#dovie reader

The first breath of a baby is praised, applauded and congraduated with warm welcomes to the world. Soft whispers of promise from a mother, the reverent brush of a thumb against a temple from a father. The raspy chuckle of a grand father as he watches the first steps.

But a grandmothers love is special in it’s own way.

She’s there when you fall off your bike, cleaning up scraped knees as you sit on the edge of a tub.

She’s there, laying a plate of your favorite food, pressing a warm kiss to your damp head after a bubble bath.

She’s there, spinning tales like a spiders web in evenings, lights dim as you drift off to sleep.

You stand on the back porch, watching the garden now. It’s raining again. You’re half tempted to work while the soil is wet, but your muscles burn. You’d been at for days now, rain or shine. Steam from your tea mug rises, curling in the air as rain drops travel down petals, dripping down onto leaves before disappearing to earth. A distant sound catches your attention.

A warbling bleat.

You set your mug down with a clink on the railing, stepping off the porch and into the rain. Another bleat, higher pitched with a note of anxiety. It tugged at you, pulling you. Bare feet padding in wet grass and soaked soil until you find—

Basil. Curled up in a ball under a think, thorny bush.

A frown tugs at your lips.

“Oh, Basil…” You murmured, getting down in the dirt to fish the lamb out. Basil bleated, a bit softner now, as if relieved someone found her. You sucked your teeth sharply when a thorn dragged across the back of your hand, making you wince. “Damnit.” You squinted, snatching Basil by the hock and gently pulled her out from beneath the bush. With a huff, you gathered the lamb up in your arms.

“Why’d you go and do that, hm? John’s probably lost half his mind looking for you.” The chastising was— softer really, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be truly frustrated with the escape artist of a lamb. Basil bleated quietly, nudging your palm as you walked in the sprinkling of rain up the hill to John’s property. You paused, brows furrowing at where wire had been broken at the fence, a clear exit for Basil. You stepped close, just a fraction, inspecting the damage.

A tuft of fur was caught in the twirled wire, a greying brown.

“Ah, you found her.”

John’s familiar rumble made you jolt slightly, gaze flicking to him. He held an umbrella, a slight crease between his brows, smile tugging at his lips beneath those mutton chops of his. You looked ridiculous, you were sure of it. Jeans soaked with rain and mud, sweater just as terrible. Basil bleated, wriggling in your arms before John closed the distance and took Basil, chiding at the lamb.

“We’ve discussed this, ‘nough that now, Basil.” He grumbled at the animal who only bleated in reluctant defeat. A huff of a laugh escaped you, wiping your soil smudged hands onto already ruined jeans.

“Didn’t know you chastised your sheep like kids.” You glanced up, catching his gaze. It wasn’t focused on your eyes, more so your right hand where pain simmered and a thick wetness ran down digits.

“Did you know you’re bleeding?”

You glanced down at your hand. Nasty looking cut, nothing a good cleaning and antiseptic couldn’t fix though.

“I mean, I knew. But it’s fine-” John adjusted Basil in his arms, handing the umbrella to your freehand before taking your wounded one in his. He held it close, studying the cut.

“Bit deep though, love. Don’t you think?” When his gaze met yours, your heart thumped in your ears. He was close, touching. His hand was calloused, working hands from decades of service and years of work filled retirement— if you could even call it retirement. His eyes bored into yours, blue that edged towards a stormy grey. Like an overcast sky, on the verge of raining. “Come, lets get you right.” He released your hand, the warmth leaving you a touch colder than before as he herded you towards his home.

You didn’t have much say in it, apparently, mind catching up once your reached the front steps. He sat Basil down to trotted to the door, little tail wiggling expectantly. Spoiled rotten thing, more of a pet than a farm animal. He took the umbrella from you, closing it and setting it aside before opening the door and guiding you in before following behind. It was— cold inside. The furniture was old and mismatched, worn by time rather than neglect. As if collected over time, rather than purchased for the hell of it. But it was tasteful in a way. Coffee lingered in the air, the scent of a burning cigar somewhere. Lights dim, curtains pulled to let natural light pour in. the rain outside grew heavier, pitter pattering against the roof in a steady pace now.

His home.

And every bit of it was so him in a way.

“Your… house. It’s cozy.” You turned, watching as he made his way towards his kitchen. He maneuvered about, opening cabinets in search of supplies.

“Aye. Like it that way, preferably.” You scrunched your nose slightly at the thick sarcasm lacing his voice, padding into the kitchen. “You, uh, normally walk about without shoes?” He glanced at your briefly before peering into a cabinet. You leaned against the counter.

“Depends. Didn’t think much about shoes when I found Basil.” You shrugged halfheartedly before glancing over your shoulder to watch Basil settle by the hearth to warm up as fire crackled. “You normally let sheep in your house?” John laughed quietly at the question, a raspy sound before shutting a cabinet. He switched the sink on as you walked over, fingers wrapping around your wrist to guide it under lukewarm water.

“Not normally. Basil is jus’ stubborn. Bit of a soft spot for the brat.” He worked diligently with practiced hands, switching off the water and cleaning the wound before dressing it neatly in gauze. You blinked once he finished as he tossed the pads and clothes in the bin, inspecting his work.

“Did they teach you this while serving?” You watched as he paused briefly, studying before he gave a curt nod.

“Aye. Bit rusty, but decent work.” He shrugged it off. Just as the lid of the trash bin slowly closed, you caught sight of bloody gauze. It was old wrapping, a bunching of it stuffed.

“You get hurt recently?” You asked absently as he prepared a kettle. He filled it with water, turned an eye on, listening as it click, click, clicked before he set the kettle on.

“Get hurt occasionally… happens. Especially with the land.” He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. “Awful lot of questions today. Getting comfortable, are we?”

You snorted, a short sound of half-hearted, strained amusement. It was to fill the silence, a nervous tick you couldn’t shake. You had grown used to silence, needing to fill it with something, interesting or not.

Colin did a number on you. He really did. The relationship was spectacular in the beginning when you two were in college. Late night studying turned into warm smiles and fingers interlocked. Driving around for a dinner, eating greasy food while laughing before falling into his cheap mattress for brief few minutes of mind melting pleasure.

Four years, and it eventually soured. The honey moon phase faded, graduation from college came and went, adulting became the priority that topped everything. Bills, finances, budgeting— schedules that didn’t always line up. Growing distant over years that when the two of your realized it; there was a hollow ache. The late nights of staying up and waiting for him to come home from the office turned dull. Sex grew farther and distant. A vibrator giving better orgasms than his own cock.

The arguments were the worst. You clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, Colin would go back to who you knew. Messy haired, smile stretched across his face, peppering kisses all over your face when waking up beside you. Coffee runs, brief stops at the bookstore two blocks from the apartment.

The texts between him and the new girl in his department is what made the cord snap clean.

You blinked, meeting John’s gaze as it searched yours. A warmth laid behind those stormy eyes. The same warmth that rested in his palms. The same warmth that still had your skin buzzing.

“Sorry, John. Lost in thought for a moment.” You shrugged half-heartedly, a rueful smile tugging at your lips. He stared, cataloguing, a flicker of disapproval in his gaze at the way you dismissed the hollowness in your voice as your cleared your throat when your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

“Someone calling you?” He asked casually, turning back to the task at hand. He opened a cabinet to pull down two mugs as you checked your phone.

Your heart dropped, then thumped rapidly in your ears like a deafening war drum. Your grip tightened on the phone, a wave of emotions hitting you like a category four hurricane. You had to leave, couldn’t stick around, hide out at John’s. No, no point in bringing a storm to his comfortable silence. You pushed away from the counter, damp feet padding against cold floor boards.

“I-I’ve got to go. Thanks, John.” You pushed open the door as he called out to you, that deafening drumming in your ears washing out his voice as you jogged back to your cottage. A soon to be warzone with Colin on his way now.

John stepped out onto the porch, nostrils flared. Not in anger, but tasting the scent of fear in the air. A sick, acrid scent that made his hackles raise and a growl rumble low in his chest as he watched your form grow farther and farther away.

The floor creaked with each measured step of anxiety. Down the hall, the clock ticked steadily, like a promise of entrapment. It was suffocating, even in an empty house. Like an all too familiar rope tethering around your throat, drawing tighter with each second that ticked by. You showered, scrubbed skin raw as if washing away sins you’d never committed would come and haunt you. But it only fried your nerves further.

You bowed your head into your hands, thee subtle rumble of cars engine drawing nearer. Breathe in, breathe out.

Tired squelching through mud, pebbles rattling. Breath in, hold.

A cars engine shutting off, a door opening. Breath out.

The car door slamming shut.

You stood up from the couch, striding towards the door just as a fist beat on it with ruthless thuds. Upon opening the door, revealed Colin. He was dressed in a suit, hair dripping with rain as it came down in sheets before he scoffed and barged in. Shoes haphazardly brushed against the mat before he stepped inside and walked in, tracking in mud and rain.

“Christ above, do you have any clue how hard it was to find this place?” Colin ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking about and taking in the cottages antiques with barely concealed disinterest. You quietly shut the door, a dullness creeping in as his voice grated on your nerves.

“Well, hello. How are you? I’m fine, how are you? Oh, just fine.” You huffed, walking past him in the hall and into the kitchen. Colin shot a heated look your way, could feel his eyes burn in the back of your head.

“What’s your problem? I fly all the way out here and that’s how I get greeted?” He was hot on your heels, taking up space with his overbearing presence. The wards thrummed dangerously, crying out in warning to you.

“Colin, I didn’t ask you to come out here. You decided on your own to text me an hour before you arrived after a— what? Nine hour, ten hour flight?” You pulled down two mugs, setting them on the counter. “Why are you even here? We had a fight, we called it quits. I left.” You pulled out a kettle and filled it with water as he settled in a chair at the dining room table, tugging his tie loosely.

“It’s different.” He admits, reluctance heavy in his tone. He wouldn’t even look at you, just stared ahead at the wall. “Without you. I don’t—” He drew in a sharp breath. “—like it. Come home, Dove.”

You paused, facing the stove with your back to him. That tone. It wasn’t a request.

It was a demand.

Your hand twitched at the hand of the kettle, fear and anger warring within. Colin shifts in his chair, eyes narrowed.

“Come home. You don’t belong in this… delipidating cottage in fuck all nowhere, Dove. You belong back in America, with me—” You whirled around, facing him.

“That’s such bullshit, Colin. That is such a crock of shit! You know this house is important to me, you know Gran passed it down to me, promised it—”

“Your fuckin’ Gran?” He barked out a bitter laugh as he stood up, chair scraping against the floor in a shrill sound. “Dove, you are such a hypocrite. You didn’t fly up and see that old bat while we were dating once. Four fucking years! Yet you stand here, singing her praises like she’s some saint.”

It stung. Like a sharp blade slicing deep, through layers of muscle and fat. Grief, guilt— it bubbled up hot, tears welling. Colin smirked, tilting his head to the side mockingly.

“Aw… Baby, don’t cry. I’m just being honest… You didn’t really care that much, because if you did, you would’ve flown up here to spend time with her.” He closed in, invading space. It was a stark contrast. How when John stepped close, it wasn’t threatening. It was firm in a way, as if grounding, focusing. Colin invaded space like he was owed something. He reached, the knuckle of a digit tracing your wobbling jaw as you fought back tears. “You know, I missed you. I really missed you. I just… I think you’ve got this fantasy in your head. You know how it gets… You get these…” He sucked his teeth, disapproving. “Ideas.”

It landed like a lead weight, hung heavy in the air as a tear ran down your cheek. A war drum rattled in your eyes, thump, thump, thumping as if preparing for the stinger.

“You belong at home, with me. Hey, I got that promotion finally. I even called your Mom and told her you were coming back home. She was ecstatic, said she couldn’t wait.”

Lies, lies, lies.

“Wouldn’t it be nice? We could go to that coffee shop on 5th you like so much back at home?” A frown found its way across your face, stomach churning. You hated that fucking place, that bitch he was shagging at the office loved that god forsaken place. The coffee was always burnt, always off tasting. Overpriced.

“I-I… hate that place, Colin. Julie liked that place.” The words came out shaky, a lump in your throat as your eyes searched his face. He stared at you, carefully practiced smile he’d always use to soften blows falling away. A grim expression made the smile lines disappear, that easy going spark in his eyes snuffed out as he narrowed them at you. He stepped a fraction closer, looming— imposing.

“C-Colin, please stop-”

A voice called out from the front door, calling out your name as the door creaked open. John. Colin snapped his gaze to the doorway of the kitchen, stepping back, retreating two steps out of your space. The front door shut as he called out, now in the hall. You remained, cornered, crowded. Hands shaking with a vice grip on the counters.

John’s boots thudded cautiously down the hall. “I saw that car out there, heard some raised voices—” He stopped dead in his tracks, right on the threshold of the kitchen. His eyes landed on Colin, registering his presence. Pupils expanding and retracting, sizing him up. His gaze then swept to you and your horrified form. His expression softened with concern at first, a flicker of shock passing in his eyes before his expression hardened and his eyes immediately fixed on Colin. “Hello.” Warmth abandoned, cold detachment as he greeted— no, simply acknowledged Colin.

Your breath wavered, shaking like a fragileness settled. Safety registering. John was a Captain, John read enemies like books, John knew. All it took was a sweep of the room and you could practically taste the tension that clung to the air like a cloying, floral perfume. The floral perfume was instead Colin’s sharp cologne that clung to the collar of his shirt.

“Hello.” Colin greeted back, confusion barely there in his tone but clear in the creases that lined his face. He stepped toward John, the Captain straightening slowly to his full height as Colin approached. You noticed, in that moment, how much John actually hunched. As if to appear smaller than what he actually was. Colin offered his hand for a simple shake to John. “Colin. You are?”

John’s eyes darkened, a muscle in his jaw ticking as if reeling something back, putting a leash on his temper and yanking it back. He took Colin’s hand in his, giving a firm but simple shake. “Captain John Price.” Colin swallowed at the title, registering the weight behind it. The amount of blood that would have to be on someone’s hands to reach that title. John kept a firm grip on Colin’s hand, holding his gaze as he addressed you. “Love, the kettle. Please.”

The kettle whistling behind you finally registered in your mind. You turned, muttering an apology as you turned the stove eye off and pulled a third mug down from the cabinet. Behind you, a storm brewed. John’s lip twitched in a sneer as he stared Colin down, leaning in slightly as he inhaled deeply. Colin leaned away, discomfort radiating from him. John narrowed his eyes, voice a low rumble. “Doesn’t feel very nice to ‘ave someone in yer space, does it, Colin?” Your ex glanced at you, watching as you tended to tea before meeting John’s gaze. John leaned back out of Colin’s space, slowly releasing his grip on the young man’s hand. Colin quickly took a few steps away, clearing his throat.

“Dove, you’ve, uh, got time tomorrow, yeah?” You blinked, caught off guard by Colin’s question. You poured steaming water into the three mugs.

“Uh, yes… I do…” Dropping tea bags into the three mugs, you turned to the two men. “I made tea-” Colin gave a firm shake of his head, pale as he adjusted his blazer.

“No, I can’t stay. I need to check in at my hotel. We’ll talk more later.” Colin quickly left, steps retreating the down hall and out the door before slamming it behind him. John’s fist clenched at the slam, a vein bulging in his temple as he stared off toward the hall. Before debating on following him, you spoke up, voice shaky with aftershocks from the tension but relieved.

“John, you alright?” His fist unclenched, expression softening before he looked over at you. He blinked then offered a small smile as he hunched slightly.

Rain settled, stones of the garden path drying, birds chirped and sang soft tunes.

You sighed quietly, content and warm for just a moment. The world seemed to fizzle out past the fence that rounded the property. It was nice, this quiet peace. Yet, you couldn’t explain why part of you knew this was fleeting. Like sand slipping through your fingers. But, for now, all you could do was sip on your coffee.

A sharp jingle of some chimes made you jerk your head up, eyes narrowing just a fraction. The sound was like a stone skipping on peaceful waters, causing ripples. Ripples of nagging concern. There was no breeze, at least not one that would cause the wind chimes to ring so sharply.

Days prattled on like this. Soft, yet sharp sounds twinkling in the air. A gentle buzz of something, what you weren’t sure, trying to grasp your attention.

A soft knock on the front door withdrew your attention away from the pot on the stove. You arched a brow, wiping your hands off with a rag as you made your way to the door.

“Ah, Dovie, perfect. Found some books you had asked ‘bout.” Rowan greeted as you opened the door, carrying a small box of books. You flicked your gaze down at the box.

“Oh, thanks.” You stepped aside, a little startled that the librarian had showed up just to deliver books. Folklore books, books on Fae creatures. A silly thing to ask about at the library, but Rowan had perked up a few days ago when you made mention of looking for said books. Apparently, Rowan had a knack for mythology and folklore. You awkwardly shuffled behind the woman down the hall, watching as she dropped the box on the kitchen table and pulled books out, blowing dust off covers.

“Found a bunch in the basement of the library.” Rowan adjusted her glasses, icy blue eyes flickering over to you. “Been havin’ pests, Dovie?” She tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowing a fraction. Rowan was always a bit of an outsider, in a way. Compared to her mother Mabs, she was the polar opposite of the woman. In a way, Rowan took after Mr. Thorne, though he had passed away many years ago in a hunting accident.

You smiled at Rowan, shrugging slightly as you whisked off to the stove to put a kettle on.

“Suppose so. Noticing things lately.” You offered, a thinly veiled vague response that the woman nodded in understanding to. She pulled out a chair, taking a seat. You remember spending summers at that kitchen table with her and Granny, back when you both were young and carefree. Oblivious to the weight and struggles of reality, the real world.

“Things goin’ missin’?” She asked curiously, cracking open a book and flipping through it. You nodded quietly. “Ah yeah, mum’s been sayin’ the same. Says’ its pixies.” You paused, hand hovering over a tea canister.

“Pixies?” You stared at Rowan over your shoulder, brows pinched with irritation.

“Aye, pixies, Dovie. Don’t you remember how many we’d find as kids?” Rowan arched a brow at you, frowning. You sighed heavily, deflating.

“I do. I just hate them.” You grumbled reluctantly, turning back to the tea canister.

A pebble, small and barely bigger than your pinkie nail, smacked against your kitchen window that hung by the kitchen sink. The sound made you jolt, shooting a pissed look at the small crack on the window pane. Rowan let out a low, impressed whistle.

“Ohh, Dovie, they’re proper pissed now. ‘Oughta be careful. Can’t be pissin’ off Fae like that-” Rowan’s words fell on deaf ears as you grabbed a canister off an herb shelf, marching out the back door. The woman blinked, in disbelief, before jumping up and trailing after you with a worried expression. She followed you out into the garden where, in hindsight, had seen better days. She stepped up, standing beside you with a saddened expression. “Oh…”

Shrubs trembled, leaves shaking softly. Grass dying in patches, flowers long gone, herbs dried up. It was more of a overgrown grave yard of greenery than a garden. And it made your heart sink with despair, grip loosening on the jar of herbs in your hands.

“Oh man…” You mumbled, frowning at the disarray of what was once your grandmother’s pride and joy, something that you took pleasure in taking care of with her years ago. Rowan laid a hand on your shoulder, an attempt at comfort.

“I mean, it’s— not terrible? Jus’… need’s a little love, s’all…” Rowan offered half heartedly, unsure if even a ‘little love’ would revive the garden that was once bountiful. “… Hate to say it, Dovie, but maybe tha’s why the pixies are pesterin’ you.” She mumbled to you quietly, grimacing slightly. She meant well— truly. But that stung.

It stung because Rowan was 100% right and you knew it. Pixies, tricky little bastards, mainly pestered normal people— people that didn’t dabble in magic. But they also loved pestering witches when they were low in energy or neglecting their duties.

The garden was a duty.

And it had been heavily neglected the past month and some change since you’ve been here. Maybe Rowan’s words rang true.

With a scoff, you stepped forward and shook the jar of herbs, sprinkling them around the garden carefully. Shrubs shifted and rattled with displeasure, though it was just pixies being pissey little bastards.

“Do you want me to pick you up some gardening books, Dovie?” Rowan trailed behind you a few paces, giving you space but still remaining close. You knew Rowan meant well, but her offer burned your ass. You were fully capable of fixing this mess, it would just take some elbow grease and some gardening tools.

“What’s this about gardening books now?” A gruff voice rang out from beyond the fence. Rowan jolted, glancing over to see the Captain leaning against the wooden fence. You grumbled under your breath, ‘just great, more people’ before hurrying your sprinkling of herbs.

“Oh, Captain.” Rowan greeted him, straightening slightly. “Dovie and I were jus’… discussing the state of Granny’s garden. I was-”

“Believe she could handle it, yeah?” The Captain cut Rowan off. You paused, glancing up and staring at John. Who was staring directly at you, before fixing his gaze back on Rowan. “She’s jus’ had a bit much on her plate lately. Cut the lass some slack now, yeah?” He softened his cutting words with a rumbling chuckle to ease the tension. Rowan stared at him, before giving a nod to the man and glancing back to you.

“Dovie, I’ve got errands to run for Mam. Ring me if you need me?” The woman held your gaze, as if asking by eyes alone if you were alright. You simply gave a smile.

“Yeah, I’ll call if I need you. Thanks for your help about the— other problem.” You snorted as Rowan laughed, tension easing from her shoulders.

“’Course, I get it. Be seein’ you, Dovie.” Rowan waved before heading off from the garden and to her car out front. Once the engine rumbled on, signaling Rowan’s departure, you glanced at John with a quirked brow.

“Defensive, are we?”

“No, not at all.” John answered definitively, crossing his arms and regarding you with a pointed, knowing look. “I jus’ know you’re capable. You’ve jus’ had your hands full, love. Cottage is probably older than me, god only knows how many things need fixin’ and what you’ve already fixed jus’ on the inside.” He shrugged half-heartedly. And he was right. With a glance at the cottage, you realized the cottage very well may be much older than him. You glanced back at him.

“Well, thank you.” You gave him a curt nod of thanks. His gaze flicked to the jar in your hand, arching a brow.

“Wha’s that?” He pointed at the jar. You internally cursed, then casted a glance down at the jar.

“It’s, uh, a garden mix. Should help revive it.” A half truth, really. It was an old mason jar, the lid had holes poked in it from— well, ages ago. A ground up concoction. John narrowed his eyes a fraction at the jar, a flicker of cautious curiosity creeping in.

“Aye.” He grunted out, then casted a glance at the dreary looks of the garden. “Well, if you need help, jus’ knock.” He shifted his gaze back to you, giving a curt nod before turning and taking his leave. All the while, your mind reeled—

Did John Price just offer help?

With spring in the works, it seemed as if a no brainer to pick up some gardening tools, fresh supplies and begin working on the garden. Perhaps working on the outside and making it nice again would make you feel more apt to work on the inside more.

Monday, you pulled weeds and removed larger debris from the garden. You dug into the earth, cringing as dirt got under your nails. Perhaps gloves should be on your to do list.

You blinked, startled when a pair of gloves landed a foot away from you followed by the sound of the fence creaking.

“Don’t go digging like that without gloves, lass.” John mused as he leaned against the fence, watching with mild amusement. You huffed, brushing your hands off on your pants and picked up the gloves. Too big for you, but good enough for today.

“Suddenly big into gardening?” You asked, securing the gloves onto your hands.

“’Ave to figure it out when you’re a Shephard on a pasture.” He grunted out, chuckling low.

“So, you grow your own food?” You glanced at him, curious.

“I make the attempts. Nothing pretty, but decent.” He rumbled in slightly discomfiture. You pursed your lips at his answer. In a way, it was interesting to see him clam up over the simple intriguie you show in his personal life outside of sheep and being, well, neighborly. As if your prying questions just, threw him off guard.

But he always seemed so on guard. You wondered if maybe he was still trying to figure you out, just as much as you were with him.

“John,” You start, eyes fixed on the dirt before you as you pull weeds. “You’re… retired, yes?” The man arches a brow, slow and hesitant.

“Aye. Have been for four years.”

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Your skin prickled, the heat of his gaze fixed on you. It took a great effort to not just wave your own question off, change the subject swiftly. A common thing you’d do, just to save yourself from a bitter remark. And just as you were about to, he answered.

“45 in July.” He crossed his arms, waiting for something, perhaps a negative expression or a laugh at his aging expense. But instead, you flicked your gaze up to meet his with a twinkle of curiosity in your eyes.

“Oh. A Leo?”

That threw him off. He huffed out a surprised laugh, mustache twitching with a suppressed grin.

“… Aye, lass, I am a Leo.” He tilted his head, squinting at you with a flicker of intrigue in his gaze. “What gave it away?”

“Stubborn.” You shrugged nonchalantly, resuming your weed picking. “Leo’s tend to be natural born leaders. Would make sense considering you were a Captain. A fitting role given your sign.”

John stared at you, brows furrowing slightly before flicking his gaze away. Your words swept through his mind, as if the answer was— well, it made sense. He blinked, then chuckled, a low rumbling sound.

“I haven’t thought of it like that.” He murmured, gaze sweeping back to your hunched form as you grabbed and tugged on a particularly difficult weed. It was quiet for a moment, him watching you while you worked, his mind clearly else where. You had been simmering— no, bubbling with questions. The man was a mystery and you were like a hound dog waiting to sniff out clues and solve this mystery.

“Can I ask you… something slightly personal?” John chuckled again at your question, sighing.

“Love, I believe asking my age would be one. But,” He pursed his lips. “Suppose another couldn’t hurt.”

You paused briefly, brows furrowing as you hesitated. It was something he said that echoed in your mind, how he understood grief. Sure, you were aware that in war grief was— normal. Not normal in the acceptable, okay sense. But normal in the sense that it, unfortunately, happens. It’s a risk.

“Who’ve you lost?” You asked quietly. The question barely audible over the earth moving beneath your hands, wind breezing by softly. John tensed, visibly, but for a fraction of a second. As if in that second the question caught him off guard, as if in that second he was immediately on the defense.

But when he relaxed, it was clear; he wasn’t upset with you, he was upset at the memories that the question brought about.

“More than I’d like, love.” He shifted his gaze to a bush, studying the leaves quietly before he continued. “I lost my father while in boot camp. A couple of lads while on the field, a Captain… and good friends.”

“You say that last part as if it’s heavier for you.”

“Because, it was.”

John’s gaze held yours steadily, a wry smile. Pained in a way that mirrored the inner turmoil that rose with you in the mornings, settled in beside you beneath the sheets, late at night. He understood, in more ways than one, how it felt to lose someone close.

“… Is.. that why you retired?”

There was a twitch to his brow, a subtle clench of his jaw. He didn’t like that question. You catalogued the subtle shift beneath the surface of his mask, filing it away. In return, you narrowed your eyes a fraction.

“Apologies. I overstepped.”

“Mm.” The sound rumbled from him, deep and thoughtful. As if whatever he was thinking of saying laid over his tongue, savoring the words like molasses.

A beat of silence passed, the wind chimes rustling softly in the breeze.

“You didn’t overstep. You’ve…” He furrowed his brows, a soft crease forming between them, lines in his forehead. “… You’re surprising me. Tha’s all.”

It hung in the air, the admission. You stared at him, surprised really.

Maybe, you shouldn’t be sniffing around for clues. Maybe you should leave the man be. He’s triple your age, if anything. Retired, lived his life. He’s—

Settled.

And you aren’t settled. You’re still paying off credit card debt, and if it weren’t for the fact the cottage was yours (thanks to the Will), you would’ve been out out on the streets because of your ex. The thought made you sigh deeply, agitated.

“Didn’t mean to upset you-”

“No, no- it’s not you, John.” You held up a hand to silence his worries, waving them off. “I am curious, why do I surprise you?” That made him pause, deep ocean blue eyes staring back at you with an unusual intensity that you’ve slowly grown accustom to over conversations in passing.

“Dovie, please, watch your footing now.” Your grandmother called from the step stone path of her cottage. Your little legs carried you past the threshold of the front garden to the open expanse of grass beyond the fence.

“’M okay, granny!” You called back, giggling. You lost your tooth this morning, the lip of the tea cup you had with breakfast knocked a front tooth loose. Instead of tears, you wore a big smile and proudly showed off the gap much to your grandmother’s shock.

The sun was high in the sky, warm afternoon breeze brushing past your cheeks and tickling skin. But you were dead set, focused. Pretty rubber boots squelching in puddles from the previous night’s rain, little hands formed in fists as you jumped in the muddy puddles.

Your grandmother, ever a gentle soul, stood by the iron gate. A small smile on her weathered face as she crossed her arms. When the windchimes sparkled and rang in the air, she frowned and beckoned you in.

An odd woman. A woman who was superstitious, some would say. Reading tea leaves, burning funny smelling incense, salting the house, putting sticks of cinnamon above door frames and amethyst beneath your bed. As a child, you’d giggle and laugh, call her silly for doing such things. But every summer you visited her, you grew fond of such things. You partook in it when you became a teen, adding your own touches to routine. Weeding the garden, whispering promises to the flowers, knocking three times before entering the house, putting intent into house chores.

It followed you, those tasks. Burned into your very being, engraved into your soul.

It did pose as a problem when you had a roommate in college, even when you moved in with your boyfriend.

“Fuck!” Aaron hissed, rubbing his head as he stood in the foyer of your shared apartment. You peered over the edge of the couch, lips pursed in confusion with a crease between your brows.

“What’s wrong?”

“That- fucking rock you keep putting up on the doorframe fell on my head!” He scoffed, grabbing it up off the floor and tossing it into the key bowl by the door. The stick of selenite in pieces, shattered. “I swear, you’ve got to knock that shit off, Reader. It’s pissing me off.”

You watched him, a bad feeling filling your stomach and twisting into nasty knots. Aaron walked out of the foyer, grumbling down the hall until slamming the bedroom door behind him.

You found out two horrible things that evening.

One, Aaron was cheating on you after three years of dating.

Two, your grandmother died.

And as you drove your little car over the bridge and down the main path into Hallowmere, the grief seemed to feel like it was pressing down on you just as much as the fog of the village pressed down on your car. It pressed and pushed, sinking its nails deep in old wounds from years ago. Memories of your childhood summers spent in Yorkshire Moors, in Hallowmere, in your grandmothers cottage threatened to pull you under and drown out all other thoughts. The sweet warmth of her hands when she patched your knees up, how she always had wise but firm advice. ‘Always looking out for you, Dovie.’

A hot tear rolled down your cheek, reminding you that you were in fact physically alive. Still human, flesh and bone. Pesky organs writhing beneath layers of muscle and skin. You sniffed, wiping the tear away with the back of your hand as you drove through the village. It was early morning, barely a soul walking about. The fish market had just opened, the owner giving a friendly but hesitant wave. You glanced at the man in the rear view mirror with a quirked brow before glancing back at the road. Hallowmere was essentially a village in Yorkshire Moors, UK. Your grandmother settled here after your parents married. When you were younger, you asked:

“Granny,” You smacked your lips, tongue flicking peanut butter and jam from the roof of your mouth. “How come you live here and not closer?”

“Well, Dovie,” She started, stirring honey in her tea cup counterclockwise. “When your mum was born, Grandpa and I moved away. Before you were born though, I moved back.” She laughed softly, picking up an eggshell cloth napkin, wiping peanut off the corner of your mouth. “I feel happy here. But you make it happier.”

Ahead, your grandmothers cottage comes into view over a hill. It still looked the same, smaller now that you were grown, but stable even with its age. Built from dark Yorkshire stone, it stands strong with vines that crawl up the outside. White flowers blooming around the gutters, the low roof lined with heavy slate tiles. They look weathered, old. Dirty with moss growing over a few slats of the roof as if they earth claimed some of the cottage as its own. You pulled onto the gravel driveway, sighing deeply as you turned the car off and stepped out. Spring was nice, but the chill of an early morning already soaked into your bones, making a shiver rack your body with a grimace. You fished the keys from your pocket, opening up the familiar iron gate to the front garden. When it whined, you made a mental note to fix that before it becomes an even bigger issue.

Pressing onward and into the house, you winced at the sound of the front door whining too. You had figured what with your grandmother, her age would perhaps prevent her from keeping up with the cottage. Casting a glance behind you, you furrowed your brows. The garden had very few weeds that needed to be plucked, let alone the garden needing much help.

If you had half a mind, it was as if the house was holding it’s breath for your presence.

But nevertheless, that would be silly.

Swallowing down grief and guilt, you shut the door behind you and flicked on a light switch. Kicking off shoes, hanging up a coat, you made your way to the kitchen like habit. You pulled a kettle and tea cup from a cabinet, taking note your tea cup still had a chip in it from where it knocked out your first tooth as a child, then began the process of making some chamomile and honey tea. While the kettle heated up on the stove, you chewed absent mindedly on your thumbnail.

Nothing changed in the kitchen since you last saw your grandmother.

The wallpaper was a sickly yellow color from years of cigarette smoke and nicotine build up, yet the dried flowers that she would hang up on the walls always remained untouched by such cancer. The copper pots and pans hung above the kitchen island, the green paint of the cabinets chipped in places here and there. Some knobs looked loose, perhaps should tighten those. Glancing to the sink, you took notice of the curtain that hung in front of the windows, probably needed a wash.

But you paused. Because the scent of the your grandmothers cottage, what was once hers but now yours, settled in the cage of your ribs. And it ached, made your chest tighten as a swell of fresh guilt and grief rapidly built up. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you chewed your bottom lip, forefinger and middle running along the pale edge of the porcelain kitchen sink.

Thyme, rosemary, smoke from her cigarettes, lavender and clove oil.

It made your stomach twist in gnarled, ugly knots. Your face felt hot as tears continued to pour fruitlessly, fingers trembling with overwhelming emotions. And you wished, truly wished she was here to hush your grief and hold you with warm hands that once wrapped you in gentle hugs and bandage your knees.

Your teeth were set on edge one morning. It was within first week of staying in the cottage. It was early, sky still dark beyond the window of the bedroom. You stared at it, frozen on the bed and breath caught between your teeth. Listening, waiting.

You weren’t sure what woke you up, but something had yanked you from your dreaming, pulling you into the waking word with a swift hush to stay quiet. So, you laid there. Waiting patiently, for whatever had caused a stir, to pass. The antique clock on the wall did little to soothe your frayed nerves, the tick, tick, tick adding layers of stress. Perhaps it was time to people, socialize. A week in a cottage, sobbing over old memories that wouldn’t bring back your beloved grandmother back did little to help you heal. She had always been the type to have a routine, even when her own heart bled.

With a huff, you rolled out of bed. You showered for the first time since you arrived to Hallowmere, cringing in disgust as you brushed your teeth. Fuck, did you really let yourself go?

You did, but that was the funny thing about grief and guilt.

“Oh, Dovie, grief is… well, it’s like glitter. Sure, you sweep it all up, but… then you move a couch, find some specks of glitter behind it. Move a pair of shoes, find some more. Maybe do laundry, find some other specks.” Your mother sighed while on the phone with you after your first night at the cottage, her voice weary. “Are you sure you don’t need dad and I to come by? We’ll book a flight, Dove, promise you. Be there in a heart beat.”

You denied her offer. So deep in a pit of quick sand that you didn’t want to drag your own mother down with you. She wasn’t handling her own mothers death very well, didn’t even want to admit she had passed the first few days after she died.

Hadn’t ever seen your poor mother so broken. Made something twist in you, seeing her so…

Human.

It made a pit settle in your stomach when you watched your mother collapse to the floor and sob uncontrollably as she clung to you. All the while you slowly sank down to the floor with her and held her. You didn’t cry. But now you were.

The short drive into the more populated area of the village was swift, the ‘down town’ area more like it. Locals bustled about, even when you parked your car parallel to the sidewalk and stepped out. You tugged your cardigan close, weary eyes flicking about as you tugged a list from your pocket. You looked it over, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before lifting your gaze to find a hardware shop. Surely, there was one around here. You remembered faintly the times your grandmother brought you into town, how she’d shuffle into a shop that vaguely reminded you of hardware goods. You huffed. That was a good six years ago, maybe ten years at best.

Was your memory of this town really that good at the moment?

You decided against relying on your old memories of this town and opted for mindless walking instead. Eventually, you would find a shop that resembled a Hardware store. As you walked, you glanced around, taking in the sights of it. It seemed as though some stores had shuffled around, or perhaps your child self’s memory was scattered. You also noticed some new shops, most of the buildings had been updated too. Fresh coats of paint, fixed brick and stone. New signs.

And it hit you.

The world really doesn’t stop turning when someone passes away.

It just keeps spinning.

The thought was shell shocking enough to make your steps falter for just a moment, a pit aching in your stomach with the sudden swell of emotions that hit you all at once.

It was disgusting, felt like acid on your tongue. Made your eyes water, bones ache with pain that shouldn’t even be there to begin with. You really wished you stayed in bed today, just let grief wash over you and let you mourn in peace. But the mere idea of neglecting the cottage further snapped you out of that thought process.

Granny loved that house enough to make it a home for you, at the very least; you should continue that.

By the time your mind was a tangled mess of uneven threads, you were walking into a shop. The jingle of a bell above your head snapped you back into reality like the crack of a whip. It was cute, in the rustic sense. The smell of metal, old tools, oil. The way the old wallpaper peeled at some corners, the floorboards creaked in some spots, the old man behind the counter who seemed to be polishing some tool.

“Aye, is that Dovie?” You blinked, glancing over at the man. He was an older man, head full of white hair, bushy and wiry looking beard with a thick mustache. He blinked, green eyes widening as a deep rumble of a laugh echoed in the shop. He adjusted his little glasses, mustache twitching as he smiled big. Cenric Cooke, or Mr. Cooke as your grandmother introduced him to you as when you were wee little thing. You smiled back, a small laugh of disbelief escaping you. How was he still alive?

“Mr. Cooke, it’s been a while.” You murmured, walking up to the counter. Cenric’s smile turned warm and friendly, his aged and weathered face having a flicker of youth.

“Dovie, been longer than a while, I tell you that.” He paused, a saddened expression washing over him. “You here for your Granny’s cottage, love?” The question struck a chord in you, stirring up emotions you had attempted to shove aside. You fidgeted with the edge of your cardigan, signing as you nodded.

“Yes, got the, uh, call… last week.” You cleared your throat, gaze breaking away from his, eyes finding anywhere but his. Cenric frowned, understanding written in his eyes as he studied you. Meek thing, all the way from America back in the UK all because your granny died. A pity.

“Aye, I see.” He muttered, glancing away as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Ack, ‘m sorry, love. For your loss. I know you an’ your granny were close when you were a little one.” Cenric rested his forearms on the counter, peering at you as he sucked his teeth and sighed with a gentle shake of his head. “Good one, your granny was. Kind lady. I remember you always trottin’ about beside her whenever you two would be in town.” He chuckled low and quiet, a twinge of sadness in the sound.

“Yeah… She was, wasn’t she?” You met his gaze, a rueful smile finding its way on your face as you nodded in agreement. “She… well, what was she up to before she… well, passed?”

Cenric barked out an unabashed laugh at your question, hand slapping the counter.

“Oh! Your granny was runnin’ about as always! That woman could never sit still! She got real fidgety when the Captain moved here too, him and her were always butting heads like rams!” Cenric cackled, pulling his glasses off and running a hand over his face as tears of mirth budded up in his eyes.

“The… Captain?” You questioned, befuddled. Cenric paused his laughter, eyes widening slightly before he sighed and wiped his eyes.

“Aye, the, uh… Captain.” He cleared his throat, putting his glasses back on. “Lad moved here ‘bout two years ago, I believe. He’s… certainly a character. Boo Radley type if ya ask me.” Cenric chuckled. “Nothin’ bad, jus’… no nonsense character. He’s not mean, jus’ a bit rough ‘round the edges, Dovie.” You eyed Cenric suspiciously, unsure how to feel about someone being new and how they had clearly taken a dislike towards your grandmother in her last few days alive.

“Mr. Cooke-”

“Call me Cenric, love.”

“… Cenric, it sounds like this… Captain is a…” You paused, swishing the very unkind words that laid on the tip of your tongue around your mouth. Cenric grinned, chuckling.

“A right prick?”

“Yes- Yes, a right prick.” You breathed out. Cenric’s grin widened, his chuckle deepening as he shook his head.

“To some, he may come off like that, Dovie. He’s just a very strict man. Everyone calls him the Captain since he was in the military.” Cenric tipped his head forward, as if adding an important point. Which, that did seem rather important to understand. Military types were strict individuals, surely a Captain would be strict, maybe even bordering on unkind. It was just their life, can’t make a tiger change it’s stripes. You nodded slowly, somewhat understanding before sighing.

“Suppose that makes sense. But how come he picked a bone with Granny?” Cenric averted his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck as his lips twisted in an uncertain expression.

“To be honest, love, no one really knows. Coulda been one wrong look, a callous exchange between the two, hell— coulda been property dispute, the lad is awfully territorial of his property.” Cenric gave a wry chuckle. You arched a brow, eyes narrowing.

“Property dispute?” You tilted your head curiously. Cenric blinked, meeting your gaze with a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

“Aye, Dovie. His property line butts up against the cottage’s property. I mean, its all field for miles, I know. But the man Shepherds sheep, uses the entirety of his space.” He mused with a small smile and shrug.

Motherfucker. You live next to the asshole that picked a bone with your grandmother. The furrow between your brows deepened.

“Ah.” You said dryly. “Right. Lovely. I live next to a prick of a Captain.” You rubbed the side of your head, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth.

You were on a mission. Once Cenric gave your list a glance over, he happily found exactly what you needed and sweetly gave a discount. Guess their were perks to being your grandmothers granddaughter in this town, perks you didn’t realize existed. Maybe it was pity.

Great, a pity discount.

With a huff, you marched to your car and got in, driving back home. Except when you glanced at the driveway— you didn’t pull in.

No way. You were going to ask what the assholes problem was. Who the hell starts tiffs with an old woman anyways? What lowlife piece of shit even does that? Sure, your ex-boyfriend was a dick head and cheating asshole, waste of time, but not even he had the balls to be rude to your grandmother whenever she called to check on you. Part of you, deep down, wondered if she could feel the tension though. The tension in the apartment, how he would speak to you while you’d be on the phone with her. If maybe that was why she called at least once a month.

No matter, you shoved the thought away as you pulled into your so called neighbors gravel driveway. You wore a sour expression, putting the car in park quickly and turned it off. You unbuckled yourself haphazardly, simultaneously throwing the belt off and opening the car door before jumping out and slamming the door shut.

You weren’t normally an angry person, but with how everything has been going the past two weeks, you deserved a fucking break. And now you find out from Cenric, a sweet old man who wasn’t really one to gossip (he was more of a grandfather figure than anything, perhaps even a father figure with how far away you were from your actual father) and warn you of the man that lived just shy of your cottage— well, you were pissed.

Your car keys jangled in your hand as you walked up the path that led to this so called Captain’s cottage. It was dark, like some looming presence that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up and your fight or flight kick in. The scent of firewood burning, cedar and pine, an earthy tang thick in the open air. These were warnings to go back, to leave and never return, you knew that. But you were bound and determined to confront this man, determined to get answers, answers you felt as though you had every right to. You could hear the soft bleats of sheep in the distance, the wind was harsh today too. Whipping and lashing, a final warning just as you reached the porch.

The second your left foot came into contact with the rickety, old wood of the Captain’s porch— the front door swung open.

And you paused, completely taken aback.

Because what stared back at you, made your mind go completely blank and your chest tighten.

The Captain stared back at you, a deep furrow between his brows and his upper lip curled up in what you figured was a sneer. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, but his mustache seemed to eclipse his upper lip. Spotty flecks of grey hairs littered in brown hair, though the hair at his temples were greying. He wore a sacramento green cable knit turtle neck, dark washed jeans that fit proper and clean cut, and chestnut brown work boots. You figured they were work boots given the scuffs on the toe, as well as the dried earth on the edges. You flicked your gaze back up, meeting those deep, mesmerizing blue eyes that held nothing but—

Contempt.

A vile look for someone who didn’t look half bad.

You huffed, furrowing your brows and narrowing your eyes at him.

“You.” You pointed at him, keys jangling as they dangled from your fingers. His gaze darkened, nostrils flaring as the lines in his forehead deepened.

“Do I know you?” He shot back sharply. You sneered at his tone, planting your right foot and straightening up to appear confident.

“No, but you knew my granny. Knew her enough to pick bones with her, what’s that about, huh? What asshole picks fights with an old lady? You know-” As you prattled on about your transgressions and disapproval of his behavior towards your dear grandmother, his expression faltered a fraction. He blinked, completely caught off guard by your barrage of insults and critiques of him.

“Pause.” He intercepted your anger fueled ramblings, holding up a hand to halt you. You stopped mid-sentence, confusion warring with anger as you studied him. “Your grandmother? The-” He sighed, his hand dropping from the air and dragging a hand over his face before his fingers curled at the side of his jaw and scratched at his beard. “The woman in the cottage down the way?” You scoffed at his question, as if it was the stupidest thing in the world. Who did this guy think he was? Did he not know because he just picks fights with old women frequently that he forgets who he pesters? You crossed your arms, fixing him with a stern look.

“Yes, of course. Who the fuck else would I be talking about?” You spat the words. You knew you were being harsh, but between anger, grief, and every other emotion swirling inside of you— you could careless. There was a tick in his jaw at your sharp response.

“Aye. That old bat. Fucks sake—” He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the door frame of his cottage. “Did that old bitty send you up here? I thought I made it clear to her I wanted no one on my property and pestering me-” You cut him off sharply with an indignant gasp.

“Old bat-!? Don’t you speak ill of the dead! What is wrong with you! My gods, what are you, some raging asshole!?” Your voice rose, pointing at him in anger as you waved your finger in the air. “Cenric was right, you are a prick!” You hissed. The man straightened immediately, taking deep offense but shock as well, his eyes widening.

“Wait a minute, now that’s not what I meant-” There was a tick in his tone, as if his own anger was bubbling, a warning. You cut him off abruptly once more.

“No! You can’t just do that! Do you not have any sense of respect for the dead? Gods, what kind of person are you! You think you can just move here and-” The man stepped off the threshold of the inside of his home, taking a single step toward you.

“Oi! That’s enough! ‘M not havin’ some little girl come onto my property and my porch just to yell at me! If you’d let me get a damn word in, you’d know I didn’t have a clue your grandmother even passed!” His voice boomed, loud and commanding. Your mouth screwed shut, feet immediately stepping off his porch, your stomach twisting in shame. Fuck, you may have overstepped. He continued taking slow, measured steps toward you. His eyes dark, filled with a brewing storm of anger and frustration as the porch creaked beneath his weight. “Your grandmother and I had our disagreements, yes! I will admit that! But never did I wish ill will on the woman. I apologize for your loss, I do understand what it’s like to lose someone but don’t you dare direct that grief and anger on me.” He practically snarled the words, his finger now pointed at you.

And you stood there, completely thrown off kilter. Taken aback. You blinked, drawing in a small breath.

“… Fair point.” You mumbled out. The man scoffed, hand dropping from the space between you both before he shook his head.

Sitting at the kitchen table, you felt nauseous. The kind that comes from forgetting to eat. You couldn’t remember when you made an actual meal besides snacking on something that had been left in the pantry. You felt hollow.

Like an old tree, rotted clean through its heart. Aching, empty, cold.

This feeling had been lingering, looming over you like a dark cloud the past few days. After your interaction with the Captain, you quickly threw yourself into working on the cottage. It started with making phone calls about the gutters and roof while you washed the walls. The smell of cigarettes had clung to every surface of this home, a constant waking reminder of your grandmother.

Everywhere was a reminder.

Whether locked away in the cottage or stepping foot into town, someone or something trudged up memories or chats about Granny. You didn’t say it out loud.

But you began to resent it.

This town, this cottage, the people. In some sick, twisted way, You resent it. Last night, you laid in bed and debated on fixing up the cottage, selling it and moving back to America. Starting anew with the money you set aside. But the idea curdled like milk, made you twist and roll over, force yourself to sleep.

You didn’t have the heart to sell this place. As much as resent bubbled beneath your skin like a boiling pot, you were sure you’d be stuck in this gods forsaken village and never leave.

Just like her.

Maybe, you’d die like her. Maybe you’d become some old spinster, all alone with no one to check up on you, die alone and only have your body found days later. Found only when the smell gave you away.

You hiccupped on a sob, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders shook, trembled with overflowing emotion. You were disgusted with yourself for thinking so terribly low of your Granny. She was such a good woman, she always wanted the best for you. She never rose a hand, never rose her voice at you. Sure, she could be stern, but she was gentle and loving. You wished she was here now, comforting you.

But you were still alone when you lifted your head from your hands, and that stung you a little more.

Your fingers spun a screw driver as you fixed the screws in the hinge of one of the creaky doors. You swore under your breath as you dropped a screw. With a sigh, you picked it up only to fumble with said screw as thunder cracked dangerously outside. It had been storming for days now, making it impossible for you to even step on the porch without fat rain drops splashing against stone and hitting you.

It was annoying in the worst way possible.

You wondered though, how the Captain’s sheep were in such shitty weather. What did Shepherds do with a flock when rain pelted down like this? It made you realize how little you actually knew about Shepherd’s and sheep.

With a crease forming between your brows, you angrily worked on the hinge and screws. Mentally chastising yourself, you were reminded how little you should care for the man. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you tried to ignore the budding embarrassment swelling inside you.

You felt bad.

You didn’t want to, but you did.

The man didn’t even know of your existence, nor did he obviously care. Him and his stupid sheep, stupid beard and stupid rickety old porch. With a scoff, you tossed the screw driver on a nearby counter. The project was clearly causing more harm than good.

You drove into town with a sour expression that followed you into ‘Ol’ O’Connell’s’, a pub ran by Maeve O’Connell and her wife, Sydnie. You had vaguely remembered Maeve and Sydnie from your childhood, two younger women back then with dreams as high as the could reach. And they reached those dreams, starting their own pub despite the backlash they feared they would receive. But that was the charm of Hallowmere, as long as you had a good heart, people didn’t have it in them to bad mouth you, because they knew you. Knew your heart.

You just wish they would stop bringing up your grandmother.

Stepping inside, you closed your umbrella, tapping it against the edge of your rainboot and perching it by the door among the many other umbrellas. You found a seat at the bar, sitting down with a heavy sigh. Maeve slid up at the bar, shooting a pointed look at one of the other barkeeps, a young man with too much cologne that a bottle of axe body spray would be jealous. Though when Maeve looked over at you, she flashed a toothy grin that showed off the gap between her two front teeth.

“Ah love, you look like right pissed. What’s tha matter?” She probed. The woman wasn’t one to beat around a bush, but she was at the very least sincere about it with you, big brown eyes flicking about your form, taking in your tense posture and deep frown.

“I hate home projects.” You huffed out. Which earned you a bark of laughter from the woman as she began making a drink.

“Aye, love, I keep sayin’ the same to Sydnie. But the wee bird never listens to me.” She chuckled, setting a drink in front of you. She rolled the sleeves of her black and white striped top, setting her hands on her hips with a sympathetic expression on her face. “Got soup today. Should warm ya, yeah?” She paused, smile faltering as she studied you. “You been eatin’, right, Dovie?” Her question made you huff a laugh.

“Yes, Maeve, I’ve been eating. I’d probably be dead by now if I hadn’t eaten in the past two weeks.” You rested your chin on the palm of your hand, elbow resting on the bar top. You gave a small smile, an attempt to ease the woman’s worries. “Soup sounds nice. What kind?” Maeve perked up at that.

“Ohh, you’ll like it. Sydnie’s best, had a taste this mornin’. Potato soup with a dash of cheddar and chopped pork.” You sighed dreamily, the idea of Sydnie’s potato soup making your shoulder’s drop a fraction, tension momentarily forgotten. Maeve laughed, tossing a rag over her shoulder as she stepped away to put the order in. When she returned, your gaze was fixed on the window outside and she quietly stepped back behind the bar with an almost worried look.

“Whatcha thinkin’, Dovie?” She asked, voice low and quiet. A crease formed between your brows, a frown tugging at the corners of your lips.

“… Believe I was unfair.”

“Unfair how, Dovie?” Maeve leaned in some, concern pitching as she studied you. It made your heart twinge with shame.

“Cenric told me about the Captain, how he-”

“Had a penchant of picking fits with your Granny?” You blinked, eyes snapping to meet Maeve’s. She had a wry smile on her face, then sighed deeply. “Captain’s ‘bout as friendly a prickle bush. He’s doesn’t mean harm, love, he jus’…” Maeve waved a hand in the air, sucking her teeth as she tried to find the words to describe the enigmatic man. “Odd.” You deflated at that.

“I was a bitch.” You whispered, shoulders sagging completely in shame. “I don’t know what happened, I marched up his drive and just berated him. Absolutely tore into this poor man, he didn’t even know Granny had died, he was so confused and then he got so mad-”

“It’s grief, Dovie.” Maeve stated, plain as day. She frowned, watching as you crossed your arms over the bar top, forehead against forearm. She reached, gently petting your head. “Oh, love, you didn’t mean anything by it. He was just— collateral. You’re still healing, you’re fixing a house and learning how to move about without feeling ill.” Maeve pulled her hand away, cupping your cheek when you lifted your head. She brushed a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “Oh, sweet Dovie, we’re all healing… but we all knew it would hit you hardest… Captain jus’.. he’s an outsider, he doesn’t know much about you, if at all, he rarely speaks to anyone when he comes to town… he probably didn’t pay much mind when your grandmother stopped showing up.” Maeve sighed. You frowned.

“Stopped showing up?” You sat up some, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. Maeve chuckled quietly, straightening up as she turned to make you refill.

“Aye, love. Those two would get into tiffs, sure, but the Captain wasn’t evil to your Granny. I think he was warming up to her, in his own way. She’d talk his ear off about the game, found an in on how to talk to him. Used it to her advantage.” Maeve snorted in amusement, setting down the new glass and taking the empty one. “You know how your Granny was, curious despite herself.” This new information sent your mind reeling. It was a different perspective. Maeve had a different view of things compared to what Cenric had told you and what he had seen. You furrowed your brows, listening intently.

“Your Granny and the Captain had an odd way of, er, communicating. They’d sit and watch the game, she’d make small talk, he’d either grunt or nod. He— well, he listened to her.” Maeve smiled, unsure if she was making much sense to you. Which, she was. She made perfect sense. The Captain wasn’t some prick, he was a quiet man that preferred quieter company or company that didn’t mind his pensive silence. He just happened to be an unfortunate soul that your grandmother found intriguing to pester, perhaps with too much time on her hands, she was using it to learn about the outsider everyone else seemed to sheepish to approach.

You ate your soup in silence, mind mulling over Maeve’s words and your own thoughts about the situation. You thought back to the times your grandmother had often been a bit of an out-of-the-box thinker. Hallowmere had intriguing people, everyone had their own stories, much like any little town. But clearly, the Captain was a very out of place character in this little town.

By the time the rain slowed to a drizzle, you were brushing off the crumbs of sourdough bread from your shirt before sliding off the stool. Maeve smiled, waving you off as you picked up your umbrella and stepped outside. Perhaps you should visit the grumpy old man, offer an apology. You cringed at the idea of darkening his door-step.

The following morning, you were woken up by a loud bleat. You jolted out of bed, grunting as you stumbled about your bedroom and grabbed a robe and tugged it around yourself. The sound startled you, the second bleat only adding a layer of annoyance. You swung the front door open, gasping in shock as a lamb stood in your garden, munching away at some poor leaves of a half dead plant.

“Wha- Hey!” You jogged down the steps of the porch, bare feet padding along the stone path of the garden. The lamb gave another bleat, this one much louder and clearly startled as you advanced on it. It darted around the garden, bounding about with its little hooves as you cursed obscenities at the small animal.

“Hey! You little bastard! Quit that! You’re messing-” You let out a startled squeal as it ran between your legs, making you whirl around. Just as you were about to spit another sharp name at the lamb, you halted. Your throat went dry, heat rising to your face.

The Captain stood at the gate, brow arched, eyes slightly wide and half bent to pick up the lamb that stood at his feet and wiggled it’s tail happily. He huffed, an amused sound. You narrowed your eyes, nostrils flaring as you huffed like a bull.

“It’s a lamb.” He rumbled, a twinge to amusement in his voice.

“It’s a little bastard.” You shot back, crossing your arms with a scoff.

“Her name is Basil.” He corrected, gathering the lamb up in his arms and straightening to full height. You rolled your eyes.

“Well, Basil, is eating my garden. Don’t you have a fence for your sheep?” You watched as the lamb gave a small bleat, soft ivory wool glinting in the soft early morning light. The man sighed deeply.

“Yes,” He patted the lamb. “Basil seems to… have a penchant to run amuck though.” You deflated at that, shoulders sagging.

“This is regular?” Your question earned another huff of amusement from the man.

“You live near a Shepherd. Yes, this is a regular occurrence, lass.” You sighed deeply, pointedly ignoring the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Yesterday’s conversation hit you hard, Maeve’s words weaving back into your mind as you watched the man adjust Basil in his arms before shifting to turn away.

“Captain?”

With his back turned to you, his shoulders tensed at the word. He rolled them, just a fraction before casting a glance over his shoulder towards you. There was a stern twinkle in his eyes, something akin to perhaps disapproval or disappointment. A crease between his brows, lips in a taut line.

“Aye?” He grunted out the simple word to you, his tone not shyly hiding the eagerness to end the conversation, perhaps go back to hiding away in his cottage.

“I’m sorry.” You took a small step forward, holding his gaze. “I wanted to… apologize for coming up the other day, givin’ you grief over something I didn’t understand.” Holding his gaze, you paused briefly. You chewed the inside of your cheek, unsure. “Granny and I grew apart a few years ago, and with everything going on-” He shifted his weight as you spoke, turning some to actually look at you, his gaze softening as a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “-and what not, it wasn’t really— well, right of me to just put all of that on you. I mean, you’re a stranger, someone who seemed to have had your own… eccentric relationship with my grandmother and instead of asking about it, I jumped to conclusions.”

A beat of silence hung in the air, guilt as heavy as a loaded gun. The man, who days ago looked right pissed and ready to murder you, currently looked— sad. Shoulders sagging, expression surprised but understanding. He sighed, heavy and deep.

“I appreciate your apology, love. Grief is never easy. Your… grandmother spoke highly of you, and I believe I owe you an apology as well. So, I also apologize for losing my temper.” You gave a simple nod. As much as you wanted to deny his apology and take blame, you felt as thought that would only be met with dismissal and disapproval. You kept your mouth shut. “She was an odd duck though.” He muttered on a lighter note, giving a half hearted shrug, smile blooming. You huffed in amusement at that, brows pinching in disbelief.

“Suppose she was. But I think that was her charm.” You mumbled low, which earned you a hearty chuckle. He nodded, shoulders shaking lightly.

“Aye, believe so, love-” The Captain was cut off by Basil bleating loudly, squirming in his arms. He grunted, readjusting the squirmy lamb with a pensive expression. “I better be off, this one is getting a bit rowdy.” You snorted, nodding as you turned on your heel to take your leave back into the cottage.

“Lass?” You paused, glancing back at him with a curious expression. “I’d prefer you not call me Captain, if possible.” You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the serious tone in his voice. He was good at that, now that you saw a glimpse of a lighter version of the man. Switching between dead serious, pissed off to light and laughing. You gave a small nod.

“What’s your name then, if you don’t mind me asking?” You asked.