Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Arizona had always been honest about what it was.

Down south, the desert was a furnace with teeth, everything declared itself loudly, heat like a hand on the back of your neck, you could even see its shadow move like a flame across the sand, light so scorching it felt like punishment, wind that didn’t soothe, only brushed the heat back harder at your face like it was trying to bake you alive. Everything moved like it was bargaining with death. Life out there survived by being sharp or being gone.

Up here, the world pretended to be softer.

Pinetop carried its cool like kindness. The air was clean enough to breathe, soft enough to forget in. The sun didn’t glare; it filtered between pine needles and branches, turning daylight into something hushed and green. Shadows weren’t harsh cutouts. They pooled. They layered.

It smelled different too, sap and damp earth, a spongy rot that fed everything it touched. The ground wasn’t cracked earth and stone with a dehydrated tumbleweed passing through every five minutes. The desert had smelled sterile, like baked sand. This place smelled alive.

Alive in a way that made you want to lower your voice.

Alive in a way that made it easier to pretend nothing terrible had ever happened.

That was the trick.

The forest offered cover. Not just for bodies, but for stories. You could disappear into it and the world would nod politely, as if vanishing was normal here.

Rowan used that.

They ran between trees, boots striking soft ground instead of cracking rock, the forest swallowing each footfall before it could fully exist. Their breath came in controlled pulls, disciplined, more like an animal’s than a person’s. The cold kissed the inside of their lungs and made their nostrils sting.

Brown leather jacket. Fur-lined collar. Gloves. Jeans that had seen too many kneels in dirt. A cowboy hat pulled low so the brim shadowed their eyes and hid the shape of their head, hid the places that weren’t supposed to be there, the places that could pretend were normal.

The rifle sat in their hands like a held truth.

Familiar.

Rowan didn’t think about that too hard.

They didn’t think about much at all when they were moving like this.

The forest flashed by in fragments, small flashes of sun through the branches, a fallen log slick with moss, a cluster of pale mushrooms, a shallow depression in the dirt where water collected and reflected a slice of sky. A bird startled from a branch overhead. Rowan didn’t flinch, but their shoulders tightened a fraction before loosening again as if remembering the game. The rush. 

Somewhere behind the trees, distant and unseen, something snapped, a branch, maybe.

Rowan’s head turned slightly, fast as a reflex, and for half a heartbeat their posture shifted into something sharper, more predatory than necessary. Then it eased. The run continued.

Rowan looked like a person hunting something they didn’t want to name.

The angle of the hat. The set of the shoulders. The way the rifle stayed ready without being raised.

If someone saw them from far away, they might think, that’s a man tracking a man.

Rowan didn’t correct the illusion.

They ran anyway.

They slowed after a while, not because of fatigue, but because the forest changed.

The ground hardened. The underbrush thinned. The scent shifted, faint and musky, not pine-clean anymore. Rowan’s boot paused near a mark in the dirt, an imprint. Hoof. Fresh. The edges were still crisp enough to tell the story of weight and direction.

Rowan crouched without thinking, one knee folding down, glove brushing the earth lightly. The rifle stayed in their other hand, angled down, never fully out of readiness.

Their fingers brushed the dirt beside the track, light enough not to smear it, and for a second they held still, listening to nothing. Their breath quieted. Their body remained tense, ready to spring.

A small line escaped them, nearly soundless, something like a reflex more than a thought.

“...There.”

Not triumph. Just identification. 

They rose and moved forward, slower now, weaving through trunks and shadow the way water moves around stone, avoiding the loudest patches of dry twigs. Their eyes tracked the forest with careful attention, ducking below low branches, carefully navigating steep pits. Every so often they stopped and tilted their head as if listening to something that wasn’t there.

Then they’d keep going.

The forest tried again to be beautiful.

Light spilled through the canopy in thin gold ribbons. Dust motes drifted slowly, as if the air had learned how to make an entrance. A squirrel ran up a trunk and froze, staring. Rowan didn’t look at it.

They watched the ground.

They watched the space between trees.

They watched for movement the way predators did. 

There were more tracks. A scuffed patch where something had pushed off hard. A bent stem. A smear of mud on bark, higher than a rabbit, lower than a man.

Rowan’s pace tightened. Their body moved like it already knew the route. Like this wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t fear that made them careful. It was familiarity. The kind that lived in the body, learned through repetition, through consequence.

Like this was a routine.

Not a thrill.

Not a relapse.

A routine.

They passed through a shallow dip where the air felt cooler, damper. A hint of water nearby hidden behind brush. Their nostrils flared faintly, inhaling the scent, testing direction.

The clearing appeared slowly as they inched forward quietly.

Rowan paused at the edge of it, half hidden behind a pine. The rifle came up in a smooth, practiced motion, not frantic. Competent. Dangerous in the way a man had nothing to lose.

A shape moved in the far distance.

Rowan stopped.

Their hand tightened on the rifle, and the change in their grip wasn’t anxious. It was the smallest shift, settling to a commitment. Like the rifle belonged there. Like their hands knew what to do without needing permission from the rest of them.

Across the clearing, a deer stood with its head lowered, nibbling at something invisible in the grass. Brown coat. Lean legs. A flicking ear. The deer’s entire life was contained in simple needs.

It didn’t look haunted.

It didn’t look like it had ever known a story.

For a second, Rowan didn’t move.

Not because they couldn’t.

Because the moment before the kill was the only moment that felt… quiet.

Their heart hammered anyway, faster than it needed to. Pure, unromantic Adrenaline flooded their system like it had someplace to go. Their hands didn’t shake. Their finger settled against the trigger with the weight of a familiar choice.

The rifle stock pressed against their shoulder.

And there, in that contact, it was impossible not to remember another rifle, the first time something like this had been shoved into their hands, the first time the recoil had taught their shoulder the language of violence.

It wasn’t the same weapon.

But it felt like the same sentence written in a different handwriting.

Comfort, in its ugliest form, flickered through their body.

The way the tool made their body stop being a question.

The rifle felt… right.

In a sick, familiar way.

The weight of it. 

The balance. 

The quiet promise of certainty. 

Rowan exhaled through their nose, slow and thin.

“...Easy,” they murmured, not to the deer. To themselves. To their own hands. Like a leash.

In that moment, a voice echoed through Rowans head.

There’s a flash,

Just a flicker.

A final protest.

The deer lifted its head.

A look, a tension, a refusal. That’s the moment I live for.

Ears forward, alert now, suspicious. It took a step forward anyway, drawn by habit, by hunger, by the belief that the world was mostly safe.

That instant where you win. 

A pause.

Where whatever it was.. human, animal, god, parasite.. 

The deer made eye contact with the end of the barrel, and froze.

understands it lost.

The trigger squeezed.

The shot cracked through the trees and bounced off trunks, a sharp, ugly sound split the clearing open and echoed through the trees like a sudden, ugly truth. Birds burst upward in startled flurries and erupted from branches in wings of panic.

The deer dropped.

Fast.

No prolonged thrash. No screaming struggle. No dragging, desperate refusal to let go. It was simply.. honest. 

A quick death.

A neat ending.

And with it, the sudden rush evaporated.

The adrenaline didn’t linger like triumph. It collapsed, emptying out of Rowan’s chest in a way that left them suddenly colder. Their heart kept racing, but now it felt pointless, like a machine running after the power had been shut off.

Rowan stood there for a moment, rifle still raised, listening to the silence fill back in around the gunshot. The forest absorbed it like a bruise. The air went still again, almost solemn.

Their breath came hard, heavy in their chest, like their lungs hadn’t gotten the message that the chase was over. Their pulse roared in their ears, and under it, the strangest absence..

Nothing.

No satisfaction. No relief. Just the blank drop after a rush.

Rowan lowered the rifle.

Rowan’s shoulders slumped, not from weight, but from whatever collapsed inside them when the moment ended.

They crossed the clearing slowly.

Each step brought the body into clearer view, deer on its side, eyes open in that blank animal way that didn’t accuse, didn’t plead, didn’t try to make meaning out of its own ending.

It hadn’t tried to bargain. It hadn’t screamed the way people screamed when they realized pain wasn’t fair and death wasn’t dignified. 

Rowan stopped beside it.

They stared down.

A clean shot. A mercy by skill and experience.

It hadn’t fought like John Doe did, drunk rage and fear wrapped around a man’s throat. 

It hadn’t thrown itself over another body like Jane Doe, refusing to understand that protection didn’t always mean survival. 

It hadn’t suffered like John Jr, a child caught in the space between intention and impact, paying for an accident with minutes that felt like hours.

This was different.

This didn’t argue.

Rowan’s face didn’t change much, but something in their posture did, an inward fold, as if the quiet after the kill had returned them to themselves and that was the most exhausting place to be.

They stood there, breathing, and for a moment it was just them and the aftermath, alone in a clearing that didn’t care.

The moment before the kill had been the most feeding.

The chase. The focus. The part where the world condensed into a single point and nothing existed except the next step.

The aftermath was… hollow.

They swallowed.

“...Good,” they muttered, and it didn’t sound proud. It sounded like checking a box.

They crouched and pressed two gloved fingers to the deer’s neck like they were confirming a fact they already knew. Warmth still lingered under the fur. The body was heavy in that uniquely unfair way that makes you realize how much life weighs when it stops moving.

Rowan exhaled through their nose.

Then they hooked their hands under the deer’s front legs and hauled.

The first drag tore a shallow groove through the grass. The second made the body thump over a root. Rowan’s boots dug in. Their shoulders tensed, jacket creasing at the seams. They didn’t rush, but they didn’t stop either, just steady, stubborn effort, like pulling something out of the past by force.

The deer bumped and slid behind them, leaving a faint trail in flattened green and disturbed soil. Rowan’s breathing stayed controlled. No shaking. No panic. Only the physical exertion of having to move the thing they’d taken.

The truck waited at the tree line, parked where the forest grew thinner and the world started to feel like a place people lived. A beat-up shape of metal and dust, practical and anonymous. The kind of vehicle that didn’t invite questions.

Rowan tugged open the tailgate.

They paused for half a second as if their body expected the forest to respond, to punish, or for someone.. to reward.

Nothing did.

Rowan hauled the deer up with a grunt, using the tailgate edge as leverage. The body slid into the bed with a dull thud that sounded final in the way gunshots never did. Rowan adjusted it with quick efficient movements, pulling it by the legs, turning it so it lay better, so it wouldn’t shift and slam around on the drive back.

Then they shut the tailgate.

Clack.

Another box checked.

Rowan walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. The seat creaked beneath them. The cabin smelled like old leather, cold air, faint pine, and something metallic that never fully went away no matter how much you cleaned.

They sat with their hands on the wheel for a second, staring through the windshield at the trees.

A breath.

Then they started the engine.

It rumbled to life, rough and familiar. The heater coughed warm air like it was waking up too. Rowan reached out and turned the radio on without looking, fingers finding the knob like muscle memory.

Music filled the cab.

Not loud enough to feel like a party. Not soft enough to be background, just threading itself into the silence so the silence couldn’t grow teeth again.

Rowan put the truck in gear and eased onto the dirt road.

The forest began to move.

Pines slid past the windows in long, vertical blurs. Light flickered through branches and across the dashboard like passing water. The road curved gently, then again, winding through the trees with the quiet confidence of something that had been there long before Rowan arrived and would be there long after.

The scenery was unfairly beautiful.

Sunlight pooled on mossy patches. Snow in the shade still clung stubbornly in thin, dirty ribbons, refusing to melt where the world didn’t touch it. The sky above the treetops looked impossibly clear, blue spread wide like a promise nobody had earned.

Every so often the forest opened up just enough to show distant hills rolling and calm like they’d never witnessed a human decision in their lives.

Rowan drove through it like a ghost moving through somebody else’s dream.

The deer shifted faintly in the bed on a bump, a soft thump of weight reminding Rowan it was there. The truck smelled faintly of it already, warm animal and fur and the first hint of iron. Not enough to be unpleasant. Just enough to be real.

Rowan kept both hands on the wheel.

The music went on.

The forest went on.

Road signs appeared occasionally, rusted and plain. A mailbox on a post. A side road that disappeared between trees. A glimpse of a cabin roof somewhere deeper in the woods, smoke curling from a chimney in the distance. 

Then another curve. Another stretch of road.

The truck rolled into a narrower lane, more rougher where the trees pressed closer like they were trying to eavesdrop. Rowan slowed instinctively, tires crunching over gravel.

The cabin came into view, tucked back, half-hidden in wood and shadow. A place built for disappearing. A place that looked like it would be easy to forget if you didn’t know to look for it.

Rowan pulled in and parked.

The engine ticked as it cooled, machinery shutting down into silence. The music faded when Rowan turned the key back. For a second, there was nothing but the hush of the woods and the soft settling noises of a house that didn’t care who lived in it.

Rowan sat there for a moment longer than necessary.

Just… letting the quiet land.

Then they pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool air.

The cabin smelled like pine and cold wood. A shed sat behind it, simple but functional, the kind of structure you didn’t notice unless you knew what it was for. Rowan’s eyes flicked there automatically, then away.

Work came next.

Always work.

Rowan walked to the truck bed and stared at the deer for a beat. The body lay still, ordinary and heavy, like the forest had simply handed it over.

Rowan reached up, braced their hands, and climbed into the bed.

They grabbed the deer’s legs and began to haul it toward the edge, preparing to drag it down toward the shed, toward the clean hooks and the familiar routines, toward the place where their hands could be busy enough that the rest of them didn’t have to be.

And the scenery stayed gorgeous the whole time, sunlight spilling gold across the trees like nothing bad had ever happened anywhere at all.

Rowan didn’t carry the deer like a prize.

They carried it like a chore.

The shed door groaned when they shoved it open, old hinges squeaking against old wood, repeating old habits. The inside smelled the way work always smelled, cold metal, dried pine resin, faint smoke, and that sterile bite of disinfectant that never fully covered what it was meant to cover.

Rowan hauled the deer in and let it drop with a heavy, final thump.

The overhead beam had a pulley system already rigged, efficient. Rowan’s hands moved like they’d done it a hundred times. They had. Rope. Hook. A practiced lift, bracing with their legs. A tug that made their shoulders tense under the jacket. The deer rose off the floor in slow inches, swaying once before settling.

Rowan stood there, breathing through their nose, watching it hang.

The stillness that followed wasn’t peace.

It was a pause in the storm, long enough to hear your own thoughts try to come back.

They didn’t let them.

Rowan snapped on a hanging work light. It washed the shed in a bright clinical glare. Not warm. Just enough to turn everything into simple shapes and simple tasks.

On the wall, tools were neatly arranged, cleaned. Sharpened. Familiar in the hand.

Not identical to the ones from before, but close enough that sometimes the brain tried to connect the dots and Rowan would cut the thought off at the root like tearing out a weed before it flowered.

They pulled on thicker gloves and reached for the knife.

A breath.

A small, involuntary shift in their throat, like a word tried to form.

Like a name tried to rise.

Rowan swallowed it back down so fast it didn’t even become sound.

They stepped in close and began.

The blade worked in controlled precise lines. Rowan kept their movements careful, utilitarian. They positioned a bucket beneath to catch what needed to be caught, the way you do when you refuse waste, not out of virtue, but out of necessity.

Blood wasn’t a spectacle here.

It was inventory.

Rowan watched it drip, like an hourglass.

Like livestock—

The thought hit like a slap.

Rowan froze.

Their grip tightened on the knife until their knuckles strained under the glove. Their shoulders rose. Their breath caught high in their chest, too quick, too shallow.

Like—

No.

Rowan’s jaw clenched.

They stared at the bucket, at the controlled drip, at the system they’d built to keep everything “clean,” and something in them lurched, memory trying to rewrite the present.

Rowan’s hand twitched, as if their body wanted to throw the knife across the room.

Instead, they did what they always did.

They forced the thought into a corner and shut the door on it.

Hard.

Then they went back to the work.

The routine was the point.

The routine was the leash they held onto to keep from feeling the other leash still tied around their ribs.

They worked through the process with the same ruthless efficiency they memorized in their hands long ago, separating what was usable, setting aside what would be preserved, what would be cooked, what would become bait, what would become something else.

Nothing was discarded thoughtlessly.

Hide was handled with care, not tenderness exactly, just care. Clean cuts. Proper peeling. Salt ready for later. A folded tarp set aside like a sheet over something you couldn’t look at for too long.

Meat was portioned with quiet precision. Wrapped. Labeled. Stacked.

Bones were collected with a different kind of attention, cleaned later and stored in bins that had been marked in Rowan’s blunt handwriting. Not decoration. Not celebration. Resources. Materials.

Antlers were removed carefully, not because they were precious, because they were useful, for Handles. Hooks. Trade. Tools. A future project that would keep Rowan’s hands busy on nights when the quiet got loud.

Even the parts most people refused to think about were treated like they mattered. Not for sentiment.

For utility.

For the comfort of being able to say, I didn’t waste it.

Rowan paused every so often to wipe their gloves, to rinse the blade, to reset their grip. A clean pattern. A predictable pattern. A pattern that didn’t ask how they felt.

And that was why it helped.

Because the moment they stopped moving, their mind tried to do what minds do after prolonged trauma, it tried to connect the whole story into one coherent narrative, one clean moral, one verdict.

But trauma doesn’t organize itself into morals.

It organizes itself into triggers, such as sights, smells, the weight of a knife, the sound of a bucket filling, the shape of a hanging body, the way your hands know what to do before you do.

Rowan kept their gaze down and their thoughts smaller than a pin.

If they thought too far forward, they saw the road. If they thought too far back, they saw the basement.

So they stayed here, in the middle, where the only thing that existed was the next cut, the next tie, the next careful placement of something into a container.

Their breathing evened out again as the shed filled with that steady, working silence. And in that silence, Rowan looked almost calm.

Not because they were healed.

Because they were busy.

Because numbness, when you’ve earned it the hard way, can feel like mercy.

When the main work was done, Rowan stepped back and studied what remained, what would be processed later, what needed to be cleaned, and what needed to be carried inside.

They stripped the gloves off and washed their hands at the utility sink until the water ran clear, scrubbing like cleanliness could be a kind of absolution.

It wasn’t.

Rowan shut off the light and stood in the dim shed for a moment, letting their eyes adjust.

In the dark, shapes became softer. Edges blurred. The world stopped looking so brutally honest.

Rowan exhaled slowly.

Their gaze flicked to the wall of tools again, those familiar silhouettes, that quiet promise of competence.

A thought moved at the edge of their mind, half-formed.

Him—

Rowan’s throat tightened.

They turned away before the thought could finish becoming a name.

They grabbed the first wrapped bundle, lifted it with both arms, and carried it toward the cabin like it weighed less than what they were trying not to remember.

By the time the last of the meat was wrapped and stacked, their hands were numb in that distant, useful way, like the body had decided the job mattered more than sensation. They wiped their knife on a rag and reached for the twine, fingers slipping once where blood had dried tacky along their knuckles.

That was when they noticed it.

Red had soaked through the gauze at their wrist, darkening the edge of the bandage beneath their glove. Not from the deer. From them.

Rowan stared at it for a second too long.

Then they exhaled slowly and went inside.

The sink water ran cold and clear. They held their hands under it, watching the blood unwind into pink ribbons and vanish down the drain. When the water touched their wrists, they hissed softly through their teeth, a sharp intake, like they’d stubbed a toe and didn’t want to admit it hurt.

They peeled the damp bandages away.

The skin beneath was pale and angry in places, faint lines crossing it like old stripes. Healing. Not healed. Recovering.

Rowan didn’t linger.

They replaced it with new gauze, a clean wrap. Tape pulled tight with practiced motions. They didn’t look at it long enough for the shape of it to become a thought.

When they were done, they tugged their sleeves down and buttoned the cuffs.

Back to the job.

Outside again, they lifted the wrapped meat into the cooler in the truck bed, arranging it carefully in neat rows aftering snapping the lid shut. The pelt went in after, folded clean and dry.

Then Rowan climbed into the car and started the engine, letting the truck idle for a beat longer, just long enough to convince their body it wasn’t still in the woods, wasn’t still under fluorescent basement bulbs, wasn’t still—

They shoved the thought down as easily as they shifted into drive. Rowan kept the window cracked. Cold air slid in and sat on their skin like a hand.

The road to the farm wound through low trees and open stretches of pasture, where the mountains sat heavy and quiet in the distance.

 The landscape softened into fences and pasture where wire lines stretched clean across the ground, posts worn silver from weather. A barn crouched low and stubborn, its paint sun-faded, its roof patched in places. A few outbuildings sat farther back, and beyond them, the tree line rose like a wall.

There were animals out today. Not many, but enough to make the pasture feel alive. Cows chewing slowly. A couple of horses watching the truck with that flat unimpressed stare. Chickens spilling around the yard clucking.

Pinetop felt different out here, less town, more earth. The air carried the smell of damp dirt and animals, not blood and metal.

As the truck rolled up the gravel drive, the dogs heard it first.

The first bark hit before Rowan even finished pulling through the gate. A loud, announcing sound that wasn’t fear, more like, I saw you first.

Two shapes came tearing out of the barnyard, big, thick-coated herders with pale eyes and loud excitement. They circled the truck, barking once before recognizing the sound, the smell

Rowan eased the truck to a stop and cut the engine.

The dogs were already there.

One jumped up, paws planting against the door with a thud, muzzle pressed to the window, breath fogging the glass. The other circled the truck bed, nose twitching, catching the scent of the cooler like it already knew something was gutted.

Rowan opened the door and got immediately swarmed.

“Hey,” they murmured, voice rough from disuse, and it came out softer than they meant.

The dog that had jumped up backed off just enough to avoid getting stepped on, then pressed into Rowan’s leg anyway, insisting. The other dog trotted back around and shoved its head under Rowan’s hand like it was owed headpats.

Rowan’s gloved fingers scratched behind one ear, brief and careful, like affection was a tool they didn’t trust to hold properly.

The dogs’ bodies leaned into it like they’d been starved of nothing but still wanted more.

Rowan straightened, adjusted their hat out of habit, and reached for the cooler.

That’s when Lily appeared from the porch.

She looked like she belonged to the cold, pale and bright in it, hair nearly white where the sun hit it, two lazy pigtails like droopy bunny ears, that soft farm-girl pink sweater making her look like she’d been painted into the yard on purpose. Jeans tucked into boots. 

She raised a hand in a small wave and smiled like she meant it.

Rowan’s shoulders eased a fraction. Not a lot. Just enough to be noticeable.

“Thought I heard the boys yelling,” Lily called, voice gentle in a familiar way, like Rowan had met innocence once and reunited with her again. Her eyes flicked to the cooler.

“You’re early.”

Rowan’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “They always tell on me.”

One of the dogs barked like it agreed.

“They like meat,” Lily corrected with a grin.

She came closer but didn’t crowd them. Never did. She stayed at that polite distance people learned when they wanted Rowan to stay instead of bolt.

“How are you?” she asked. “You look tired.”

Rowan shrugged. “Same as always.”

“And the woods?”

“Busy.”

She nodded like that made sense. “Grandma’s better today. She’s walking around without the cane again. Complaining about the fence.”

“That’s good,” Rowan said.

They both glanced toward the pasture where the fence line bent crooked at one corner.

“Coyotes were sniffing around last night,” Lily added. “The dogs scared them off.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened just a fraction. “I’ll check the trail tomorrow.”

Lily hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

She smiled anyway, soft and grateful. “Still. Thank you.”

Rowan popped the cooler and lifted the lid. Cold air spilled out. Lily leaned in to look, eyes widening a little at the neat bundles.

“That’s… a lot,” she said.

“Big one.”

“God,” she murmured, impressed in that soft way that wasn’t flattery. “This is… clean. You didn’t waste anything.”

Rowan shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t the only thing they knew how to do without shaking. “Waste is—" Rowan paused, suddenly not liking how that began to feel on their tongue, "A very.. bad.. thing."

Lily’s eyes flicked up to Rowan’s face, “You still… go out alone?”

Rowan’s fingers paused on the lid. “Yeah.”

The question sat there. Lily didn’t press it the way other people might. She just nodded once, like she understood something she didn’t want to make into a conversation.

“Well,” she said lightly, forcing the air back into the moment, “if you ever don’t want to, you know the dogs would follow you into a volcano.”

Rowan glanced at the herd dogs. One of them thumped its tail like it had been complimented.

“They’d get in the way,” Rowan muttered.

“They’d get you back home,” Lily countered, simple as that.

Rowan didn’t answer.

They carried the packages together, Rowan doing most of the weight, Lily opening doors and moving crates out of the way. The barn smelled like hay and animals and warm breath. Chickens scuttled around their feet.

She turned and opened a cabinet in the mudroom. “Okay. Your turn.”

She started pulling out Rowan’s side of the trade in an order that suggested she’d done this with them enough times to know what went where, a carton of eggs, two jars of dark jam, a small paper sack with bread wrapped in cloth, a bottle of milk so cold it had sweat on the glass, and a bundle of vegetables that still had dirt clinging to the roots.

Rowan watched her hands move, careful and tidy.

The dogs flopped near Rowan’s boots and stared up like they were awaiting praise.

Lily paused, then added something else, a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. She held it out.

Rowan’s gaze flicked to it. Suspicious.

“What’s that.”

“A bandage roll,” Lily said, too casual, like she’d just remembered. “Grandma had extras. She said you might—” She stopped herself before the sentence could become need it.

Rowan’s fingers tightened around the handle of the tote bag they’d brought. Then they reached out and took the bundle.

“Thanks,” they said, and it sounded like swallowing a stone.

Lily nodded like it was nothing, because she was kind in a way that didn’t demand repayment.

Rowan looked away first.

“And Grandma made you soup again,” Lily added, holding up a jar. “She said you look like someone who forgets to eat.”

Rowan took it. “She’s not wrong.”

“She said it with love,” Lily added, like she had to clarify. “She also said you look like someone who’d survive the apocalypse and still refuse to come inside.”

Rowan made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it had more air in it.

Lily’s smile widened. “See? Gots a polite way of callin ya stubborn in the sweetest way, huh?”

Rowan glanced down at the jar, then back up. “Tell her… thanks.”

“I will,” Lily promised, and she sounded pleased to have been trusted with the message.

Rowan’s gaze flicked to the farmhouse windows like they half-expected to see the woman watching with a shotgun and a scowl. Their shoulders loosened just a hair.

“She still sleeping okay?” Rowan asked, and it came out like they were trying to sound casual and failing.

Lily’s expression softened. “Better. Some nights are… still rough. But she’s eating again.”

Rowan nodded once, as if that was a relief they could file away without touching. “Good.”

She hesitated, then said, softly, “You know you don’t have to earn food.”

Rowan’s expression tightened like a reflex.

Lily immediately lifted a hand, apologetic. “Sorry. I didn’t mean— I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Rowan said, too fast.

Silence held for a second, brittle.

Then Rowan added, less sharp, “It’s… easier this way.”

Lily’s gaze softened. “Easier,” she repeated, like she was learning the shape of the word in Rowan’s mouth. She didn’t argue. She didn’t try to fix it. She just nodded. “Okay.”

A long pause.

Lily’s eyes flicked to Rowan’s sleeves, to the cuffs buttoned tight. She didn’t stare. She didn’t ask.

Instead she shifted gears, gentle steering.

“Grandma wants to know if you can look at the east fence line sometime,” she said. “She thinks there’s a gap big enough for the little ones to squeeze through.”

Rowan’s jaw worked once. “I’ll check it.”

“Thank you,” Lily said, and she meant it in the most simple, unperformative way.

Then she tried, one more time, softer.

Lily watched them for a second, head tilted slightly. “You ever think about staying for dinner?”

Rowan’s shoulders stiffened.

“Maybe another time,” they said gently.

She nodded, accepting it the way she always did. “Okay. Another time.”

The cold air brushed agianst their face when they stepped out. The dogs trotted at their heels to the truck, escorts on a short leash.

Rowan loaded the goods into the cab, shut the door.

The dogs sat obediently beside the truck, tails still wagging, still hopeful. Rowan gave each one a final pat before climbing into the cab.

Lily stood in the yard and waved as the engine started.

Rowan raised a hand once in return.

Rowan left Lily’s farm with the cab smelling like milk and dirt and bread, normal things that didn’t ask questions. The gravel road rattled under the tires, trees flashing by in calm, green indifference. Pinetop didn’t care what you’d done. That was its cruelty, it let you keep breathing like you deserved it.

Rowan did a quick stop back home, just to drop off the goods Lily gave them, fridgerating the milk, jam, eggs, etc. A reward without debt. Kindness without expectation. It was easier for Rowan that way. At least they had food for the week. 

After they'd finish the transaction, Rowan got back in their truck and headed into town. It was a small community. Everyone knew everyone, but Rowan mostly kept to themselves, considering how fast news spread here.

By the time the hunting store came into view, the sun had climbed into that pale midday brightness that made everything look honest.

The building sat off the main stretch like a convenient sign who those, local or tourist, who wanted to kill something because it was fun. Flat roof, faded signage, a row of ATVs out front, racks of firewood stacked. Inside, it was always the same, gun oil and cedar, leather slings, old coffee, and the faint metallic tang of antler polish.

Rowan parked, killed the engine, and sat for one extra second with both hands on the wheel, like they were rehearsing lines for a personality that wasn't theirs.

Then they got out.

The bell above the door chimed when they stepped in. A few customers wandered the aisles in boots, camo, and bored expressions, typical target market. Someone was arguing softly near the fishing lures. The fluorescent lights made everyone look a little sick.

Behind the counter, their boss was already there.

He had that weathered, sun-cured look of someone who’d spent more years outside than inside, creased hands, forearms like rope, a gray beard that looked like it had been trimmed with a knife. He wasn’t big in a gym way. He was big in a know-how way. The kind of man who could look at a footprint and tell you what it ate, what direction it was headed, and how long ago it decided to run. Type of man you'd probably trust to hunt down a serial killer cat if you weren't attached to it.

He was sorting tag slips with the patience of someone doing surgery.

Rowan approached quietly, setting their bag under the counter.

Their boss didn’t look up yet. “You’re late.”

Rowan checked the clock above the ammo shelves. 11:57am

They didn’t correct him.

“Traffic,” Rowan muttered, voice low.

That got a huff, almost a laugh. The man finally looked up, eyes sharp as the knives he probably uses to cut a bear open every morning with, taking Rowan in the way he always did, like he could smell something wrong on them even through layers of polite distance.

“You look like hell,” he said, like it was a compliment.

Rowan’s mouth twitched. “It’s a look.”

“Mm.” His gaze flicked barely toward Rowan’s collar, the way the fabric sat. Like he’d clocked something underneath. Like he’d decided not to ask. He set the slips down and leaned an elbow on the counter.

“Lily tell you about the coyotes?” he asked, casual.

Rowan’s eyes lifted. “Yeah.”

“You check the treeline yet?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good.” He nodded once, satisfied, then tossed a folded paper across the counter without warning.

Rowan caught it.

Schedule sheet.

They opened it.

And felt their stomach drop in that quiet, familiar way that didn’t look like panic but absolutely was.

Front desk.

All day.

Rowan’s eyes stayed on the paper as they spoke. “What’s this.”

“Change,” their boss said.

Rowan looked up slowly. “I’m on the floor.”

“You’re on the desk,” he corrected, voice firm. “Cashier called in sick. Again. So congratulations.. you get to be the smiling face of customer service.”

Rowan stared at him like he’d just sentenced them to death.

Their boss pointed with his pen toward Rowan’s face. “And before you start… yes. I know. You hate it. But we’re short and you’re here.”

Rowan’s jaw flexed once. They didn’t argue. That didn’t mean they agreed. It just meant arguing wasn’t useful.

Their boss watched them a beat longer, like he was waiting for the moment Rowan’s temper usually showed its teeth.

Then he sighed, like he hated babysitting, and leaned closer.

“I need your best behavior today,” he said, quieter now, still not kind, but firm. “We got families coming in. Out-of-towners. Some tourist types. And the last thing I need is you smart-mouthing somebody because they ask a stupid question about a safety.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t smart-mouth.”

Their boss’s expression didn’t change.

Rowan held his gaze.

The man raised a brow.

Rowan exhaled through their nose. “Okay. I smart-mouth.”

“Yeah,” their boss said, deadpan. “You do.”

Rowan looked back down at the schedule paper like it might catch fire in their hands.

Their boss tapped the counter twice with the pen. “We’re also getting a shipment in at two. New traps.”

Rowan’s attention flicked up despite themself. “What kind.”

The boss’s mouth shifted barely. A hint of approval. “Snare wire. New stuff. Thick. Won’t fray. And—” he reached under the counter and slid out a catalog, flipping it open with practiced ease, “we got those upgraded footholds you were asking about.”

Rowan didn’t reach for it.

But their eyes tracked it.

Their boss noticed.

“That’s the thing about you,” he said, watching Rowan’s face. “You can talk all the time about wanting to be left alone, but mention gear and you suddenly remember how to have a pulse.”

Rowan’s mouth tightened. “Gear’s honest.”

“So are customers,” the boss said, and then immediately corrected himself with a scowl. “—No. Actually, customers are idiots. But they’re paying idiots. So you’re going to stand right there, you’re going to ring them up, and you’re going to keep your damn tone under control.”

Rowan’s eyes drifted past him to the front windows, where the bright parking lot shimmered like a mirage.

“Sure,” Rowan muttered. “I’ll be normal.”

Their boss’s gaze sharpened at that, like he didn’t like the way Rowan said it. Like he’d heard the bitterness under the word.

He leaned in just a little, voice low enough like a warning, “I’m serious,” he said. “No incidents.”

Rowan blinked slowly. “Incidents.”

“Yes,” the boss said, flat. “Like last month. When that guy asked if the bear spray worked on mountain lions and you told him, and I quote—” he paused, like he was trying not to be amused, “‘Try it and let us know if you live.’”

Rowan stared.

Then, very softly, “...That was funny.”

“It was,” the boss agreed immediately.

Then his face hardened again. “But we can’t do that.”

Rowan’s gaze slid away, unfocused for a second. Their fingers tightened around the schedule paper.

A bell chimed at the door again, new customers. A couple in matching camo hats, laughing like the world was simple. They wandered in like it was an outing.

Rowan’s shoulders lifted a fraction. Not fear.

Preparation.

Their boss straightened. “Alright. Desk. Now. And Rowan?”

Rowan looked at him.

The man’s voice dropped into something serious.

“When I say behave, I mean it.”

Rowan nodded once, and moved behind the counter.

They set the schedule down, slid the cash drawer open, checked the roll of receipt paper like a ritual. Muscle memory. Routine. Something to hold on to.

The couple approached the counter with that bright, casual energy of people who hadn’t been taught to flinch.

Rowan forced their face into neutrality and waited.

Their boss hovered just behind, pretending to reorganize tags while actually supervising.

Rowan could feel his eyes.

They could also feel their own hands, clutching, but steady.

The worst part was how easy it was to look normal.

The couple smiled.

Rowan smiled back, just enough to pass.

And somewhere deep in their skull, something old and sharp stirred at the thought of spending the day letting strangers talk at them like they were safe.

Then they spoke, voice even, polite, contained.

“Hey. What can I help you find.”

The couple leaned on the counter like they were checking into a hotel.

The man wore a brand-new camo jacket that still had its creases. The woman had a pink thermos clipped to her bag and a smile that looked like she practiced it in mirrors.

“We’re looking for something for deer season,” the man said. “First time hunting. Together.”

Rowan blinked once.

“Okay,” they said, keeping their voice level. “Rifle or bow.”

The man glanced at the woman. “Uh… rifle?”

Rowan nodded and reached under the counter for the laminated safety card. Not because they needed it, but because it gave their hands something to do.

“Do you have experience with firearms?” Rowan asked.

The woman shook her head quickly. “No, but my dad has one and he said it’s easy.”

Rowan felt it.

That familiar heat in the back of their throat.

They swallowed it.

“Alright,” Rowan said instead. “Then we start with something light. Less kick.”

They stepped out from behind the counter and motioned them toward the rack.

Their boss watched from the corner of his eye.

Rowan picked a mid-size rifle off the wall and set it carefully on the counter.

“This one’s good for deer. Manageable recoil. Clean shot if you place it right.”

The man picked it up wrong.

Rowan’s jaw twitched.

They fixed it without touching him. “Grip there. Don’t wrap your finger until you’re aiming.”

“Oh—right,” he laughed. “Like the movies.”

Rowan didn’t laugh.

They inhaled through their nose and kept going. “You’ll want soft point ammo. Not full metal. It’s… cleaner.”

“Cleaner how?” the woman asked.

Rowan paused.

Not long.

Just long enough to choose a lie.

“Less chance of suffering,” they said.

That was true enough.

The woman nodded, visibly relieved. “We don’t want it to be… you know. Cruel.”

Rowan’s fingers tightened around the counter edge.

“Then don’t take bad shots,” they said. “Know your distance. Know your animal.”

The man chuckled. “Man, you sound like my grandpa.”

Rowan forced a breath out. “He was probably right.”

They rang up the rifle, the ammo, the license pamphlet.

The woman peered at Rowan’s wrists where the sleeve rode up a little.

“You get scratched up hunting?” she asked, gentlly, curious, but oblivious.

Rowan froze.

Just a fraction.

“Thorns,” they said.

“Oh,” she smiled. “Nature’s mean.”

Rowan nodded once.

After a quick background check, they handed over the receipt and forced a smile.

“Your rifle will be waiting for you after the 24 hour check. Good luck,” Rowan said, because that was what was expected.

The couple left chatting about freezer space and chili recipes.

The bell chimed.

Silence dropped like a held breath.

Rowan stood still, staring at the counter.

Their boss stepped up beside them. “See?” he muttered. “You didn’t bite anyone.”

Rowan didn’t look at him. “Give it time.”

Their boss snorted and went back to his tags.

Another customer came in.

Then another.

A man asking about traps.

A teenager asking about knives.

A woman asking about bear bells.

Rowan answered all of them.

Correctly.

Politely.

Without telling anyone they were stupid.

It took effort.

It took restraint.

It felt like holding their breath for hours.

Their boss passed them a coffee without comment.

Rowan took it.

Burned their tongue.

Didn’t care.

They leaned on the counter and stared at the door like it might open into something worse.

A bell over the door. Boots on tile. The smell of damp wool and gun oil and coffee that had been sitting too long.

Rowan fielded questions like they were batting away flies.

A man with a red beard wanted to know if .308 was “too much” for whitetail.

Rowan didn’t roll their eyes. They simply slid a box across the counter and said, “It’s fine. Don’t shoot it in the ass.”

A woman in a puffer vest asked how to keep her hands warm without losing trigger feel.

Rowan walked her to a rack of gloves, flipped two pairs inside out, and showed her the lining like they were presenting jewels.

A teenager pointed at a wall of calls and asked which one “attracts the biggest bucks.”

Rowan said, deadpan, “The one that sounds like a wounded ego,” and then, because they were trying, added, “Try a grunt tube. Practice. Don’t overdo it.”

A couple asked if they could “store their rifle in the trunk all season.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened, then loosened. “Not if you like rust. Or legal problems.”

Someone wanted to know if bear bells actually worked.

Rowan said, “They warn bears you’re coming. That’s all. You’re basically announcing yourself like a parade.”

Someone asked for the cheapest scope “that still sees like, super far.”

Rowan said, “If it’s cheap and sees super far, it’s called a telescope. Wrong aisle.”

They kept it together.

Mostly.

Even when people said things like “I’m not scared of recoil” while visibly flinching at the sight of a shotgun.

Even when someone asked if they could “shoot through trees” because “bullets are fast.”

Even when a guy confidently explained to Rowan how silencers “make it totally silent like in the movies.”

Rowan nodded.

Smiled once or twice.

Used the customer service voice like a muzzle.

And their boss, too-much-smirking, hovered around the back aisles, restocking, listening in, occasionally making eye contact with Rowan like, you good? and Rowan giving the tiniest nod like, I am surviving this against my will.

Then the bell chimed again.

And the universe delivered the one.

The customer wandered up to the counter slowly, hands in his pockets, chewing gum like it was a job. Middle-aged. Sunburnt nose. Baseball cap with a fishing logo.

Rowan straightened automatically.

“Hey,” the guy said, squinting at the shelves behind Rowan like he couldn’t believe objects existed. “uh… question.”

Rowan nodded. “Shoot.”

...

“…Not literally,” they added.

The man squinted at the wall of rifles.

“So,” he said slowly, like this was profound. “Do these work… without bullets?”

Rowan blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Their face didn’t obey them fast enough.

Something unholy happened in their expression, an involuntary flicker of are you kidding me, their eyebrows rising with offended disbelief, their mouth tightening like it was trying not to commit violence in public.

Not a smile.

Not a frown.

Just—

That look.

The one that says, I have seen many things, and this is now one of them.

The man kept going, completely unaware he’d just stepped on a landmine.

“Because my buddy, Gary said there was such thing as ‘dry firing’? So he suggested I'd come and ask.” 

Rowan stared at him.

It was the kind of stare that wasn’t rude so much as clinically documenting the moment a species goes extinct.

Silence.

Then—

From somewhere deep in the store,

A laugh.

Not a polite chuckle.

A full-bodied, sharp, genuinely delighted bark of laughter that ricocheted off the shelves like even the god damn ghosts haunting the store couldn't help but wake up and holler at such bullshittery.

Rowan’s boss.

Losing it.

Rowan didn’t move. They couldn’t. Their face was still in open rebellion.

The man frowned. “What?”

Rowan opened their mouth.

Nothing civilized was going to come out.

“OH—NO—” Rowans boss ran, full on sprinting. 

He was running.

Actually running, boots thumping, one hand still holding a price tag gun like a weapon.

Their boss appeared at the counter at full speed like a man sprinting to stop a disaster.

His eyes were watering from laughter, and he did not even attempt to hide it until the last second, when he reached the counter and realized Rowan was about to commit a facial-expression felony.

Without thinking, he slapped his palm right over Rowan’s face.

Not gently.

Like he was trying to smother a fire.

“HI, sir” he said brightly to the customer, voice snapping into that customer-service register that sounded suspiciously like pain. The patron deity of patience.

“that is a fantastic question.” he stayed between Rowan and the customer like a bodyguard shielding this man's life from Rowan.

Rowan’s muffled voice came out under his hand, flat and dead, “Mmph.”

The boss’s fingers tightened over their face, “No,” the boss continued, nodding like a saint, “they do not. They are not emotional support rifles.”

The man frowned again. “Oh.” 

“Bullets are essential to the experience,” the boss added. “Much like gas is essential to a car.”

Rowan made a sound into his palm. 

The customer squinted. “But my buddy said—”

“Your buddy,” the boss said gently, “is experiencing what we call creative storytelling.”

Rowan made a sound under the hand.

A muffled noise that could’ve been a laugh.

Could’ve been a threat.

Hard to tell.

“Gotcha,” the man said. “Do you sell… quiet ones?”

“Great question. Love questions. Big fan of questions.” the boss said, still holding Rowan’s face hostage like Rowan was a witness under protection.

The boss continued, cheerful as a funeral clown.

“We sell ear protection.” he explained, smiling like his jaw hurt. “And Silencers, but those come with a 200 tax fee.” 

Rowan made a sound under the hand that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a growl.

The boss pressed harder.

“And your buddy, Gary..” the boss added, eyes glittering with barely-contained evil, “You should send em to Johnson's brothers hunting supply store to ask if scopes come with a zoom add on or not. They'll give him a good rundown of the rifles anatomical functions.”

“Ohhh,” the man said. “Okay. That makes sense. I'll do that, thanks for the help.”

“Fantastic,” the boss chirped. “We love sense.”

Rowan’s eyes widened behind the hand.

The boss waved the customer goodbye as the man took off, heading into a war he had no idea they set up for the poor lad. 

The bell chimed as he left.

Rowan inhaled under the hand like they were trying to survive.

The boss finally lowered his palm, but he didn’t step away. 

Rowan’s face was neutral now.

Blank as a sheet of paper that had been through war.

Silence returned.

The boss turned back to Rowan.

He stared at them for a moment.

Then he leaned in slightly and whispered like a man speaking to a rabid animal through a cage,

“I just saved your job.”

Rowan’s mouth twitched.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” the boss muttered. “Your face was screaming.”

Rowan took a slow sip of coffee and stared at the door.

“…Thank you,” they said, clipped.

The boss sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“I can’t even blame you for that one,” he admitted. “That was… astronomical.”

Rowan’s eyes flicked to him.

Their expression softened for half a second, barely there.

Then it vanished again.

“You do realize the Johnson brothers are gonna bully that man to death, right?” Rowan raised a brow, knowing damn well they were more brutal than themselves when it came to incompetent customers. 

“Some grown men deserve to cry, Rowan. Some men deserve to cry.” He said, nodding like it was an inevitable lesson or prophecy.

Rowan let out a huff of agreement, staring forward again in exasperation. 

Another customer walked in.

Rowan’s posture straightened.

Their customer-service mask slid back into place like it had never moved.

“Hi,” Rowan said smoothly. “What can I help you with?”

Eventually,

Rowan clocked out like a ghost clocking out of being alive.

The fluorescent lights hummed their goodbye. The register drawer sat innocent. The aisles smelled like gun oil, leather, and men lying about how often they “actually practice.”

Rowan washed their hands for longer than necessary, like cleanliness was a moral category instead of a ritual. Then they grabbed their jacket, tugged their sleeves down a little too far, and stepped out from behind the counter.

Their boss was waiting by the front like he’d been pretending to tidy a display but was really just lingering.

“Hey,” Rowan said. Small, not warm, but polite.

The boss pointed with his chin toward the door. “Don’t forget what Lily said.”

Rowan paused with their hand on the strap of their bag. “Trail.”

“Mm-hm.” His eyes narrowed like he could see the future and it annoyed him. “Just check it. You don’t have to play lone wolf hero, but—”

“I know,” Rowan cut in softly.

The boss sighed, then clapped Rowan once on the shoulder firmly. The kind of touch that meant you’re a pain in my ass, but you’re mine to manage.

“Get outta here,” he said. “And for the love of God.. try not to look at anyone like they’re a math problem again.”

Rowan’s mouth twitched. “No promises.”

The boss barked a laugh and waved them off.

Outside, Pinetop air hit Rowan like a different planet, clean in a way the desert never was. The sky was that late-afternoon bruised blue. The world looked harmless.

Rowan’s body didn’t believe it.

They drove a few minutes to the diner, one of those places that wasn’t trying to be vintage, it just… never stopped being itself. A squat little building with big windows, a lit sign that buzzed softly, and a parking lot full of trucks and people who all looked like they’d known each other since birth.

Inside, it was warmth and noise and syrup.

Old 50s music drifted from the speaker system, soft crooning, the kind of music that made people sway without realizing it, nostalgic in a way. The booths were worn-in, the vinyl cracked in polite little lines. The counter stools squeaked as lovers leaned in on their seats.

And the food?

The food was real. Not fancy, not curated, not trying to impress anyone. Just hot, honest meat on a plate, cooked by people who didn’t treat hunger like a personality trait. It was neat homemade food that didn’t try to be anything else.

Rowan walked in and the hostess didn’t even ask. She just lifted her chin toward Rowan’s usual booth like as if she was expecting them.

Rowan slid in.

Hands on the table.

Then the server came over.

June.

She moved like sunlight, quick, warm, completely unaware that some people were built out of violence. Pretty in that soft, doe-eyed way that made strangers feel like they’d always known her. Brown hair pulled back but never perfectly. Freckles scattered over her nose like someone flicked cinnamon at her. Big eyes. Big smile.

And she smiled extra when she saw Rowan.

“Look who survived another day,” June said, cheerful, leaning in slightly. “I was starting to think you were gonna ditch us and live off burnt toast in the woods.”

Rowan’s mouth did that almost-smile again. “Burnt toast is… underrated.”

June laughed like Rowan had just told the funniest joke in the county. “Same thing?” she asked, already holding her pen like she had a ritual too.

Rowan nodded once. “Same thing.”

“Coffee?” June added immediately.

Rowan hesitated, then nodded again. “Yeah. Please.”

June’s grin softened, something sweet and a little shy. “You got it.”

She didn’t leave right away. She lingered, elbows lightly against the booth edge, like she wanted to stretch the moment.

“How was work?” she asked.

Rowan’s eyes dropped to the tabletop, following a scratch in the wood grain. “Busy.”

June’s expression went sympathetic in that gentle, instinctive way. “People being weird again?”

Rowan’s lips pressed together, like they were trying not to laugh or confess to felony thoughts. “...Yeah.”

June leaned in, delighted. “Tell me.”

Rowan stared at her for a beat like they were deciding whether to be a person or a ghost.

“…A man asked if the rifles worked without bullets.”

June’s face lit up. “Stop.”

Rowan didn’t change expression. “..It happened.”

June covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. It was bright and unguarded, the kind of laughter Rowan never trusted because it felt like something the world could punish. She laughed anyway, eyes watering.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “Please tell me you said something—”

“Boss smacked me in the face before I could..” Rowan replied.

June’s laughter softened into a grin. “Well, sounds like he was protecting the poor man.”

Rowan’s mouth twitched once.

Rowan glanced up at her briefly, just long enough to acknowledge her, and then looked away again, like eye contact was a door they didn’t trust themselves to open.

June didn’t seem offended. She never did. She just kept her warmth steady, like a fireplace you could get closer to if you wanted… but the heat was already exhausting.

“Well,” she said, tapping her pen against her notepad, “I’ll get your order going. And I might.. MIGHT convince the cook to do your meat a little extra perfect today.”

Rowan’s voice came out soft. “You don’t have to.”

June’s smile turned teasing. “I know. I want to.”

Rowan went quiet, a touch of awkwardness in their posture, shoulders tensing, chin dipping like they didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t demand anything back.

June finally stepped away, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t disappear on me before I bring your coffee!”

Rowan watched her go.

Not with longing.

Just… a careful, distant awareness, like someone studying a fire from far enough away that it couldn’t burn them.

A few minutes later, June returned with a steaming mug, set it down gently like it was something fragile.

She slid in a small plate too, something extra. A biscuit, still hot with butter melting into it.

Rowan stared at it.

June tried to sound casual. lingered. Always did.

“So,” she said, rocking slightly on her heels, “you gonna come to the bonfire this weekend?”

Rowan stared into their coffee. “Probably not.”

June pouted. Not fake. Just… hopeful. “You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

She laughed, like it was charming. “You’re missing out.”

“On smoke and drunk people?”

“On me,” she teased.

Rowan looked up then, just enough to meet her eyes. Their expression was kind but distant, like a door that only opened a few inches.

“I see you right now.”

June’s face pinked. She grinned and finally stepped back. “Your food’ll be up soon.”

Rowan watched her go, hands wrapped around the mug. 

June’s eyes were warm.

Rowan’s were… distant.

But they stayed.

That was the only kind of kindness Rowan could manage now, staying where someone had decided they wanted them.

And June, sweet poor June, mistook that for something else entirely.

June came back with the plate balanced on her palm like it mattered.

Steak. Eggs. Toast stacked neat. The smell hit Rowan before she set it down.

“There you go,” June said, setting it in front of them. “Fuel for your mysterious forest life.”

Rowan nodded. “Thanks.”

June didn’t move away.

She stayed there, hip resting lightly against the booth, watching them like she was waiting for something else to happen. Rowan picked up their fork and started eating like the world required nothing more of them.

June cleared her throat softly. “You know… you’re the only one who orders that plain.”

Rowan chewed. Swallowed. “It tastes the same.”

She smiled at them. “You ever let anyone cook for you?”

Rowan blinked. “You guys just did.”

June laughed again, but there was something a little more careful in it now. “I mean… like, outside of here.”

Rowan thought about the shed. The knives. The way their hands knew what to do when there was blood involved.

“…Not really.”

June tilted her head. “You live alone, don’t you?”

Rowan nodded once.

“That gets lonely,” she said gently.

Rowan stabbed a piece of steak. “It’s quiet.”

She took that as an opening. “You could come over sometime. I make a mean pot roast.”

Rowan looked up at her, confused. Not suspicious. Just… puzzled.

“…Your family already make food here.”

June’s smile faltered for half a second before she recovered. “I mean—outside of work.”

“Oh.” Rowan went back to cutting their steak. “You don’t have to.”

June exhaled through her nose, amused and mildly defeated. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Rowan nodded vaguely. “People say that.”

She crossed her arms, watching them eat. “You ever date?”

Rowan’s fork paused.

“…No.”

“Ever wanted to?”

Rowan considered that like it was a practical question, not a personal one. “I don’t think I’m good at that.”

June’s expression softened. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to… show up.”

Rowan nodded again. “I show up here.”

She laughed quietly, leaning closer. “I mean show up for someone.”

Rowan finally looked at her properly. Not emotionally, just literally... the freckles, her smile and warm eyes.

“…You mean like Lily?”

June’s smile froze.

Then she laughed, short and surprised. “No... not.. like.. Lily.”

“Oh.” Rowan went back to eating.

June watched them chew, then sighed. “You are so bad at this.”

“At what.”

“Flirting.”

Rowan frowned slightly. “You were flirting?”

June blinked. “…Yes.”

“Oh.”

...

"Oh."

...

June rubbed her forehead. “You really didn’t notice.”

“I thought you were being… friendly.”

“I was being friendly,” she said. “And also… interested.”

Rowan processed that slowly, like a sentence in another language.

“…Why.”

June’s brows knit. “Why what?”

“Why me.”

She hesitated. Then shrugged. “You’re quiet. You’re kind. You tip well. You don’t stare at my chest like half the town.”

Rowan looked genuinely alarmed. “People do that?”

“Constantly.”

“…That seems rude.”

June snorted. “It is.”

There was a pause. An awkward one.

Rowan swallowed and set their fork down. “I’m… sorry.”

“For what?”

“For… not seeing it.”

June studied them for a moment, then smiled again, smaller but still sincere. “It’s okay. You’re not mean about it. You’re just… somewhere else.”

Rowan nodded. “Yeah.”

She stepped back. “You good?”

“Yes.”

“Food good?”

“Yes.”

She lingered another second. “Bonfire’s still this weekend.”

Rowan shook their head gently. “I won’t be there.”

June sighed dramatically. “One day I’ll drag you out into civilization.”

Rowan didn’t answer.

They just ate.

When they finished, they slid out of the booth quietly, walked up to the counter, and left a tip bigger than necessary. Not as a message. Just… habit. Compensation for something they couldn’t give.

June noticed.

She always did.

Rowan nodded once at her on the way out.

June waved back, smiling like she still believed in things.

Outside, the cold air met Rowan like a truth.

They pulled their sleeves down.

Got into the truck.

And drove home alone, exactly the way they meant to.

Rowan didn’t realize they were gripping the steering wheel like it owed them money until their fingers started to ache.

The diner’s neon was already shrinking in the rearview, smeared into little pink-blue hues by the dust on the glass, and June’s smile kept replaying in their head like a song they didn’t ask to hear. Not the flirting part, Rowan didn’t even have the internal equipment to process that without their brain buffering, but the moment she said the word out loud.

Flirting.

Rowan’s mouth tightened.

They drove like the road was a treadmill they could punish themselves on.

Because what were they supposed to do with that?

What were they supposed to do with someone looking at them like they were… safe? Like they were something you invited to a bonfire. Like they were a person you could want, casually, without it being a transaction or a threat.

“Oh my god,” Rowan groaned, slumping slightly over the wheel. “She was hitting on me.”

Of course she was. Of course.

They did not know how to respond when someone looked at them like they mattered.

Someone normal.

Warm.

Human.

Rowan kept one hand on the wheel and the other pressed against their temple, thumb rubbing at the dull ache there like they could physically smooth the thoughts down.

Their brain tried to build a normal response.

You could have said, “I’m flattered.” “Maybe.” “I don’t date, but thanks.” “You’re sweet.”

Instead they’d said, You already make food here.

Like an idiot.

Rowan exhaled, sharp and embarrassed. A little laugh scraped out of them, humorless.

“God,” they muttered, voice low. “I’m… I’m so bad at being a person.”

The truck’s heater hummed. The pines rushed by, black trunks and pale snow patches flickering in their peripheral vision. The world outside was clean and cold and normal in a way that felt like a prank.

Rowan swallowed hard, irritation rising, at June, at themselves, at the fact that their mind still kept circling around a presence it refused to name. Like their tongue would blister if it did.

They didn’t know how to talk to a girl asking them out because their instincts weren’t built for dinners and flirting and warm hands across a table.

Their instincts were built for—

Rowan’s jaw clenched.

For survival.

For blood slicking their fingers and the relief that came after. For violence that made sense.

And now somebody wanted… conversation.

Their mind wouldn’t stop replaying it.

You were flirting?

Rowan’s jaw tightened so hard it ached.

They’d sat there like an idiot. Like a confused dog being offered a treat and not understanding it was allowed to take it. Lily’s kindness was practical. Safe. A transaction. Rowan did good things for her, Lily did the same in return. No emotional debts, no unpaid kindness. June’s was… human. She liked them without any of Rowan's effort. Warm in a way that expected something back someday.

Rowan didn’t have “someday” in the same way other people did.

They had after.

They had before.

They had what it cost.

It wasn’t even that Rowan didn’t know how to talk to a girl.

Rowan knew how to talk. Rowan could be polite. Rowan could smile when required. Rowan could nod through small-town conversations like a functional machine.

It was everything under the surface that made it impossible.

How do you reciprocate something gentle when your brain keeps reaching for barbed wire first?

How do you let someone get close when your body still expects closeness to come with teeth?

How do you say, I don’t know how to be wanted without it feeling like a trap, without sounding insane?

The way she’d said show up for someone like it was easy. Like showing up didn’t mean handing your throat to fate.

Rowan scrubbed a hand over their face. “You’re not even over—” 

They stopped that thought mid-breath, like slamming a door in their own head. Like the name itself was a tripwire. Like even thinking it too clearly would make their chest go tight and their hands go cold and their heart go stupid.

Rowan’s grip tightened on the wheel.

Still not over him.

The imprint. The conditioning. The way their nervous system still flinched at softness and relaxed at threat, like their body had been trained backwards.

Rowan’s shoulders bunched.

“I shouldn't— I wasn’t—” they muttered under their breath, then cut themselves off, because arguing with your own reflection is pathetic and Rowan didn’t have the energy to be pathetic today.

Rowan let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a groan, still rubbing their temple, eyes fixed forward like the road could give them a personality if they stared hard enough.

Then something moved.

A shape in the beam of the headlights, low to the ground, quick, wrong place, wrong time.

Rowan’s foot hit the brake automatically.

The truck slowed hard, tires crunching gravel. No one behind them. Good.

Their heart jumped anyway.

“Jesus—”

They leaned forward, squinting.

For half a second, they thought it was a fox.

Orange blur. Small.

And then it lifted its head.

Pointed ears.

Round face.

Bright, stupid eyes reflecting gold.

An orange cat.

An orange fucking cat.

Rowan went completely still.

Their chest did that dumb thing where it tightened before their brain decided what emotion it was supposed to be. Their throat went dry.

Of course.

Of course it had to be a cat. Of course it had to be orange. Of course it had to appear in the exact moment Rowan’s mind was already chewing on something sharp.

Rowan stared at it like the universe had just slapped them across the face with a familiar hand.

For one horrific second, their brain offered them an image it didn’t ask permission to show, a kitchen lit red, a cleaver glinting, eyes like a patient predator.

The cat blinked slowly.

Unbothered. Like it owned the road. Like Rowan was the one trespassing.

Rowan’s hand tightened on the wheel.

Their window was already halfway down before they consciously chose to do it.

Cold air poured in.

Rowan leaned out slightly and, with absolutely no dignity left in their body, snapped,

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me—MOVE. Get off the road. Go. GO!”

The cat didn’t move right away. It just stared back, head tipped, ears twitching, judging.

Rowan’s voice rose, half fury and half panic dressed up as sarcasm.

“Yeah, YEAH, look at ME like that. Like I'M the problem. You smug little— you just— YOU JUST HAD TO BE ORANGE. DIDN'T YOU? You couldn’t have been a raccoon OR SOMETHING? WHY AREN'T YOU MOVIN—”

The cat opened its mouth and yowled back.

Not a cute meow. A full offended scream, like it had been insulted by Rowan’s audacity and attitude.

Rowan flinched, then barked a laugh, disbelieving this was their situation rignt now.

“OH, OH.. okay. You wanna yell at ME? YOU WANNA TALK BACK TO ME? YOU'RE THE ONE STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROAD YELLING AT ME LIKE— LIKE I'M THE INCONVENIENCE YOU FAT TURD.”

The cat yowled again, tail high like a raised middle finger.

Rowan pointed at it, still hanging out the window like they’d lost their mind.

“Yeah. YEAH, go tell your LITTLE CAT FRIENDS THAT I'M THE ASSHOLE. I don’t care. I got ninety-five problems but being ORANGE AIN'T ONE—”

The cat finally broke eye contact and turned, and trotted into the woods with all the drama of someone leaving a party they didn’t want to attend anyway.

Rowan sat there for a beat, breathing hard, hands still on the wheel.

Silence rushed back in.

And in that silence, the absurdity arrived.

Rowan slowly pulled back into the truck and rolled the window up, like that could erase what just happened.

They stared at the windshield.

Then at the empty road.

Then.. very, very quietly, Rowan dragged a hand down their face.

“I just… cursed out a fucking cat,” Rowan muttered, voice small now, disgusted with themself.

“What the fuck is wrong with me.”

Their hand went back to their temple, rubbing like they could grind the moment into dust.

Then Rowan exhaled, defeated.

“See,” they muttered, starting the truck forward again, voice tight with bitter humor, “this is why I can’t talk to girls.”

And as the trees swallowed the spot where the cat had disappeared, Rowan drove on, irritated and embarrassed at themselves, painfully aware that the things that haunted you didn’t always have claws.

Sometimes they just had orange fur and perfect timing..

The truck rolled onward through the pines, headlights carving a narrow tunnel of light through the cold, Rowan driving straight ahead like if they didn’t look too hard at anything, the past wouldn’t reach out of the trees and wave.

And drove home alone, exactly the way they were intended to.

The road thinned as it climbed, asphalt giving way to darker gravel, the trees pressing closer like they were listening. Rowan let the truck idle a little faster than necessary, just to keep the silence from getting ideas.

Their shoulders sagged as the adrenaline finally burned out of their system.

Work had scraped them raw.

Customers asking questions that felt like tests of patience.

Their boss babysitting their face like it was a loaded weapon.

June’s smile sitting in their chest like a question they didn’t know how to answer.

And then the cat. Of course the cat.

It was stupid. It was nothing.

But Rowan’s brain didn’t care about “nothing.”

They rubbed their eyes hard with the heel of their hand, vision blurring for a second before the road snapped back into focus.

“God,” they muttered, voice flat. “What a day.”

The truck bounced once as they turned down the narrow path toward their cabin. Headlights caught the edge of the shed first, wood dark with old stains, a bucket still tucked beneath the beam where they’d left it. Then the house, small, lit by a single yellow porch bulb like it was trying to pretend it was friendly.

Rowan pulled in and killed the engine.

The sudden quiet hit harder than the noise had.

They sat there for a second longer than necessary, forehead resting briefly against the steering wheel, breathing slow through their nose.

Today’s tally ran through their head without permission.

Helped Lily.

Didn’t snap at customers

Didn’t scream at June

Didn’t hit anything with the truck

Killed a deer

Their mouth twisted.

The only checkmark that felt real was the last one.

That was the part that scared them.

Killing the deer had been… clean.

Simple.

Purposeful.

Everything else felt like static.

Rowan shoved the door open and climbed out, joints stiff, boots crunching over frost. The cold bit at their face and hands, sharp enough to feel honest.

Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of iron and woodsmoke. They shut the door behind them and leaned against it for half a second, eyes closed.

Then they shrugged out of their jacket.

The weight came off their shoulders like a confession. They hung it on the hook by the door and finally reached up for the hat.

The cowboy hat came off last.

Their fingers hesitated before lifting it away.

Cold air kissed skin that rarely saw light.

Two healed scars sat near the crown of their head, where bone had once forced its way through. Not open anymore. Not bleeding. But still angry-looking. Red against pale. Slightly raised. Permanent in the way mountains are permanent.

Rowan stared at their reflection in the dark window for a moment.

Half expecting to see Antlers there again.

Just the holes where they’d been.

Just the quiet proof that the person who came back from that desert was not the same person who had left for it.

They ran a hand through their hair, careful not to press too hard, then set the hat down on the counter.

Their shoulders slumped.Today had been long. Not because of work. Not because of June. Not because of the cat.

Because the only time their mind had gone quiet was when they’d pulled the trigger.

That was starting to feel like a pattern.

Rowan crossed the room and washed their hands at the sink out of habit, even though there was no blood on them now. The water ran hot. They watched it go clear like it meant something.

They leaned their forearms on the counter, head bowed.

“That’s… not good,” they murmured to nobody.

The thought didn’t come with panic.

It came with tiredness.

Because every day lately ended the same way.

Exhausted.

Irritated.

Relieved only by the part where something died.

They turned off the light and headed for the bedroom, boots heavy on the floorboards.

Outside, the trees whispered.

The shed stood quiet.

The woods waited.

Pinetop’s roads were clean in the winter-dark, lined with pines that looked almost polite compared to the desert’s jagged honesty. Here, everything was damp soil and needles and cold air. Even the silence was different. The desert’s silence had been a wide-open stare. This one was muffled, padded, like the world was trying to be gentle.

Rowan didn’t trust gentle.

That was… wrong. That was supposed to be wrong. The brain was supposed to flag it. Their body was supposed to recoil from the idea that the best part of their day was pulling a trigger and watching something drop.

But the recoil didn’t come.

Only a tired, exhausted acceptance.

The only good thing is killing something.

The thought came again, quieter, and this time it came with a second thought right behind it.

And I’m starting to like that too much.

Rowan’s mind tried, briefly, to imagine being inside one of those windows. A table. A dinner. Someone waiting. Someone saying hey like it wasn’t a risk.

June’s face tried to form again.

Rowan’s stomach twisted.

Most people’s best part of the day is dinner.

Rowan’s mouth tightened.

Mine is blood.

Rowan blinked slowly, eyes burning with a tiredness that wasn’t sleep.

Then, very quietly, like admitting it might summon it,

If the only good part of the day is killing something…

how long before that stops being enough?