art. kpop. what more do you need?

Bright daffodils peek like glorious trumpets between the dew-soaked grass in the morning’s light, basking in the warmth provided by a weak sun.

You watch for him regularly now, a habit built inside a secret place. At dawn you spy him moving along the boundaries of the estate, a tiny figure silhouetted against a pale blue sky. He patrols the walls with that long, bleak shotgun perched over a broad shoulder while you gaze unseen.

The man is shadow itself it seems. Always vanishing before you can properly grasp his presence. It’s improper in the extreme to long for his brusque company, so you crush the notion of foolish romance. Though the feeling is stubborn, refusing to accept defeat, lurking in the pit of your chest until Mr Riley takes the form of every hero in your sultry romance novels.

Hiding the lustful pages under your cotton pillows, you fantasise about him. His dark eyes undressing you, the pupils ringed with ebony desire, shining and debauched. The scent of gun-smoke that clings to him lacing your wrists also like perfume.

Once or twice, you see him smoking at dusk leant upon the fence panels close to the house. Your silly little heart swoops when you realise his eyes are fixed upon your window, but he departs before you can find a moment to escape outside.

Your mother is set on training you to meet the Baron, whose imminent visit looms large upon your shoulders. It may as well be an unwelcome hand at your waist or sour breath at your ear for all the distaste it causes you.

Your father seems just as unhappy about the situation as you are, though he does a poorer job in hiding it. Several times you hear him grumbling to your mother about inviting a stranger into his house, while she clamours about mending bridges and reconnecting with estranged friends across the channel.

You feel the vitriol bubbling within him, the fatigue built from years of warfare that led to the loss of his own heir, one who would have negated the need for a prestigious match for his second daughter.

The Baron can hardly be held responsible for that, but your father seeks an outlet from the expectations of society in the same way you do. Still, you imagine he will force his manner into politeness grudgingly for the sake of your mother, to try and plunge money into the estate he so loves, and that so desperately needs it.

On the first warmer day, you decide to take the air. Mary has another afternoon free, one that she informs you will be spent with her sweetheart, Mr Garrick. He seems quite the gentleman, and she is smitten enough that it makes you faintly jealous of the freedom she has to choose the desire of her heart so openly. Her cheeks glow with happiness when she discusses him, eyes growing soft and fuzzy.

When she departs for the village, you conceal one of your favourite novels within a thick academic tome. Your mother would blow steam from her ears at the thought of you reading something so appallingly sensual. It’s sensible to conceal the torrid pages until you’re far away from the house at least.

Finally, after plenty of careful steps on the fresh, tender earth, you reach the banks of the little stream that marks the boundary of your father’s property and the farm that borders it. The land was sold off years ago for agriculture, but your father still holds a share of the profits of the crops.

It’s peaceful here, the babbling of the brook, cold, frothy water tumbling around the large rocks that keep it shallow. Bright green grass flourishing on the sloping borders of the water, while the trees overhead rustle gently. Dead leaves from the hard winter crunch under your feet, the trunk of a huge willow with its draping branches skim the clear surface of the pools while you settle under it like a huge umbrella.

Your woollen coat is pulled more firmly around you, a chill breeze still rifling through the air as the seasons turn. Far away, a sheep bleats for its lamb. Other than that, your only company is an abandoned greenhouse built in the Victorian period by your ancestors. It was left in favour of a larger structure closer to the manor, now the sculpted wooden frame has been overcome by ivy, dark evergreen pressing tightly on the window so you can barely see within it.

It’s charming in a way, the nostalgic air of a thing that once seemed modern and elegant, reclaimed by the natural cycle it once birthed. Life and death clings so closely to the land, always revolving. You feel it in the portraits of long-dead relatives that hang along the walls, it’s acutely obvious in the budding leaves trying to break into the crisp air and soak up the future summer sunshine.

The pages of your novel flutter as you read, lost in the story weaving before your eyes. You’ve read it more than once, it’s a tale set in glamorous and gothic fantasy, a tale of soulmates that find each other in passionate encounters upon the moors of the North. Stolen glances and whispered touches in a fervour. The sturdy book you used to hide it lays abandoned at your feet, the cool ground making your dress a little damp where you sit.

Mr Riley has a northern accent. Preoccupied, your mind inserts him once again in the role of your corrupter, a treasured glimpse into the forbidden world you seek to explore between a man and woman. One only the intimacy of their coupling truly remembers.

“What ya doin'?”

You jump violently, twisting in your spot at the source of that rasping noise. The novel spills from your palms, as they press into the dirt and you launch into a standing position.

He grunts out a laugh at your plight, clad today in a suit of grey tweed, his flat cap pulled low over those ash-coloured brows. Looking right at home as you scramble, his broad gait is grounded, feet embedded into the floor as if he grew there.

“Just reading!” You snap, rather more quickly than intended, face flaming with the surprise of being discovered in your secret hideaway. “I do wish you would announce yourself, it is most impolite not to.”

“Consider me impolite then m’lady.” Mr Riley smirks, watching you flap over the dirt on your hands.

“I already do.” Tartly you glance into his face, setting your mouth into a line while your stomach lurches excitedly at the sight of him. So tall, he towers over you, could eclipse your stature easily with those long, muscled legs in knee-high mud gaiters.

“Don’t usually see yous all the way down here.” He continues as if you haven’t just been rather rude. His eyes are sparkling slightly, like he enjoys it, as if the sole reason for humour being found at all in the dourness of him is your humiliation. “You up to somethin'?”

“No! Like I said Mr Riley, I’m simply reading my books.”

“Can read up at tha' house can’t ya?! Or you usually do.”

“I wanted to sit in the nice weather for a change.”

“I see.” He tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat, nodding wryly at you. “Thought ya’d walk half a mile away to experience that did ya.”

“I was enjoying the peace and quiet. If it bothers you…I can leave.” Flustered, you try and keep your nerve. The way he observes you is so intense it makes your knees tremble, black orbs cavernous yet deceptively full of humour.

“I ain’t complainin' about it. If anythin' I’m pleased.” Mr Riley mutters, shuffling a little on his large feet. “Been tucked away since I last saw ya. Thought I’d done somethin' wrong.”

That takes you aback slightly, the notion that he’s pleased by seeing you, and that he cares about what you think of him. Your voice stutters inside your throat as a fledgling sound dies upon your tongue.

“Had no chance to tell ya that the kits are grown up now. Huntin' for themselves. I left them alone like I said I would. Even though they’re pinch’n hens from the coop left n’ right.” He continues, now observing the ground steadily.

“Oh…well…thank you for letting them live.” Meekly you answer, unsure of what else to reply.

He shrugs gruffly. Then notices the book strewn at your feet.

“Dropped your book.” Stooping to pick it up, his long fingers outstretched, he’s drawn up short by your squeak. You dart to grab the novel, but he’s far too quick, snatching it away and holding it up to his face.

“Don’t!” Desperately you stammer at him, reaching to tug it out of his hands. “Don’t read it!”

“Why?” Puzzled, he flips a few pages, brows knitting together.

“Because! It’s…it’s private!”

“A private book?” Mr Riley scoffs, keeping the book well out of your reach in his rough hands. “It a diary or somethin'?”

“No! Just please give it back!”

You snatch for it, grasping his forearm to try and leverage yourself up to his height. Stubbornly he refuses, even as panic and embarrassment starts to creep up your body. You’re very close to him now, the tang of peppermint on your cheek from his breath.

“Why ya reading about cock?!” Incredulously he blinks down at you, fair lashes sweeping the hollows beneath his onyx stare, now narrowed and keen. Close up his scars play like scores on silver birch bark upon his pale skin, slightly raised and smooth. The one across his upper lip curls with mirth, and you cringe at the sight.

“I’m not!”

“Are too. I’ve seen tha' word written enough to be able to read it right.”

Mr Riley points to the offending part of the page with joyful glee.

“His…” Struggling with the letters, his mouth moves slowly. “F-I-R…somethin’… cock!”

“Give it to me!”

He allows you to grasp the book and shove it into a pocket, mortification washing over you in churning waves. Nearly hysterical you back away from him, lurching while doing so, eyes smarting indignantly. He keeps hold of your arm though, following so you can’t truly escape. Your back hits the trunk of the willow tree, rough wood scraping at the stockings on your calves and snagging the silk.

“So tha’s why you’re all the way out here eh?!” Mr Riley chuckles softly, his head tilting, dipping low to yours until you squirm to be free.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Righteous anger makes your face burn, glowing hot and entirely unladylike.

“You don’t.” He agrees in that low, rumbling way. “Might to your mother though…”

“Please don’t tell her!” You beg, his gaze boring into your face, thin lips inches away from your own, a little chapped and rough like he has a habit of gnawing the skin there. His high cheekbones curve with some malicious pleasure, a half smirk peeling across his mouth.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Thank you.” Sighing with relief you slump slightly.

“But I wan' somethin'…for keeping ya secret…”

Your lip trembles, being indebted to Mr Riley was not on the cards for your peaceful day alone.

“Of course you do. Money I presume!”

He laughs openly at the tone of your voice, the tremor you try so hard to hide but that makes its way into the air regardless.

“Ain’t got no need of your money m’lady.”

“What then?”

“Wan' ya to teach me proper letters.”

“Pardon?” Sure you’ve misheard him, momentarily you blink, anger forgotten in a heartbeat.

“Teach me to read. N’ I won’t let on you’re out here day dreamin’ about cock.”

“That’s what you want?” Stunned, you stare at him. Mr Riley clears his throat with an awkward cough.

“Yeah. Never learned, and I wan' to. You’re gonna teach me.” When you remain open-mouthed, he nudges you. “Ain’t ya.”

“S-sure…I mean…if that’s what you would like.”

“Good girl.”

Finally he relents, allows you the space to breathe while he steps to the side and removes his jacket. You watch him lay it on the ground, then slump beside it. Long legs outstretched where yours were before him.

Mr Riley pats the area of dirt now covered by his jacket, as you stand there gormless, like a spare part without much use to anyone.

“Sit.”

You do as you’re told, sinking to the side beside him on top of his overcoat.

“Don’t wanna get ya dress filthy.”

“Thank you.” Rather stiffly you respond, still trying to still your racing heart and boiling temper. Mr Riley seems unmoved, totally mellow as he removes a crumpled pack of smokes from an inside pocket.

You watch him light it, smell the bitter herbs on the air while he inhales. It smokes and curls between his thin lips, his face still high above your own even seated.

“So…when would you like to begin?”

“Whenever ya can find time in ya busy diary.” He flicks ash onto the ground beside him sarcastically. “Does now work for m’lady?”

“Now!”

“Yeah. Tha' a problem?”

“No.” You reply hurriedly, twisting the hem of your day dress a little anxiously. “Only that…that I would like to plan more thoroughly…bring you some books to help with it all.”

“We can start with that one.” He points to the naughty novel stashed in your pocket. “That’ll do.”

“It certainly won’t!” Snapping, you glare at him.

“Already know one word in it.”

“There’s more to the story than that!”

“I’m sure.”

You lapse into an uneasy silence, just the lightly flowing wind forming a background, moving the still bare strands of the willow above your heads. This close up, you can see his hands are covered in more slash marks, the knuckles dark and bruised-looking, calluses on the pads of his fingers. The nails are bitten brutally short, fair hair visible where his shirt cuffs end.

“I’ve never met anyone like you Mr Riley. You must despise me, to taunt me the way that you do.”

“Don’t despise ya.” He replies hoarsely after a long pause. “Wouldn’t speak with you at all if I did. N’ call me Simon if it pleases ya.”

“Simon. Then why do you tease me so?”

“Tease ya?”

“Yes.” Your hands flap defeatedly on your lap. He’s watching you, almost burning your skin with his focus. “At times I think maybe you want my company, then at others it seems you only wish to see me humiliated.”

“The thoughts of someone like me shouldn’t bother ya.” Simon grunts, stubbing his cigarette out on a wilted leaf. “We ain’t of the same station.”

“What does station have to do with it? You have no reason to respect me, pampered as I’m sure you believe I am. But I would enjoy a friendship with you.”

“A friendship.” Bluntly he looks at you, some silent emotion in his face you didn’t anticipate rising there.

“Yes.” You answer quietly, gazing right back at him.

Very hesitantly, one of those huge knuckles is brought to your cheek, brushing it lighter than a feather might, allowing his fingers to stroke your jawline gently.

“Ain’t got much to offer ya…but if it’s friendship you want…I’ll do my best to give it.”

For a moment his digits linger on your skin, goosebumps rising and prickling at his touch in the cool breeze. You would never expect such depth caught in his voice, bruisingly dark eyes softened.

“Still. S’not proper for you to be out here alone with me.” His voice cracks a little, and you sense yourself falling deeper, that girlish crush giving way to a new feeling. Rampant and intoxicating need, a want to be closer to him, to feel his touch alone on every inch of you until you’re marked for life with it. “Your reputation would be ruined. I’d lose my job n’ home.”

“Who is there to see us?” You whisper.

He doesn’t withdraw his hand, it remains grazing you, making a drum style beating sound in your ears. Simon as he now is to you, remains silent momentarily, while his eyes dart down to your mouth, hunger making itself plain in his expression.

“Spoken like someone who ain’t ever been in the gutter.” Finally he husks at you, still holding your watchful stare. “Ain’t ever dragged themselves up by the bootstraps and seen the worst on the way.”

“You can go. I wouldn’t blame you for it.” Silently though you pray he won’t retreat back into the brush, refuse the aching butterflies lurching in your chest. His scent is so intoxicating, hard work and labour written in the lines of his face. It makes you dizzy, a lightheaded fool.

“Can I now?” One of his brows quirks, slow blinks matching the low gasps of your breath caught inside your throat. “What kind of friend would tha' make me?”

“Perhaps a good one, if the consequences of being seen with me are so dire for us both.”

“They would be dire. But tha' don’t mean I got a choice in it.” Simon’s nose bumps yours, his exhale playing on your lips.

“There’s always a choice.”

“Don’t give me tha'. You’re a smart girl. Y’know why I’m still here.”

A tiny pause, so minor it’s barely a bat of your lashes. Then he pulls away, swallowing visibly. Disappointment soaks you, icing along your spine. You watch while he struggles internally a moment, then gets to his feet, holding out a broad palm and helping you up.

“Tomorrow evenin'. My cottage. I’ll be waitin'.”