Lavender

You don’t argue. You didn’t forget, you told her, they were sold out. You crinkle the paper in your hand, alongside a single twenty dollar bill. There will be a dollar thirty eight in change as long as you buy exactly what she wrote down. She’ll be sure to tally up the coins herself when you get back.

“I got the list.” You assure her.

“By all means, drag your feet.” She snorts.

“I’m going. Won’t be long.” You say.

You head for the door with a reusable bag around your elbow. You pull the door shut behind you until the clasp clicks loudly. You tuck your handful into your jeans skirt pocket, the hem just above your ankles.

“Headed out early, huh?” Frank sits on his steps, a coffee cup in his hands. It looks tiny in his grip; two fingers and thumb to keep it steady.

“Mmhmm. Groceries.” You murmur as you descend the stairs.

“Oh yeah? Got that on my agenda too. Want a ride into town?” He looks into his mug then dumps the dregs of the coffee.

“Um, no, it’s okay. I always walk.”

“Only makes sense. Goin’ in the same direction. Which store you hit up?” He stands and sets the cup on the barbeque.

“I can go…”

“Ah now, let me do ya the favour,” he insists. “Let me just grab my keys, sugar.” He climbs the steps and flicks open the screen door. He reaches inside and swipes up his keys with a jingle. He pulls the interior door shut behind him and locks it.

“It’s… nice of you. Thank you.”

“Nothin’,” he says as he waves you toward his truck.

He opens the passenger door and waits. You grab the inside and the edge of the seat. You haul yourself up as his hand grazes your side and hip. “Don’t wanna fall.”

“Thanks,” you slide into the seat and fold the empty bag on your lap.

“Don’t forget to buckle up.” He claps your thighs softly. “This thing’s got a kick.”

He shuts the door and you pull down the seatbelt. You click it in as he rounds the hood and swings back the driver’s door. He climbs in and snaps the door shut. He shoves his keys in the ignition and turns the engine so it rumbles to life.

“Ah, can’t forget,” he sits back and straps himself in.

He grips the ridge steering wheel with one hand and cranks the manual stick with the other. The truck jerks between gears and he reverses off his lot. You shrink into yourself as you clutch the reusable shopping bag.

“So, where we shopping?” He asks.

You chew your lip. “Lucky’s.” The store is named for its stock; the dent and irregular packaging not good enough for the other stores, but sold at a decent discount.

“I drove past it on my way in.” He drives through the park slowly. “Quiet town. Not like the city.”

You glance over at him. It must be boring here to him. It’s boring to you.

“New York boy,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t go back if you dragged me.”

You nod. “Oh.”

“Eh, y’know. No one ever likes where they grew up.”

You shrug. “I… guess.”

He inhales and turns onto the dirt road just outside the park. “So, you been with grandma how long?”

You wiggle your foot. You trace your thumb along the seam of your bag. “Since… Since I was thirteen…” You answer.

“If you don’t wanna talk about it… I’m only curious.”

“No, it’s… no one asks… I guess.” You clear your throat as the engine roars. “Sorry if I’m… quiet.” You gulp. “My dad dropped me off. Didn’t come back. He had a girlfriend and I don’t think she liked me.”

“Hmm. Now that’s just cruel, isn’t it?” He tuts. “Well, you know, parents are…messy. Mine tried their best but they weren’t the problem.”

He pumps the pedals as he smoothly switches gears and flies down the country road. You watch the trees and brush blur by. Fields of overgrown grass and weeds lean in the breeze.

“I don’t think about it. I just try to help.” You say. “Grandma… I get it. She didn’t want another kid around. Doesn’t really matter.”

“Does it not or do you think I don’t care, sugar?” He asks as he slows, approaching the edge of the town centre.

“Just doesn’t,” you insist.

“Sure, sure,” he accepts evenly.

He finds his way to the bargain grocer. He comes around your side of the truck before you can get the door open. He holds your arm as you get down. You’re happy for it, not realising until your feet hit the pavement hard how high it was.

You cross the parking lot together. You feel self-conscious as locals pass by and stare at Frank. Newcomers are always noticed. You aren’t.

You unfold your list as you get inside and Frank grabs a cart. You pace beside him as he stops to knock on a cantaloupe. “When I was in the sh— field, we barely got fresh fruit. It was always dehydrated or pureed and sealed in tubes.” He trades the melon for one that sounds better. “I appreciate the little things now. Fresh melon, sunny days, friendly neighbours.”

“Oh, yeah…” you babble.

As you peruse the baskets of produce, you notice an older lady, Caroline, staring over the grapefruit. Your face goes hot and you quickly look down at the pears. Does she think you and Frank… you could laugh. That’s a silly idea.

“Don’t ya need some fruit?” Frank asks as he picks out several plums and puts them in a paper bag.

“It’s not on the list.” You look down. It’s all non-perishables aside from the bread.

He leans over and you try to hide the paper. Too late. He pinches the corner and reads the roster of items, with the prices and exact sizes and brands beside them.

“Isn’t much.” He says.

You tug it away. “It’s fine.”

“Here, let me get ya some cherries. It’s the season.”

“You don’t– you shouldn’t.”

“I wanna.” He says as he grabs a bag. “‘Less you don’t like them.”

You’re quiet. You look around. “You just feel sorry for me.”

“What you say?” He grits.

“I like cherries,” you relent.

he’d be scanning the groceries at self-checkout, and you’d turn to see one of the workers looking at him. your spine went stiff, a frown marring your face. and then you’d start tugging on his sleeve from beside him, telling him to hurry, hurry up, hurry up, let’s go.

“who wants to have their way with me now?” he’d mumble, bumping his hip into yours, still not looking away from the register.

“no one,” you’d say. you didn’t want to boost his ego anymore. “just fucking hurry up now.”

“who is it?”

“me. i do. let’s go home so i can have my way with you.”

he clicked his tongue. “liar. you’re just gonna yell at me.” still, he turned his neck slightly to where yours was, murmuring a small “ah” to himself.

you groaned, but he did speed up. with bags in hand, he turned to walk out with you, placing himself behind you, free palm on your shoulder, thumb finding the curve where your neck met it. you’d come face-to-face with the poor woman you’d theorized was already in love with jack.

“hey, my girlfriend here really wants some lottery tickets. can you let my girlfriend know where she can find them?”

he couldn’t help it! he loves the little way the corners of your mouth curves up whenever he makes it clear that he’s taken.

the woman would blink, an obvious wedding band catching under the lights (jack would snort softly from behind you), as she pointed toward the front counter, entirely married, entirely not the threat you’d decided she was.

“good,” you murmured later, grabbing the lottery ticket as it printed.

his free palm would settle on your waist and he’d murmur, “did i make you happy back there?”

“yup.”

and jack would smile because he truly did feel like he’d won the lottery. he’d watch you over your shoulder as you fussed out a coin, brow furrowed as you did the scratch-off.

“i won two dollars,” you’d say after revealing the last symbol. you’d twist in his arms, ticket held up with a smile like you’d just told him you were pregnant with triplets instead of two dollars richer.

“lucky girl,” he’d say, matching your smile. his mouth would brush your hairline.

“uh-huh,” you’d say, letting him stay there, nose tucked against your hair.

“c’mon then, let’s go.” he’d put his hand on the small of your back after a minute, turning you around, to lead you out. clearly still hanging onto your short burst of jealousy. “before someone else decides to steal me.”

“don’t.”

“i’m vulnerable,” he’d tease.

or you’d go to pick him up in the morning, watching him handover the shift to robby, and then he’d go and say goodbye to one of his patients who thanked him profusely.

when he’d come back out, you’d roll your eyes and turn your back to him, already walking to the exit. “aren’t you just a ladies man?”

robby’d look at jack slightly confused and maybe even a bit put off, but jack would just wet his lips as he watched you leave, looking completely and utterly delighted.

“your girlfriend’s got a jealous streak, i think.”

“she does, doesn’t she?” jack would still be watching the doors you’d gone through, tugging the lanyard off his neck. “i love her. i gotta go.”

robby would rub his chin as he watches the man he’s known for too long look utterly delighted to get chewed out and wonder what the hell was going on in your home.

meanwhile you’d be at the car with your arms crossed, watching jack walk toward you with a little smile on his face that should’ve been wiped off with the long shift.

“i’m sorry,” he’d say immediately, slightly out of breath because he’d sped up to find you. “she thought i was her son,” he said about the patient, an eighty-year-old woman who truly did think he was her son. “but i’m sorry.”

“you’re too old to be her son.”

“too old to be a lotta things.” he’d back you gently into the passenger door, hands finding your hips. “not for this, though.”

and you’d keep going anyway, muttering how he was too nice, that he should only smile at you, that it wasn’t fair, that he was doing it on purpose.

“tell me to shut up,” you’d say out of nowhere, in the middle of your rant, furrowing your brows as he let you go on and on.

“no.” he’d rear his head back like he was confused by the demand. “i’ve wanted to hear your voice for the last twelve hours.”

you’d stare up at him with your mouth slightly open and nothing at all to say. his thumb would come up to press gently on your chin, keeping the expression there.

“there she is,” he’d murmur, pleased. “quiet at last.”

in the car, on the way home, he’d respond to bits of your rant.

“all my patient satisfaction scores are gonna go down.”

“so those are more important than me?”

his hand would land on your thigh as he kept his eyes on the road. “nope. i like the girl more than the scores.”

a lot of the time with you, he’d feel like a puppy getting a trick right. which is why he’d started doing it on purpose; introducing you before he introduces himself, texting you the logistics of his life unprompted, taking your hand in the condiments aisle for no reason, calling you after physical therapy simply because his physical therapist – sam – had touched his arms during the lesson and – like he’d been pavlov’d, some conditioned little bell going off in his head that only you were allowed to touch him – jack felt an immediate pressing need to hear your voice.

he knew that he was only feeding into it, selfishly craving more of your teeth in his shoulder and your fingers wrapped around his forearms in public even if your positioning hardly ever allowed for it.

it was getting out of hand. on a night off, when he’d come in with swat during the day and stayed until the end of day shift, robby and dana asked him to come to the bar and get a drink.

“yeah – let me just ask her if she can come, too.” he immediately said, already pulling out the phone to ask you.

except you were on shift till nine p.m., and you’d said so – go!!! have fun!!! tell dana i said hi!!! – when he texted you. jack made a small noise in his mouth.

“i can’t,” he’d said.

“she’s not letting you go?” robby asked curiously.

no, you’d in fact told him the opposite of that. but he didn’t want to say that, quite liking the idea of you having that hold on him. so, he’d say, “somethin’ like that,” hoisting his bag over his shoulders. “i’m gonna sit in her bar till she gets off. you’re welcome to grab a drink there.”

“so we can all watch your girlfriend make drinks?”

dana would simply chuckle, shaking her head, already knowing that jack would somehow manage to convince half the staff clocking out to come watch you work.

he’d never felt as doted on and claimed as you made him feel. you’d swapped out the ancient bar of soap in his shower for something that smelled like you. there were bobby pins in every crevice of his car now. you’d somehow become his emergency contact, too, leaving robby a little stunned.

you’d spend all night leaving small marks on his body (the crescent of your nails at his shoulder, your teeth marks just below his collarbone that would be evident with one wrong movement under his scrubs) and he loved finding each of it randomly while getting ready.

this is also why he’s so confused when dana brings up your jealousy and how a little bit of couples counseling could help. nothing feels wrong about the relationship at all!

he’d go through all the questions he assumed a therapist would ask.

was he unhappy? not at all. he was actually stupidly happy. he’d started humming in the car and coming home early.

was he worried? about what – that you’d give him the silent treatment for twenty minutes and then hold onto his bicep for hours just to make up for it? that you’d get a bit vicious about someone and then fall asleep on his chest like an overheated animal?

that you sat tucked him in the corner in restaurant booths so you could see the whole room and he could only see you? jack hardly thought there was anything worth looking at besides you anyway.

“even the healthiest couples do it,” dana would say.

“what would it do?” jack would ask curiously, indulging her.

“well.” dana would settle in, elbows on the desk, warmly concerned. “it’ll help with her being less possessive, for starters.”

jack would just look at her, head tilted, genuinely lost. then he’d rub his thumb along his jaw, feeling eerily unsettled by the words. “it’d make her stop?”

“ideally, yeah. that’s the idea.”

oh, he hated that thought. he knew your possessiveness didn’t come out of you being insecure. he knew that it was easy to assume some poor anxious girl white-knuckling her way through the relationship, checking his phone, counting the women, but that wasn’t it.

it came out of you picking him up and putting him in your pocket. you’d simply decided that jack abbot was yours, and so what if you got a little feral when the world got too near him?

“nah,” he’d say, shaking his head as he pressed his lips together. “we’re alright.”

“you may be fine with it. but, she’d have healthier relationships in case – ”

jack’s eyes would widen, and dana would look a little caught off-guard, realizing what she’d said.

“no.” he’d make a small sound, shaking his head again. “we don’t need that, then.”

“jack –”

“she’s not goin’ anywhere.” he’d knock the desk twice. “neither am i.”

“you know what,” dana would say, blowing out a breath. “i believe that.”

later that afternoon, he’d settle on the couch beside you, mind still reeling from the idea of there being an after him for you. his arms would go around your shoulders, pulling you in impossibly close. one hand would fit around the back of your neck, thumb under your jaw, tipping your face up until you had nowhere to look but at him.

“never gonna leave me, right?” he’d ask.

your brows would pull in together, the corners of your lips curving downwards.

“why?” you’d drawl. “planning on doing something bad?”

“nope,” he’d say. “just askin’”

your jaw would tighten as you tried to gauge his expression. “then stop. nobody’s leaving anybody.” you fixed him with a pointed look. “you’re not going anywhere.”

“damn right i’m not,” he’d say. his hands would slide up your neck and into your hair, fingers spreading wide. “say it again.”

you’d laugh shortly. “you’re not going anywhere.”

“mm.” his thumb would drag along the column of your neck as he felt you go pliant under his hold. “again.”

“jack – ”

“humor me, angel,” he’d say, the words coming out in a barely-hidden plea.

“you’re not going anywhere,” you’d say, humoring him, half breathless and the other exasperated. he’d kiss you on the last word, catching it in his mouth before it finished.

the other hand would come down at your lower back and haul you across to settle on his lap.

both your knees would land on either side of him, and his hands would immediately settle on your hips.

“you’re being so strange today,” you’d say, chin tilting up as his mouth dragged down your neck.

“yeah.” he’d smile against your skin. “gonna hold it against me?”

“maybe.”

“good,” he’d say, breathing out, breath billowing warmly. “hold everything against me.”

you’d laugh, surprised at the dramatics. and he would smile so hard and spend the entire day proving to you he would never. which mostly meant he let you do whatever you wanted for eleven straight hours.

you’d put a face mask on him. he’d sit there on the couch, a decorated combat medic, and let you take four photos he’d only found out you’d posted when javadi and santos looked at him funnily during handover. he’d let you try different colors of polish on his nails, and then paint yours with the one you liked best.

he’d watch you scroll on your laptop through different clothes, pointing out things he liked, which you’d taught him to do while being visibly delighted the one time he’d said “this one’s nice.” now he did it constantly, never quite holding himself back from voicing his opinions (it was often, he thought everything would look great on you).

jack is exactly where he wants to be! and people would just have to grow used to your claws and your terrible manners spawning out of nowhere, because the man they came out for had no intention of asking you to put them away.

kyle comes up behind you. you could put on a little show, have done so before.

but not today, not when you're so excited about going into the woods.

you shower together, sweet touches as you concentrated on getting clean (maybe he'll fuck you against a tree later).

"breakfast before we go, foxy," he says as you get dressed. this is why you love days with kyle, because hes so sweet and attentive, always taking care of you.

after breakfast, the two of you make lunch together. kyle throws it into a bag and leads you outside.

you hold his arm as you walk across the farm. john looks up from where he's talking to the livestock vet. "hi, sweetheart," he says when you let go of kyle to run to him.

"hi, john," you say and kiss his cheek as he squeezes you. "kyles gonna take me to the woods."

john hums and looks behind you. "really?" he asks. "just be back by dinner," he says and goes back to the vet.

***

you love the woods. not to live, not when you've got luxury waiting for you at home.

just as you hoped, kyle fucked you against a tree. bark scratching against your back but it makes you feel feral, like the wild animal you should be. you let yourself pretend as your legs shake, the belle on your collar making music as you finish.

you investigate everything. watching the small animals you were once nearly hungry enough to eat.

"here, foxy," kyle says. he's got a flower in his hands when you turn to him. it's pretty and blue, gorgeous beside your ears.

you kiss his cheek and continue on.

"I gotta piss, honey," he says and stops.

"okay!"

but you continue on. deeper into the woods, sniffing every flower and kicking every pile of leaves so they fly. you've got mud on your shoes and you're happy.

"well, aren't you a pretty thing?"

you pause, spine straightening.

you turn to see the other fox hybrid. ears and tail are more grey than orange, but he's definitely a fox. "can i help you?" you ask, pressing yourself against the nearest tree.

he laughs and shakes his head. "nothing, darlin', but i think i can help you."

your mouth is dry. other foxes emerge, seeming to surround you.

"you're that thing on the farm," the first fox hybrid says, stepping closer. "the fox who thinks she's a dog."

I dont think im a dog, you want to tell him. but you're shaking, terrified.

he reaches out a hand to touch you, touch your collar. a laugh leaves his lips as you begin to cry.

there's a growl. you're not really sure what happens after that. but the fox hybrid is standing there, his hand bleeding. and kyle is in front of you, reaching back for you.

"touch her again and I'll kill you," he says, his voice low.

the fox hisses. his companions run and kyle lunges.

you should shut your eyes, should look away as kyle works to rip him apart. the fox makes panicked noises and struggles out of kyles grip, bleeding as he runs away.

Kyle's chest is heaving. he turns to you, blood surrounding his mouth. "fuck, foxy," he says and steps towards you.

you're sobbing when you collapse into his arms. sweet kyle, your comfort. and now you know he'd kill for you. you should be scared, but you're not.

Nikolai’s mouth twitched.

“Petrov,” he corrected as if this moment wasn’t bad enough as it was, “but you can call me Nikolai, miss Clarke.”

You winced.

“Don’t call me Miss Clarke then.”

“Mmmhm,” he hummed, tipping his head to the side before he turned to look on the ground, easily bending over to pick up the plum you had stolen, voice almost scholarly as he then told you, “these are not ripe yet, are they?”

Your face burned in embarrassment as you tried to ignore the clear bitemark in the unripe fruit, watching the way the forbidden fruit looked so small in his large hand.

“No,” your voice wasn’t that loud, your eyes flickering away, “‘spose not.”

Nikolai let out a deep hum, turning it in his hand, taking in the bite mark for a moment before looking back at you - you dared to take a glance at him.

“It’s also not very proper to steal.”

Nah, shit. Fuck. Piss. Cunt. Cock. Shit. Fuck.

“I - uhm - I wasn’t —“

“No?” He took a step closer, “so your parents also grow plums now, da?”

Truly caught. You shook your head, grabbing onto the wooden fence you still sat on like a lifeline, nails digging into it, no doubt leaving crescent marks behind in the paint.

“N-no - they don’t, I just…” your words died down and you honestly didn’t fucking know what to say for yourself. 

“Just what, dorogaya?”

“It had fallen over the fence.”

It’s a sin to lie, your parents would remind you. But a whole lot of things were fucking sinful. Sometimes you wondered if they just considered your whole existence sinful. Besides, you didn’t even sound convincing, so you should probably just have been honest.

“Please don’t tell my parents,” you finally muttered, words almost melting together with how quickly you said then, “I - I didn’t…” 

“As long as you don’t do it again,” he finally said, a slightly amused smile on his face and fuck, when had he gotten this close? You swallowed as he tipped his head to the side, “then I won’t tell. Our little secret, da?”

You nodded, almost flinching when you felt his hand on your chin, tipping your head up. He watched you for a moment, as if he took your facial features in. Gentle. Flames of lust licked you, you almost felt unable to breathe.

“Good then. You better get home then, Milaya. It’s not nice to let your parents work alone, hm?”

You didn’t say anything. The moment he stepped back you turned around on the fence and jumped down, trying to ignore the way your cunt felt warm and wet. Fuck, you wanted to go straight home and touch yourself while remembering his words. 

“Bye little one,” he called after you as you hurried towards your parents house and you didn’t answer, just tried your best to not just book it and get away.

🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾

“You weren’t up in that tree again, were you, luv’?” 

“Nope.” You stirred the pot with soup, not looking over your shoulder, hoping your mother would be unable to catch you lying then.

“Hm.”

Your dad sounded unconvinced, claiming the throne at the dinner table, not helping with dinner - why would a man do that? God forbid he helped with making the food, that was a woman’s job after all.

You looked at the tomato soup, not commenting on his sound, just hoping he didn’t know.

“Met one of the lads from next door,” your father calmly commented, holding the pipe that filled the house with a sweet scent of tobacco, “Johnny - said he was impressed with ya’ tree climbing skills.”

The tomato soup looked a little boring but you were too busy cursing the neighbours inside your mind. Fucking asshole, that Johnny fella. Grassing on you like that.

“Huh, weird.” That was your only idea of a reply, so you just ran with it, “must have been someone else.”

Your father hummed, clearly not impressed nor believing you. Shit. Fuck. Why was everything you did wrong? You strongly doubted the bible said anything about climbing in trees.

“Don’t lie,” your mother chastised you, “it’s not proper - how will you find a husband if you’re a liar?”

You couldn’t help it, snorting loudly at her comment. 

“Please,” you answered sarcastically, your father cutting you off before you could point out how ridiculous that was, “I–”

“I don’t think Nikolai would want a wife that climbs trees either.”

You fully stopped stirring the soup, your mind catching up with his words, blinking a couple of times before turning your head to look over your shoulder at him.

“Good thing I’m not marrying him, innit?” You couldn’t help the sharpness of your tone. Why did he even say that? If you found out they were making some sort of plan, you were going to leave. You would rather live in the tree than here.

“You don’t know that,” your father easily replied, his pipe still in his mouth, looking scheming as fuck, “he is a good man.”

“I’m not—“

“You haven’t even gone out with him yet,” your mother added happily, taking the spoon out of your hand to stir, “you could invite him over for tea!”

“No,” you were more firm this time, “should you worry more about this year's harvest?”

“Nothing to worry about, luv,” your father easily replied, as if those were the last of their problems, “we’re more worried about you. Unmarried, living at home, no children yet - it’s not ideal for you, a young healthy woman like you should be looking for that.”

A part of you wanted to scream out loud.

🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾

“Tea time, dear!”

You stopped the painting of the outside of the chicken coop, pulling off your headphones. Your mother had asked what kind of music you listened to and you had to actually stop yourself from telling the truth. Gospel music, you had lied, newer kinds. She seemed pleased with the answer. You felt like you were lying constantly these days, but it was a form of survival you supposed. 

Your parents weren’t bad people. They had made a lot of bad decisions and their morals were quite different from your own, but you still had to remind yourself that they meant well, even if you wanted to scream again and again these days. They had been stricter when you were a child, much stricter. With almost daily bible readings and an extremely limited window to the outside world.

You closed the lid to the blue paint and cleaned the brush off with the garden hose before stumbling in through the back door, yelling out to your parents that you needed to change before you would join them.

The sound of a car door slamming and their truck suddenly being turned on, made you stop in your tracks. Mere seconds later you heard the familiar sound of it leaving the driveway.

“I suspect you’re able to change your clothes yourself, dorogaya,” a familiar voice suddenly said, making you jump and let out a loud squeak, as he continued, “or will you need help with that?”

You turned quickly, words still not quite catching up with your head, blinking at the sight of Nikolai standing in the doorframe, arms crossed, a smug smile on his lips. It was the second time he had scared you within a few days.

“Holy fuck - uh - hi- shit — hi Nikolai,” you felt incredibly caught off guard at the sight of the big man suddenly in the farm house, a small confused sound then leaving you, “what uh what are you doing here? I think - shit, I think my parents just left, sorry.”

“I know,” Nikolai casually answered, uncrossing his arms as he stepped closer, “I did not know that your parents let you curse this much, dorogaya.”

A tiny sound left you. Shit. Fuck. Piss. Why was he calling you out?

“Please don’t tell them,” you whispered, stepping backwards as he came a tad too close, your body instantly reacting like he had flicked a switch inside you, “I - uh - what are you doing here?”

He tipped his head to the side, watching you with a look in his eyes that you couldn’t quite describe. 

“So many secrets you want me to keep,” his voice was softer but there was still an edge that made your toes curl, “You invited me over for tea, dorogaya, did you forget?”

“What?” You stared at him for a second before you realised what had probably happened, your lust being changed into anger, then confusion, then anger again, “ah - I’m guessing my mother called you on my behalf.”

“You father actually,” he answered, a pleasant smile appearing, “they set you up, little one?”

You nodded dumbly before you frowned.

“I’m not little.”

“No?” He teased, “climbing in trees, stealing plums and being covered in paint. Seems like a little brat to me.”

The words made you whimper before you tried to tell him off, yet the words caught you so off guard, making you feel all flustered, so you only managed to stutter out a few messy words.

“Don’t worry, Milaya,” he winked at you before taking a step back, “you go change, I make tea, da?”

You barely managed to nod before you bolted off, skipping every second step as you went up the stairs, hurrying to close the door to your childhood room. You panted hard, resting against the closed door; you weren’t sure if it was from the sudden run or from something else…

You didn’t care if you got paint everywhere as you shrugged off your dad’s overalls, the only pair you could fit and the ragged, paint covered shirt you had worn.

Pretending not to notice the wetness between your legs, you felt heat spark in your stomach. From the effect of Nikolais highly in inappropriate words - and the pure anger from knowing your parents set you up like this.

Yup. You were going to strangle them.

“Are you coming down, Milaya?”

You heard him from upstairs but in honesty you weren’t sure if you wanted to come down. You’ve changed your dress twice, unable to find a dress you brought along — your main suspect immediately was your mother, since it was too short in her opinion - which meant not covering your knees.

As if that wasn’t enough, all your pants and all skirts that didn’t cover the knees, were gone too. 

You were going to strangle your mother as the first of your parents. This was probably the reason you had been sent out to paint the chicken coop, you realised as you chose one of the few dresses that was left, a dark green one. You fixed your hair minimally, just needing it to not be too messy.

Finally you couldn’t push it anymore. You walked downstairs and even though you wanted to continue straight out the front door, you behaved and walked to the living room. 

Nikolai put the kettle down on the table, looking over at you, not even pretending to be subtle about taking you in.

“You look very lovely, dorogaya.”

You bit your lip for a second.

“Mr. Petrov—,” you said, ignoring his compliment, as well as the butterflies in your stomach, “I’m sorry - but I didn’t invite you over, it’s my parents uh… plan.”

“I figured,” he smiled a little, though he didn’t seem that affected by your truth, “but it would be waste to not eat cake and drink the tea, no?”

You wondered what Nikolai’s deal was. He seemed to be flirting with you but at the same time, he had spoken to you very few times… you would barely call him for an acquaintance. He was just your parents’ neighbour.

You sat down, fully noting how your parents had only set the table for two. Traitors, the two of them.

“Mr. Petrov, I —“

“Nikolai.” He sat a slice of a pie on a plate, putting it in front of you before sitting down, as if he was the one who had invited you, “please, call me Nikolai.”

You nodded.

“Nikolai.”

“Da?”

“What’s your deal?” You might as well ask him directly, since you felt forced into whatever… this corner was.

“My deal?”

“Yes,” you looked down at your cup of tea, continuing, “did my parents put you up to this?”

He tipped his head to the side, though he didn’t stop smiling, “to what exactly?”

“This… whole thing. You don’t have to do this, you know, you don’t even know me and I don’t know what my parents have told you but I don’t need to be saved by some man, if —“

“Woah woah,” he raised his hands, “slow down, Milaya. Why exactly do you think I’m here?”

You were quiet for a moment, carefully watching Nikolai for a moment. His somewhat long hair was slicked back, dark even in the light of the lamp above him. His stubble, his nose, the slightly bushy eyebrows - he didn’t look old, even though he was older than you. There was a simple gold chain around his neck, his t-shirt a dark brown color. Unnecessarily hot. Did… that mean you had daddy issues or some shit?

“Because my parents told you to.”

The smile that appeared on his face was a little sad.

“Your parents invited me over, da, but I did not come merely because they asked.”

“… why then?” You dared to ask.

“Because I find you attractive.” 

You blinked.

“Wot,” you couldn’t help but stare at him, mind not quite catching up.

“I find you attractive.” Despite repeating it, you still didn’t want to believe him.

What the fuck. He merely watched you as he took another sip of his tea.

“I - no - you — “ you didn’t even know what to say, words unable to create a proper sentence. You almost wanted to laugh at him for saying it, but at the same time it was so direct that you felt unable to understand it.

“What, Milaya?” He asked, a slight amusement in his voice though it stayed a little dark,“has a man not told you that before?”

“I suppose not,” you answered, still feeling caught so off guard that you didn’t know what else to say than to just admit the truth. Nobody had - well, you had messed around with a few, you had been complimented but never as directly as this. So… shamelessly.

“A mistake,” he answered easily, “you have dated too many young boys.”

“No,” you perhaps answered a bit too quickly, Nikolai raising an eyebrow.

“No?”

“I never got around much to dating.”

“How come?” He asked you, genuinely sounding interesting, if not a little confused, “you are a beautiful woman.”

You pursed your lips, trying to ignore the sparks in your stomach.

“You called me a brat mere moments ago,” you reminded him, perhaps a bit sharp in your voice, hoping to distract him.

Nikolai laughed, waving at you.

“You can be both.”

You wanted to argue against it.

“I’ve only been on a couple of first dates,” you answered instead, before looking down at the pie, “never anything more than that.”

“How come?”

You shrugged. Nobody had ever seemed to be interested in you the same you were in them - a single time it was the other time around. It didn’t matter what gender, though you had mainly gone on actual dates with men, too scared to go with anyone else.

Your parents were less homophobic or biphobic than they were when you were young, but talking about anything other than heterosexuality with them still felt like a minefield to you. You never quite knew what to expect from them. ‘They grew up in another time’ your sister would sometimes remind you, with other morals and a different perspective on the world. That didn’t excuse it, even if it explained some of it.

“I don’t know,” you finally answered, “studying and working felt more important.”

Nikolai let out a hum, but didn’t press further. You decided to attempt to change the subject from whatever this hell was.

“Why did a bunch of veterans like you guys buy a plum orchard? Bit different kind of work, innit?”

Nikolai laughed. Full belly laugh. You pretended you didn’t like the sound.

“I suppose so, dorogaya,” he agreed, still smiling, “but we like to have a project. The farm and the orchard have plenty of those for us. We would like some more animals.”

“What kinda animals do you have now?”

“Couple of cows, some goats. Kyle would like some geese or ducks, I think. Johnny has talked of rescuing some more donkeys.”

“You have donkeys?” The former owners never had donkeys, so it caught you off guard.

“Da,” he grinned, “two and one mule.”

“You have a mule?” You couldn’t keep the excitement hidden, “do any of you ride?”

“John does a little, but not much. I don’t unless necessary - I’ve never been much of a rider.”

You nodded along, the subject much more interesting to you than you believed it would.

“I used to have a horse,” you admitted softly. You hurried to take a piece of the pie so you wouldn’t begin to talk about that too much. The pie was good, at least, even if you were still mad about your parents doing this entire thing.

“You can come over to meet our mule and donkeys if you want, Milaya. Then you can get away from your parents as well.”

“… I would like that,” you finally admitted, “they’re a bit much sometimes.”

Nikolai nodded, a soft smile on his lips.

“You are always welcome at ours.”

You smiled yourself.

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“Well then?”

You stared at your mother with the angriest look you could muster.

“I hate you,” you told her plainly, not even bothering to hide it, “both of you.”

“Now now,” your father began, holding up his hands, “we merely helped the two of you alo—“

“You have no right meddling with my life like this!” You said out angrily, pointing at them, “it’s not okay! I am a grown woman!”

“You didn’t turn him away, did you?” Your mother sounded scandalously afraid, touching her chest, fully ignoring the way you were scolding them, “please tell me you didn’t, dear god.”

“Of course I didn’t,” you answered, once again crossing your arms, “but I should have! I didn’t invite him over after all.”

Your mother let out a delighted sound that made you roll your eyes.

“What do you think of him then?” Your father asked, pushing off his shoes, sounding just as excited as your mother.

“Polite,” you didn’t give them anything to work with, “they’ve rescued a mule. I’m gonna visit tomorrow to see it.”

Your mother let out a delighted squeal that made you not only feel embarrassed - but instantly unsure whether you should actually go or not.

“It’s not like that!” You snapped before turning around and walking upstairs to hide in your room.

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You almost regretted your decision, the idea of leaving the family farm suddenly made you a little weak in your knees. Licking your lips, you straightened your shirt a little more, as if it mattered.

It had taken a tiny threat to get your clothes back from your mother, at least a pair of pants and afterwards it had taken a scolding from both your parents for even threatening your mother - while you had argued back that stealing your clothes felt like a bigger sin than demanding it back.

Besides, you weren’t going on a ride when the older man you had gone on an unwilling date with yesterday was watching you. Ridiculously it felt too… exposing. Your parents were rubbing off on you and you hated it. A good christian girl would never.

Ugh. Disgusting.

So, wearing a pair of pants and a long sleeved shirt, you jumped the fence in the orchard, knowing that you at least could cross the property line with good conscience today. The plums still weren’t close to ripe, which you already knew but you had to give it a check of course.

Walking out of their orchard and into their driveway felt… odd.

“Hey lass!”

You jumped at the sudden yell, turning around. 

A muscular man with a mohawk and an impressive scar across his temple that spread over the face, grinning like he had just won the lottery.

“Ye’re the youngest Clarke’s lassie, I assume?” The man with the Scottish accent stopped in front of you, still smiling as he offered you his hand, “Ah am Johnny - heard bunch ‘bout ye from Nik.”

You tried to hide your embarrassment the best you could, shaking his hand as you offered your own name.

“Only good things, I hope,” you answered, trying not to think about the fact that Nikolai had been talking about you to his friends, the thought making annoying butterflies appear, “wait - you’re Johnny? You’re the one who grassed on me!”

“What did ya’ do know, punk?” Price appeared from the farm house, drying his hands off on his pants, “good to see you again, love.”

“What? No! I dinnae do anything!”

“Yeah you did!” You crossed your arms, pretending you didn’t see how Johnny instantly looked at your tits for a second, “you told on me to my parents! For climbing in the trees.”

“Oh!” He at least had the decency to look ashamed, “Am sorry bonnie, I dinnae ken et was a secret.”

Price chuckled, shaking your hand for a moment before pulling back, winking at you.

“Oh, so Mrs and Mr Clarke seem like proud climbing people to you?” Price asked Johnny teasingly, the idea making your snort.

“Suppose not,” Johnny agreed.

“It’s hard to climb with a bible up your arse,” you muttered before you could help yourself. The silence that followed for the next two seconds almost made you want to apologise. Then both men suddenly burst into laughter, Price even had to bend over.

“I like ye, lass” Johnny declared, “nae as uptight as yer ol’ folks.”

“God no,” you agreed, “they stress me out sometimes.”

“Understandable,” he nodded, “me parents are quite catholic - dinnae really understand me either.”

You didn’t get to say anything else, when you heard a familiar voice call out, your body instantly felt warm merely at the sound of it.

You turned on your heel, watching Nikolai walk closer.

How the fuck was he attractive in a green plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, the button at the top was popped open, you didn’t know but your body still reacted to it. 

“Hi Nikolai,” you hated how you sounded.

“Hello, milaya,” he greeted back, not even trying to hide how he looked you over, “want to come look at the mule and donkeys with me and Johnny?”

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Nikolai was suddenly close - very close. Breathing against your upper neck, making goosebumps spread across your body, a small sound leaving you. A hand on each side of you, resting on the hay bales in front of you, caging you in. 

You hadn’t even seen any of the animals yet. 

He was so fucking hot. This was so fucking wrong. Well, it wasn’t wrong - it just… felt sinful. Pleasure sparking inside your body. You wished you didn’t find him attractive, wished you didn’t feel incredibly turned on.

“Nikolai,” you whispered, unable to raise your voice, his body pressing ever so gently against you. Like a warm weight against your back, making an embarrassing heat spread through your body, making you feel even hotter than before.

“Dorogaya,” the meaning of the word was still unknown to you, but you caught the vibe from the way he spoke it, “I cannot hide how lovely I find you.”

Johnny wasn’t far away, he left momentarily to collect something in the main house, but right now you didn’t want him to come back right away - in fact, he could just stay inside. The idea of being caught… somehow made you even wetter. You didn’t know why he decided to do this right now and didn’t say anything in the house yesterday, but…

A small sound left you at his admission. You carefully turned around, looking up at him. He was watching you intensely, pupils blown. 

“Ni-Nikolai,” you whispered, unable to keep the truth back, “I like you too but…”

“But?” 

The hay was pressing against your back, Nikolai even closer than before, leaning slightly down, his breath hitting your face. Mint. Coffee. Cigarettes. You wanted to press your lips against him, even if it would be stupid. Even if it would be giving in to what your parents wanted. You had only met him a couple of times - barely four times. You couldn’t give him what he wanted.

“I… Nikolai, I’m not goin’ to stay here on the farm - I want to go back to the city.” The words felt wrong to speak, but for once you agreed with your parents’ ideal of not lying. You didn’t want to lie. You didn’t want him to have some little dream of you becoming a proper country wife. 

A deep breath left him. He moved to rest his forehead against yours. This felt more intimate than when a boy kissed you for the first time. This felt more intimate than any date you had been on.

“I know, milaya,” he confirmed, “but I still want you.”

You couldn’t help yourself; you tipped your head a bit and almost pressed your lips against his - they didn’t manage to touch before the sound of Johnny opening the door made you panic and pull away, ducking under one of Nikolai’s arms, escaping him. Pretending like you didn’t just try to make out with his friend.

“There ye are, loverbirds - c’mon, let me introduce ye tae my herd.”

Your headphones had died 20 minutes ago and the lack of music made you want to scream. No way to hide from your thoughts and fears, only the constant sound of the motor and the occasional chatter from the elderly ladies a couple of seats behind you, who had already discussed who you were twice. 

A slow form of torture before you had to be fully confronted with your parents - and the failure of what had happened the last six years. Twenty-seven years old, almost twenty-eight, and you had to move back in with your parents. Back to the farm, away from the streets of London which you had fallen in love with.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed off, luv’,” your friend - and now former flatmate - Beatrice, had tried to comfort you with, squeezing you tight in a hug before you had to go to the station, “is just a bump on the road! You’ll be back in London before you know it.”

A lie.

A kind lie, from kind and lovely Beatrice - but a lie nonetheless. She wasn’t the one who was moving back in with her parents, so it was also easy for her to say.

The sign with the letters spelling Millhaven passed by. A bump on the road, that was what one could call Millhaven, you supposed. A bump on the road, in the middle of fucking nowhere - no, freaking nowhere. You would have to get used to not cussing anymore or you would get in trouble with your parents in no time. 

The bus came to a stop a short minute later and you instantly spotted said parents.

“Oh my lass!” Your mother shrieked as you managed to pull out the two heavy suitcases which carried most of your life, out of the bus; her hands were immediately on you, pulling your head close and covering you in kisses, cooing sounds making your toes curl with embarrassment, “you’ve finally come home! Thank you god!”

Home. You cringed at the word. 

Thank you god. God hadn’t really been nice to you these last six years if you were being honest - the only reason your silver cross hung around your neck was because your mother would instantly notice if it wasn’t there and comment on it.

It was only for a short while, you reminded yourself, only for a short while.

“Hiya, mum,” you greeted her, giving her a short hug before your father pulled you into one, “hi dad.”

She smelled of the farm; of wet earth, sheep plums and tea - with a hint of your father’s tobacco.

Your dad gave you a tight squeeze, a pleased grunt leaving the man. He smelled like he always did as well, similar to your mother, though the smell of gas and the smoke from his pipe was a bit stronger. 

“Did you bring all of the big city?” your father asked in amusement before taking the two big suitcases, “you know we have food at home, right?”

“I know, I know,” you smiled as your mother kissed your cheek again, while your dad threw the two suitcases onto the back of their old pickup truck and your mother pulled your backpack from you to carry.

“Lets get ya home, luv, you need a cuppa and some biscuits - have you not been eatin’ properly?” 

It was going to be a long summer.

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Long rows of walnut trees passed so fast it made your head hurt. 

The hum of the truck was familiar despite the many years that had passed since you drove in it regularly. Sure, you had been home for winter most of the last couple of years - whenever you were unable to find a good enough excuse - but knowing it would be your main means of transport in a while still made it different.

Your stomach hurt with the thought of having to stay here for a good while, but there was nothing else to do right now. Gone was the busy streets of London, the coffee shop on every corner and the rush of life around you.

Now it was sheep you could hear as you jumped out of the truck. Sheep and birds – as well as Gabby, Saint and a little slower now, Star. The three border collies greeted you happily as you squatted down to pet them, barking and wagging their tails. 

“Hiii darlings,” you cooed at the three dogs, who sniffed and licked your hands, then cheeks and neck, “how are my best buddies doing?”

“Star is getting too old to work soon,” your father offered, leaning down to pet the border collie with greying spots mixed with the black furs around his eyes, “but she is still doin’ her best.”

“Cours’ you are,” you muttered happily into the fur of the 13 year old dog. The only one you felt bad for leaving all those years ago; he had only been seven then, yet acted like a puppy. Barking after the car when you drove away with all your things, looking lost and small in the driveway.

The farm house looked exactly like it always did. Yellowed, old bricks, moss growing here and there on the roof, the white windows that needed to be painted, big pots in the front of it with different flowers that were going to bloom soon. 

A big cross on the front door, warding off bad demons - or at least so had your grandparents and parents always told you.

The wildest thing that had changed, was that your mother had changed out the curtains from a light green to a light blue, with carefully sewn-on white laces. 

As you took off your shoes, the first thing that met you wasn't a family photo or a painting of nature. It was a big painting of Jesus, or well, at least what the UK countryside decided Jesus looked like. You weren’t sure if his expression was filled with relief of you returning or judgment over the fact you left. Nonetheless, you quickly looked away.

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The next two days were exactly like you had feared. 

Awful. Filled with everything you had hated in your childhood. The ever present presence of a God you no longer believed. 

You walked along the walls, trying to disappear into the wallpaper, distraught over everything that had happened. Sad that you had failed in your many hopes and dreams, that you had to come crawling back. You were pretty sure your parents considered you a real life example of the prodigal son who came crawling back.

The prodigal daughter who had spent her money on sins. Ready to be saved again, welcomed home with open arms. The fact you hadn’t spent your money on many sinful things were besides the point, you supposed.

On the third night you knew your parents patience was coming to an end.

You had almost taken a bite of dinner before saying grace, your dad almost slapping the fork out of your hand before you had realised your mistake.

Afterwards, two bites into it, it finally happened.

“You won’t feel any better if you don’t stop bloody moping,” your mother began, as you stabbed your potatoes, “you need some fresh air.”

“Mum, I told you, it's ha –”

“Don’t start with that ‘mental health’,” she continued, “simply a heap of city nowt, innit?”

 You bit down on the potato much harder than needed. Getting into a fight with them this early wouldn’t be any help.

“I’ll be out of here as soon as I get a job in–”

“Don’t be daft,” your dad cut you off, “uni didn’t work out - big deal, eh? You’re skint but you’re home now. Maybe this is a sign, love.”

“A sign?”

“Yes,” your father was nodding as he spoke, as if he was convincing himself of it too, “The lord works in mysterious ways. Maybe the big city isn’t for you.”

“I lived there for six years, dad,” you couldn’t help the anger from spilling out between your teeth, “I were close to–”

“Look at what it got you, sweetheart,” your mother cut in, shaking her head, “thank the lord you’re back - he got you, hun.”

He got you.

“Well, he didn’t in London!” you finally snapped, standing up, dropping the cutlery onto the ceramic plate “you don’t fucking understand what its like to be back here!”

“Do not cuss!” your mother hissed, “Sit down now and actually talk with –”

“I’m not hungry. Thanks for dinner.”

You didn’t take your dish to the kitchen to clean off, you didn’t look back at them - you merely disappeared upstairs to your old bedroom.

The pink walls were still filled with old posters of horses and of you and your sister… and your old horse.

Your younger self sat proudly on the big horse with a giant grin on your face. The shire horse had been called Mary. It died four years ago and you had tried not to cry like crazy when it happened, but when the big horse had laid with its head in your lap and taken its last breath, you had broken down anyways.

The bed squeaked as you laid down after changing into shorts and your sleeping t-shirt, pulling the flowery blankets over you. 

Fuck this place, fuck their fucking daft god. That god hadn’t stopped the things that happened to you - getting fired, being unable to pay your rent and for your classes. Being robbed at knifepoint, getting stabbed, having to drop out. You were broke and at home with your crazy parents, who thought all the shit you had gone through was a “sign from God”.

Fuck that.

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It was the hard knocking on the front door that pulled you out of your slumber, making you sit up with a grunt; it returned a moment later and it was more out of instinct than actual thinking that got you out of bed. Without any thought you trudged downstairs, ready to tell your dad to stop forgetting his keys - you don’t know why they even fucking bother to lock the doors out here, in the fucking middle of nowhere —

As you touched the door handle and pushed down, it turned out it wasn’t even locked. You ripped it open, ready to scold them, but…

It wasn’t any of your parents on the other side of the door. In fact, it was two complete strangers.

The one who had been knocking was tall. Very tall. 6’10 if you had to guess. You had to tip your head up a bit to meet the eyes of him; slicked back dark hair, with a moustache and stubbles, a sharp nose and brown eyes. He wore a striped knit and an army green puffer vest and a pair of work pants and slightly dirty boots.

The guy behind him was maybe 6’2, he wore a beanie and had mutton chops and a grin on his face. He was dressed in a knit too, though he had a jacket over, wearing similar pants and boots as the first man.

“Well, good morning, young lady,” the man closest greeted you with a smile, Russian accent clear, not even trying to hide his eyes sliding over your body and you suddenly felt exposed in your small shorts and t-shirt that exposed a big part of your right shoulder, “you must be the youngest daughter, da?”

You blinked. Who the fuck where these two giants?

“Uhm, I - uhm yeah -“ 

Before you managed to say anything else your mother ripped you away from the door, anger clear in her face, hissing your name and adding a sharp “get some actual proper clothes on!”

You were pretty sure that she would have called you a tramp, hadn’t it been for the guests in the door.

“Nikolai! John!”

“Mrs. Clarke! We do not disturb, do we?”

You were already disappearing up the stairs, hearing your mother invite them in, telling them that sleeping in this late was something you learned in the city.

As if you didn’t get up at five a lot of days for your job and classes - but you bit your tongue, hurrying into your room to change your clothes. Because who the fuck were these Nikolai and John?

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Hair tamed and in clothes that didn’t invoke sin in your mother’s eyes, you dared to return downstairs. 

“There you are! Come greet our neighbours properly then grab a cuppa, the water is still hot.” Your mother waved you over, a smile on her face that looked familiar; it was the one she always got when she had a plan.

“Ah, hello again. Apologies for waking you up, dorogaya,” both of the men stood up, the guy with the Russian accent closest again, as he smiled and shook your hand, even winking at you “I am Nikolai Petrov - I bought the farm next to yours.”

“Oh - the one with the plums?” You asked, childhood memories rushing back, before you remembered to tell him your name. Why was he attractive? He was probably your parents' age and the idea of finding him attractive made your toes curl. Sinful, your mother would chastise if you ever mentioned it and at least she didn’t see him winking. He had a scar across his eyebrow and another one near his cheek.

You hadn’t even known the plum orchard had been sold - your parents mentioned it being for sale last winter, but you hadn’t expected anyone to buy that old piece of shit this quickly.

“I’m Johnathan Price - but John is fine. I’m Nikolai’s right hand,” the other with the mutton chops, his beanie on the table, a scar near his jaw and neck “we didn’t know you had already returned.”

Ah, wasn’t that just wonderful. That meant your parents had told them about you - probably all the parts about you failing in the “big city”.

“Da, we would have come to say hello earlier.”

“That’s okay - only been here a few days.”

“Moping all the time!” You dad chipped in as he stepped into the living room, making you send him a stare and his a sharp “dad” at him, “hello lads.”

You didn’t look at the men as they greeted your father back, abandoning them all with a short “gotta have a coffee.”

You heard your mother snort, telling the men about how you had learned to drink coffee in London and abandoned the wonderful world of tea. Which wasn’t true but this whole situation was bad enough as it was.

You returned to the table a few moments later after gripping the kitchen counter and pretending you didn’t want to leave immediately.

Nikolai smiled happily at you. 

“When did you buy the orchard?” You asked politely before taking a sip of the coffee, trying to ignore the pleased smile on your mother’s face.

When you were a kid, the plum orchard had been a perfect hideaway. You had stolen one or two almost daily when they were ripe and helped your mother making marmalade when the neighbours swung by to give you some as well as some corn. In return they got a lot of walnuts from your own orchard and some flour from your own fields. Sometimes you had also had potatoes, which you had hated, eating so many on the regular that they had become boring. Always just… boiled, if it was wild then it was mashed.

“This January,” Nikolai happily answered, “my men and I fell in love with it.”

“February, Nik,” John corrected with a smile.

“Ah, da - almost same,” Nikolai answered with a wave at his friend, making your father chuckle.

“We’ve been busy renovating and getting the fields ready.”

“It’s a big place,” your dad commented, “you’ve been busy.”

“We are luckily five people,” Nikolai smiled at you, smoothing his somewhat long hair back a bit, “makes it easier.”

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“Weren’t they just lovely?” Your mother eagerly asked as the two men disappeared down the dirt road in their own pick up truck, “so proper and polite. They helped with your father’s tractor too.”

“Good men,” your father eagerly agreed, “especially Nikolai, he has been very kind even though he is a Russian. Christian too, I think.”

You had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes at both the problematic statement as well as the Christian one.

“Sure,” you agreed, already wary about where this was going, because it seemed slightly out of character for your parents to be this passionate about your neighbours, “they seemed kind.”

“Veterans too,” your father continued, “helped protect our country, high up it seems. They live with their other military friends - seemed to be a team.”

“Yes - I’m sure you’ll meet the rest. Kyle and Johnny are very sweet too! Simon too, but he is a bit more on the silent type.”

“Covered in scars,” your father agreed, “probably some of that - what do they call it, pdvt?”

“PTSD,” you dryly corrected, not wanting to point out that that was technically a part of the so called mental health from the big city that they usually didn’t believe in.

“Ah, yes. Good men, the whole lot.”

“And Nikolai is unmarried, you know.” Your mother happily added, giving you a small puff and shit, there it was, their awful plan, “he is —“

“Nope,” you turned on your foot to go inside, “not even entertaining that idea.

“C’mon hun,” your parents followed you and your father cut your path towards the stairs off, “maybe you should think about marrying - you’re not getting any youn—“

“You stop that shit right there!” You hissed while pointing at him, your father’s upper lip lifting at the swear word, “I’m not marrying some farmer that the two of you like.”

“Don’t talk like that,” your mother touched your shoulder, “he is a good man. An education didn’t work out and that’s okay - your sister is happy - maybe the housewife life is more—“

“Nope,” you easily cut her off too, shaking her hand off you, taking a step away from the both of them while your mother huffed and your father pulled out his pipe from his pocket.

“A young handsome man like that would be a wonderful husba—“

“He is almost your age,” you hissed, “You cannot be serious.”

“Bollocks! Much younger!” your father said, pipe resting in his hand, tone a little sharper, “And don’t talk to your mother like that.”

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” you then simply declared, putting on your shoes.

“At least consider it!” Your mother yelled after you as you walked towards the walnut trees.

🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾🌾

You trudged through the mud next to the sheep enclosure, ignoring the many eyes on you from them, the occasional bleat leaving them. You crawled the fence to the walnut trees and disappeared in between them.

How the fuck where you going to survive this? You hadn’t even been there a week and they already wanted to marry you off to their new neighbours.

Your sister is happy, your dad had mentioned.

Your sister. Sweet and smart Elisabeth who moved to the US even before you moved to London. She had always been the more proper of you two, and had found a good Christian husband over there. Married a big lawyer and moved to New York. Lived in a big apartment with two kids and a third on the way. Everything your parents had wanted for both of their daughters - her only mistake was moving so far away but somehow that was easier to forgive than your choices in life.

You let your hands slap against each tree trunk as you passed them, hating the anger inside yourself.

Jealousy was a sin, your mother had mentioned throughout the years, don’t be jealous. It was easy to say, easy to promise but almost fucking impossible to actually live after.

Yes, you were jealous. Of course you were. It sat deep in your bones, gnawing at them like a pest. A natural feeling, Beatrice had pointed out, but that didn’t mean it was an easy one to have. Just like anger, jealousy was impossible to avoid, what was important was the way one reacted to them.

You kept walking. Bees swarmed past you, the occasional spider web making you paw helplessly in the air as they hit your face. The soft wind made the leaves above you rustle gently as if the orchard was greeting you. Welcome back. The thought made you huff.

Eventually you reached it.

It was bigger than a lot of the others, maybe older than your parents, its branches reaching out towards the sky as if it tried to touch the clouds. You had always gone to this tree. When your sister lived at home the two of you had often crawled up in it - the moment she disappeared nine years ago, you had been alone whenever you returned to it.

It had been years since you had climbed a tree, the burn in your legs and arms worse than you remembered. But the way up came naturally. That branch, then that one - then grab the big one and use the bump on it to push yourself up.

Finally you reached the branch. It was thick, sturdy. It had held your body weight for years, both you and your sister. Your eyes flickered to the trunk, looking for the heart shaped cut the two of you had carved about ten years ago. By now it had almost disappeared and you pushed away some moss to see it properly.

The was almost three metres up in the air, giving a view over the orchard and fields in the distance. Leaning onto the branch next to it, a bit further up, you let out a small sigh. This you had missed, you supposed. When you were a kid your parents had hated that you and Elisabeth had constantly climbed this far up - you understood it a bit more now, but none of you had ever fallen. You didn’t fear it, not this tree. This was your tree, your branches. 

The sun wasn’t even that high yet, the branches a bit cold to the touch, the leaves keeping you in the shadow. 

Peace. Quiet.

No parents who wanted to marry you off. 

You needed some sort of job - soon. But you doubted anyone in the area needed someone with an unfinished bachelor in interior design. You dreaded the idea of working in some sort of local supermarket in Millhaven or a pub. There wasn’t anything wrong with those jobs, you had done both through the years in London. It was just because this was Millhaven. The shame from leaving, declaring that you would never move back, only to now crawl back home to your parents, penniless and without anywhere else to go.

No, you would need to pull yourself together. Work half a year or something and then leave. Maybe you could find something extra online. Fuck it, at this point the idea of an onlyfans didn’t even sound back. God forbid your parents ever found out you have that thought. 

Your eyes flickered over to the old Smith farm - which you supposed it couldn’t be called anymore. What was his last name, Patrov? Petrav - Petrov? Something like that. No longer Smith’s. 

The trees that would carry the plums curled along the land in their neat rows, just like the walnut trees at your own farm. Colorful painted bee hives rested in between a lot of them, reminding you of when you and your sister helped paint the wooden structures.

Movement then, gripping your attention. You could barely glimpse a couple of people crossing the backyard before disappearing into the main house.

It looked like it had been freshly painted, a structure to what could be a chicken coop in the garden too. They had been busy. You were able to spot a couple of different cars and trucks in the driveway.

You licked your lips absentmindedly. 

When you were a kid you would steal the occasional plum, adrenaline rushing through you when you did, as if the Smiths had cared if you took one. It was more the idea of stealing it, of enjoying the sweet taste, plum juices dripping down your fingers. Sometimes, when you had gone for a ride on Mary, you would nick one and remove the pit, letting the shire munch the plum.

Those had been good times. Nice times.

You rested your head against the upper branch. Facing your parents was inevitable, but you could spend a little while out here.

“Ah, ya know, I figured it out,” Frank’s tone is cool. “Almost looks like a real lady lives her and not some old witch.”

Your grandma scoffs. She’s quiet for a moment as she moves her crochet hooks. “Smart ass.” She mutters.

Frank shrugs. “Well, I should let you ladies enjoy the evening. I gotta go clean up.”

“So does she. Look at her nails. Dirt all under em, paint all over her.” Your grandma chides. “Grown and all but still actin’ like a damn child.”

You cringe and hide your hands behind you, gripping your wrist tight. “Uh… thank you, Frank.”

“Anytime.” He assures.

“Ya mean it? Get this girl outta my hair?” Your grandma cackles. “Godsend.”

You chew your lip and smile tightly. “Ha, your funny, gran.”

Frank’s thick brow tweaks just a little. “Ya, well, I've taken up enough of your time today.” He gives a salute. 

He turns and stalks back to his trailer. His back and arms muscles bulge with each subtle swing of his arms. You clutch your wrist even tighter and turn to your grandma. “I like the boxes, don't you?”

“Man's got too much time. That's what happens when all you're good for is the service.” She clucks. “My second husband was a Navy prick. The one before you were around. Limp fish, that one.” She spits and reaches her arm out. “Come on, help me off my damn ass.”

You grab her head and get her up. She shoves her crochet into your chest and a needle pokes your neck, the hook scratching you good. She growls and shuffles around the chair and inside.

“Could use some tea.” She grits.

You follow her in and out her crochet on the table. You flip on the electric kettle and hurry out to get her chair. It folds around your finger and you grunt. You haul it inside as your grandmother coughs.

“You sure are slow. Bet you let that man do all the work.” She sneers.

“No, I… helped.” You push her lawn chair until it locks again. You grab her pillow and throw blanket as she drops into it, the frame creaking.

“Sure. You don't really have a concept of help.” She groans and leans back.

You go to the kitchen and wait on the water. You learned long ago not to argue. She wasn't always wrong, was she?

You make her tea how she likes, with the last of the milk. You sit at your desk and yawn over your half-shaped frame. You want it to be a sparrow but it's taking a lot of work.

You're too tired to do more than sort through your gathered supplies. You're like a crow, out searching for shiny things. Your grandmother slurps and picks up her latest crime novel.

After a while, you relent and lay down on the folding couch where you sleep. She keeps her lamp on and reads well into the night, even after you change into your pajamas. You drift off into dreams painted the same yellow as the day’s sunlight.

You hear Frank’s timbre but can’t make out his words. Almost as if he’s not saying anything at all but just making noises. You can see his shadow, then his thick hands, his forearms lined with tendons and veins that strain with the tension of his grip. You don’t know what he’s holding onto but you feel a tingle in your stomach.

You wake, disoriented and thirsty as heck. It's from all that time in the sun. You grab a glass of water as your grandmother gives a start and picks up her book again. You go outside, afraid to disturb her.

You sit with your glass of water on the front steps. It's quiet. The way it gets when everyone's asleep. You can see a raccoon creeping across another lot.

You sip slowly, the scratch on your throat fading. The evening is balmy as the day's heat clings on stubbornly. You set the glass down and cup your chin, elbows on your knees.

“Crazy… always have been…” the grizzly grumble startles you. “Old man…”

You glance over and see the shadow near Frank's step. It's him. You can tell by his silhouette alone. He's running his hands through his hair, his back to you as he rambles to himself. It reminds you of your dream and the quivery sensation.

“Gotta be nice.” His voice rolls like distant thunder.

He paces back and forth. You can't help but wonder if he means your grandma. She can be a bit out there and she's not the nicest.

He stops again. He turns and you swear he’s looking right at you. He doesn’t seem to notice you as he drags his hands over his beard. He shifts on his feet and groans. He rubs his neck and tilts his head to crack it.

He huffs and retreats inside. You sit in the silence and stare at his trailer. His window opens but he doesn’t look out. It just lets out the soft amber glow of the light within.

You wait a few minutes before you go back inside. You rinse your glass and lay down. Your grandma sighs. “Why didn't ya tell me it was so late, girl?”

She gets to and throws the book so it hits the edge of the table and falls. You flinch and listen to her stomp to her room. When you do bother to mention the time, she retorts dryly that she can still read a clock.