RDR2 | Charles Smith x F! reader
Summary: After everything that happened with the gang, Charles Smith sets out for Canada in search of a new beginning. Far from his past, he dreams of a peaceful life, maybe even a family. Riding along the vast, silent roads of Canada, he never expected to find anyone. But then, he heard it. A call for help. A voice lost in the wind. When he stopped to help you; a woman, he thought it was just a fleeting moment. But when, months later, your paths crossed again, something felt different. It became clear that this was never just a coincidence. Could there be something more to it?
Gender tags: explicit (Not yet in this chapter.)
Author's note: I am sorry to warn you that I failed a little in the development of this work, I have not yet fully reviewed it when checking spelling mistakes, I apologize if you bother, in one of the lines of Charles there will be a link, in this link you can see where I got inspiration from one of the dialogues.
The train cut through the white landscape of southern Canada, advancing along tracks surrounded by snow-covered pines. Charles Smith watched the scenery through the window, feeling the weight of the past years on his shoulders. After everything that had happened with the Van der Linde gang, after helping John build his ranch for his family and aiding in his revenge against Micah, he knew he could no longer live that way. He would never allow himself to again. The betrayal, the violence, and the constant running had become unbearable. He needed peace.
John had mentioned this place once—the vast mountains and fertile lands where no one would pursue him. Not that Charles had never considered it before, but only after settling what needed to be settled. He decided this was where he would go. He bid farewell to the ghosts of his past and set off on a new journey, crossing the border and leaving everything behind.
The Canadian cold was intense, but it didn’t bother him much. He had grown up facing harsh winters, living with the Wapiti, and now, more than ever, he wanted to reconnect with that part of himself. Maybe among these snow-covered mountains, he could simply be Charles—without blood on his hands, without having to look over his shoulder with every step.
As the train began to slow down, signaling their arrival at the small town’s station, Charles took a deep breath. This was where his new life would begin.
Canada has always been your home. You were born here, grew up here, and now you live in the same house where your father once lived before passing away years ago. The house is old but well cared for. Sitting farther from the city, surrounded by a wooden fence, and in the backyard, violets bloom at the start of spring. The sweet scent of wild violets mixed with the woody aroma of the house brought you a sense of comfort.
Your routine is simple, but you love it. You wake up early, brew strong coffee, and head out to work. You take care of horses at a ranch on the outskirts, far from the city—something you learned from your father. He always said that horses understand a person’s soul better than any human. And maybe he was right.
When you return home, you spend time in the backyard tending to the violets—your mother’s favorite flowers—and the other plants and vegetables you’ve learned to grow. Your favorite hobby is drawing and making desserts. Nothing too elaborate, just small creations—and in your sketches? Birds, leaves, sometimes faces that come to mind. There’s something therapeutic about turning a blank sheet of paper into something new and meaningful.
Even though you enjoy your solitary life, sometimes… sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever meet someone who understands this world of yours. Someone who appreciates silence and simplicity, who understands the connection to the land and animals.
But for now, all you have is this house full of memories, the scent of violets and wild grass, the sound of the wind cutting through the mountains, the singing of a few birds, and the chime of wind bells making the house feel a little less… abandoned.
The afternoon sun painted the sky in a soft shade of violet as you knelt in the garden, pulling out dry leaves and inhaling the fresh scent of damp earth. The violets were beautiful this year, more vibrant than before, as if they knew someone still cared for them. Your fingers slid along the delicate stems of the flowers, and for a moment, the world felt so calm.
You had spent the last hour trying to fix an old rocking chair that had belonged to your father. Time had worn down the wood in some places, and one of the legs was loose. You had tried tightening the nails, adjusting the planks, but nothing seemed to truly solve the problem. Maybe the wood was too worn out. Maybe you just didn’t have the patience anymore.
But it didn’t take long before your mind began to torment you again.
You sighed, setting the chair aside and stepping away from the porch. You sat on the steps of the veranda, watching the sky slowly change. The soft violet gave way to a deep blue, as if the sky itself was breathing.
The breeze blew cold, sending a shiver across your skin, but you didn’t move. Your eyes remained fixed on the horizon, and, without meaning to, you felt your throat tighten.
It had been so long… So long since this house had heard another voice besides your own… So long since someone had sat beside you to talk about the day, to share a meal, to laugh at the little things in life. You were a grown woman now—mature, independent. But loneliness… Loneliness was a constant shadow.
It wasn’t just the absence of a husband or children—it was the lack of companionship, of someone who understood the weight of the years, who knew what it meant to carry memories and still try to move forward.
You blinked quickly, but a single tear slipped down your cheek.
Has this feeling taken over you once again?....
Would your parents be proud of you? Would your father say you had done a good job taking care of the house? Would your mother smile, seeing the violets still blooming? You remembered very little of her now—she had going too soon.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, as if that could ease the knot in your chest. The wind blew again, and for a brief moment, it felt like a gentle touch, an invisible comfort.
Maybe it was just the silence keeping you company once again.
You stood up, tossing your gardening gloves to the ground, then walked back to the cabin. It was time to go inside, eat dinner, and sleep.
Tomorrow would be another day—one of many repetitive months. Once again
The wind rustled through the trees as your eyes scanned everything that might catch your interest, once again searching for any trace of something useful. The scent of damp earth and dry leaves mixed with the cold forest air, creating a comforting yet lively silence. Birds flitted from branch to branch, and the soft crunch of twigs beneath your feet echoed lightly. The cold and humidity of the forest began to intensify as the sun dipped below the horizon.
You walked among the tall trees, your eyes alert to the herbs sprouting and the twisted roots beneath your feet. Your shoulder bag already carried a few herbs and a rabbit you had hunted earlier. But then, a strong aroma caught your attention—perhaps a rare type of herb? One that could add flavor to meat when roasted or cooked over a wood-burning stove.
You crouched down upon spotting more herbs used for seasoning and tea growing nearby. Carefully, you touched them, recognizing their texture and color. You knew these were safe for consumption. With a small, satisfied smile, you began gathering them and placed them in your bag. Advancing forward, crouching again to inspect the area, your mind drifted to the clouds, as it often did.
You stood up, adjusted the bag on your shoulder, and took the path back. Stepping backward.
Your foot sank into something that shouldn’t have been there. Time slowed for an instant, and before you could react, you felt a sudden pressure and a violent pull around your ankle.
A burrow? What the hell—!!?
The pain struck like a blade slicing through your nerves. You screamed instantly, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the trees.
The metal snapped shut with force. A sharp pain shot up your leg as some kind of mechanism—cold metal—clamped tightly around your ankle. Your chest heaved, your vision blurred by pain and panic, dark red, warm blood trickling down the rusted metal.
Panic surged in your throat as you tried to pull your leg free, but the iron embedded in your flesh wouldn’t budge. Your fingers trembled as they tried to loosen the grip on your ankle, but the searing pain clouded your thoughts. Your knuckles turned numb and pale.
Your eyes dropped to the ground of dirt and soft grass—and then, terror froze your chest more than it already had. The jagged, rusted teeth of the trap had sunk deep into your skin, the dull metal glistening in places where fresh blood now coated its surface.
Your fingers clenched against the cold earth. You swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears burning in your eyes.
— N-No… no…! — Your voice came out shaky, barely audible.
Your eyes looked to the dark forest. The silence felt heavier now. You were trapped—and worse—alone.
Charles adjusted the reins, letting Taima move at her own pace. The trot was calm, steady, her hooves sinking softly into the damp earth of the trail. Canada wasn’t bad. The cold didn’t bother him, and the silence of the forest was familiar. Different, maybe, but not strange.
He could feel the weight of the night approaching as he rode calmly along the trail between the trees. Taima moved with firm steps, the sound of her hooves muffled by the soft earth of the woodland road. He had been riding for hours, but he felt no rush. There was no destination. He just kept going, listening to the subtle creak of the leather saddle, the quiet breath of his mare, and the wind cutting through the trees.
He had broken camp a few hours ago and was now heading somewhere safer for the night. The scent of wet wood and vegetation filled the air—familiar, comforting.
He had never counted the exact years, but it had been long enough. Long enough that this place didn’t feel so temporary anymore. Maybe two, three years? Enough to get used to the bone-chilling cold, the snow-covered trails in winter, the most beautiful autumn he had ever experienced, and the abrupt changes of the seasons.
He didn’t think much about it. He just lived each day as it came—hunting, working when necessary, moving from time to time.
Solitude never bothered him. It was part of who he was. So many years alone didn’t scare him anymore.
With one hand, he adjusted the reins, while the other rested on the rifle strap attached to the saddle. His experienced eyes scanned the path ahead, alert for any signs of danger—not just predators but also traps left behind by reckless hunters or thieves. But there was probably nothing. He let his thoughts drift back into his own head.
Short, but filled with desperation.
Every fiber of his body told him someone needed help. Or maybe… he had only heard the cry of a spirit
Charles pulled the reins firmly, and Taima snorted, turning her head toward the sound. Silence once again swallowed the forest. This shouldn’t be his problem, but something inside him stirred—an instinct he couldn’t ignore.
— Taima… — he murmured, guiding the mare toward the noise.
He tapped his heels lightly against her sides, urging her off the main trail. The branches closed in, making the passage difficult, but he pushed forward, even as the leaves lashed against his arms and legs.
Moving silently through the vegetation, his eyes caught sight of a figure on the ground.
The faint sound of hooves echoed in your ears, but they felt more like a distant hum, so you barely noticed when someone dismounted beside you.
You turned your head quickly, eyes wide.
Through the forest’s shadows, a dappled gray horse stood still. And mounted on it—a man.
He approached slowly, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.
— Are you alright? — His voice was careful, yet filled with concern.
He dismounted calmly, but you dragged yourself back slightly, ignoring the searing pain in your ankle.
The look you gave him was pure panic. You could barely breathe, your entire body tense.
— Hey, hey… don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. — His deep voice was gentle, trying not to startle you. — You’re injured.
Your heart pounded inside your chest. The pain, the fear, and the presence of this unknown man made your mind spin.
When did he get here, and how did you not see him!?
Your heartbeat sped up—though this time, it was different.
You swallowed hard, your whole body trembling. You tried pulling your leg free again, but the pain was so sharp that a choked sob escaped your lips.
— No! Don’t come near me! — Your voice wavered, barely more than a sob.
— Stay calm. I know how to get this off. — He crouched down, examining the wound.
What did he just say to you? Everything seemed… muted.
You could barely respond. Your breaths were short and shallow, the throbbing pain making tears stream down your face, your warm blood seeping from the wound.
— Damn… damn… damn… — you whispered, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each word, almost breathless.
Blood trickled from your torn skin.
Charles raised his hands again. His expression was serious, but his eyes were patient.
— I’m not going to hurt you — he said once more, his voice deep but calm. — But you’re injured.
— I… I can— I can handle it myself! — You tried to push him away with your glare, but another wave of pain shot through your leg, and you let out a pained whimper.
You were screwed. And you couldn’t even hide the fear on your face.
He crouched slowly, never taking his deep brown eyes off yours.
— I can unlock the trap. It’ll be quick, but I need you to trust me.
Your breathing was ragged as you tried to process everything. Your eyes were glossy with unshed tears, and your body trembled from the effort of enduring the pain.
Charles reached out his hand.
— I promise, I just want to help.
Your throat tightened. You wanted to tell him to leave again, but… you couldn’t get out of this alone.
With trembling lips, you finally gave him a small, barely perceptible nod.
Charles knelt beside the trap, studying the rusted mechanism with sharp eyes. The old iron had sunk deep into your flesh, and he knew that opening it would take strength and precision. It had to be done fast.
He lifted his gaze to you—you were still breathing unevenly, your face contorted with pain.
— It’s going to hurt a little — he warned, his voice low and steady. — But I’ll be quick.
You didn’t answer, just dug your fingers into the dirt, bracing yourself.
Charles positioned his hands on both sides of the mechanism and clenched his jaw. With a firm movement, he applied pressure to the trap’s sides. The metal groaned in protest but slowly started to give way.
Your ankle, trapped for far too long, was swollen and throbbing. You felt the pressure loosen and tried to pull your leg free, but the movement sent a shock straight through your wounded nerves.
A sharp whimper escaped your throat.
— Shit… — you whispered, your voice trembling.
— Breathe — the unknown man instructed, his tone calm but leaving no room for hesitation.
You grasped a handful of dry leaves, forcing yourself to focus on breathing as he held the iron open.
— Now — he directed. — Lift your leg.
You swallowed hard, gathering the last bit of courage you had left.
— AH! Damn it…! — your voice broke into a strangled cry.
With a tense movement, you dragged your ankle free. The pain burned like fire, searing through every nerve, and an involuntary sob escaped your lips as you squeezed your eyes shut.
And then, the moment your leg was free from the iron, Charles let go of the trap.
The mechanism snapped shut immediately, the loud sound echoing through the silent forest. Your whole body trembled. Your chest rose and fell in ragged breaths as the reality of the open wound spread through you in waves of agony.
Charles leaned slightly toward you, his movements measured, careful not to startle you, but you were lost in your own misery.
— I can bandage the wound to stop the bleeding — he said, his voice low and unhurried.
You couldn’t speak. The fear was still there, tangled with the pain. But with no strength left to argue, you simply gave a weak nod.
Charles pulled a clean strip of cloth from his bag and got to work.
Warm blood trickled in a thin line from your shin to your ankle, where the trap’s iron teeth had torn into your skin in a deep, jagged cut. The pain throbbed, radiating from the bone through your entire leg, and every small movement made your stomach churn.
You were still sitting on the forest floor, trying to catch your breath, when Charles moved beside you. You barely noticed that he was holding a handkerchief, likely to clean the blood.
He leaned in slightly, his expression serious as he assessed your condition. Then, without a word, he moved to lift you into his arms.
Your body tensed immediately.
— What do you think you’re doing?! — Your voice came out sharp, still thick with pain.
Charles stopped, his dark eyes meeting yours with patience.
— Taking you somewhere more open — he replied, as if it were obvious.
— I need to get a better look at that wound.
You opened your mouth to protest, but the sharp sting in your leg killed the words before they could leave. Still, when he slid an arm under your back and the other beneath your knees, you flinched in resistance.
— I can walk! I can do it — you grumbled, even though you knew it was a lie.
Charles didn’t argue. He simply lifted you off the ground with ease, as if you weighed little more than a sack of cotton. You felt tense, aching, and on the verge of tears. This didn’t feel right… What didn’t? The idea of having accepted this stranger’s “help.”
Every step he took sent a dull vibration of pain through your leg, and you couldn’t suppress a muffled whimper when the movement jostled your wound.
Soon, he set you down on a fallen log in a clearer spot, where the moonlight filtered through the trees. You tried to collect yourself, but the throbbing in your shin and ankle drained your strength.
Charles crouched in front of you, his sharp eyes scanning the wound.
— The bleeding isn’t too bad, but you can’t put weight on that leg. If you do, it’ll tear open more, and that won’t be good. He quickly wrapped a bandage around your leg, tying some cloth over the wound to prevent infection.
You took a deep breath, feeling a lump form in your throat.
After a moment, Charles stood up and let out a low whistle.
A gray mare with white speckles emerged from the shadows of the woods, obediently trotting up to his side. He took the reins and looked at you.
— I’m going to help you up.
You frowned, still wary, but let him take hold of your arms and shoulders, helping you onto the back of the horse as you tried to steady yourself against the saddle.
The moment your weight pressed down on your injured leg, pain flared again, and you hesitated, holding your breath.
— Where are you taking me? — you asked, your voice low and tense.
He adjusted Taima’s reins before answering.
— I can set up another camp or take you to town to get this treated.
Your heart pounded. Town was far. Too far.
— No… town’s too far… — you protested, barely able to think straight.
— M-My place is closer… — Maybe you’d regret saying that later.
Charles paused for a moment, considering your words. Then, you pointed toward a path leading out of the woods, where small stones lined a narrow trail.
He followed your gaze and, after a brief silence, nodded.
Without another word, he mounted Taima and adjusted the reins. Your horse followed behind them on its own as the forest faded into the distance.
The journey was quiet, except for the sound of Taima’s hooves against the damp earth. The pain in your leg didn’t ease—in fact, it only seemed to intensify with each small movement. The night’s cold seeped into your skin, and exhaustion weighed on your eyelids.
But Charles wouldn’t let you fall asleep.
— Do you live alone? — His voice broke the silence, low but firm.
You blinked, forcing yourself to stay alert. Awake.
— Yes… — you murmured, resting your head against your own shoulder.
You hesitated for a moment.
He made a neutral sound in his throat, absorbing your answer.
— Do you have family in town?
Your tone was weaker than you intended, but Charles only nodded, unsurprised.
Silence settled between you again, filled only by the cold wind rustling through the trees. You could feel Taima moving carefully beneath you, her steps steady and deliberate, as if Charles was guiding her to keep your leg from jostling too much.
The pulsing pain threatened to drag you into unconsciousness, and you had to fight to keep your eyes open.
— Your horse is obedient— He’s remarked.
You glanced back, spotting your horse following faithfully without needing to be led.
— He knows me… knows we’re heading home.
Charles kept his eyes on the path ahead, but his tone became a little firmer.
You took a shaky breath, shivering as another wave of pain shot up your leg.
— It's not so easy...— you murmured.
He didn’t respond right away. Then, after a few minutes, his voice returned softer, but still watchful.
Charles made another neutral sound, as if approving the name.
— Strong and loyal, then.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the conversation instead of the pain.
Then, something caught your attention.
Charles wasn’t asking about the path anymore.
You lifted your head, and that’s when you saw it. In the distance, a thin column of smoke curled into the dark sky—the smoke from your home’s fireplace. The only smoke in the entire area.
He already knew where he was going.
Maybe his senses were sharp, or maybe he just had an eye for details. Either way, Charles adjusted Taima’s reins slightly and urged her into a faster trot. Not fast enough to jolt you painfully, but enough to close the distance between you and the cabin.
Time passed in brief flashes of light and shadow as the forest began to open into a clearer space.
— That’s your home? — he asked, his voice low but firm.
You blinked a few times, fighting off dizziness, before nodding.
The wooden cabin was medium-sized, surrounded by a small, weathered fence. The chimney still released a thin wisp of smoke into the night sky. Charles slowed Taima and pulled the reins until she came to a complete stop.
Without a word, he dismounted with ease, then turned to you.
— Hold on tight — he warned before reaching out to help you down.
His touch was firm but careful, supporting your weight as your feet met the ground.
The moment you tried to put weight on your injured leg, a sharp pain struck like a blade.
A muffled cry escaped your lips, and before you could collapse, Charles caught you swiftly.
— Damn it… — you whispered, eyes squeezed shut in pain.
Charles said nothing. He simply adjusted his hold on you again and started walking.
— You alright. Just… move slowly and lean on me.
He nudged the small gate open with his foot, crossing the tiny yard to the steps of the front porch. The wood creaked under your combined weight as he carefully lowered you onto one of the benches by the door. For a moment, all you could do was take a deep breath, trying to regain control over the pain and exhaustion.
He stepped back slightly, just enough to give you some space but still staying within your line of sight.
— I need to take care of that wound now — he said, his voice steady.
You knew you had no choice. So you just nodded, too exhausted to argue.
Charles had barely taken a few steps toward Taima when you hurried to speak.
— No need! — you called out to the man in front of you.
He stopped, turning to face you with a neutral expression, though his eyes remained sharp.
— You got something better? — he asked, skeptical.
Without answering, you leaned forward quickly, ignoring the searing pain in your leg. A shaky breath escaped your lips, but you didn’t stop. Your fingers slid beneath the fabric-covered space under the wooden bench, feeling around until they found a small box hidden in the narrow gap. With a firm tug, you yanked it free, the dull thud echoing across the porch.
— Here. — You lifted the box slightly, tapping your fingers against the lid. — I always keep what I need close by…
Charles was silent for a moment, watching you with that look that seemed to see more than what you said. Then, without haste, he turned back and walked toward you.
Kneeling beside you, he took the box from your hands and opened it, scanning the contents.
— Hidden under the bench? — he murmured, a subtle trace of approval in his voice. — That’ll do.
You shrugged, even though the movement made your entire body protest.
— Better than having to hobble around looking for something.
Charles let out a quiet sound of acknowledgment, pulling out some clean cloth and a small bottle of alcohol.
— Smart. Let’s see if we can patch this up without needing anything else.
He checked the supplies, ensuring there was enough to work with, then lifted his gaze to you. Without a word, he leaned in slightly—just a small shift forward, but unmistakable. A silent request for permission. A quiet question, waiting for your trust.
You held his gaze for a moment before exhaling a long sigh and nodding, letting him continue.
With a deliberate gentleness, Charles reached for the hem of your skirt, lifting it just enough to expose your injured leg. The skin around the wound was smeared with dried blood and dirt from the trail, and the pain throbbed in sync with your heartbeat. It hurt like hell.
He studied the injury with careful eyes before unfastening the canteen from his belt.
— It’s gonna sting — he warned, even before he started.
You barely had time to brace yourself before the cool water spilled over the wound.
— Ah! — You recoiled instantly.
The sharp jolt of pain sent your breath hitching, a gasp escaping before you could stop it.
Charles didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a clean cloth from the box, gently wiping around the wound, clearing away the remaining dirt. Water mixed with blood trickled down your ankle, staining the ground beneath you with small crimson drops. Then, he reached for the alcohol.
— One more time — he murmured, almost as if preparing you for what was coming next.
The second the liquid touched your exposed skin, the pain ignited like fire. You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping the edge of the bench, your teeth clenched to keep from crying out.
— Drug… — you muttered, trying to steady your breathing.
He paid no mind to your gritted complaints. Just kept going, methodical and precise.
Once the worst of it passed, he grabbed a fresh cloth, folding it carefully before pressing it against the wound.
You flinched at the touch but didn’t protest.
With swift hands, he wrapped a bandage around your leg, securing it with a firm knot. Once done, he pressed his palm lightly over your shin, assessing with a careful touch.
— No broken bones — he finally said. — You got lucky.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and leaned your head back against the porch wall.
— Thank you… — you murmured so quietly that you doubted he even heard it, your voice still heavy with exhaustion.
Charles closed the box and stood up, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt before looking at you again
— I can take you to a doctor — he offered, straightforward.
You shook your head without hesitation.
Charles was silent for a moment, as if considering your answer.
You closed your eyes, the weight of exhaustion settling over your shoulders. It was so much…Fatigue overtook her before you could even notice.
Sitting on the porch, her body sinking into the wooden bench, her eyes simply became too heavy to stay open. You fought against sleep at first, blinking slowly, trying to hold on to consciousness for just a few more moments. There was still something you needed to do. Something you wanted to say…
But before you could gather your thoughts, your breathing slowed, your muscles relaxed, and exhaustion took over.
Charles stood for a moment, watching you in silence.
You were no longer moving.
The tension in your body, caused by pain and hesitation, had faded. Your slightly parted lips released a quiet breath, and your chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.
He wasn’t expecting gratitude—he didn’t need it. But somehow, it felt like something was left unfinished.
And yet, he didn’t wake you.
Instead, he bent down and picked up the supply box, closing the lid with a quiet motion. Then, he stood up and walked to the fence beside the house, where his mare, Taima, waited patiently. He adjusted the saddle straps, ran a hand down the animal’s neck, and mounted in one fluid motion. Then, without looking back, he gave a slight command with the reins, and Taima began moving away from the house, her hooves tapping softly against the ground.
Night had fully fallen by the time he disappeared into the trees.
The air was cold now, even in summer, a stark contrast to the mild warmth of late afternoon. Darkness had settled over the land, covering the forest in deep shadows and spreading across the surrounding fields. For a moment, you blinked in confusion, trying to remember where you were. Then, the last moments before sleep came rushing back:
But he was no longer there.
You looked around, first slowly, then with growing urgency. His mare had vanished along with him. There were no fresh hoofprints in the dry earth. No presence, no sound of movement nearby.
You sat there for a moment, a strange restlessness growing in your chest.
There was something unsettling about his silent departure.
After all, he had helped you. He had cleaned your wound, made sure it wasn’t too serious, and stayed there, even though he had no obligation to.
And you didn’t even say thank you.
You didn’t even look at him properly before falling asleep. He never heard your gratitude, and you had just collapsed from exhaustion right in front of him.
You didn’t even say goodbye.
Your stomach twisted with a feeling you couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t exactly guilt. It wasn’t exactly sadness. What? That didn’t even make sense—why would it be sadness? You didn’t even know that strange man.
But it was Inconvenience.
You shook your head, pushing the feeling away. He was no one. Just a man who happened to pass through. He did what he did and then left.
Letting out a long sigh, you forced yourself to stand, feeling your leg protest with a dull throb. Now, all that was left to do was go back inside and carry on with life as before.
That man was only a part of that night.
Life at the house returned to normal—or as close to normal as it could be.
The first few days were the hardest. Your leg ached constantly, and even the simplest movements became a challenge. You avoided town when possible, not wanting to deal with questions about your injury.
But as the months passed, the pain became a manageable discomfort. The wound healed, and the swelling went down. Now, all that remained was a slight limp when you walked, because the damage hadn’t been small—if you hadn’t broken a bone, you had at least damaged a tendon or worn down part of the bone.
Mornings were always busy with small tasks: feeding the animals, chopping firewood (which you did quite poorly), fixing whatever needed repairs around the house. Sometimes, your leg protested against the strain, but you didn’t let that stop you. If you didn’t do it, no one would.
The forest, which once felt like a place of freedom, now seemed more dangerous. You still went out to gather herbs and hunt small game, but always with more caution than before.
And every now and then—just every now and then—when the wind blew strong and you heard distant hooves on the road, your heart beat just a little faster.
And you never saw him again.
Did you need to? What had gotten into you…?
You were never this anxious before.
You go to town some time after your recovery to buy bandages, supplies, sell something, or take care of a few problems. When you least expect it, you see HIM in the distance. He is standing near a stable, talking to a blacksmith, seemingly negotiating something. You go back to your shopping, averting your gaze.
His voice makes you stop. You shiver and hesitate before responding, glancing over your shoulder and seeing the man.
— Y-Yes… I still limp a little, but I’m fine.
The conversation is brief. You feel a mix of shame and discomfort because, for some reason, you’re more nervous than you should be. Maybe because you never had the chance to properly thank him, or maybe because seeing him again reminds you of when you were injured and vulnerable.
You don’t know what to say.
— Have you been in town all this time? — you ask, more to fill the silence.
— I was around. — He doesn’t give many details.
You exchange a few words about nothing in particular before he mentions that he’s looking for work. You consider inviting him to something, but before you gather the courage, an acquaintance or a vendor calls out to you, and the moment dissolves. When you turn around again, he’s already gone.
A few weeks later, you barely think about that brief encounter anymore. Life went on.
Your leg is much better now, and your routine has returned to normal.
One afternoon, you walk to the lake where you usually fetch water. The place is quiet, only the sound of rustling leaves and the slow flow of water filling the air.
You crouch down to fill a bucket when you notice, a little further ahead, a dead campfire.
For a second, a chill runs down your spine.
The evening sky is painted in golden and pink hues as you reach the lake. The silence of the forest is broken only by the soft murmur of the running water and the birds singing as they return to their nests.
You kneel down, dip the first bucket into the cold water, and pull it back up, feeling your arms tremble under its weight.
Your leg, though well healed, still doesn’t give you the same strength as before. You sigh in frustration and begin filling the second bucket, already planning how to balance them both on the way home.
But the moment you turn around, your heart skips an unexpected beat.
Him. The same man who had helped you.
He was there, standing near a fallen log, working on some arrows. He wore the same dark coat as last time, and your keen eyes noticed his hunting knife fastened to his belt.
Your first reaction was a slight jolt.
The surprise escaped before you could hold it back.
The man raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
— Hi. You all right? Did I do something?
You wetted your lips, trying to regain control of your own voice.
— I just… didn’t know you were still around.
You only shrugged, tense and nervous, watching him with that irritating calmness. Irritating? No…
You averted your eyes, gripping the bucket handles tightly.
— Well, it was nice seeing you again, but I need to take this back before it gets too late.
You tried to take a step, but the weight of the water pulled your arms down. Your ankle, injured months ago, no longer hurt as much, but it still wasn’t strong enough to handle so much strain
Before you could react, Charles had already stepped forward.
His voice was firm, leaving no room for discussion.
He ignored completely and took two of the buckets with ease, gripping the wooden handle without showing the slightest strain.
You stared, speechless, for a second.
You blinked, feeling your face heat up. This man was impossible.
— I… all right. This way.
The two of you started walking along the trail, with Taima following silently behind.
The thought of Charles helping you—again—suddenly made you nervous. You felt strangely flustered, and before you realized it, your voice came out louder than it should have.
— Do you always show up to rescue helpless women?
He’s cast a sidelong glance at you, a faint smirk appearing.
— Only the ones who insist on carrying more than they can handle.
You opened your mouth, offended.
— Hey! I could’ve carried it myself!
— Could. But it would’ve taken twice the time.
You had no words for that.
With a frustrated sigh, you gave up arguing.
Silence stretched between you for a few moments as you walked, until he suddenly spoke.
You frowned slightly and looked at him.
You blinked a few times, surprised, before slowly nodding.
When you reached the cabin, you opened the gate and motioned toward the porch steps. By the time you arrived at the house, the sky had darkened, and the air was growing colder. You lit a lantern, opened the door, and stepped inside, leaving Charles standing at the entrance.
Charles set the bucket down with a steady, unhurried motion. As he straightened, you realized he was probably getting ready to leave.
And for some reason, that bothered you.
Before you could think twice, the words slipped out.
— Do you want to come in for a bit?
Charles looked at you, slightly surprised by the sudden invitation.
— I mean, since you helped me, the least I can do is offer you some tea. Or, I don’t know, some food, since I… was already preparing something to eat.
You swallowed, feeling your nerves rise.
— I don’t want to be a bother, miss. I—
— You’re not! — It’s fine, d-don’t feel forced…! — you cut him off before he could finish.
But after a brief moment, Charles simply gave a small nod.
Why did it feel like you kept getting yourself into this?
With a quiet sigh, you opened the door wider and stepped inside, lighting a lantern.
He followed right behind.
The familiar scent of wood and dried herbs filled the air. He glanced around the room with a calm expression, as if taking in every detail.
— I’ll get something ready. Won’t take long.
Charles simply settled near the fireplace, in no hurry at all.
The warm glow of the oil lamp flickered softly as you moved through the kitchen, the comforting scent of maple syrup filling the air. Your hands worked with practiced ease, but your mind was elsewhere—on the man sitting in the other room, quiet, patient. It had been a long time since a man sat in that armchair, the one your father always claimed as his. Somehow, it made your chest feel tight.
You turned back to your task, focusing on preparing something warm and sweet. Maple syrup pudding—a simple but rich dessert, perfect for keeping the cold at bay. You mixed the flour with brown sugar and butter, your fingers pressing into the dough until it crumbled just right. The maple syrup warmed in a pot with milk, its golden color thickening as you stirred. Once combined, the mixture went into the cast-iron oven, filling the kitchen with its familiar scent.
You wiped your hands on a cloth, glancing toward the doorway. He was still there, unmoving, only the sound of the fire crackling beside him.
Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the teapot.
His deep voice startled you, making you jump just a little. You quickly turned your back to him, pretending to adjust something on the counter.
“Aye, just fine,you muttered, your accent slipping in the words.
The tea leaves swirled in the steaming water as you tried to shake off the strange nervousness pressing against your ribs. You weren’t sure why you felt so restless. Maybe it was just the presence of someone else in your home—someone who wasn’t passing through, who wasn’t a neighbor stopping by for trade.
Someone who had helped you.
The pudding was ready, golden and fragrant, and you carefully scooped two portions onto plates. You hesitated as you reached for the silverware, glancing once more at the man still seated by the fire.
There was something about his presence that filled the space in a way you weren’t used to. Not intrusive, not uncomfortable—just there, solid and steady, like he had always belonged.
You set the plates down on the wooden table, fingers lingering on the edge of one as if debating your next words. Then, before you could overthink it, you spoke.
–C’mon, then. No point lettin’ it go cold.
He turned his head slightly, as if he hadn’t expected you to call him over. Then, without a word, he pushed himself up from the chair, his movements slow and deliberate. The floor creaked under his boots as he crossed the room, and when he sat across from you, the space between you suddenly felt much smaller.
You watched as he took the first bite, his expression unreadable at first—until you caught the slight, approving nod.
–This is good—he finally said.
You smirked, scooping up a bite for yourself.
For a while, the two of you ate in comfortable silence, the fire casting long shadows on the wooden walls. But curiosity gnawed at you, and eventually, you set your spoon down.
–Your accent…—You studied him. –Y’ain’t from ‘round here, are ya?
–No. I came from the States. Needed a fresh start.—he say.
You nodded slowly, watching him carefully. Then, after another moment, you tilted your head.
–Why are you camping out there instead of staying in town? Surely there's a room for you somewhere.- You ask him as you take a sip of tea
His fingers drummed lightly against the table before he exhaled.
–I don’t do well in towns. A big Black man takin’ up space in a place like this… it draws attention. The wrong kind.— He say, his grip on the teacup tightened slightly.
Your his grip on the teacup tightened slightly, swallowing dry feeling his discomfort.
–Y’don’t strike me as the violent type.
–I’m not,— he said simply. –But some people don’t care about that.-
The weight of his words settled between you, heavier than before. You let out a slow breath and nudged his cup toward him.
– Drink up. Tea won’t stay warm forever. –You gave a little smile without even realizing it.
A small, almost amused smile flickered at the corner of his lips.
–No, I suppose it won’t.–He say
And so, you drank in silence, the fire crackling beside you as the night slowly settled in
Keep going! It really took me a long time to think of everything and write it down, I barely have any time to spare.... intend to post a second part next week, if anyone has suggestions for things to put in another two or one more chapter, PLEASE send them to me on my dm or on tumblr's ask's, anonymous or not. I love questions and suggestions, they help me write faster and better. Bye bye ~
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