Nodding at his parent’s requests for lunch, he spun around on his heels to finish packing the rest of the basket with his grandmother. “Peanut butter and jam with bananas again? It’s pretty cool that you always know what you’re looking for, grand-owl.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he paused mid-way between placing some cheese, tomatoes and mustard into the basket. He turned to look at Rose. Blinked. “…<span style="font-style: italic">Grand-owl!</span>Hey, can I call you that? It suits you, since you’re cool and wise and all,” he chuffed, finally packing the produce away after his little bubble of thought. The nickname had a nice ring to it, and suited the whole bird nickname theme he was slowly handing out to each member of the family. As Rose went over to the fridge, Thomas hopped up and down on his tip-toes beside her, determined to see at her eye level but not quite there yet. It was an interesting - and kind of scary - thought to think that one day his head could he level to her outstretched hand as she searched the back of the fridge. His growth chart on the wall was making some good progress; Thomas wanted to be tall so he could look over other people’s heads during school assemblies and over crowds when going to the movies. ’Twas a shame to him that they couldn’t share some of the horses’ tall genes.<br/><br/>Conor’s voice soon chimed through Thomas’ thoughts and the boy bounced over to his father’s side. He felt hard, strong, calloused yet kind fingers curl around his waist, hoisting him up to the man’s shoulders. Even though Thomas was much, much heavier than a toddler now at eight years old, it never stopped Conor from having fun carrying him around. Grandpa did say he was a wizard, so maybe his dad was simply a thing of magic. It was hard to tire Conor, hard to break, no matter how much Thomas pestered his father with random requests.<br/><br/>A few years ago, after being told at school that four-leaf clovers were lucky charms that could be found in any possible patch of grass, the boy asked Conor to help him find some in their local forest. They ended up wasting most of the whole day finding nothing but grass! Conor was ready to end it at that, but Thomas persisted that they just<span style="font-style: italic">had</span>to find one. Conor, his usual silent yet laid back self, quietly searched through weeds well into the evening until eventually Thomas found one, exclaiming in delight. It was then he realised that he had wasted his poor father’s time… But Conor didn’t complain. In fact, he smiled. Patted his head, even. Moments like these influenced the boy to strive to be just as much of a gentleman as his caring father.<br/><br/>Humming a long, happy, drawn-out tone, he lightly hugged Conor’s head, his smaller fingers entwining and fiddling with his mop of blond hair. They overlooked the trail of the barn as they walked in a moment of peace, sunlight shining brilliantly through early afternoon clouds. Turning his head, he spotted grand-owl at the corner of his eye. “Haha, look, I’m taller than you now! You’re going to saddle Puddles, right?”