Chapter Text
Fall has always held a special place in your heart. Each year, it wraps itself around you like a well-worn sweater. There’s something about it—the way the world shifts from green to gold and amber, pumpkins decorate every doorstep, the sweet taste from that first sip of hot cider, that ever-present smell of woodsmoke curling through the trees—all of that pulls you in. Even the colder weather, the bite of frost on your skin, doesn’t faze you.
It’s the only time of year you feel that spark of festivity that most have throughout the year. Halloween quickly approaches, and for once, you want to go all out.
As for the other holidays? They’re just reminders—constant, painful reminders—of the distance between you and the family you barely speak to anymore, fractures that have only widened over the years. The smiling faces in ads and on TV screens, every social media post—all depicting families gathering around tables, sharing a meal, and making happy memories—digs in a little deeper, rubbing salt into the wound that you’ve long since stopped trying to heal.
You know better now—know you’ll never have that closeness, that picture perfect family you used to dream about, and you’re learning to come to terms with it.
So, you saved up, scraping together what you could to rent a cabin in some quiet, tucked-away town for the entire fall season. Far away from the noise, from the reminders. Just you, the leaves rotting in the woods, and the quiet .
Just a little treat, you told yourself as you forked over the hefty deposit, that and maybe you’ll actually get to spend some time on that book you’ve been wanting to write or draw like you’ve been meaning to. It wasn’t gonna be much, but it was yours—a chance to try and shroud yourself from the deep pain you’ll undoubtedly feel in the upcoming months—even if it’s just for a little while.
- - -
The drive into the town was long and uneventful. The winding road twists like a serpent, flanked by towering pine trees and small patches of wildflowers that sway as you drive by, waving you off. The evening is settling in softly. The world outside your window is draped in a thin veil of mist. The fine rain forms small droplets against your windshield, soft as a whisper, blurring the edges of the road. Autumn had already begun to paint the landscape in hues of tawny and ochre. The leaves tremble on their branches, preparing for their fall at the next breath of wind.
The cabin you have rented is tucked deep into the forest, but instructions from the owner say you need to stop by the nearby town to retrieve the keys. Being that you were almost there, you’re starting to feel a bit giddy. Eager to snatch those keys up, get settled in, and stretch your legs after the long drive.
The town is barely more than a whisper, so subtle you nearly missed it. Such a small blimp that it makes you wonder how anything here stays open. The few buildings that line Main Street gather close to the single swaying stoplight that illuminates the mist, like people huddling around a flickering bonfire on a bitter night.
Warm light wrapping around their faces and hands, but behind, the night hovers close, its cold fingers trailing along their spines—an uninvited guest that looms just outside the circle of light, waiting.
You slow as the weathered sign for ‘ Shot in the Dark ’ comes into view, creaking faintly in the light breeze. It dangles precariously over a chipped, weathered door flanked by large, rain-streaked windows. It looks like it had been hung there for decades without care.
The coffee shop is nestled between two vacant-looking buildings, its rain-darkened wood blends into the quiet landscape. A soft, amber glow spills from the large windows and onto the wet pavement. The warm, gentle light beckons you in, like a lighthouse in the fog, growing more intense as the sun creeps ever closer to the horizon. For a moment, it feels like it’s the only living thing in this sleepy place—a faint, warm pulse against the encroaching quiet of the woods.
You drive to the back parking lot and cut the engine, the car ticking softly as it cools. The rusty creak of the car door jars the silence as you step out, gravel crunching underfoot. The sound far too loud in the otherwise oppressive quiet.
The light drizzle mists your cheeks as you head towards the back entrance, the smell of damp earth and pine mingles with the faint scent of wood smoke and freshly roasted coffee beans. It’s a smell that is usually calming, but tonight, it feels… different. Not wrong, exactly—just heavier . You’re willing to blame it on the unsettling silence that seems to hang in the air, as though the world had exhaled and then forgotten to breathe again.
A bell chimes above your head as you step in. The sound immediately swallowed up by the small shop. Warmth radiates inside, at odds with the cool dampness outside, sending a shiver through you from the stark contrast. The air here is thick with sweet smells from baked pastries and the bitter scent of brewed coffee, but also tinged with something deeper, like wet soil and rotting wood.
Overall, a much more welcoming experience than outside.
Looking around, you can see that the shop holds a certain georgic charm. Handmade wooden tables, rustic chairs, and the low murmur of music playing through unseen speakers. It was soothing, like a balm over your bristling edges.
This was a place that offers a safe harbor for the weary, a spot to unburden their load.
But as the door swings shut behind you, the stillness settles in, pressing in on you like a damp cloth. There’s no other customers in here—just you and the two men behind the counter. You try to shake off the strange emptiness of the town, telling yourself it’s just the way of small town-life. After all, you had gotten used to the city life—the constant loud noises, bustling people cramming the streets, blaring sirens, and never ending traffic.
This quiet is a good thing , you tell yourself, a bit of change will do you some good.
Between the two figures, one moves first, turning slightly to look at you over his shoulder.
The shorter of the pair— Johnny , according to the name tag pinned to his apron—smiles at you, visibly perking up at your presence. His dark hair is cut into a Mohawk, though it looks a bit overgrown, tousled in a way that seems deliberate. Those cerulean blue eyes light up with a friendliness that catches you off guard. The smile he gives is wide, genuine even, as if you were an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. Soft yet charged with something beneath all that eagerness.
“Evenin’, lass,” he greets, his Scottish brogue soft and welcoming, rolling through the room like the hills of his homeland. The accent momentarily catches you off guard, especially when you’re this deep into the States and somewhere this remote. “New face ‘round here, eh? Here fer the key, are ye? The cabin oot in the woods, just a wee bit oot o’ toon?”
His voice is warm, holding the kind of tone that seems to suggest the town is too small for visitors to be a regular occurrence, and that seeing someone new was a rare treat. It coaxes a small smile from you in return, easing down those tight shoulders of yours.
“Yep, that’s me,” you reply, moving up to the counter. “Thought I’d grab somethin’ too, before I go settle in.”
“Aye, bonnie, good choice,” Johnny says, stepping behind the register, ready to punch in your order. “Nights get awful cauld oot here, it does. Ye’ll want somethin’ warm in ye, nae doubt.”
Beside him, the taller man— Simon —finally turns to look at you, hands pausing their busy-work of wiping ceramic mugs. He’s the opposite of Johnny—much taller and broader, meaner —a massive wall of muscle hidden under a dark shirt and faded jeans. Where Johnny’s warmth radiates through the space, Simon’s presence feels heavy, filling the space with quiet authority, the kind that demands your full attention without having to ask for it. He stands as a living embodiment of the feeling you get when you know you’re being watched. His blonde hair is cropped close, just short of turning to curls. Any expression he has is half-obscured by the black medical mask that covers the lower half of his face. He watches you with dark, unreadable brown eyes, gaze steady, but not entirely unkind. More curious and cautious than anything.
Unlike Johnny, there is no emanating warmth in Simon’s gaze—only a deep calm, as if he is just casually studying you. It feels like you are being weighed, judged in a way that makes you a bit self-conscious.
Simon clears his throat, his voice low and gruff, edged with a Manchester accent. “Yer alone?”
Each word a quiet rumble that vibrates in the air. He speaks as if the question is more a statement than a real inquiry, as if he already knew the answer.
You shift uneasily, unsure if you should disclose that information to the first two— absolutely huge —men you’ve just met. The question seems innocent enough, but something in their combined gazes looking at you makes your skin prickle.
Still, you answer. “Yeah, just me.”
Simon doesn’t reply, just gives a slight nod before turning back to the task of wiping down the ceramic mugs. His hands, scarred and calloused, gently set each one in its proper place on the shelf above his head. His movements are deliberate, each one slow and methodical, as though he’s hyper-aware of the space he occupies— and of you . A bit odd, but you chalk it up to his stoic nature, telling yourself that not everyone is as chatty as Johnny.
Especially to someone they deem as an outsider.
Johnny leans closer. His body molds against the wide counter as he subtly closes the distance between you two just a bit, resting his elbow on the flat surface while his scruffy chin sits perched in his calloused hand. That wide grin rests on his pink lips easy, teeth peeking out from underneath, eyes giving you a quick once-over. “We’ll sort ye oot wi’ somethin’ tae warm yer bones, lass. Reckon a bonnie lass like yersel’ would fancy somethin’… a wee bit sweeter, aye?”
Is he… flirting?
Your mind short circuits a bit at the sudden thought. A reflexive smile tugs at the corners of your lips, trying to hide the slight discomfort that crawls up your spine.
“Uh, just a chai latte with a shot please.” You say, keeping your tone even, despite the warmth that floods your cheeks.
The larger man moves quicker than one of his size should, turning to face you once more, coming up right behind Johnny. “‘Course,” Simon says, interrupting whatever Johnny was about to say. His voice a deep rumble, almost mimicking a growl at Johnny. His dark gaze flicks between the two of you, settling long enough on Johnny before snatching up a foam cup and turning back to the espresso machine.
Johnny doesn’t even flinch. His grins holds steady, as if not noticing Simon’s harsh glare—or maybe not caring.
Your smile fades, unease prickling at the back of your neck. You’re unable to shake the feeling that you just gotten caught in the middle of something—something not meant for you to understand. Your eyes dart between them, trying to decipher what they’re communicating silently.
While Simon prepares your drink, Johnny leans even closer, unfazed. His voice drops to a casual murmur over the machine’s hissing. “It’s quiet up there in them woods, aye, real peaceful. But once it’s dark, it’s pitch black—critters roamin’ aboot at night an’ all. Is it really just yersel’ staying up there, lass?”
The question feels more casual, almost politely worried, now as Johnny’s dark brows furrow slightly while he looks at you. His lips pushing out in a small pout. Was there something you were missing here? Was it really that unusual for a single woman to rent a cabin by all by herself out here? Surely not—right? It was on the Airbnb site and had plenty of reviews—good ones, too. Maybe he’s just worried about you getting spooked. That, or maybe it is really that shocking for him.
“Yup, just me.” You repeat, confirming it once more. Somehow it feels heavier this time.
Johnny’s smile is quick to return as he leans back. Simon returns, sliding the chai latte across the counter, his eyes locking with yours as he does. “Here ye go.”
You take the foam cup, a bit wide-eyed, feeling small once again under their combined gaze. You quickly blink, set down the cup, and pull out your wallet—averting your gaze to avoid nervously fidgeting.
Johnny is quick to tut at your fumbling fingers as you dig out some wadded up bills, gently reaching to tap his hand at yours. You glance up, a confused expression twisting your face. He simply waves it off and shakes his head. “On the house, lass,” he says softly.
You hesitate. Eyes darting between Simon and Johnny. Then you nod and shove some of the bills back into your wallet while promptly saying, ‘are you sure?’ and ‘thank you so much’. You slip some into the tip jar instead. Johnny simply smiles as he reaches down underneath the counter, grabbing the key to the cabin. He hands you the small silver key, fingers grazing yours—warm, solid, rough—his touch lingers a second too long, the smile remains fixed in place, while his blue eyes look ready to eat you up.
You pull back, recoiling inwardly, trying to not let it show—especially when under both of their watch.
“There ye go, lass,” Johnny nearly purrs. “We’re no far from tha’ place, so dinnae hesitate tae give us a shout if somethin’s no workin’. Simon’s done most of the fixin’ up t’ere anyways. Enjoy yer stay, hen. We’ll be seein’ ye ‘round, aye?”
The bell above the door rings of your departure as you step back outside, the damp fresh air misting your cheeks. Johnnys words follow you out, light but with a small weight, like a promise you hadn’t fully agreed to. The slight unease clings to you like a shroud, sinking into your skin as you walk back to your car. The warmth of the latte does nothing to chase away the chill that has now settled in, seeping into your bones, digging its claws in before curling up and making itself at home.
As you drive away, you catch a glimpse of Simon and Johnny through the rearview mirror—still standing behind the counter, watching.
Johnny waves.