And suddenly their whole itinerary had changed.
There were still a few fancy hotels on the list, and more than one beach. They couldn’t go to the south of France and not find at least one beach. But now there were more museums and historical ruins and small towns than the travel agent had really approved of. And of course, at least one farmhouse surrounded by sheep.
“Baa!”
“Baa!”
“Meeehh…”
“At least somebody’s still waking up,” mumbled the man next to him and Kip grinned up at the ceiling. “Who needs an alarm clock in this house.”
“They’re so loud,” Kip whispered. He rolled over to face Scott, tucking himself against his husband’s back as another member of the flock voiced their early morning opinion on something. “I’ll bet they could take on the birds back home.”
It had been a long time since Scott had been woken up by a horde of tiny, chirping beasts outside his bedroom window. Downtown apartments didn’t have a lot of tiny birds, and the windows on the twenty-seventh floor of anything never opened. So the first time they’d crashed at the Grady home, Kip had woken up to Scott sitting at the end of his childhood bed, watching the tiny, noisy army in the tree outside Kip’s window. Smiling in that absent way people do when they’re having fun but haven’t really noticed yet.
Scott wasn’t smiling this morning. His face was mashed into one of the pillows, and while the jet lag had Kip wide awake at four am local time, Scott appeared to be over it. It was too damn early to be awake.
“Baa!”
“Meh!”
“Mrrmph,” Scott growled into his pillow as Kip dropped a kiss onto his shoulder. “Can we shut the window?”
“Then how will you enjoy the unique experience of being woken up by the local wildlife?”
Sensing defeat, Scott rolled back into Kip’s chest, one eye open as he squinted up at his delighted husband. Because Kip was Scott’s husband. And this was their honeymoon. “You’re happy about this, aren’t you?”
“Being serenaded by sheep?” Kip asked, as a chorus of cries went up this time. He rested his chin on Scott’s shoulder. “It’s definitely not something that we can get back home.”
“There are sheep farms in the US.”
“But not cute little ones along the coast where the farmers know all the sheep by the shape of their face.”
The couple that owned this farmhouse were as storybook classic as a couple could get, and the farmer who’d given them a tour of the farm obviously, genuinely loved his sheep. It had taken a few minutes of gentle prodigy on Kip’s part, but once he’d got going, the words in that lilting accent hadn’t stopped. He’d told them about the chunk of fence he had to keep repairing, the ducks who really ruled the place, and introduced them to the isolated part of the herd that were all expectant mothers, one of whom was overdue and “in a right state about it”. He’d even taken them to the barn where he kept the lambs who needed extra attention for one reason or another.
Kip had texted both Elena and Todd the picture of Scott Hunter sitting on the floor of a barn stall, bottle feeding a lamb. He’d print off a copy to frame for their shelves when they got home.
Scott had both eyes open now, his head twisted so he could look at Kip properly. “Oh, so it’s the lack of Irish sheep back home.”
“And Irish farmers,” Kip said.
Scott raised his eyebrows at that. “A little late for that confession. We already signed the paperwork.”
Moving so he could reach, Kip kissed Scott’s cheek. “I think Irish sheep deserve an Irish farmer.” He nuzzled Scott’s cheek. “Personally, this New York museum employee prefers a New York hockey player.”
Scott’s laugh stayed deep in his chest as he rolled over, forcing Kip to decide between backing up and lying on top of him. Which was really no choice at all.
Catching one of Kip’s curls in his fingers, Scott kissed him. So sweet it hurt. “Lucky hockey player.”
Kip smiled and cuddled down onto Scott’s chest, his head tucked under Scott’s chin. The moment as soft as the pre-dawn light.
“Baa!”
“I’m getting lamb for lunch,” Kip said and Scott laughed for real this time. Strong arms came up around Kip’s waist, holding him in place as Scott pressed a kiss to his hair.
“Seems fair.”
But despite the growing chorus outside their window, neither of them moved. Scott drifting back off to sleep, the soft breathing of the recently unconscious lulling Kip most of the way back there with him. Enough that he had to hide his face when the moonlight traded shifts for the first rays of brighter, yellow-tinged sunlight.
At which point the rest of the flock joined the cry and even closing the window wouldn’t have helped. But sunlight had a way of waking Scott up anyway, and while the sheep outside bleated and hollered and jostled to let the farmer know he was late with breakfast, inside Kip took his time letting Scott know they could be as late to breakfast as either of them wanted.