#flightrisk

The first time you had awoken in the castle on Kuraigana Island, you had jumped so badly you had very nearly reverted straight out of your devil fruit form—and that in itself would have marked the end of your mission before it had even truly begun, given you had fallen asleep perched on Mihawk’s shoulder.

You jolted awake just as violently this time, and the first thing your gaze fixed upon was his sharp yellow eyes. You did panic for a moment, attempting to shift back into the avian form you had grown so accustomed to over the past two months, before remembering exactly where you were—lying across the cold stone floor of the dungeons.

Exactly how you had come to be here—by making the mistake of sneaking about in the middle of the night to call Bogard and inform him that you had no choice but to shift to plan B and propose the offer of Warlord status to your target.

Your target, who was seated in a chair in your damp, dark dungeon cell, staring down at you with a speculative frown.

“Awake at last.”

You winced as you strained against the floor to pull yourself up into a sitting position, too groggy for a moment to register why you were having such a difficult time, until the seastone shackles around your ankles clinked and rattled with your movements. Right. He had made completely sure that you wouldn’t be capable of escaping.

“You chose a particularly inopportune moment to faint earlier,” he commented, crossing his arms. “We were discussing this Warlord offer your superiors are considering presenting me with.”

You only vaguely recalled bringing it up—it must have been in the moments just before you lost consciousness. It was clear he had left you alone at some point during your slumber. He now had his open trench coat draped around his shoulders, his sword leaning against the corner of the cell. He traced your line of sight over to it and gave a small chuckle.

“Don’t worry yourself, dear. I simply prefer having my blade close. Though I’m sure you know that. You know a great deal more about me than I do you, after all. But I’m sure,” he went on, standing from the chair. You pressed your back against the wall as he approached you slowly, the toes of his boots coming to stop mere inches from your bare feet as he looked down at you, “that will come to change in time.”

He held his hand down toward you. You stared at it for a moment, before slowly lifting your hand, your breath catching as he took it in his with an almost gentle grip, this thumb tracing across your knuckles for a moment.

“You don’t have a fighter’s hands,” he said, turning your hand over, his much larger, rougher fingers tracing across your smooth palm. “Have you trained in anything aside from subterfuge?”

“Basic combat,” you said. “I’m best with throwing weapons and small blades.”

“Ideal for your stature and talent in stealth operations,” he commented.

He gave a small, thoughtful hum—then wrapped his hand around yours and pulled you to your feet, grabbing you by your hip before you could stumble straight into him. He turned with you and moved a hand to your shoulder, pushing you down into the chair he had just vacated himself.

“And, purely out of curiosity, what of your knowledge in birds?” he asked, pacing around the side of the chair slowly. “I can’t imagine you learned any of that from your Marine comrades.”

You shook your head, swallowing as his shadow fell over you from behind, glancing over at his hand resting against the back of the chair. “M...my mom,” you said quietly, your stomach churning at the sudden thought that you would probably never see her again. “She’s an ornithologist. Specializing in parrots and corvids. She runs a rescue service for them. I learned everything from her.”

“And yet you chose to join the Marines?” he said, amused. “Perhaps your father’s influence?” You gave a short nod. “Of course. Could have stayed at home on the farm, safe and sound, and yet...here you are. But I suppose it did give you the experience necessary to utilize your devil fruit to its fullest effect. I can see why your superiors chose you for this task. Not many could have pulled it off as well as you did.”

You felt the chair creak behind you as he leaned down against it, sending a cold chill down your spine as he reached up to brush your hair behind your ear, to tilt his head and fix you with an amused smirk as your shoulders grew stiff as stone.

“That was a compliment, little bird,” he said lightly, tracing his index finger slowly down the curve of your neck. “What do we say when someone compliments us?”

“Th—thank you,” you forced out, swallowing. “S-sir.”

“Good girl,” he lilted softly, close to your ear.

You thought you might faint all over again when he briefly pressed his lips to your temple before straightening back out and lightly ruffling your hair. As gentle as his actions seemed, they were laced with a thinly veiled threat—a threat that if you did anything other than what was asked of you, what he expected of you, there would be swift and severe repercussions. He didn’t have to say it for you to know it to be true.

“Are you able to provide me with the full details of this whole Warlord proposal?” he asked, moving around to the other side of the chair. He stopped in front of you, crossing his arms. “Or will you need to contact your superiors?”

“They would know more than I would,” you said quietly—and that wasn’t a lie. You had been given the basic details, but he would need to speak with someone of much higher rank than you to garner any further information. “I—I can call them. They’d likely want to set a meeting if you’re interested—”

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves,” he said. “I’m interested to hear more of what the World Government might consider a mutually beneficial arrangement between pirates and Marines. I haven’t said I’m interested in the offer itself yet. That being said…”

You shifted back in the chair when he knelt down in front of you, reaching into his pocket—but all he pulled out was a small ring of keys. You recognized the Marine insignia etched into the metal ring before he lifted your foot and turned one of the keys in the shackle wrapped around your ankle.

“I am interested to speak to your commanding officers,” he said, lowering your foot back down. He lifted the other, and paused with the key in the lock, his sharp eyes darting up to meet yours. “You will accompany me to the study in the tower below my bedchambers. Should you make any attempt to escape or use your devil fruit ability, I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen.”

You swallowed, nodding quickly in understanding. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Very good. I was fairly sure you’d understand.” You bit your lip as he slipped his hand slowly up the length of your calf, his palm coming to rest against the side of your thigh just above your knee, his eyes remaining on yours as he turned the key and pulled the shackles away from you. You flinched as he lightly squeezed his hand around your thigh, keeping his hand there as he stood and rested his other hand against the back of the chair, hovering over you. “You’ll stand slowly, and you’ll walk in front of me. I don’t think there’s any need for me to hold your hand like a child. You ought to know your way around fairly well by now.”

“Y...yes, sir,” you repeated weakly.

Hundreds of thoughts swam through your head as you lead the way from the ground floor of the old, expansive castle to the eastern tower—whether you would ever see or speak to your mother again, how Garp and Bogard would respond to the news that you were compromised, whether or not you would even live to see the light of the next morning, why Mihawk was being so gentle with you, why you felt a flutter deep in your stomach every time he touched you.

Why, for the entire duration of the walk up to the study, with him even stopping once to allow you to venture alone into a small bathroom to clean yourself up and tend to any other personal needs—why you didn’t once consider the possibility of a potential escape plan.

He expected you to comply—he wouldn’t expect you to shift into your devil fruit form at the nearest window and take flight off into the quickly darkening evening sky.

Yet the thought only crossed your mind once he sat in the armchair behind the desk in the study, the thought of why you hadn’t considered the possibility. Before you could consider it any further, he lifted his hand and motioned for you to come over, leaning forward to pull the den den mushi across the desk toward him.

“You’ll call your superiors,” he said, his gaze not once leaving you as you slowly crossed the room. You nodded, stopping in front of the desk and reaching for the device. “No.” He pulled it further out of your reach, motioning for you again. “Come here.”

You tensed at the sharpening of his tone, and moved around to the opposite side of the desk with a little more urgency, stopping a few feet away from him, your eyes flickering between his yellow irises and the snail.

Closer, when he motioned for you again, stopping at the side of the chair, staring down at your feet as you shifted your weight between them.

You glanced up when he lifted his head again, pointing down at the floor and making a small, tight circular motion. “Turn,” he instructed.

You obeyed immediately, turning around slowly, arms crossed tight across your churning stomach.

“Better. Now…”

Your eyes clenched shut when he wrapped his hand around your wrist, gasping in alarm when he pulled you down, down onto the chair with him, your back against his chest. His hand left your wrist to brush against your hair, tucking the strands behind your ear and your shoulder.

And they shot open again when you felt him lean forward behind you, his broad torso pressed against your back, watching him grab the receiver of the den den mushi.

“Make the call for me, pet,” he said, handing it to you before pulling his arm tight around your waist, holding you against him as he leaned back again. “And keep quiet unless I say otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Y-yes, sir.” You couldn’t speak in anything more than a strained whisper, your face flaring with heat, immediately reaching forward to dial the number at his command and holding the receiver between his ear and your own.

You shut your eyes again when you heard a familiar, gruff voice answer.

“Vice Admiral Garp. If you have this number you know what to do.”

“Vice Admiral Garp,” repeated Mihawk, sincerely surprised. “Garp the Fist. Hero of the Marines. My, my. I suppose I should be honored.” You drew in a sharp breath as his fingers curled lightly, possessively around your waist, as he turned his head and rest his forehead against your temple, his voice soft and warm against your ear. “I had no idea the adorable little pet you sent me was so important.”

You flinched at the sharp static that came through the other line for a moment, as if the old vice admiral had tightened his hand considerably around his own den den mushi.

“Dracule Mihawk,” he growled in response. “Where the hell is she?”

“Safe,” he responded. “Unharmed...relatively. Though I imagine she must be quite frightened, wondering what I plan to do with her.” You nearly whimpered when he reached across, curling a strand of your hair around his index finger. “Quite the gifted little spy. I might never have known what she truly was had I not overheard her conversation two nights ago.”

“Dammit, kid…” you heard Garp grumble under his breath. Then, louder, in a more commanding tone, “You’ve got two options, Hawk-Eye. You can let her go, or I can come get her myself.”

“With an entire armada of Navy vessels in tow, I presume?” he responded, sounding as if the idea bored him. “You’re not really in the position to be making threats, old man. The cadet is unharmed...for now. And really. You send me such a pretty little pet and expect me to sen her right back before I’ve even had any time to enjoy her company?”

You held your breath as his hand drifted down from your waist, his fingers brushing against the top of your thigh just below the hem of the over-sized shirt he had given you to wear.

“Call her your pet again, you sick son of a b—don’t—let go of that—”

“Mmm?” Mihawk hummed quietly, curiously at the sound of the brief scuffle at the other end of the call. You were fairly certain you knew what it meant, and...it was probably better that Garp didn’t handle this. Your suspicions were confirmed a moment later when another voice came through the call, far more curt but just as familiar to you.

“Read Admiral Bogard. My apologies for the vice admiral’s boorish behavior. He doesn’t handle negotiations well when it concerns one of our own. I presume this is a negotiation and you didn’t simply call for the sake of gloating?”

“Your presumption would be correct,” said Mihawk. “Though I admit, it was also to sate my own curisoty. I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of supposed men would send such an innocent, vulnerable young woman on what could easily have turned out to be a suicide mission.” He rested his chin against your shoulder, trailing his dingers slowly back up the length of your thigh, smirking as you pressed your legs together tightly and tiny goosebumps raised across the surface of your skin. “I guess I have my answer.”

“I take it you have no intention of returning her without hostile measures being taken,” said Bogard, ignoring the taunt from the pirate. “I will ask yhat you allow her to speak so I can ascertain for myself that she is, as you claim, unharmed.”

“Oh, but of course,” said Mihawk, his voice low and dripping with mockery, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “She’s right here, after all. Go on, pet. Speak.”

“I’m not hurt,” you said quietly.

“You’re sure?” You gave a quiet affirmative hum in response to Bogard’s question—and then jumped in alarm when Mihawk jerked the receiver from your hand, only to push it into your oposite hand. You swallowed, keeping your eyes turned down to your lap, to his hand splayed across your stomach. “Am I correct in assuming he’s listening?”

“Y—yes, sir.”

It became immediately clear why he had moved the receiver to your opposite hand, to the opposite side of your head—you pulled in a small, sharp gasp as his mouth touched the shell of your ear.

“H-he can hear me,” you added quietly, clenching your eyes shut as his hand clenched around the thin material of his shirt that covered your stomach and half of your thighs, tugging it a few inches higher. You could feel his lips curl into a smirk against the edge of your jaw.

“I wonder,” he murmured, “how long you can keep your composure, pretty bird.” He chuckled lightly at the shiver his voice sent through you—a shiver that, no matter how much you wanted it to be, wasn’t entirely in fear.

“Does he have any intention of harming you that you’re aware of?” asked Bogard. His tone was lighter now, but still kept its usual air of authority

“I—I don’t think so,” you said, fighting to keep your breath level as Mihawk trailed his lips lightly down the length of your neck, lifting his free hand to your jaw, urging you to lie your head back. You obeyed the silent command, your shoulders tensing as the back of your head fell back against his shoulder. “H—he-he wanted more details on the offer. The—the Warlord—”

“I’m sure he does,” said Bogard curtly. “And I’m more than willing to discuss it with him. Our immediate concern at the present is your safety. Are you able to tell us where you are?”

“I…”

“Go ahead, little cadet.” You swallowed at Mihawk’s low, amused murmur against your neck, his words affirming that he could still hear both ends of the conversation. “Tell Mommy and Daddy exactly where you are.” You bit back a whimper as he nipped lightly at your neck, his hand at your chin drifting down the column of your throat, stopping to circle a finger around the top button of your shirt.

“A study in one of the towers in the castle on Kuraigana Island,” you forced out quickly, tour words pressing together as he lifted you by your hip and shifted your position, pressing his knee between your thighs to push them further open.

“Alright. Good.” Bogard’s words sounded more distant to you with every passing second, your focus shifting to Mihawk’s hand slipping open the top button of your shirt. “You sound weak.”

“S-seastone,” you said quietly, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice as the second button came loose, revealing the top of your plain white bra. You bit your lip, watching him push the shirt open enough to trace his fingers along the edge of the undergarment. “Seastone shackles. So I can’t use my devil fruit ability to escape.”

Even though he had removed the shackles before leading you up here, it was the first explanation that jumped to your mind to account for the low, trembling quality of your voice.

“Seastone. Of course,” Bogard said coolly. “Should have guessed. Wouldn’t have been difficult to salvage from one of the hundreds of our ships he’s destroyed…” He let out a sigh. “Do your best to stay safe. Do not attempt to escape on your own. Is that understood?”

“Mm—mm-hmm,” you hummed, almost whimpered, biting down on your bottom lip as Mihawk tugged the last few buttons of the shirt open, moving his hands to your shoulders to push the material down.

“Off,” he murmured against you jaw. “And you’ll hand the phone back to me.”

“H—he wants to—”

“Then put him back on,” said Bogard.

You quickly shifted the phone back to your other hand, and Mihawk plucked it away, holding it out at arm’s length as he briefly leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he commanded once more, “Off, pretty girl. Let me see you. I won’t ask again.” He pulled the receiver to his ear as you complied, trembling as you slowly shrugged the material away from your shoulders, pulling it free from your arms. “Bogard, was it?” you heard him say. “Oh, yes. I am very interested to hear more of how your people think any pirate might be inclined to consider becoming a government lapdog.”

He tugged you back against him again the moment you were free of the shirt, his fingertips tracing leisurely circles over the plane of your stomach.

Drifting higher and higher, playing against the edge of your ribs.

Slipping just beneath the lower edge of your bra, his lips curling into a smirk at the way you tensed against him, in some mix of anxiety and anticipation, growing less and less able to differentiate between the two.

Clenching your eyes shut and biting your tongue against a small whimper as he pushed his hand higher, cupping the swell of your breast in his palm, squeezing his fingers lightly around the pliable flesh.

You could hear his voice as the conversation dragged on, his tone as curt and professional as Bogard’s, but you could scarcely make out a single detail of his words with his rough hand brushing across your breasts, occasionally rolling around the sensitive points of your nipples, forced to use every ounce of your will to keep yourself silent—to pull your own hand up to cover your mouth and muffle a small cry when he lightly pinched one of the sensitive protrusions near the end of the conversation.

“Well, that’s all very intriguing,” he said with a light chuckle as he pulled you tighter against him. “I’ll have to take a bit of time to consider such a tempting proposal. I think...oh, forty-eight hours? Well, if that’s acceptable for you, then it’s more than acceptable for me.” You tensed as he shifted his hand beneath your bra, whimpering as he pinched your nipple a bit harder. “Ten o’clock, two days from now. Perfect. And be sure to inform your vice admiral that I’ll take very good care of our little cadet in the meantime. Oh, of course. No harm at all.”

He lowered his head, continuing in a murmur against your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

Pelican Town in early spring hadn’t changed much. If anything, it felt like a page from an old story someone kept reading without realizing it was dog-eared. The air was crisp and damp, tinged with salt from the ocean beyond the hills and the earthy promise of thawing soil. The last clumps of dirty snow clung to the bases of the trees and edges of the sidewalks, melting reluctantly into slush. Crocuses and daffodils were starting to poke up along the sides of the square. Someone had planted them years ago, and they’d survived through sheer stubbornness.

Most likely, Evelyn.

Pierre’s General Store loomed ahead, just as she remembered it. Sturdy wood paneling covered the facade, painted in a faded cobalt blue with white trim. A big bay window on the front had a hand-lettered Fresh Produce Weekly! sign swinging from a string. There were baskets of seed packets stacked outside, already slightly damp from the morning dew. A chalkboard next to the door read: Spring Specials–10% Off Saplings & Salve! Beneath it, a smiley face that had mostly smudged into a blob.

Parked in front of all of that history was a truck that looked like it had driven straight out of a country song. She spotted the old maroon truck immediately. It looked like duct tape held it together, and she could have sworn she smelled engine oil before she saw the driver.

“Seriously?” Sadie muttered aloud. “They still let that thing run?”

It sputtered like it heard her, then the door swung open.

Alex jumped down from the driver’s seat and she swore for a second the chilly breeze had nothing to do with the goosebumps prickling along her arms. He looked like every woman’s favorite regret. He had short brown hair that looked uncombed, mischievous sparkling green eyes, and a grin that likely ruined lives within a five-mile radius. He wore a white T-shirt that fit too well, jeans that hugged his thighs, and his signature green hoodie zipped halfway over his chest. He looked nothing like the 14-year-old she remembered. And God help her, he was smirking already.

“Holy hell,” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t realize she was staring.

He laughed, slamming the door, making the truck shake.

“Y-You look different…” she stuttered. The words couldn't find their way to her mouth.

“Well, I’d hope so.” Alex stretched lazily, his eyes scanning her with exaggerated judgment.

“And look at you, Big City Sadie. Did Mr. Joja CEO give you that coat?”

“It’s merino wool, thank you very much, and no, I bought it myself,” she gripped her suitcase handle tightly.

“So fancy,” he teased, stepping forward to pull her into a brief but warm hug. “You smell like expensive lotion and disappointment.”

“You still smell like Axe body spray and unresolved trauma.”

“Damn,” he laughed as he took her suitcase like it weighed nothing and heaved it into the truck bed. “Still sharp, I like it.”

The truck groaned as they pulled out of downtown and headed through the winding back roads toward the Palmer Farms property. The drive through town was slow and full of awkward nostalgia. They passed by buildings like old classmates. Half of them seemed unchanged, the others looked a little rough around the edges. The old Saloon still had its swinging sign and chipping paint. The schoolhouse bell rang as they passed, faint and far away. Sadie thoughtfully remembered when there was no schoolhouse. Town kids would just be tutored in the library.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he said casually, eyes still on the road. “Still, looking like you’re calculating ROI on my entire personality.”

She laughed, “I wouldn’t have guessed you even knew what ROI was.”

“Rude.”

There was a comfortable tension in the silence that followed, punctuated by bursts of laughter as they slipped into old stories. Summer lemonade stands, fourth of July fireworks, and her epic wipeout on a rusted old bike. The one he swore he warned her about.

“Still blame me for that scar on your knee?” He asked, smirking.

“Absolutely.”

“You know, you were the only girl in town who could actually beat me at tetherball.”

“Only because you kept hitting your damn face.”

He snorted.

They turned onto a familiar old dirt road, her heart gave a nervous little jump. Trees started to thin, then there it stood. When she saw the house, her chest ached. The house came into view like an old photo she’d forgotten she still had. It looked sad and tired, almost like time had tried to erase it.

The once-pristine white panels were yellowing and weather-stained. The shutters hung crookedly; some were even missing entirely. Tall grass reached hungrily toward the porch steps. Weeds had overtaken the gravel walkway, and the swing on the front porch dangled with one chain broken.

Sadie slowly pressed a hand to her mouth. Alex pulled the truck to a gentle stop and killed the engine.

“Yeah…” he said quietly. “He got real sick, real fast. Cancer, I think. Robin and Ms. Marnie did what they could, but between their work and trying to help him, it just… kind of got away from them.”

Sadie opened the door and stepped into the driveway. The air was cooler here and carried the smell of old leaves, pine bark, and damp earth. A bird chirped somewhere off in the distance. Her boots sank a little in the softened dirt as she walked toward the house. It felt like it loomed over her. Crooked, but still standing. A breeze carried the faint scent of salt and wildflowers somewhere deep inside her chest. This was hers now. For better or worse.

“Welcome home,” Alex said softly.

The porch groaned under Sadie’s weight as she stepped up to the front door. The paint was peeling here too, curling like the pages of a book left in the sun. She hesitated before the threshold and glanced to her right. There he was. Still standing guard after all these years.

A short ceramic gnome with a chipped red hat and a mischievous grin stood half obscured by grass. His googly eyes were stuck permanently askew from years of rain and mischief. She crouched down, lifted him slightly, and found the familiar silver key taped underneath. The old, yellowing tape still wrapped it, and rust still covered its teeth.

“Of course,” she muttered with a fond huff.

“Security at its finest,” Alex said behind her, arms crossed, leaning against the porch beam.

The key scraped as it turned in the lock. The red door creaking open with a long sigh. Dust danced in the slant of afternoon light that cut across the old wooden floor. The house smelled of cedar and age, laced with something faintly sweet. Her boots left faint prints in the film of dust coating the entryway as she stepped inside. It was exactly as she remembered. Just older and dimmer.

The living room opened to the right, where a sagging couch once sat beneath the front window, now only a simple wooden table and a pair of mismatched chairs, remained. A tiny old television sat crookedly on a low console, the kind with manual dials and fake wood paneling. Wallpaper was peeling in long, curling strips along the hallway. Her grandfather had scratched at parts of it, as though he had started to remove it but never finished.

“It’s like a time capsule in here,” she murmured.

Alex stepped in behind her and closed the door gently. “Yeah. He didn’t really touch anything over the years.”

She wandered through the main room, fingertips trailing over the dusty surface of the table. A single envelope sat there, crisp and out of place. She picked it up and opened it.

She folded the letter and tucked it into her coat pocket.

“Well,” she said softly, “guess that’s what I’ll be doing this week.”

“Want me to come with you?”

She gave him a quick smile. “Are you offering to be my emotional support jock?”

Alex grinned, “Depends, will I get snacks out of it?”

She chuckled under her breath and made her way toward the stairs. They creaked exactly the same way they used to. Low and moaning, like old bones complaining about the weather. Her room was at the end of the hall. The door still had the star-shaped sticker she’d put on it as a kid, now faded and curled at the corners. She pushed it open slowly, parting the hanging door beads, half expecting to find her childhood self sitting on the bed reading a Teen Vogue magazine.

Her room was small and mostly empty. But her old twin bed was still there, tucked into the far corner. Time had faded the quilt her grandmother made her from blue to near gray. The dresser stood beneath the window, its mirror spotted and cloudy. The curtains drawn back, let spring light spill across the floor in a soft golden haze. Alex glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Something unreadable shifted behind his eyes.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” she said.

“You’re taller than you were,” Alex offered, following her in and setting her suitcase down gently by the dresser.

She sat on the edge of the bed as the springs squeaked underneath. “It’s weird, you know? I didn’t grow up here, not really. But it still feels like… pieces of me live in these walls.”

Alex leaned against the doorframe of her room with his arms crossed. “You spent every summer in P.T. until you were in like 10th grade. That counts as growing up here.”

She didn’t answer, just looked around the room with a quiet expression. Dust motes turned in the light. A robin chirped outside her window.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked after a pause.

“I think so,” she said. “Just… need to see it all and let it settle.”

He nodded. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

Her lips twitched into a small smile. “Thanks, Alex.”

“You hungry?” He asked, pushing off the doorframe. “We can go to the diner for a bit. Don’t ask me to pay though, I can only afford to get you a grilled cheese.”

She laughed, “Grilled cheese sounds perfect.”

The diner sat tucked between the library and the old post office like it had always belonged there, even though Sadie was sure it hadn’t existed when she last set foot in town. A silver-lettered sign above the door read “Stella’s Diner” in looping cursive. A striped red-and-white awning fluttered over the wide front windows. The intoxicating scent of sizzling butter and brewed coffee spilled out every time the door opened. Inside, it looked like something out of a 1950s postcard. Red vinyl booths, chrome accents, a jukebox in the corner. The kind of place where the waitstaff called you “hon” and the pancakes were bigger than your face.

“Definitely wasn’t here when I was a kid,” Sadie remarked, letting the door swing shut behind her.

“It’s about five years old,” Alex said. “People were real suspicious of it at first, but now try taking away Ms. Violet’s cinnamon rolls and there’ll be a riot on Main.”

A short woman in her sixties with blue glasses and a cloud of permed white hair waved them toward a booth near the window. Alex pointed at her with a grin.

“That’s Ms. Violet. Don’t let the smile fool you, she’ll throw hands if you insult her food.”

Sadie slid into the booth, folding her coat neatly beside her. She let her fingers rest on the cool chrome edge of the table, it felt a little surreal. Familiar and foreign all at once. She glanced out the window at the square, then back at the cracked leather menu.

“Wait—Sadie Palmer? Is that you?”

Sadie looked up to see a tall young man with blonde hair and a skateboard clipped to his backpack.

Sam.

He hadn’t changed much. A little taller, a little leaner, with facial hair that looked like it came and went depending on the season. Beside him was Abigail, with colored hair swept back into a messy braid. Sadie remembered she used to dye it purple. Now it was more of a dark teal. Her eyeliner, still perfectly smudged in a smoky black, was a stark contrast to the casual, slightly rumpled jacket she wore. Hanging back a few steps behind them was Sebastian. The usual black hoodie zipped to the neck with hands in his pockets.

Sadie blinked in surprise. “Hi?”

“Holy shit, it’s really you!” Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, grinning. “Wow, I haven’t seen you since—god, what? You were still in braces.”

“She never had braces, you idiot, that was me,” Abigail smirked, nudging him.

“You didn’t?” Sam looked confused. “Huh.”

“Hi Sadie! I’ve missed you so much.” She bent down to give her a quick hug. “Can we sit with you guys?” Abigail asked, already sliding into the spot beside her without waiting for a yes. “It’s not every day someone comes back from the Joja Mothership.”

Alex chuckled as he scooted over to make room. “It’s like watching someone reintroduce an animal to its native habitat, right?”

“Thanks,” Sadie rolled her eyes. “Glad to be everyone’s local cryptid again.”

Sebastian slid into the booth’s edge without a word, nodding toward her with a soft smile in his usual quiet way.

“Seriously though,” Sam said, “What brings you back? Thought you’d escaped the small town curse! I’ve been trying to leave this hellhole for years.”

Sadie hesitated, fingers drumming once against her mug of water. “Inheritance stuff. My pop’s old place. Just sorting it out for now.”

“You staying long?” Abigail asked, eyebrow raised.

“That’s… undecided.”

“You’ll love the diner breakfasts,” Sam exclaimed, pointing to the menu. “Everything tastes like love and butter.”

“She’s not wrong,” Alex muttered, and leaned toward Sadie to whisper, “Just don’t order the tuna melt.”

“I heard that, Alex!” Ms. Violet called out from the bar counter.

“See?” Alex grinned. “She has ears everywhere.”

Sadie let out a small laugh, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to ease. The fog of travel, grief, and doubt hadn’t lifted entirely, but this? A table full of half-familiar faces, laughter, and warmth felt like a beginning.

After the diner, Alex drove her back through town as the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting long golden streaks across the road. They didn’t talk much this time. The radio played some classic song with steel guitar and wistful lyrics filling the space between them. Sadie let herself watch the town roll by through the window. When the truck came to a stop in the gravel drive, Alex cut the engine and turned to her.

“Are you sure you’re good? Don’t lie to me, Adi, I’ll know.” He asked, brows lifted.

Sadie gave a tired smile. “Yeah. I just… need to be alone for a little while.”

He nodded, then stepped out to grab her leftover food from the backseat. When she rounded the truck, he handed her the bag and pulled her into a brief but firm hug.

“Text me if the walls start talking or something,” he said into her hair. “I’ll come punch a ghost.”

She snorted. “Thanks.”

He stepped back, gave her a wink, then climbed into the truck. The engine sputtered like it wasn’t in the mood to leave. As the truck rolled down the drive, Alex gripped the steering wheel tighter. She was really back. After all this time. Every year he’d figure the memory of her would fade like the pictures in Evelyn’s hallway, but there she was. Same Sadie, just older. A little more tired in her eyes, maybe, but still hers. He smiled to himself, then shook his head.

It was stupid how fast the memories had come rushing in. The bonfires and bike rides highlighted with stupid dares. The way her laugh cracked wide open when he said a dumb joke. How sometimes they'd sit too close on the dock and pretend it meant nothing. But it had meant something. At least to him. They never named it, and maybe that was the problem.

And then, she was just gone. No solid goodbye except for a half-hearted note. Just vanished like a summer storm.

He didn’t know what he expected now. She was here, and it made him happy in a way that unsettled him. Like the ground had shifted beneath the farm and no one had warned him. Part of him hoped she'd stay. The other part wasn’t sure if his heart could take it.

Back at the house, Sadie stood for a long moment on the porch, bag in hand, watching the last light slip away behind the tree line. She turned, unlocking the door, and stepped into the quiet of the house. It felt heavier without Alex. Like the air had settled back into old memories as she slowly explored.

The kitchen was outdated for sure, but still functional. Copper-bottom pans still hung from the wall, and there was a dent in the linoleum where the old stool used to wobble. A door beside the pantry opened into a small room she hadn’t remembered clearly. It was a lined wall covered with shelves sagging under the weight of dusty books.

She stepped in and brushed her fingers over the cracked spines. ”The Farmer’s Almanac” ”Mushroom Cultivation in Coastal Climates” ”Weathering Tools and Weathering Storms: A Memoir” Most of them looked well read. Some had her grandfather’s scrawl in the margins with personal notes, and diagrams of crop layouts. Downstairs, the basement was cool and smelled faintly of cedar. The stairs groaned beneath her weight as she descended into the dimness, turning on an overhead bulb with a buzz.

The basement was a museum of her late grandparent’s lives. Stacked boxes litered the space. She crouched by a familiar trunk, the faded floral print peeling along the edges. When she opened it, the hinges groaned like they were waking up, disturbed from their sleep. Inside were stacks of things that felt like her childhood frozen in time. Construction paper crafts, seashell necklaces, and a tin of half-dried watercolor pans.

And then she saw it. A journal—neon pink, with shimmering Lisa Frank dolphins leaping over a rainbow. She let out a short, stunned laugh.

“No way…”

She unlocked the clasp and flipped it open. Her own handwriting stared back at her, chaotically wide looped, scrawled in glitter pen.

“At least I know my handwriting has improved.” Sadie smiled softly as she flipped through the lined heart print pages. Page after page detailed drama between friends, swimming at the beach, and bonfire nights behind Sam’s house. A particular page caused her to pause.

Her heart stuttered. Adi was the nickname he gave her. He even called her that before he left today. Woven through all the pages was Alex. He seemed to always be mentioned somehow, and he always felt like something more than what they pretended to be. It struck her like a sudden breeze through a closed window. That little girl, her heart a whirlwind of uncertainty and hope, was so sure, so full of tangled feelings and big emotions. She’d already known. Maybe not the depth, or even what it meant at the time, but she’d felt it genuinely.

And then she’d left without a goodbye. It wasn’t that she wanted it to be that way. He was just away for a game, the week she was moving. She couldn’t really do anything about it, so she left a note with Evelyn.

Sadie swallowed hard and closed the journal gently, her fingers brushed the raised dolphin sticker on the front. She slipped it back into the trunk and shut the lid like she was putting something precious back to bed. A yellowed photo album with curled edges lay half-open on a crate. She brushed the dust away and saw her mother’s smile looking up at her, younger than Sadie was now. Happy among the sunflowers. She didn't speak much to her parents. The divorce tore them apart and was partly why she stayed at her grandparents’ in the first place. The bad memories of those years cushioned against the good ones made in the valley made her heart sink.

She found a trunk in the corner. Inside, gardening gloves greeted her. Faded seed packets blanketed over a folded apron embroidered with the name “Charles Palmer.” Her grandfather’s.

Grief mixing with the nostalgia braided together so tightly she couldn’t separate them and felt difficulty breathing. She closed the trunk gently and exhaled. That night, she slept in her childhood bed, curled beneath the faded quilt. She dreamed of spring rains and someone calling her name from across a field.

The next morning, Alex was waiting out front, this time with two mugs in hand and some sunglasses sitting on top of his head.

“You look like you got hit by a freight train,” Alex remarked as she approached. He offered her a travel mug.

“Good morning, to you too, I guess,” she grumbled, accepting the coffee. “Is this my sympathy, coffee?”

“I’m your chauffeur today,” he bowed slightly, with a flourish.

The ride into town was brighter this time. The sun slanted through the windshield, little patches of green growing braver on the bare trees.

“Oh, by the way,” Alex said, glancing at her sideways. “Spring Flower Dance is next weekend. You sticking around long enough for that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s still a thing?”

“Oh yeah. Sam tried to turn it into something similar to Warped Tour last year. Mayor Lewis almost had a coronary.”

Sadie laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

The attorney’s office, Willow & Finch, was tucked into a narrow red-brick building downtown with frosted windows and a gold-lettered door. Inside, it smelled like wood polish and paper. The meeting was simple for the most part. The only thing asked of her was signatures. They covered disclaimers and a rundown of the estate assets. Nothing shocking, just heavy. She was still given until Friday to decide if she wanted to sell or keep the property in her name. By the time she stepped back outside, her head felt stuffed with paperwork and emotions. She barely registered the curb until her foot caught and twisted.

“Shit—!”

Her foot slipped out from under her, and she cried out as her ankle bent painfully sideways. Before she hit the pavement, the coffee cup went flying as Alex caught her with one arm around her back.

“You okay?” He asked, voice tight.

“No…” she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut. “Ankle. Something…popped.”

Without hesitation, he adjusted his grip and hoisted her against his chest like she weighed nothing. She groaned. “This is humiliating.”

"No worries, Doc is just down the way."

The clinic sat just down the block. It was white shingled and neat, with a little garden of medicinal herbs tucked under the windows. Alex pushed through the door with his shoulder and Sadie on his back. The bell above jingled. Inside, the space was quiet and warmly lit. A faint scent of antiseptic mixed with lemon balm filled the waiting room. Sadie barely had time to look around before someone stood up from behind the check-in desk.

“Whoa, need a hand there?” Said the woman in scrubs, walking around the counter. Her bob bounced as she moved. Her short, dark hair was tucked behind her ears held up by her glasses.

“She twisted her ankle,” Alex said. “We were leaving the attorney’s office, and the sidewalk won.”

Sadie gave a tight smile. “Thanks for the recap…”

“Well, you’ve got good reflexes, Alex,” the woman said to him with a grin. Suddenly, her face lit up with recognition. “Oh, my God—Sadie Palmer? Do you remember me? I’m Maru! I still help out here a few days a week. My parents are the ones with the research lab up north. Anyway, let’s get you checked in. It's so good to see you again!”

Sadie was starting to not like all this attention everywhere she went. In such a small town, perhaps it was inevitable. Maru grabbed a clipboard, scribbled something quickly, and handed it to Sadie. “Just need a signature and a few questions answered.”

Alex set her gently on the padded bench near the exam room door. Maru knelt to examine the ankle while Sadie filled out the top of the form.

“Girl, that’s a nasty sprain,” Maru muttered sympathetically, glancing up. “I’ll go grab Dr. Harvey! He came on staff a few years after you left. You’re in good hands, he’s the best.”

She disappeared with her soft footsteps fading down the hall. A moment later, another set approached.

He appeared in the doorway, clipboard tucked under one arm, broad shoulders framed by a dark sweater vest beneath his white coat. Round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, drawing attention to warm brown eyes and a neatly trimmed beard that matched the light brown of his hair which was brushed back. He pushed back a single, stubborn lock with practiced ease. Dr. Harvey’s presence was quiet but steady, like a well-read book with something hidden between the lines.

Sadie swallowed, blinking as he stepped closer.

After a quiet clearing of his throat, he crouched beside her. “Miss Sadie Palmer?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Right, that’s me,” she managed, laughing nervously. She was trying her best not to sound as flustered as she felt.

“I’m Dr. Harvey McClellon. I’ll be taking care of you today—may I?”

He nodded toward her ankle. She gave a quick, silent nod in return. Alex, mercifully, was distracted by the superhero wallpaper. Meanwhile, Harvey’s hands were warm and steady as he touched her ankle, tilting it gently in examination.

“Maru’s correct, it’s a classic lateral sprain. I’ll wrap it and get you some ice. You’ll want to stay off it for a few days, Miss. Palmer. Don’t do anything too dramatic, and you should be fine. I’ll set you up with a crutch.”

“She always was a bit dramatic,” Alex quipped, earning him a dirty look.

Dr. Harvey smiled faintly and stood. “Welcome to Pelican Town, Miss Palmer. Even if it’s under slightly painful circumstances.”

“Thanks,” she murmured with a slight flush.

He moved with quiet efficiency, wrapping her ankle, while Maru returned with a small bag of ice and a crutch. The two of them worked like a well-oiled machine, Dr. Harvey calm and focused, Nurse Maru quick with clever remarks and small comforts.

“You’re in luck,” Alex said as Maru handed over the crutch. “They just restocked dignity, so you get to keep some.”

Sadie laughed. “Thank god. I was running dangerously low.”

Once everything felt secure, Dr. Harvey stepped back and met her eyes with a furrowed brow of concern. “If it gets worse, or the swelling doesn’t go down in a few days, come back in and see me. No need to tough it out.” When he smiled, it felt genuine. She wondered how many people in this town had quietly fallen for the doctor over nothing more than his smile. There was also a strange hypnotic quality to his low, steady tone of voice that caused her to hesitate.