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꣖ 🥛 MILK DELIVERY ! ꣓

𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫 ◞ 𝐬 strawberry ⧽ vanilla ⧽ chocolate 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 40k 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 farmer armin 〆 black fem reader 〆 black fem oc 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥 dark content . fauxcest . ddlg . porn with plot . eventual established polyamorous relationship . childhood friends to lovers . strangers to lovers . childhood abuse mentions , not very explicit . age gap . heavy pet name usage . love confessions . lots of feelings . reader has pubes ℘ a big clit ! fingering . oral sex . filmed during sex . dad kink . ass eating . cum swallowing .

⠀⠀ : ¨·.·¨ :ㅤ ⠀ ⠀ `· .⠀ 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 𝓅𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 . . . plz heed warningzzz ! ! i don’t want anybody surprised by the contents of this fic n decidin 2 lose their minds in m inbox , tanku . hv fun . dis fic took me so long </3 i wuz inspired 2 write dis by a friend who gave me da idea 2 pair dad armin wif two precious lil girlz ♥︎ . everybody say thanku 2 dem ! minors do not interact ! ! ! !

𝓑ENEATH 𝓣HE 𝓜OONLIGHT

July has the best sunsets.

That’s what Armin thinks.

Cerulean skies are free from cloud wisps, no indication of a mean storm that usually chase after the notes of spring with lengthy streaks of peach, gold, and pink that bleed onto the straight lined horizon during the calm hours of six pm to seven. They appear as though they’ve been hand brushed by someone who was particularly lazy today, strokes long and uneven, albeit beautiful even so.

Staring out at it behind dark tinted sunglasses with one hand wrapped around the base of his steering wheel and the other outstretched outside of the opened window to idly ash his cigarette, Armin soon pulls the burning stick up to his lips to pull in a slow drag.

Missouri.

The dirt road ahead of him stretches for what looks like miles. Flanked on either side of his rolling truck and tilted towards the fading rays of the sun are fields of tall grass and blades of it dance within the gaps of the decades old, wooden fencing when the back wind of his truck forces them to as he zips by. The air smells like hay, dust, and heat as paper bags toppled to their brim with groceries rattle within the bed of his old, dark green ‘72 Ford 250. And from the speakers, over the rumbling engine, drawls a smooth, yacht rock tune — Minnie Riperton’s Take a Little Trip.

His black leathered cowboy hat is tipped low and his sunglasses shield his eyes but the strong line of his scruffy jaw, slope of his nose, and creases of crows feet reveal to most that this is a man used to long, tiring days working underneath the sun. His hands are beefy and calloused, dusted with wispy blond hairs that runs along the backs of them all the way up to the knuckle. They’re strong and steady as one of them continues gripping at the wheel while the other brings his cig up towards two, pink, faintly chapped lips for another drag, this one shorter than the previous.

Languidly, he hums along to Minnie’s melodies as he pulls it away, drapes his arm back out of the window and spots a faint dot way out where nearly the sky and land touch.

It immediately catches his attention because it’s odd.

He’s driven this same road nearly twice every other day for the past eight years. Most people know that this stretch of dirt, as quiet and predictable it may be, sometimes features nothing but the occasional wandering, hungry mutt or tumbleweed. A person is a rarity out here.

Armin’s gaze lingers on that speck as he eases his toe from off the gas pedal just a bit. The closer he gets, the larger that dot grows until it morphs around the silhouette of a person, a girl.

You’re small against the backdrop of the melting sky — nearly get swallowed up by the grass that line the fencing you walk beside. On your back bounces a pink, daisy printed backpack whose straps you hold between your fists as you keep your head lowered while you walk to occasionally kick at a small pebble with a sneaker. Armin’s eyebrows push in.

“What in the god damned hell . . .”

The sight doesn’t sit right. Evening’s nearing, he still has about a fifteen minute drive so he could truly only imagine just how long that’d be in your steps, not to mention, before the road splits off to his acreage of land, first is Mr. Beauregard’s and God knows what the man and his group of slick tongued, dirt fingered farmhands would do to you if they got their hands on you. Armin’s jaw clicks at the simple thought. Folks around here drive, they don’t walk. Especially not this far from town.

Flicking his cigarette out of the window, he lets the wheels of his truck roll him just a little bit closer. He’s sure you hear him but you don’t look up. Head down, you keep on walking — right foot then left, slow and steady. Up close, even with you not looking directly at him, Armin can tell that you’re young. Your hair sits in a big puff atop of your head and sunlight catches on the sweated out, intricate swirls of your edges that are now lifting at your hairline. Yeah, he can’t leave you out here on your own. Not you. With a small sigh through his nose, he eases up just alongside of you to gruffly call out through his opened passenger window, “. . You lost, lil’ miss?”

Head still lowered, you keep walking and don’t respond.

Armin can’t be too mad at that. Who knows what kind of man you think he is — some stranger slowing his truck down next to a young lady walking down a quiet road. Ain’t a nice picture.

Still.

You just keep moving, toe of a sneaker lightly kicking a fair sized pebble some feet ahead of you as if it were the only thing keeping your attention.

The engine of Armin’s truck rumbles on before he blows out a breath, rolls the vehicle forward some, then angles the front end of it right into your path. You hardly even notice. Nearly almost run into the passenger door before you look up to find yourself standing right in front of it.

You’re frowning when you lift your chin. Your eyes are big and brown, bordered with long, thick, pretty lashes that any other lassie you meet around here would probably kill for. Nevertheless, seconds pass and not a word is said. You stare at him as if he were something strange that just rolled into your view, like something you knew not to trust yet.

“Y’got somewhere ya headed?”

Your grip tightens around the straps of your backpack as you take a tiny step back. “. . . Town, sir.”

Pretty, little voice. It fits you. However, Armin knows you’re lying to him. A thick, blond brow lifts beneath the brim of his hat to show his skepticism, “Town’s in the other direction.”

You press your lips together in a firm line, shifting your gaze behind him to take in the vast, empty fields on each side of you. Silence stretches again, only broken by the buzzing of mosquitos and flies. Armin takes in the sweat that glistens at your collarbones that are exposed beneath the tight, blue and white gingham patterned tank top you wear that also sticks to your stomach from the heat. One look up at your face again and he sees the exhaustion that sheathes your features, not from walking in this blazing warmth, but just in general . . . you’re tired.

His thumb taps against his steering wheel a few times as if he were deciding something before he drawls out, “Look, I ain’t gon’ grill you ‘bout it. Ain’t my business, but if you keep walkin’ this way, you bound to run into Beauregard’s land ‘fore long. An’ them boys he keep around ain’t particularly a nice bunch.”

You start to chew on the inside of your cheek as a flicker of worry sparks within the depths of your eyes. Yeah, you’re not from here. It’s obvious due to the fact that everyone who’s actually from this town or even only one or two over knows just how those boys are.

“Hop in.”

“ ‘m okay.”

Armin shrugs, “I ain’t say you weren’t.” His tone reveals that it isn’t something he’ll ask again. “. . . My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Do me the favor, please.”

You debate it over in your brain as your eyes scan the interior of his truck. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. A glass bottle of flat coke held in the single cup holder underneath the old radio and some fresh cigarette butts decorate the dash, but other than that, the seat is clean and nothing on the floor.

The handle creaks when you finally pull the door open. Armin watches you slowly take your backpack off, brush some dust off of your bottom, then use the roof handle to climb in, take a seat and slam the door behind yourself.

With a rough sigh, he uses the stick to put his Ford back in reverse and return back to the road. One glance over, “. . Seatbelt, please an’ thank you.”

“O-Oh.”

With fumbling fingers, you reach behind yourself to grab it, stretch it over your abdomen then click the buckle into place. Armin gives a single nod, thumb resuming a slow tap on the wheel, “Your name, miss?”

The question sags within the interior of his truck and settles between the hum of the engine and rattling of a loose item in the glove department. Outside, across the skies, pink and gold are deepening into a navy blue. You nibble on your bottom lip, staring at your folded hands that sit atop of your backpack which rests on your lap and for a moment, one may think you’re ignoring him.

Then, you tell him. Soft and timidly as if you were afraid.

“Hm.” He hums and tests it quietly on his tongue to commit it to his memory. “Armin.”

Minnie Riperton’s voice continues to float through the small speakers of the truck, sweet and dreamy as you begin to glance out of the window at the rear view mirror to watch the road disappear behind you both. Your unease is palpable — sits in between you and him as if it were another passenger. It makes Armin shift a bit in his seat as he continues staring straight forward out of the windshield. He’s not a grimy man. Never has been, never will be. He was brought up with respect for God, women, less fortunate, then animals, in that order. Making ladies uncomfortable, especially pretty, little ones like you, unnerves him a bit, he’ll be honest, disregarding him being a man not usually moved by shit else.

“. . You from ‘round here?”

Head shake. His attempt at easing the ever growing tension is smashed into pieces.

He thought so.

A tensed minute passes however you soon build up the courage to ask, small and quiet, “Do you got a farm o-or somethin’, sir?”

“Mhm.”

“. . . What kind?”

Armin breathes out a slow breath through his nose while lazily flipping his blinker before turning down a curve, “Bit a’everythin. Uh, some sugarcane. Corn. Couple barns. Got some chickens, goats, cows, and three horses . . . that ‘bout covers it.”

You blink a few times, “Oh,” you whisper. Just picturing yourself taking care of all that is enough to send your head in a tizzy. “ ‘s a lot.”

“Damn straight.”

“You jus’ . . take care of all that by yourself?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “Mostly. I got some help at home.”

My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Your lips round in understanding as his previous words clicks into place within your brain, “Your daughter?”

It’s faint, extremely faint, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “She likes helpin’ out sometimes. I let ‘er . . . helps get all that damn energy out, I find.”

He notices that at the mention of her, you seem to disarm a bit. Your shoulders loosen up and hands relax from squeezing the other in your lap as his truck splits down the more tougher road once it forks. The dirt has been roughly paved and rolled over with tractor tires and bigger pebbles. You guys are nearly there, that, you realize. You can feel it. The fencing changes first — they’re more clean and paralleled as opposed to the old, shabby ones on the road leaving white vinyl to glisten beneath the setting sun. Miles of greenery span out into the beautiful landscape of sloping mountains as the truck keeps on carrying you out. Then suddenly, the greenery is cut by rows and rows of corn stalks that seem to stand tall like soldiers in formation with their green and gold leaves waving you hello.

A breeze drifts along your nose, scented of fertilizer and warm soil.

Afterwards, abruptly, following a firmer press of the gas to force the truck higher up a small hill is a farmhouse. It’s a large, two storied structure with a wide, wrap around porch hugged around it, decorated with a swaying porch swing, few rocking chairs scattered along the edges, hanging plants, and clusters of potted flowers near the small staircase that leads up to the front door. Atop of the house stands a stone chimney which light smoke curls from, indicating someone’s cooking inside.

“Geez . . .”

You’re amazed.

About fifty feet away from the house, on its right is a wide, sloping barn with a rusted, yellow tractor parked near its doors. Its large tires are still caked in fresh mud from the fields. Beside the barn is a chicken coop where soft clucks of a few hens conversations echo, sometimes punctuated by a low, drawn out ‘moo’ from a cow inside the barn. Further out, three horses walk along a fenced off paddock and then the acreage never seems to end. It seems to span out further and further until you can see the field of sugarcane and goats peppered on low hills as they chew on weeds and brush. Fences crisscross like veins, meticulous and orderly, some electric, some piped, few wooden. Even from your seat in the truck, you can tell that there’s structure here, regulation . . . plenty of peace, too.

Everything has its place, its purpose.

Grass isn’t grown wild or bleached dry. Animals aren’t wandering loose. Gates are locked and shut. Fields straight lined and planted with little to no gaps. There’s some discipline to it all, too.

It’s obvious that whoever runs this land has had his fair share in hard work and making sure that things are exactly how they’re meant to be.

When the engine cuts, Armin leans back in his seat with a sigh. It sounds tired but . . also threaded with notes of comfort. Like, he’s finally made it home.

Without the rumbling, the sounds of the farm are a little bit louder now — stomps of horse hooves as they graze, rustle of corn, and chicken clucks.

Then . . . the quick padding of footsteps inside the house.

“Brace yer’self, lil miss,” Armin mumbles as he opens his door. “She can be excitable.”

You hear his boots his the gravel, heavy and sure, therefore quickly, you open your door to hop out as well. The evening air feels humid and thick, scented of hay and sunbaked soil. You’re just rounding the front of the truck when Armin unhooks the tailgate to gather paper bags of groceries into his broad chest.

Then, the screen door is pushed open with a creak and a girl steps out onto the steps, seemingly your age, barefoot and small, wearing a pretty, dandelion yellow sundress whose hemming skims up against her upper thighs when a soft breeze catches on it. Tight, coiled curls spill down her back, full, dark, and shining with health as she pauses upon seeing you with a small hand on the porch staircase’s banister. She’d been smiling, though it goes a little frayed when she meets your eye.

At first, it’s casual. Just some curiosity as she tilts her head.

Then she takes a step lower and something on her face crosses between disbelief and confusion. You blink, once, twice, letting your irises catch on the deep dimple that craters into her cheek . . . the monolids framed around her big, brown eyes . . and curls that frame her face like a lion’s mane.

You’ve seen this face before.

Years ago. Younger.

Your heart lurches in your throat as your next inhale shudders. The name slips out before you can reel it back in, “. . . J-Jubie?”

She goes completely still, as if her world has been completely shifted on its axis and for a long moment, neither of you say anything, only stare.

“꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . . .?”

As if saying your name confirms it all, she slaps her hands over her plump lips and widens her hands with an, “Oh my God.”

Her voice is softer than you remember. Quieter, too. But it’s her. Uncaring of the gravel biting within the soles of her bare feet, she inches closer to you as her eyes wildly flick over the features of your face and body, searching, taking in every detail as though she’s trying to piece back a memory that was torn into shreds. “It’s you, oh my God.”

And as if magnet particles were swimming in your blood, distance closes and your bodies collide together for a sudden, bone crushing hug. Air leaves your lungs as her arms wrap around the back of your neck, yours around her waist, as you both squeeze like you’re afraid the other will seize to exist within the next moment. “J-Jubie?” You’re in utter disbelief as you bury your face into her shoulder, finding that somehow, she still even smells the same . . . like warm oats and roses. “Y-You left, I thought . . thought I’d n-never see you again.”

You feel her shoulders shudder as her fingernails bite into your skin.

For just a split second, those memories between ages six to thirteen arrive — the bike rides to school, scraped knees covered in hello kitty bandages, whispered secrets at sleepovers, pinky promises underneath the apparatus — and flood your brain. The years between then and now suddenly feel short, like they were just yesterday.

Behind you both, you hear the rustling of paper bags.

Armin doesn’t say much when you both finally pull away with tear glistening eyes and trembling fingers. But he sees it . . . the history radiating off of you both. It's evident in the way you both whisper one another's names, how you squeezed each other tight enough to cut off the other's airflow. He studies it for a moment, carefully before gently clearing his throat.“Alright, now. These bags gon’ burst if we all keep standin’ here.”

Warmth spreads beneath Jubie’s soft, light brown skin, a bright coral shade that spreads across her nose. “Oh — yeah. C’mon.”

Without a second thought, she’s reaching for your hand to interlace her fingers between the spaces of yours, just like she’s done a thousand times before and then begins tugging you towards the porch stairs. Armin trails a few steps behind, eyes taking in the picture behind his sunglasses, “. . . Hm.”

She never lets it go as the two of you move together, steps a little shaky and uneven, due to the fact that neither of you can stop glancing at the other with shy smiles still painted in disbelief playing on your lips. This close, you can see her better. Her skin glows beneath the warm, bright bulb of the porch light and a fair dusting of beauty marks pepper the middle of her forehead, down to her nose, and cheeks. The mole that dots the edge of her upper, heart shaped lip, on the left side is still prominent. You’d always thought it made her look so pretty . . majestic even. And, she is. She’s grown to be . . . stunning, you find. With her sundress shifting softly across her thick thighs and skin moisturized with body butter that makes her soft to the touch.

And she keeps looking at you, too.

No longer quick glances, but full on staring like she’s trying to catalogue every inch of you into her brain.

Your face. Your puff. The lace that trims along the edges of the little, jean shorts you wear. Your heart thuds beneath her attention.

“You’re so pretty,” she suddenly blurts out with a cute laugh of marvel following her words. The sudden compliment makes you cover your mouth to hide your shy, wide smile at the sight of her dimples.

“You are, too.”

She ducks her head, curls slipping over her shoulder as her blush deepens until her face is nearly the shade of a ripe cherry.

“The door, baby.”

Jubie startles again, once more forgetting about the towering, six foot four man behind you both that holds five bags of groceries in his arms and goes to open the screen door then main. The hinges creak as warm air from inside the house smacks you all in the face, scented of caramelized onions, herbs, and something savory warming in the oven. When you step inside, you aren’t surprised to find the interior to be just as big as the outside. The foyer is pretty long with a coat rack hanging right beside the door, and boots, sandals, and flats stacked neatly on a rack near it too.

And as Armin steps around you two to presumably head for the kitchen, some hanging, framed pictures that hang on the walls on either side of it catch your eye. Most of scenery or animals, though one stands out from the rest . . . Jubie and Armin standing beside his truck, her with a big, dimpled grin, engulfed back to chest within his beefy arms and him, handsomely stoic faced.

Something clicks.

Jubie notices which one that catches your attention then smiles and nervously tucks a curl behind her ear that seems to be covered in more piercings than you recall. “ ‘s been me and him for a good while now.”

“Oh,” your lips round in understanding. “. . That’s sweet, Jubie.”

The nickname makes her intertwine her hands and pull them to her chest. Her voice is breathy and her tone is full of sweet awe when she says, “You still call me that.”

You let out a soft, shy laugh and look down at your shoes, “U-Uhm, yeah. You’ve always been Jubie to me.”

“Hmm,” she’s still smiling though it goes a little wary upon her mumbling, “I thought . . I thought if we ever s-saw each other again, you’d like . . run the other way.”

Her words make something in your chest grow dark. They make you feel like the air has been punched out of you in disbelief. “No. Gosh, no. Why?”

She hesitates, bites down on her bottom lip and looks down at her hand as she starts to rub at her knuckles. “For jus’ . . leavin’ you. Without sayin’ goodbye. I thought you’d be angry with me.”

For a moment, the air prickles with all the words unsaid you’ve both been meaning to express to one another after all these years if you ever saw each other. You’re pouting a little when you utter, “I mean . . I was . . . and for a long time, but . . I think I missed you, more than I was angry.”

Something crumples along the pretty features of her face, something crossed between tearful, soft, and soothed, “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“You gonna keep ‘er standin' in the foyer all night, doll?”

The bass sitting within Armin’s voice makes the both of you jump. Jubie huffs a small snicker, “Dang it. Sorry, c’mon.”

Somehow, the farmhouse opens up wider the deeper inside you walk. To the right is the living room as soon as you emerge from the foyer. A thick woven rug, occasionally stamped with a muddy boot print stretches along the dark wooden flooring beneath a large glass coffee table where a small platter of hard candies and a half burnt candle, scented of cashmere and vanilla, sit within the middle of. A record player has its own little corner near a shelf of vinyls about as tall as the both of you, spines worn from use and titles fading. Facing the stone fireplace is a large, soft L shaped sofa and a worn out armchair that’s been overstuffed and seemingly claimed by one person.

Likely Armin.

A faded pair of black work gloves and glass of lemonade with the ice cubes melting in it rest on the little table near the arm of it as though they’d been recently forgotten about proves so.

Jubie takes you to the open spaced kitchen. It’s bigger than the living room with its own door and screen that leads to the back of the house. Armin stands with his back facing you both, stacking some cans in the pantry. His hat has been tossed onto the table, revealing a mop of thick, sun-dark blond waves slightly dampened with sweat that stop near the nape of his neck.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you two. Piercing blue eyes catch you, calm and measuring. They linger on yours long enough to make something in your throat knot before shifting to Jubie. “Gonna tell me how you girls know each other?”

His voice is low and sprinkled in a thick southern drawl, not full of suspicion, but just . . observance, like he simply just wants to know. Jubie shifts her weight to lightly bump her hip against yours. You bite down on a small smile. “We grew up together.”

Armin turns to face you, “In what way.”

“We were neighbors since we were six.”

A slow whistle slips out past his lips, “. . ‘s that right?”

“Mhm.”

“Y’never mentioned her, why?”

Jubie’s lips curl to the side as she pauses for a moment, “. . ‘Cause I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”

The honesty lands in your chest similar to a knife being stabbed into a cutting board. You’d thought the same. Spent so many nights fighting to remember the features of her face if you were to see her again, so many diary entries featuring her name with the ink smudged and paper dotted in your salty tears.

The thought makes you shaky.

Armin studies you both, deep, blue eyes shifting between your faces as though he’s piecing together something unsaid before he shuts the pantry door to walk over to the sink. “Best friends, I assume.”

“Bestest friends.”

“Mmm.”

The quiet rush of running water fills the kitchen as he washes his hands. When he’s done, he shakes them out, once, before folding his arms and leaning back against the large, farmhouse sink. “You got a place you headed?”

The question is innocent but his stare is back on you again. You find it immobilizing, not to mention, how handsome he is underneath the warm, overhead lighting, standing only some feet away is enough to make your knees feel like jelly. Up close, free from his hat and sunglasses, he looks older than you first thought, too. In a way that only sharpens his rugged features in the best way possible. The small wrinkles of crows feet and rough shadow decorating his jaw makes him look seasoned. Cultivated. You pause, “U-Uhm, not . . really, sir. No.”

His eyes squint, just barely. “. . Not really.”

You look down at the kitchen flooring, “I was jus’ walking.” Your voice somehow becomes even softer upon revealing it, like saying it out loud makes it sound more senseless than it had in your brain.

You feel Jubie’s arm interlock with yours, “What?" Her voice is breathless come the new information you reveal. "You was walking out there?”

You nod while watching her eyebrows pull together, showcasing her concern. “That’s miles, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“I-I know.”

Armin exhales through his nose while straightening himself back out, “Alright, take a seat. You hungry?”

The last meal you ate was nearly twenty six hours ago, you feel like you can eat an entire bison. “Yes, sir.”

He gestures to one of the seats that surround a large, wooden, oval shaped dining room table. Four seats facing each other, one at the head. No need to question who occupies that one. “Sit.” He says it this time with a bit more firmness, leaving no room for refusal or question.

Swiftly complying, you take one of the seats next to the head and let your backpack fall off of your arm to the floor against the leg of the chair. Armin grabs a lone dish rag hanging off of the oven’s door to open it and use one strong hand to grab the heavy pan from inside and let it fall against the counter with a solid thunk as steam rises from the contents inside. The scent of something savory wafts against your nose not long after and your stomach responds with a deep grumble. You watch Jubie stand on her tiptoes to grab three plates from a cabinet, hand them over to him, then walk to the fridge whose doors were embellished in colorful letter magnets, a few blurry landscape photos, and a chart . . . dotted with sparkling, star shaped stickers. You're unable to get a good look at what the chart specifically tracks because after producing a glass pitcher of lemonade from inside of it, Jubie’s closing the door back shut leaving it out of your immediate eye sight

Within a mere minute, the table is full and a plate toppled with a thick slice of cheesy, meat filled casserole, scoop of mixed vegetables, and a golden, buttered roll is sat down in front of you. For some strange reason, you find yourself wanting to cry. The scents of everything is rich, homey. You suppose Jubie’s presence only intensifies the feeling. Everything about her feels familiar, like a memory that’s been tucked away for years, nearly a decade, has been flattened back open and pressed straight.

The soft way she says your name, like she’s a bit shy to even mumble it, the cute cadence of her voice, the dimples that cave into the soft skin of her cheeks whenever she smiles at you as though she’s unable to grasp the fact that you’re really here, seated at the table, sharing a meal with her and Armin.

You both haven’t been reunited for more than fifteen minutes . . . however, the feeling of something old and dear slipping quietly back into place is hard to shake.

Neither of you really notice Armin’s observance of you both come him taking his seat at the head of the table. The minute that first bite of casserole hits your tongue has your shoulders loosening. You pull the fork from between your lips slow, letting the flavor sit there on it for a second before beginning to chew, eyes downcast on your plate.

You’ve been hungry for so long.

“You still eat so slow,” Jubie suddenly mumbles.

When you look up at her across the table, she’s smiling into her glass of lemonade prior to taking a sip.

You swallow your mouthful, “I do?”

“Mhm . . . little bites.”

“Makes it—“

“—last longer.”

A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of your soft lips before you mutter, “Shush.”

Quietly, Armin observes with his eyes drawn to the both of you, watching how you slightly lean closer to the table when speaking to Jubie, how both your voices stay soft as if you were sharing secrets instead of talking about vegetables and what your favorite kinds are now. The two of your hands reach for a napkin at the same time, and come your fingers colliding, you’re quickly pulling yours away, mumbling for her to go first.

History is threaded between you two. Deep and thorough.

Years of it.

It shows in how Jubie silently piles two more buttered rolls on your plate and how you don’t fight her about it.

Two girls. Barely grown.

The tension that was sitting in your shoulders — Armin could see it from nearly a mile away from where you were walking alongside that road, it remained there as you stood in front of his passenger door, debating on taking the ride, and even as you sat there in his seat, however now . . .

Now it's entirely gone.

He studies how you reach for your glass of lemonade with a little more purpose, how your shoulders rest, no longer curled inwards as though you were preparing for someone, anyone, to run you off, your hands are no longer balled into little, tensed fists within your lap neither. There resides something new within Jubie, too. Having been with her nearly three years now, Armin's familiarized himself with her tells. He can read the girl like a well worn book — spine cracked, ink fading, and pages softened at the edges — everything about her has been memorized by heart. Those exact tells of a small head tilt when she's watching you look away before saying something and the intense gaze of her eyes as you smile reveals that she's excited . . captivated . . curious.

He'd be blowing out smoke if he said he wasn't either.

"You said you don't have anywhere you're headin' tonight . ." Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip, eyes wide and brows softened as she looks into your own. "Y-You can sleep here . . . I mean, i-if you want. Right?" Looking over to Armin for his grace, you follow her stare to watch the man slowly cross his arms over his strong chest while leaning back within his chair.

"Ain't no sense in sendin' 'er back out there this late."

When a big, bright smile overcomes Jubie’s soft lips, you're quick to rectify, "I promise I w-won't impose. I'll do m'best to be gone by sunrise—"

"—Nonsense," slowly, he rolls his tongue across the inside of his cheek, taking heed of the exhaustion that takes physical form beneath your eyes. When you reach up to rub one with the heel of your small palm, he glances down at your plate then at Jubie’s. The both of you have already ate a good amount so he goes on to roughly utter, "You look just 'bout ready to fall over."

You do your best to straighten up, " 'm okay."

"No you ain't."

Armin jerks his chin towards the hall before speaking to Jubie, "Want you to give 'er the grand tour, show 'er the guest room. Come back down then me an' you can work on this kitchen together."

Doused in excitement and slight nerves, Jubie’s mono-lidded eyes widen before she nods, stands, and grabs your wrist. "C'mon, lemme show you."

Rising from your chair, you grab the back strap of your backpack as powder blue eyes watches the both of you move. Armin's jaw is tight, nonetheless, relaxed as he commits the picture to his memory — the bounce in Jubie’s steps, the heaviness in yours, how the two of your fingers brush against one another's as you walk beside each other. The distant feeling of this making sense crosses his mind. Jubie’s shy. Always has been since he was first introduced to her by Mrs. Loretta Bellflower, co owner of one of the best diner's these here parts have heard about, Loretta's Kitchen. She'd been a waitress there, only for a mere, few weeks before Loretta pulled Armin to the side as he was exiting the diner with his styrofoam plate in hand, heavy with three pieces of chicken fried steak, grits, and eggs.

"The girl is lost, mista Arlert," Loretta had told him with sympathy swimming within the dark pools of her eyes. She'd explained to him that Jubie’d used to be a shoe shiner for the town's parlor before Loretta's husband got her out of that, finding the job all too demeaning for a young thing like her. "I suppose now that's prob'ly why she was a shoeshiner. She's good with her hands, that's for damn sure, but she won't talk to anybody. Barely even talks to me. I can't have a waitress workin' here that can't speak."

Armin'd sucked his teeth, "Whaddya askin' me, Missus Loretta."

". . . Maybe she'd be better on the farm with you—"

"—Awe, nah—"

Loretta's gaze had turned sharp, "—You can't keep managin' all them damn acres by y'self, Armin. Gon' run y'self dry. I'm tellin' ya, she's good with her hands. I watched the girl fix a dishwasher under ten minutes. Jus' give 'er a chance."

One look at her through the diner's window and Armin had immediately sensed that there was more to the tiny, quiet thing standing behind the bar counter. He watched her stack about a dozen plates in her hands like it was nothing, noticed how she mouthed the words of a customer's order back to herself when she thought no one was watching. Yeah, she was shy, definitely — barely made eye contact with Armin for the first time after the two of them'd been working together after nearly five weeks — but there was also something else to it. She was careful . . observant . . cautious.

Watching her guide you through the hall, a hand on your bicep, careful not to jostle you too much however with just enough pressure to sweetly nudge you forward, it's obvious to many that, although small, Jubie is fiercely protective of who and what she cares about. This, the two of you, makes sense because after only having been around you for about an hour and a half now, Armin can tell that you're just as shy. And like Jubie, it's clear that you happened to stumble across this little town in Missouri unintentionally.

Whether destiny brought you here or not, Armin knows one thing is for certain: you're not walking back out of their lives tonight. Not when the weariness settled so deep within your bones makes your vulnerability as obvious as the nose on your face and surely not while Jubie’s here. Armin doesn't even think she'd let you.

"Down there is Armin's office. Boring stuff. Farm paperwork."

He watches from his position still seated at the table as you both slowly round the staircase. You listen closely, sometimes tilting your head as Jubie explains all of the quirks of their home — the cute, little reading nook beside the mud room's door, how this closet is stacked with spare pillows and blankets, and that bathroom has a window that can never fully close shut so it gets really cold in there during the winter. Obediently, you follow her around, nodding most times, before occasionally asking a small question with both hesitation and wonder coating the cadence of your voice. In turn, Jubie patiently answers them all — there's a certain rhythm to you both. Quiet and intimate.

"Send 'er to bed, sweetheart," Armin calls out when you're both finally upstairs.

"Okay!" Jubie’s voice quiets back down when speaking to you, "Guess I'll show you the rest tomorrow. This is the guest room."

When she opens the door, the faint scent of lavender and warm wood greets you both. The room is small, cozy with a pillow topped queen sized bed centered against the far wall beside a window. Its frame is made entirely out of hardwood and catches your attention first. A thick quilt, hand stitched in muted patterns printed with fern leaves and suns, covers the entire mattress and adds a rustic charm. In front of the bed, against its own wall is a simple dresser made of the same wood of the headboard. A small ceramic lamp with its shade decorated with hopping hares sits on top of it.

There's an old chair sitting in front of the long, narrow window near the foot of the bed as well and holds a thin blanket that's been draped over the back of it. The air feels calm . . safe, almost as if its been waiting for you.

"I think I have . . ." Jubie never finishes her sentence because after sliding open one of the dresser's drawers and shuffling through it for a moment, she produces a thin, pink pair of shorts and loose t shirt, about two sizes bigger than your regular. "Here. You can keep them too, if you want."

"Oh," tenderly, you take them with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Jubie."

She watches you slowly walk over to the bed to take a seat and instantly, your body sinks into the mattress, making her suddenly giggle, "Okay, yeah. You're super tired. I'll leave you be." Stepping within the doorway, for a second, she hesitates and lingers within it to watch you rub your hand over the material of the quilt, finding it to be much softer than it appeared.

"Uhm . ."

When your eyes snap back up to hers, fingers still delicately tracing the scalloped stitching, she closes her mouth then gives a small shake of her head, leaving her curls crushing up against her mole dotted cheeks as she does. "We'll see you in the mornin', 'kay? . . Gnight."

Still smiling, you nod while clutching the fabric of the t shirt and shorts in your hand, "Okay. Sleep well."

She lingers for a bit longer, just enough to give you a final warm glance before she fully exits while softly shutting the door behind herself. The faint click of the latch fastening makes you sigh and fall back against the pillows. You allow the weight of the day to melt within your bones as the strange comfort being here, near Jubie . . near Armin, underneath their roof, become a gentle reminder that you're fed and safe. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, after you've gotten undressed and into the pajamas Jubie had given you then bury yourself beneath the quilt in bed, you think that you can hear the distant mutter of their voices downstairs, nonetheless, exhaustion overtakes you, leaving the world to darken.

・・・・・

Sunlight streams in through lacy, white curtains the next morning which paints the guest room in shades of amber.

And sweet scents of yeast and wood waft about the farmhouse as you stir beneath the comforter that's somehow gotten itself tangled around your limbs. Your eyelids are heavy with sticky remnants of tears that cling on tight to the wisps of your lashes as you fight to open them. Nightmares. They've been reoccurring since the day you turned eight. And while some nights are better than others, waking up only once from them has become a victory . . some are worse. Last night'd been moderate. Only three times did you gasp yourself conscious, only to find yourself here in this room, on Armin's farm, with him and Jubie only two rooms away . . . and the thought of them had been calming enough to lull you back into a slumber each time.

One look at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed and upon reading 10:37 am, the time makes you sit up slowly while rubbing your hands over your face, trying your best to fight off the drowsiness that still stubbornly lingers through your veins while fishing through your backpack for your toothbrush.

You didn't mean to sleep so late. You're not even supposed to still be here.

After brushing your teeth in the tiny guest bathroom across the hall from the bedroom, peeling your pajamas off and sliding into the only other outfit your bag holds, which is another pair of shorts, this pair a bubblegum pink, with a flowy white top, you're quick to redo your hair, and make your way downstairs where Al Green's Let's Stay Together drifts from an old, radio speaker and meets you halfway towards the kitchen.

The warm smell of biscuits and sausage makes your tummy rumble. And standing in front of the stove, in a pair of dark denim overalls, tiny strapless crop top, and boots is Jubie. She hums softly to the song while standing on her tip toes to grab a specific biscuit from off the pan with a pair of steel tongs. Her head of curls are pulled up today in a large ponytail with a claw clip. The sight of her makes something in your chest constrict. Bathed within the morning sun, she somehow looks even prettier.

At the sound of your footsteps, she turns her head, eyes widening just for a moment before a big, bright smile overtakes her glossy lips, "Mornin'."

"Good morning," your cheeks feel warm as you walk over to the table. "I . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake up so late."

You take a seat as she slides a plate of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and sausage on over to you, " 's okay, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ," her voice is soft while she walks over to the fridge. "We don't mind. We hope you slept well."

We.

Your eyes scan the kitchen and hallway as your ears tune in more intensely for a sound of a gruff, deep Mississippi drawl or grumble, but nothing. You gather that he must be out working. "Oh." Jubie’s setting a cold jar of grape jelly beside your plate alongside a pitcher of what appears to be fresh squeezed apple juice. "Y-Yeah, I slept fine."

You can feel her staring at you as she takes the seat beside you today with a biscuit held between her fingers. You only manage to take a bite of your sausage link and chew three times before she's suddenly giving a small gasp, ". . You still have those nightmares?"

Instincts scream at you to deny her claim so you do, "No. I don't, I swear—"

"—Don't lie," she's coo'ing in soft consolation while scooting closer to the edge of her seat to somehow get a better look at your face now that you won't make eye contact. "See? You're still tired."

The pout she wears only makes you want to do the same. "Jubie, 'm fine—"

"—You are not." Her voice is soft but there remains a certain layer of firmness that makes your chest grow tight. One of her hands reach out, and her fingers hesitate before she ultimately decides to touch your forearm. ". . You're clammy. You were sweatin' in your sleep . . . You're worn out, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ."

"That's okay—"

The huff of a man clearing his throat from debris breaks the conversation in two. Both of your heads lift to watch Armin walk down the hall with the screen door slamming shut behind him. The closer he gets, the more you tense. When he's standing within the arched threshold of the kitchen, large, stocky frame nearly spanning from edge to edge, you can hardly swallow your last bite of biscuit. He has on another cowboy hat today, this one a deep, chocolate brown, some spots of it well worn where his fingers have gripped it too much over the years. He looks at you two girls while pulling off of his work gloves slowly. "Mornin', lil miss," He soon mumbles while walking closer to the table. "Sleep alright?"

The biscuit is forced down your esophagus by your tongue, "Y-Yes sir."

Jubie doesn't say much but you can feel some disappointment radiating off of her in small waves.

Licking your lips, you suddenly stand which takes the both of them by slight surprise. Armin's hand finds a grip on one of the chairs' back while Jubie straightens her spine, "Thank you both for allowin' me to spend the night, I really appreciate it."

When you grab your bag, Jubie’s bolting up on her feet. "W . . Wait. Where are you goin'?"

". . 'm not sure yet, but—"

"—You don't have to leave so soon," she gently interrupts with the springs of her hair bouncing slightly as she takes a step closer your way. "C'mon, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . Please? You jus' woke up, ain't even had a chance to breathe yet. Eat . . . S-Stay a little longer."

You won't lie. A large part of you is startled by the insistence layered beneath her tone. Her words aren't demanding, but there's a small edge — one she's only ever used with you. Tenderness intertwined tightly with tenacious care. And it's always been hard to deny her when she looks at you like that. Feline shaped eyes somehow wide and full of hope with her dimples forming in the soft dough of her cheeks.

You nibble on your bottom lip, "I—"

Armin's voice cuts through, deep and quiet, "Jubie’s jus' worried about ya', 's all. And she's got a point, too. Ain't no shame in stayin' till y'ready to move. You must've been walkin' a long time yesterday."

His words land heavy within you all. Part of you still wants to protest. You never want to be that person who overstays their welcome. But, your body feels like lead. The muscles of your calves still strain, shoulders ache, and spine feels taut — you're tired.

Jubie doesn't give you a chance to make a decision. Quickly, she interlocks her arm within yours to lead you towards the hall, "C'mon. I'll show you the rest of the house and then I'll give you a tour of the farm. You'll love it, I promise. The animals love meetin' new people. I think you'll like Junebug the most . . ."

・・・・・

Somehow, in some way, Armin’s farm is more beautiful than it appears.

After the rest of the house tour is completed, Jubie’s leading you out of the back door first, down a smooth, dirt path. The late morning air is warm and carries the scent of damp earth and hay as you silently follow behind her while twisting at the small, gold bracelet encircled around your wrist. Your eyes dart about, taking in the world around you that appears both wild yet meticulously cared for. The barns are first — both sets of doors wide open as if they were welcoming you two in. Pointing up at the hayloft of the bigger one, Jubie spins on her heels with a sweet giggle, “I like to nap up there sometimes. ‘s peaceful.”

You can picture her, curled up on a cushion, eyes closed, lips parted as sparkles of dust dance within the golden beams of sunlight squeezing in through the barn’s narrow slats. She takes you to the chicken coop after where the hens cluck hello and pick at the feed she holds out in her palm. You smile with your hands interlocked in front of your lips, amazed at how calm she is surrounded by nearly a dozen of them. “They’re sweet, but not as sweet as m’Junebug.” Junebug turns out to be a young goat. Happily he bleats while nudging into her touch as the three of you stand within a field of bright, green grass. You can’t help but to kneel and give him a soft pet which he responds sweetly too — a louder bleat, turns away from Jubie and pushes more into your hand.

Showing you the horses is next. They graze about a wide fenced paddock beside the barn and she points towards the more leaner one with a shiny, chestnut colored coat and dark mane. “Sonnet’s mine.” The other is more broad through the chest, strong, with a deeper, chocolate tone. “That’s Claude. Armin’s. He’s . . . mean and stubborn, only ever listens to Armin, but he’s loyal.”

As if to prove a point, Claude gives a small wuffle while continuing to chew on a handful of hay like the interaction with you both is barely worth his time. You can’t help but softly snicker. “He’s handsome.”

Jubie giggles, “Yeah, he is . . . such a meanie though.”

Further down the paddock is a third horse. You can tell he’s younger than the other two almost immediately. Body not quite proportioned yet, with long legs and a little less muscular than Claude. He seems strong, even so. Anyone looking at him can see that he’ll grow into a lot of power.

“That’s Samson,” Jubie murmurs with a soft smile as you both walk a little closer to him. “Armin brought him home, like . . eight months ago. Someone was sellin’ him for dirt cheap ‘cause he’s too erratic for work.”

He takes a few, curious steps closer to the fence. His golden coat shines like honey beneath the sunlight as he breathes a warm puff of air towards you while lowering his head over the rail. Hesitatingly, you reach out . . and he doesn’t flinch when your fingertips brush over the long bridge of his nose. “Hi Samson,” you whisper. “He’s so sweet.” Erratic. You don’t see it one bit as he nudges his face into your hand for another loving stroke.

Jubie’s wearing a wide grin while flicking her eyes between you both, “Maybe he’s found his rider, finally.”

The corn field, sugarcanes, then beyond them, nestled between rolling hills of green is a small forest. Jubie tells you that a creek runs through it, shallow but beautiful, and while staring off at it, you feel the gravitating pull — knowing that it promises hidden nooks and sweet solitude when needed. When you both make it back towards the house, she casually calls your attention to the two, long rows of clothesline strung between strong posts. Your eyes denote the fabrics gently swaying on a breeze. Soft cottons and linens, in between them, some daintier, frilly, and threaded with bows and lace. Warmth floods your cheeks as you quickly look away towards Armin’s plaid flannels and sun faded jeans. What’s more interesting are the stuffed animals, clipped by their ears as they also swing softly in the wind — a plush, white bunny, chubby, pink pig, and classic soft brown teddy bear. “Armin’s up usually super early in the mornin’,” Jubie softly says when you’re both entering the house’s back door again. “Usually five, four if he got enough sleep. He feeds everybody, makes sure that they have fresh water, makes a round through the fields to also make sure nobody or nothin’ got in durin’ the night.

“Then, he usually heads down the hill to check the mailbox, talk t’a few of our neighbors if he’s in the mood. Makes a cup of coffee, reads the paper, sits out on the porch and smokes after he’s done. He don’t talk much in them moments but . . if y’ever happen to wake up with him then jus’ . . watch. You’ll find that it’s nice.”

You both have stopped in the hall, next to the stairwell. She stands on the second step, arms on the banister, chin resting on them. The tour’d been long, you have no doubt that she’s a little bit winded because you are too. Her words make you hesitate. She speaks like there’s a chance that ever could happen.

“After that, he’s usually patchin up the barns, fixin’ fences, checkin’ irrigation an’ stuff. He’s always busy, always movin’. But he always has an eye out and his ears open too. He’s amazin’.”

The way her voice drifts off on a sweet tilt makes your heart thud a little harder in your chest. Hearing her talk about him is sweet. It reminds you that this is their life. This home, this farm — it’s all something that’s been built, long before you winded up on their porch. Before you can say anything else, Jubie perks up with her eyes wide, “Ooh, hold on a second — I gotta, uhm, I gotta pee.”

You listen to her boots scamper upstairs which leaves you still standing there beside the banister. For a moment, you don’t move. You gather in a long, deep breath through your nose then blow it out of your mouth. Nine years.

Nine years and Jubie has managed to build a safe, secure life.

A life you’re only peeking your head in to admire before you exit again. Your eyes slowly scale along the dark walls, framed photos, and soft hum of the whirling ceiling fan in the living room. Jubie’s touch is everywhere — in some of the vinyls by artists you know she’s always loved that play peekaboo between the others, the cute, worn sandals lined beside the door, and hand stitched, decor pillows that have been attentively placed in a specific order on the couch. As much as you see her in the home, you see Armin as well. The wallet and truck keys tossed carelessly on a side table, messy notebooks full of quickly scrawled measurements and sketches of some barn renovations prove so.

The delicate scent of tobacco smoke carries the weight of him too. All of the tiny imperfections and purposeful placements tell stories of a man and girl in love and maintaining a sweet, peaceful life together.

Maybe you should leave now. Maybe it’s better to before your yearning gets worse. Whether said yearning is in regards to the stability and calmness that’s maintained here, their life, or something even deeper — you shake your head before your brain starts to spiral.

You walk to the door, bend to grab your bag from beside it, push a hand out on the screen and step outside.

Soft, healthy grass brush against your ankles as you track your way across the yard towards the driveway after hopping off of the porch. Distantly, you think about the route you saw Armin drive to get here. Maybe there will be a rest stop somewhere out there if you start walking now.

Nevertheless, you don’t make it far.

Near the parked truck, leaned against the fence with a boot on the lower post behind him, Armin slowly wraps a long, tattered rope around his palm. The material of his gloves creak between each completed loop as ice blue eyes watch you from beneath the shadow of his hat that’s been pulled a little bit lower on his forehead. You’re whispering something to yourself, something he can’t really hear.

“Headin ‘ out already?”

His voice makes you startle and freeze about ten feet away from the truck within that field of grass. He watches your hands tighten around the should straps of your backpack. “U-Uhm,” your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the breeze. “Yeah.”

You watch him finish that last loop of the rope around his hand before he rings the completed pile of it on one of the fence’s wooden posts. He straightens out then, starts to take his gloves off, “. . Does Jubie know that?”

A twist in your gut tells you not to lie to him, so you don’t. “No, sir.”

He hums, walking over to you slow while snatching the other glove off, “Yeah,” he inhales a breath, reaches behind him to shove them in his back pocket. “Funny thing about boltin’ . . folks usually do it before settlin’ in.”Armin looks down at the picture you make when he’s standing about two feet away from you. Posture slumped over, big, brown eyes locked somewhere on his chest to avoid his own. “House this big, only two people livin’ in it . . . plenty a’room f’a third pair of boots by the door,” a sharp, blue eyed gaze flicks across the pretty features of your face. “You ain’t exactly crowdin’ nobody.”

Your eyes fall down to your shoes before you slowly begin to rock from left to right on them, “. . ‘s not that simple,” is your mumbled reply.

“Most things ain’t, lil lady.”

For a moment, you two stand there, bathed in silence. You listen to the wind whistle against your ears, feeling Armin’s unmoving gaze locked on every little movement you make. Your brain fights to compartmentalize his words. Stay . . . It’s while you’re asking yourself ‘why should you?’ when the house’s front, screen door suddenly is pushed open. You hear the swift pats of bare feet slapping against the porch steps before they’re moving across the grass.

“What’re you doin . . .”

Jubie’s voice is soft, but hearing it still makes something in your heart pang.

Halfway, you turn to look at her taking in how she stands about six feet away with her arm hugged across her stomach, eyes wide as she stares into your own before they flick towards Armin then back at you. She looks scared . . confused, taken aback. All three. Especially upon noticing the backpack you carry. Quieter, she asks, “You leavin’?”

You swallow. Standing between them both makes you feel like you’ve been caught in the middle of something that wasn’t even supposed to be disturbed. “. . I feel like ‘ve stayed for too long already, Jules.”

Owlishly, she blinks at that, “Stayed too long?”

Armin knows not to interrupt. He folds his arms while taking in the picture of two girls standing a few yards apart on his field. One frozen, nearly halfway gone, the other who’s appearance and voice makes it seem as though the ground is halfway close to crumbling beneath her feet without warning. He watches Jubie take two steps forward, “B-But you jus’ got here yesterday. That ain’t too long.”

“I jus’,” you’re looking down at your feet again while moving some grass around with one. “I don’t wanna get used to this, that’s all.”

Your words hang between the three of you — dense and honest.

“This is your life. Your home. And I jus’ . . showed up outta nowhere—“

Jubie’s lips are beginning to pull with a frown, “—You didn’t jus’ show up. You found me.”

“Jubie—“

“—Did I s-say or do somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” is quickly said as you shake your head. “You didn’t. Cross m’heart.” She didn’t.

“Then why are you runnin’?”

That word makes you tense, “ ‘m not runnin’.”

Armin drags out a quiet, dry hum that reveals to you he doesn’t quite believe that either.

Jubie steps all the way forward until only about two are left between you both. Her eyes are searching yours for something when she says, “I used to sleep over at your house every weekend . . .” Memories of you both laying side by side on your tiny, twin sized mattress snap through your brain — nuzzled up against each other for warmth as you whispered into the dark, long after your bedtimes. The hum of your old box fan and venom filled spats drifting from underneath the crack of your door from your parents’ room acting as a backdrop. “We used to make plans at lunch about runnin’ away . . to somewhere safe. This is safe. Here with Armin is safe. Jus’ stay.” She’s reaching for your backpack strap to slowly begin to peel it off of your shoulder. “I can show you the creek—“

You’re pulling yourself away with a soft, nervous smile pulling at your lips, “I jus’ don’t wanna overstay, Jubie.”

Armin finds himself staring at it. That warbled smile . . . before his eyes shift down to the new, exposed skin of your back through your top where an old splotch of blue and purple decorate the soft, brown skin near the bone of your shoulder. It’s pure coincidence that when the pieces align, you end up mumbling, “I h-have people lookin’ for me.” Your voice is thin. “I think he’s still tryin’ to find me.”

Jubie blinks, “. . . What do you mean?”

Armin hums, eyes fixed on that bruise for a second longer before he utters, “That so.”

“I left about . . eight days ago now,” you reply, voice quiet.

“Boyfriend?” Jubie asks.

“Barely.”

Armin’s tone remains calm yet you can still hear that something beneath it has shifted when he questions, “That fella the one that put that color on your shoulder?”

Instinctively, you reach to touch it while those big, brown eyes flutter up to his in shock. The question isn’t harsh . . just unexpected. A deep frown overtakes Jubie’s lips as the familiar sheen of tears begin to gloss the surface of her eyes, “. . He hurt you?” Her voice cracks. “W-Why didn’t you tell me?”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t utter a word. Denying their claims would be foolish when it’s obvious what’s going on. Jubie could always read your flimsy, little tells anyhow.

Armin exhales slowly through his nose, hands settling on his hips as he looks out towards the sloping, dirt road behind you. His eyes cling onto the landscape as though he’s measuring the distance . . like he’s imagining someone stupid enough to come slugging up here. “Been alone this whole time?”

After a few seconds, you give a timid nod.

He scratches slowly at the scruff of his jaw before saying one, simple word, “Alright.”

It’s in the manner of how he says it which makes you and Jubie look up at him. Like something’s been decided.

You opt to take a chance by taking one step back as your nervous systems still screams at you to bolt however, before your foot can even settle completely in the grass, pinning, blue eyes settle on yours beneath the shadow of his hat brim. Silently, he shakes his head. Don’t. “Somebody comes sniffin’ around here lookin’ for a girl who don’t wanna be found, they gonna have a real hard time doin’ so.”

Something cracks opens within your chest, something akin to hope — a feeling you haven’t felt in a long, long time. It spills over into places that have been dark within you for years.

“Ain’t many folks daft enough to come pokin’ ‘round on my land uninvited anyhow.”

His statement isn’t loud. Doesn’t need to be. He doesn’t ask neither. His boots crush over loose pebbles as he starts his trek towards his truck, “Sandwiches for you girls’ll be ready in an hour.” He opens the driver door. “. . Take ya’ over to the creek afterwards.”

The realization settles in slowly. For both you and Jubie. He isn’t asking, he isn’t offering. You’ve been decided for and he’s making room.

You hear Jubie breathe out a shaky breath. When you look at her, she’s covering a big smile with trembling fingers. You can practically feel the happiness beaming off of her and waves. “. .You hear that?”

Your heart thuds against your chest.

“You’re stayin’.”

Disbelief cradles your voice as you weakly ask, “. . I am?”

“Uh huh,” she mumbles while inching closer to you. A sweet pout overtakes your lips. This feeling . . .

It’s strange and unfamiliar. But it’s warm and overpowering, too. For so long, you’ve been feeling displaced. Never stopping long enough to keep a fulfilling connection with anyone — always moving. Always running. And now here you are. Standing here on the massive acres of a quiet farm in rural Missouri while your childhood best friend gazes at you as if she’d just received something precious back that she lost years ago. Your eyes drift towards Armin’s truck when you hear the engine purr to life. He doesn’t look back again. He doesn’t need to. He knows what and who will be waiting for him when he gets back.

“C’mere.” Jubie’s gently squeezing your hand before tugging you back towards the house. “Let’s go get you settled in.”

・・・・・

When the sun has finally settled beneath the horizon, the moon hangs high within the sky, and dinner has been made, served, and ate, Jubie finds herself seated on the kitchen counter. The farm is quiet. The house is too.

You retired off to bed early — finished eating, took a long shower, then let the guest bedroom door close behind you with a soft click. Jubie had done the same. Only instead of slipping off to bed, she’d tip toe downstairs, around the banister, down the hall, to head to the kitchen where she’d found her lover pouring a glass half full of whisky with two ice cubes in it. He’s still the only one dressed, only now, without his hat. Jubie can’t help but admire him as he takes a gulp to the head — tilting his own back with the strong etch of his jaw flexing as he clamps his mouth closed, swallows, then breathes out a slow, deep breath after.

She picks at the frayed hem of one of his old wife beaters she’s stolen for the night as neither of them speak for a while. Serenity. That’s what Armin brings. Being with him has taught her what quiet is supposed to feel like when it isn’t dangerous — not the kind that makes her listen for footsteps creeping towards her door or the kind that culminates into something horrible happening next.

Just sweet silence. Heavy in the best way.

Jubie lets her eyes drag up the strong line of his body slowly. It’s what she always does when she thinks he isn’t looking.

But Armin feels it. He knows. He always does.

His steps toward her are unhurried and slow. He’s taking another sip from his glass when he stops directly in front of her. While swallowing, the ice clinks softly as he lowers his hand then utters, “You shouldn’t be up.”

Jubie hums, “I know.”

“Mm.”

The wind whistles outside, in between the wooden chimes hanging from a hook near the kitchen’s back door. “. . Thank you, Papa” she soon says while her fingers tug at the shirt hem again. “For lettin’ her stay.”

Armin’s hand falls flat upon the counter near her hip. “Ain’t nothin’ I had to think too much about.” He reads the softness that sits on her pretty, feline like features, not surprised to watch her soon say, “She feels . . more fragile.”

It’s a conversation that’s been waiting to happen. Armin knows that Jubie’s been watching you like a hawk for he has too. That’s why he doesn’t deny it.

He nods, once. Slowly. “She does.”

Jubie’s lips scrunch to the side as her eyes flick quickly from side to side behind Armin as if her thoughts were caught up in a whirlwind. “She kept sayin’ that she doesn’t wanna overstay . . . ‘s like she’s waitin’ to get told to leave or something.”

Armin exhales slowly through his nose, looks down at his glass, before pulling it towards his lips, “She remind me a’you.”

Jubie blinks and refocuses her sight back to him. “. . Me?”

“Mhm. Shy . . . Cautious. Too soft for a world that don’t care if ya’ soft or not.”

He says it like it’s not an observation but recognition. A pause settles between them again as Jubie takes it in.

“World eats up girls like that,” He continues on a gruff drawl. “Quiet ones. Sweet ones. The ones that don’t raise hell when they should . . . and I don’t like watchin’ it happen.”

His words land heavily. It makes her breathe out a small, shaky breath which makes his arm loop around her waist to tug her closer to him. “We have a lotta history, Pa,” she mewls with her eyes fixed on a button of his flannel that she fiddles with. “Me and her . . we grew up together. And her parents . . . weren’t good to her. Like, ever. Was always fightin’, always loud, only paid her attention when they had to. I’d go to her house sometimes just so that she wouldn’t be alone. Sometimes she came to mine, but it was always durin’ the day ‘cause I didn’t want her around . . when m’stepdad . . .” She suddenly stops, swallows, and shakes her head. Armin sets his glass down.

“Hey,” he drags out lowly. “ ‘s okay, lil one.”

“ ‘m sorry—“

Armin’s fitting the bottom of her jaw between the web of his index and thumb to pull her face up for deep, slow pecks to her lips. That apology dies on her tongue because it isn’t needed. The sound of the sets of them meeting then pulling away are sticky and loud within the calmness of the kitchen. He doesn’t want her to think about it. And truth be told, he doesn’t want to think about it. The rage he’s susceptible to feeling each time he’s reminded of what his girl has gone through is enough to have Armin seeing red behind his eyes.

The anger crawling up his spine is something old yet violent however he inhales slowly while pulling away, brushing his forehead against hers to force the feeling back down where it belongs. Because Jubie deserves calm more than she deserves vengeance.

“None a’that was your fault,” he mumbles, eyes closed while breathing her in. “. . Understand me? Don’t apologize for nothin’ like that.”

He feels her faint nod, “I know.”

But the frailty that underlines her tone tells him that knowing and believing are two different things. He tilts his head down once more, brushing a smaller kiss against that pretty mole that sits upon the line of her upper lip, near her cupids bow.

“I never wanted her t’see that part of my life back then,” she says. “She used to ask me to sleep over sometimes . . and I used t’make a bunch of excuses . . she probably knew I was lying.”

Armin gently huffs, “Kids know more’n folks give ‘em credit for.”

Jubie nods with a sad frown pulling at her lips before her gaze drifts out towards the hall. “I liked bein’ there for her . . more than she knew. She always had these nightmares. Real bad ones. Would wake up breathin’ like she ran a mile . . sometimes I’d wake up to her sobbin’ in ‘er sleep and I’d make her listen to m’heartbeat jus’ to calm ‘er down.”

Armin pictures that — a younger Jubie and you. Two small girls crammed side by side on a tiny mattress somewhere in a house that never felt safe enough. Jubie’s little arms wrapped around you with your face pressed against her chest as the two of you breathed together. He imagines you clutching her shirt in your sleep. Jubie coo’ing against your bonnet until your crying stopped. His jaw tightens.

“. . That right?”

Jubie’s fingers pick at his flannel again, “She used to say that m’house felt calmer. And I mean . . it wasn’t. Not really. But our days were quieter. My momma would be sleepin’ off whatever she drank the night before, brother out ditchin’ with his no good friends, and uhm, he’d be at work so . .” she huffs a quiet, timid breath. “For a few hours, me and her could pretend that our lives were normal.”

Deep, blue eyes study her face. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

Jubie processes that while looking down at her small, nimble fingers, “. . Yeah. It was.”Quieter, she whispers, “. . . I want her to stay, Dad.” The words come out as though she’s been dying to finally say them. She sounds exhausted. “F-Feels like if she leaves . . I won’t ever see her again. Again.”

“I know, honeybee,” Armin leans in to press a long kiss against her forehead. “I know.”

And upstairs, the quiet guest room echos with your deep, sleeping breaths — completely unaware to the two people downstairs are already quietly deciding on molding their lives to fit you in it.

・・・・・

Learning to live with Armin and Jubie on the farm is quieter than you expected.

Not an empty, aching quiet. Just . . . steady.

Out here, the silence breathes — sweet and peaceful so at first, you simply wait for it. A slammed door or harsh curse so that you can bolt first thing. But neither happens. Mornings start early . . mostly for Armin, that is. Usually, he’s waking up before the sun . . his footsteps heavy and slow as he lugs himself around the bedroom. Sometimes you hear the pipes groan as he gets a shower going. He’s always in there for about fifteen minutes tops before their bedroom door is opening. What’s odd . . is sometimes you can hear his footsteps stop for a split second before he walks downstairs.

Near your door. Like he’s listening for your breathing through the walls — checking to see if you’re still here.

You suppose that whenever he’s satisfied with whatever it is he’s doing, he then carries on down the staircase.

Jubie’s different in the mornings.

Quieter, softer. She’s up about an hour later. Hour and a half is she stayed up longer the night before. On a rare morning when the both of you happen to open your doors at the same time, you found her standing at the top of the staircase, preparing to walk down. Her curvy, little frame sheathed by a thin nightgown as she held a stuffed bunny within the crook of her elbow. Its fur curly, worn soft, and eggshell white with beady black eyes and a pink, triangular shaped nose. Sticking out of her silk, baby blue bonnet were her curls as she rubbed her eye with a fist.

Something about the sight had made your heart stutter on its next beat. During the days, Jubie’s shy. She’s shy yet giggly and spirited and vibrant. During the nights she becomes quieter, a little more reflective as though she’s sorting through pieces of the day and things she doesn’t yet know how to say out loud. But the mornings, you think the mornings house your favorite version of Jubie.

“Mornin’,” she had smiled softly. Mole dotted lips, bleary brown eyes, and dimples. You swallowed, “Gmorning.”

She always asks . . . “You sleep okay?”

“Mhm. I t-think so.”

And then she always studies you for a few seconds — you suppose to make sure that you aren’t lying to her. It’s when your stay with them inches into nearly eight later when you gently ask Jubie, “Do you think that I can help out with the farm, too . . ?”

She’d been curled up on the couch, knitting a blanket with that same, familiar bunny tucked in close beside her folded knees. You learned that its, her, name was Babs. “I dunno,” her lips quirked up with a small, cute smile as she kept her eyes focused on her swift moving fingers. “You’d have to ask Armin.”

Armin.

“Oh.” Suddenly your body feels like an olive being held up on only two toothpicks. That. You picked up on it, instantly — how she says his name like it’s both a boundary and permission slip. Jubie’s aware that Armin intimidates you. She knows without you having to say it. Your sentences so far have been curt when speaking to him and eye contact is barely made. When the two of you happen to be in a room alone, you’re quick to suddenly dismiss yourself up to your own or outside to sit upon the porch. It bothers Jubie a bit, she’ll be honest.

That’s why she glances up at you to softly say, “He’s not mean, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Jus’ particular. Especially ‘bout the farm. ‘Bout things bein’ done right.”

You shake your head quickly with the lie already sitting on your tongue, “I don’t think he’s mean.”

Jubie’s head tilts. She doesn’t say much, only gives a look that rather reveals her true, obvious thought before softly sighing and leaning bank further against the couch cushions while pulling Babs closer to her chest. “He’ll say yes.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “He watches you a lot.”

That single sentence makes your heart drop in a way you can’t fully explain as she continues with, “Not in a bad way . . jus’ . .” softly, “his way.”

Your fingers pull at the hem of the loose nightshirt you still wear as you shift your foot to curl your toes over the top of your opposite one. You’re not sure the statement comforts you. Intuitively, you turn your head to look out towards the living room’s entry, down the hall, thinking that Armin might just appear from inside the walls at the sheer mention of his name. Jubie giggles softly, “He’s not inside.”

Shyly, you stammer, “I wasn’t—“

“—He checks on you too. In the early mornings sometimes.”

Your heart skips as you go to softly press your lips together at the confirmation of your thoughts being true. Jubie’s only glancing at you now as she works her needles a bit slower. “He doesn’t . . think I notice, I guess,” she continues quietly. Beneath her tone reads fondness — like she’s been wanting to say this for quite a little bit now. “But I do.”

You think about those heavy footsteps and how still the house goes in between those long pauses. “W-Why?”

“He wants to be careful, I think,” she says. The answer feels incomplete, as though there’s more to it but Jubie decides to leave it there for now. You’re made to stand there with your mind silently racing as the distant crunch of boots against dirt and pebbles grows closer and closer towards the front door. They make it towards the end of the trail and up the porch steps before the screen door is being pulled open with a creak and the front is pushed.

Armin steps inside the house carrying the scent of sun warmed leather, grass, and something like gasoline with him when he slowly exits the foyer to stand there within the living room’s large, curved threshold. A cream, suede cowboy hat’s brim shadows his eyes for a split second before he knocks it up to really get a look at you two girls. Jubie curled up on the couch, you standing beside the arm of it like you’d been caught doing something wrong. Arctic blue eyes settle on you as he slowly pulls off one of his gloves, finger by finger, to then hold in his hand while reaching his new, bare one towards his back pocket.

“Was thinkin’ me and you girls head off into town,” he mumbles while opening a box of marlboros to pull a stick out with practiced ease without looking at his hands. “Two a’you can’t share a wardrobe forever.”

Gently, Jubie gasps as her face instantly brightens, “Shoppin’?”

“Mhm,” he pulls it to his lips along with a hand cupped around the flame emitting from the valve of a gold zippo held between his fingers. “Truck. Outside. Fi’teen minutes.”

He begins the trek down the hall towards his office near the back of the house and you can’t help but let your stare linger on the wide span of his shoulders stretching the black fabric of a nicely fitted button down whose sleeves have been pulled halfway up the strong line of his arms dusted in dark blond hair. Built like an ox. You’ve heard the saying before but have never seen someone who fit it until him. The attractive taper off his waist is more pronounced due to a brown, leather belt being pulled through the loops of his tailored levis that hug the firm shape of his glutes.

You like the way he walks.

Not particularly lazy when it comes to his speed, just . . unhurried. A quiet kind of saunter. There’s heavy weight transferred into each long stride of his legs as his hips naturally sway — not in an exaggerated way. It’s a movement that’s simply hard not to notice when the person’s wearing well fitted denim. When he suddenly turns his head over his shoulder to look at you, your gaze clashes with his, causing you to lightly startle.

On a low drawl he says,“Got you some boots too, sweetheart. By the front door.” Before he’s opening his office door to step inside then close it behind himself.

When he’s gone, you suddenly feel like you can breathe again.

And twenty minutes later, per his instructions, you and Jubie are seated upon the cracked vinyl of his Ford’s bench seat, you in the middle, Jubie passenger, as four wheels roll you all closer and closer to town. Your toes slowly wiggle within your new boots as tall rows of wheat lazily sway as Armin drives with one of his hands resting high on the wheel and his other arm hanging out of the window. Ever so often you feel his gaze, covered by his black tinted, aviator sunglasses, drift towards your face within the rear view mirror. Not long enough to completely be a stare, not short enough to be only a glance either.

You listen to Jubie softly hum along to the music he plays as she walks her pretty, manicured fingers up and down the length of your palm that she holds in her lap out of boredom. Whenever the truck hits a small bump in the road, it subtly knocks the three of your bodies against each other though no one makes an effort to adjust or even acknowledge. You recognize when town is getting closer because about fifteen minutes later, Armin’s pulling his Ford over the gravel of an old gas station before he parks by a pump.

“Ol’ girl needs gas.”

Jubie perks up beside you, “May I go pay, please? They have those caramel apple suckers I like here.”

Armin cuts his eyes towards the little convenience store, spotting not another soul but the cashier inside before he’s slipping a fifty dollar bill from his thick, rubber banded wallet and into the small palm of Jubie’s hand.

“Twenty five on one. Don’t wander.”

When Jubie reaches for the door handle without responding to his words, interestingly enough, Armin’s voice has to grow softer for her to suddenly tense and pause to look at him. “Hey,” he hums, eyes piercing through hers through the lenses of his shades. “You say what? Yes . .”

Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip then quietly, “Yes, sir. I won’t wander. Pinkie promise.”

“That’s right,” he mumbles then juts his chin towards the store. “Go on now.”

Jubie’s opening the door and giving a small hop to land on her feet from the high risen truck. You swallow, watching her cutely skip towards the doors, cocoa butter scented curls bouncing behind her. Then you realize . . .

It’s just you and him.

The world feels smaller now. And he doesn’t move right away. The thumb on the wheel begins to lightly tap at it as the both of you stare out of the windshield listening to the door jingles when she disappears inside. When everything else goes quiet, you listen to him inhale a small breath and squeeze your hands into fists come his incoming question, “You always watch her like that?”

Your mouth dries, “. . L-Like what?”

The side of his mouth dips to respond with an expression saying ‘Who knows?’ “Like she might float away if you don’t.”

Your chin dips close to your chest. “I jus’ . .” you pause, trying to look for words to say but find them all inadequate to describe your feelings. “I don’t know . . .”

Silence settles for a little bit. You feel him turn his head an inch to look at you. “. . Y’nervous ‘round me?”

The question makes you instinctively shake your head, “No, sir.”

He waits. And you feel it — the ever growing pressure of someone who knows that you’re not telling the full truth.

You remain staring at your hands. “. . Jus’ a little.”

A small breath is puffed through his nose — not a sound of amusement, something more like recognition. “Tell me why.”

“You’re . .” once more, your brain scrambles while trying to search for the correct word — the perfect one that describes the sheer density that caves into your chest each time you happen to meet his eye. “Y-You’re really big.”

The minute the sentence leaves your mouth, you want to disappear into the seats.

Armin’s hums, expression remaining even, “Big.”

Delicately, almost weakly, you nod.

“Can’t help that,” he says with a small twitch of his lips.

“I didn’t mean—“

“—Y’aint got to apologize.” He watches your lips close as you go to give a small sigh and slump against the seat. “Up. Spine straight.” Without having to be told again, you straighten the length of your upper body. “You scare easily, lil miss.”

Your lips pull down into a frown, “I do not.”

“You do. An’ it ain’t necessarily a bad thing.” He turns his head back towards the windshield with a small suck to his teeth. “Means you pay attention.”

Studying his magnificent side profile for a moment, you recall Jubie’s words. ‘He watches you a lot. Not in a bad way . . jus . . his way.’ Unable to keep the words bottled down when they start to climb up your throat, you find yourself softly blurting out, “Do I make you nervous?” Maybe that’s why he’s always watching you, why every morning he stands by your door to listen for you. Maybe you unnerve him. Maybe this gives you an opening, an excuse, to leave.

However, your question seems to surprise him. Only for a millisecond. His thumb taps against the steering wheel, slow and contemplative. “No.”

Something in your gut flips from the quickness of his answer.

“. . No?”

A tinted gaze is turned and angled back down towards you. Calmly, he replies, “. . Naw. Ain’t nervous,” he drawls, steady and unrushed. His voice is gruff — raspy. It makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “I know what t’do with nervous things.”

The door bell jingles again as Jubie comes skipping past it while holding a handful of green wrapped lollipops. You feel his eyes slowly scan the features of your face before he’s shifting in his seat to push open the driver’s door and climb out. The truck rocks slightly when his boots his the gravel and proudly, as Armin’s unscrewing the cap from the gas chamber, she’s sliding into the seat beside you while announcing, “I got six! Hm.” She gives you one.

Inhaling a small, trembling breath, you pull the wrapper off to lay the oval shaped candy against your tongue. Sharp yet sweet. It makes the glands of your saliva water as you go to suck on it — green apple lollipops have always been yours and Jubie’s favorite candy. She’d already been suckling on hers while walking to the car, now that she’s seated with the door closed, she goes to pull hers free from her lips while looking at you before murmuring, “What’s wrong? . . You look nervous.”

You blink a few times before pulling yours away too, “‘m okay.”

Her head tilts, “Did you and Armin talk?”

“N-Not really.”

“Mmm.”

You look out of the rear view mirror.

He stands with one hand holding the pump, the other’s arm resting on the ledge of the truck bed. The beaming afternoon sun catches on the brim of his hat which obscures the upper half of his face — you can really only see the scruff of his jaw and lips. He looks calm . . . entirely unbothered. ‘I know what t’do with nervous things.’ It feels like out of a dozen cocoons, butterflies have erupted and made a home within your stomach. Jubie’s eyes are big and full of sweet innocence when she asks, “Did he say somethin’ you ain’t like?” upon following your gaze.

Quite the opposite. “. . N-Not that.”

“What he say?”

“That I scare easily.”

You watch a big smile creep up her soft, glossy lips. “Well . .” she giggles. “You do. You always have.”

“You do, too.” The pout you now wear is precious.

She’s giggling while leaning in to bump her shoulder against yours, “He didn’t mean that in a bad way, lovey . . I think all it means,” you find that she makes a cute pondering expression — eyes shift downward as her cheeks puff up as she scrunches her lips to the side. “I think it means that he likes that you pay attention.”

The both of you look at him.

The pump is pulled from the chamber after the tank tops it all off to the brim before a heavy clunk is heard. He returns the nozzle back to its cradle then takes his time twisting the cap back on. For a moment, he just stands there after that, looking out across the road while reaching into his back pocket — this time, for a small pack of gum. He’s thinking about something. Silently, you watch him unwrap a stick without looking at it to then fold it once between his fingers to then press upon his tongue. Then his head turns. He’s looking at you both.

Quickly, you turn your own back forward and pop your lollipop back in your mouth. Jubie grins, watching him start to walk back over. “You girls got everything you needed?” He asks after opening the driver’s door. Jubie chirps a soft, “Mhm!”

You simply nod.

The truck dips with his weight once he slides in beside you. “Alright then.”

・・・・・

The town of Cotter’s Mill only has a population of five hundred and eighty two. It’s a small dot on the map, located some miles away from Marlow River with mountains bordering it that seem to roll on forever. Most people pass through it without meaning to and there’s only about four conjoined roads that cut through the middle of town. You hear how Armin’s truck rumbles as it rolls down the main stretch. You and Jubie gaze at the old, tall brick buildings passing by — Cotter’s Feed & Supply, Dahlia’s Cafe, followed by a barber shop then hardware store. You watch Jubie press her finger against the window, “There’s Missus Loretta’s diner. I used to work there when I first got here. She serves peach cobbler on Saturdays.”

Your lips wrap around a coo as you picture it — Jubie in a cute, waitress uniform with a notepad and pen in hand as she jots down orders. “You used to work there?”

Armin hums as Jubie nods. “Yeah . .” she says as her eyes glaze over in melancholy. Softer, she finishes with, “I didn’t like it that much though.”

Watching a few people walking on the sidewalk lift their heads to glance at the vehicle you’re all in, you’re a bit surprised to see Armin lazily lift two of his fingers from off of the steering wheel to greet a few. Jubie’s voice is now a whisper when she tells you, “Everybody knows him.”

Cotter’s Mill General.

The engine rumbles to a still when the truck is parked out front. “Oh!” Jubie’s eyes are wide. “They got new skirts and dresses last week—”

“—Hold it,” Armin calmly cuts through. Her hand freezes on the door handle and both of you give him your attention. “Need you both to stay where I can keep an eye on you when we get in there, alright?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

“We will.”

When he’s satisfied with your answers, he climbs out first. You watch him round the front to the passenger door, jaw flexing as he slowly chews on his gum to then open the passenger’s. Jubie hops out first, waits for you to do the same, then takes your hand to gleefully pull you in the direction of the store’s doors. A bell jingles when you both walk inside. The AC has been cranked up high. You can smell cotton fabric, wood polish, and lemon scented floor cleaner as your eyes scan the place. It’s bigger than how the outside makes it appear. Full of racks and racks of clothing near the front of the store while shelves of household goods and items are assembled towards the back. Lining the walls are shelves full of boots and shoes as well.

Not a lot of people roam the inside. A mother and daughter here, elderly woman there, and a lone farmhand scratching his head while staring at the two dozen pair of work boots while trying to decide which he prefers.

It’s quiet, comfortably quiet, with only an old radio on the cashier’s counter breaking through the silence to play 54 Ultra’s I’m Hooked. The man standing behind the counter looks up over his newspaper through thin, wiry glasses before he’s dropping his hands to give a smile, “Well I’ll be,” he folds the paper. “Haven’t seen you two in a while.”

Armin stands behind you and Jubie, his stature easily towering over the both of yours as he gives a chin tilt, “Joseph.”

Joseph does the same, “Mister Arlert,” then his eyes slide down to Jubie. “How y’doin’, Miss Jubilee?”

She coyly smiles, “Hi, Joseph, ‘m doin’ swell, thank you.”

Then his gaze lands on you — curious and friendly. You squeeze Jubie’s hand a little bit tighter. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

Instinctively, you glance up, but Armin doesn’t step forward. He looks down at you through his sunglasses with his jaw still slowly working on that piece of gum. His voice is low yet soft when he says, “Go on. Introduce y’self, sweetheart.”

Something in the way he says so, cool and certain, makes your shoulders ease. Joseph’s obviously good in his book, so he’ll be good in yours too. “. . Hi,” you gently say. “ ‘m ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Miss ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Name’s Joseph.”

Armin gives a squeeze to Jubie’s waist. “I’ll be up front right here.”

She immediately lights up with a soft squeak, as if she’s been waiting to hear those exact words all day and starts to pull you in the direction of the racks. “I always find the cutest stuff in this area right here — ooh, see?”

She holds a thick, brown knitted cardigan up to your chest and you glance at the tag. “J-Jules, that’s expensive.”

She pouts, “So?”

“I can’t really let Armin buy me a whole, new wardrobe—“

“—He’d tell you that you aren’t lettin’ him do nothin’,” she pulls out a hanger holding a pink, polka dotted, lace trimmed top and pushes it into your hands without question. “He already decided.”

Gently frowning, you look down at the clothes already starting to pile up in your arms. Jubie’s eyes soften. She knows what you’re thinking about. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you deserve nice things.” The words hit you hard. “You always have.”

The next half hour passes by in a blur of babydoll dresses, gingham tops, tiny, jean shorts, overalls, and airy, short sleeved blouses. You end up with an armful before Jubie’s leading you to the dressing room, not too far away from the cashier’s counter, so that you both can get a look at how it all fits on you. From his position, leaning on a support beam with his arms folded while softly talking to Joseph, Armin has taken off of his glasses and holds them in one of his hands. Every now and again, you saw him watching you and Jubie maneuver through the racks — his stare piercing yet soft. The dressing room’s door is directly in his line of sight now. Therefore, when you emerge from it while dressed in a cute, red and white, sleeveless, gingham patterned romper, you’re able to catch the way he suddenly halts mid sentence while talking to Joseph.

The fabric is a snug fit. The hem sits a bit higher than clothes you’re used to wearing, however, you’re not uncomfortable with it . . just slightly more exposed than you’re used to. The bodice of it clings at your waist before slightly, barely, flaring out at your hips.

And for a second, you simply stand there . . unsure of how to stand or what to even do with your hands.

“I dunno, Jubie. Is it too short?”

She’s quiet now, too. You watch her eyes trace down your bosom, hips, thighs, and legs before she slowly drags them back up while inching a little closer to you, “No,” she murmurs quietly.

Her sharp stare makes you swallow as she steps closer to softly take you by the hips. You understand to give a small turn, feeling her eyes track every slight movement.

“Wow,” She mumbles when your back is facing her. Pauses.“. . Geez, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“W-What?” You turn your head over your shoulder, feeling jittery with nerves. “ ‘s it that bad?”

She exhales a small breath through her nose then you both are facing each other again. Quietly, shyly, she shakes her head, “No. You jus’ . . You look so pretty.”

Oh.

Your cheeks warm.

But before you can even respond, you feel something shift. When Armin pushed himself off of leaning against that beam? You don’t know. Nevertheless, the linoleum beneath his boots creak as he stops a couple feet away from you and Jubie with his gaze flicking over you — once, twice. It’s a stare of focus, only slightly hazed over with something darker. His voice sounds lower when he utters, “. . . Turn around again.”

Your breath catches.

Jubie glances between the two of you while biting down on a small smile like she’s trying not to make this into something bigger than what is.

Slowly, you obey.

Then for a moment, no one speaks. Armin’s eyes follow you closely, waiting until you’re facing him again before he breathes out a breath through his nose.

“Mm.”

That’s all he gives afterwards and you don’t know how to take that. His fingers flex around his glasses as Teddy tilts her head with her own held behind her back, “Looks pretty huh, Papa.”

Papa.

He doesn’t look away from you for a beat. “Yeah,” he simply responds. “Get it.”

Then he’s taking a step back and already turning back towards Joseph as though this slight exchange has been filed away into something fairly normal. With your brain still reeling, you watch Jubie lift her chin with a proud smile and half lidded eyes, “See?” she hums. “Told you.”

Another half hour later, after trying on basically everything plus finding three pair of new shoes, another pair of boots, satin mary janes, and bow adorned flats, the three of you watch Joseph ring everything up at the counter. Guilt chips away at your conscience, watching the total rise well into the three digits. He hasn’t even made a dent into the pile sitting in front of him yet. You glance up at Armin, finding him patiently standing a step behind you and Jubie with his hands on his hips. He’d been staring at the shelf of stuffed animals and novelties behind the front counter before his eyes suddenly shift downward for a second to meet your stare.

You quickly look away.

“Alright.” Joseph tells him the total and you turn towards Jubie.

“I can put some stuff back—“

“—Mm mm. Look.” The both of you watch Armin pull out his worn down, brown, leather wallet again. Casually, he peels off a small stack of hundreds and places them into Joseph’s hand without much of a thought given.

“I’ll meet you two in the truck, hm?” he hums while sliding it back into his pocket. “Say goodbye to Joseph.”

“See you later, Joseph,” Jubie smiles with a wave. “Thank you.”

He smiles, “Pleasure’s all mine, Jubilee. And it was mighty fine to meet you too, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

Respectfully, you wave goodbye, “Thank you.” and follow Jubie out of the front door, leaving Armin inside. You think about the reasons why he’d be staying in, if it’s anything bad regarding you, but, shockingly enough, only seconds after you and Jubie are situated in your seats, he’s pushing open the door with one arm full of paper bags and the other’s hand holding a stuffed lamb.

Its fur is curly, soft, and the color of muted cream. Your chest tightens the second you see it, already knowing that it was purchased for Jubie.

And after placing the bags within the trunk bed, he’s climbing it to surprisingly hold it out towards you. “For you.”

Your eyes widen, “Me?”

“Jubie has Babs. Figured you needed your own. Saw you glancin’ at it, too.”

You hadn’t even realized you were. Slowly, you reach out to take the lamb from his hand finding that the fur has warmed within his hold. You run your fingers across it as a soft smile pulls up the corners of your lips. Shes pretty. Black, beady eyes, floppy ears, and a small, stitched smile. Armin’s hand had dwarfed her completely, on your lap, her size is nearly the length of your wrist up a little ways past your elbow.

“Thank you . .” you bite down on your bottom lip, eyes wide and glistening when you look into his. “so much.”

Armin hums, “Wun’t nothin’, doll.” He hands over a paper wrapped bundle to Jubie, making her gasp. “And for you.”

Unwrapping the twine carefully, she soon emits a small squeal upon seeing what lies inside, “Eek!” A pair of small, gold hoops that dangle precious, vintage hearts. “Oh my gosh — thank you, thank you, thank you, Pa.”

It’s when you’re all back on the road, headed towards the farm when you let yourself relax. Really relax. Jubie hums along to the music again while admiring the new earrings now dangling from her ears in the side view mirror. You sit beside her quietly, fingers rubbing at the ear of the new friend in your lap, finding a sense of comfort in the repetition as calmness swathes over your usual overactive nervous system. For once in your life, you feel good. Nothing’s screaming at you to bolt or hide or cry. Then you feel Jubie’s fingers on your forearm. They slide down your skin until she’s able to press her palm flat against your own to then slowly, naturally, fit her small fingers between the spaces of yours.

You blush.

“What are you gonna name her?”

“Uhm,” you hesitate then shrug. “. . I dunno.”

You look at Armin. His gaze remains steady on the road as you timidly ask, “Do you have a name for her?”

There’s a brief pause. Jubie’s thumbs stroke across your knuckles while the both of you wait for his answer. He clicks his tongue after a while, “Lily.”

“Lily?” you look down at the stuffed animal as he nods.

“She seems like a Lily.”

Jubie smiles, “Lily and Babs. I like it.”

Lily. You smooth your fingers over the fur between her ears as the road curves towards the familiar stretch leading to the farm. “Hi, Lily.”

・・・・・

A month passes by.

Slowly.

You’re granted permission to work on the farm alongside Armin and Jubie the next day after being gifted your new boots. It’s honest work . . gives you purpose. Neither you or Teddy do as much work as Armin, but it’s enough to have you winded by noon. The two of you alternate days doing certain duties. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays, you feed the chickens and collect their eggs. Jubie does so on the others, though the two of you often end up helping one another anyway, giggling quietly when one of the hens peck at one of your boots or hands to make the other hiss in irritation.

Armin also has you and her brushing out the horses’ manes in the afternoons. It’s a chore that requires a lot of patience. Very meticulous. Jubie talks to them softly all the while she does so, tells you that it’s nice to tell them her secrets and you should try. You gravitate towards Samson, naturally . . finding him all too sweet and take her advice. Gently, you like to mumble to him about your day — little thoughts and small fragments of things you aren’t too sure of where to put sometimes. Some days, when he’s really busy, Armin sends you both out to refill the water troughs. It takes the two of you together to drag the hose out far enough, due to the rubber being so heavy and both your sets of hands being too small, to get the water in the basins.

Sweeping up the barn aisles, pulling weeds, milking the cows, and herding up the goats — doing it all with Jubie is the best. You’re reminded of your times as kids again — shared laughter and quiet teamwork. Only this time, something new is threaded within it all . . structure and stability. Something neither of you truly had back then. That chart stuck to the refrigerator with sparkling stickers dotted all over it? Armin placed another one, decorated with your name on top of the paper, written in his beautiful, olden cursive-like handwriting next to it. The feeling had been so robust — seeing that pink, glittery, star shaped sticker next to each chore you’d done . . the first time had rendered you still. Completely immobile while reaching for the handle to grab the pitcher of milk one morning.

Armin, standing with his coffee mug in hand and a burning cig between his fingers caught your stare, “Helps keep things in order,” he mumbled while lifting the mug up to his lips, eyes penetrating. “Lil girls need . . .” He paused for a moment. “Structure.”

You hadn’t known how to really reply, so you only nodded.

You don’t know when he adds the stickers to the chart and you don’t try to catch him, but nearly every night you find your eyes drifting to it as you all eat dinner. Sometimes, when it’s just Jubie and you alone, sitting on the porch, she’ll nudge you with her shoulder, “We’re doin’ good, huh?”

You are. You both really are.

You catch the things he says to Jubie in passing sometimes. Each word gruff, drawled in his thick Mississippi accent, “C’mere, pumpkin’. Lemme get a look at’cha.” “Slow down, baby. It ain’t a race.” “Who wanted those goats . . . Naw, tell me — Right. Right. It was you. Go fetch ‘em.”

They all make your stomach flip.

Armin exudes an air you’ve never been around before. All the men you’ve happened to know in your life have all been somewhat the same. If they weren’t liars, they were lazy, and if they weren’t physically hurting you, they were disappearing on you instead. Eventually, they’ve all slipped out of your life the minute something became inconvenient. Whether your feelings became too much or if they figured they’d be better off somewhere else. None of them have ever felt steady.

There’s something gentle laced beneath the firmness of Armin. He never raises his voice. Not with Jubie. Not with you. When he speaks, the world seems to know to listen.

Sometimes he even says things like that to you, too.

“Finish your food ‘fore it gets cold.”

“Get your jacket, sweetheart. Mornin’s chilly today.”

“Mm-mm. Sit up straight, shoulders back. There you go.”

Each sentence invokes a warm fuzz beneath your chest. Even more so when he’s speaking to both you and Jubie at once, “You two stick together out there.”

“You girls eat yet?”

“ C’mon now. Y’all bet not make me repeat myself.”

Little moments like that stack up over the weeks. You’ve realized somewhere down the line that it’s simply natural for him. Being authoritative, that pillar of stability and quiet control that catalyzes everything to lean against him. The farm, the animals . . Jubie. You think about one, certain evening.

You hadn’t mean to eavesdrop . . it’d just been something that happened. You’d been walking up the back trail from the creek — lately, you’ve been finding yourself spending time near it to pick up an old hobby, journaling. Back when you were younger, you’d do it often. It helped you sort through things. Your feelings and thoughts that were much too tangled to be spoken out loud.

You saw the kitchen’s back door was propped open . . something they do when they know you’re out, however that night, you heard it — Jubie’s voice drifting out into the warm, mid August air. It’d been different than usual, still sweet and gentle as always, though . . warbly. Pitched only slightly higher, too. Armin never interrupted her as she spoke. You watched him lean against the sink with his buff arms folded as she stood in front of him already showered with her bonnet on and in a pretty, pj set. Their size difference was stark — that’s what you remembered most. She only barely reached the middle of his chest.

So that’s how you look standing next to him too?

When she was done speaking, there’d been a calm pause. Then, finally Armin said something. “Alright.”

A beat.

“An’ what do you want Dad to do about that, hm?”

The word had made you completely halt in your steps towards the porch. Dad. There wasn’t a smile on neither of their faces. It wasn’t said jokingly or even casually. It was said as if it was always meant to be there. You recall the way Jubie sniffled and shuffled on her feet.

“You don’t get to stand here in front of me and act like you ain’t do nothin’, Jubilee,” Armin’s voice was calm and contained yet she still gave a small, barely visible flinch at the sound of her full name leaving his lips. “I know you better than that, you know yer’self better than that. Now get on up them stairs—“

“—B-But—“

“—Hey.” Not loud. Just firm. He straightened himself up prior to leaning forward. The air settles around them both.“You had your say. I listened.” His fingers grabbed her chin to pull her face up to his. “It’s your turn to listen to me.”

Her shoulders had dropped before she sniffled again. No more back talk. You heard her mumble a small, “Yes, sir,” before slowly turning to walk out into the hall.

Maybe you should have moved then — continued up the porch steps or rather even walked around the house to enter through the front door in efforts to be less inconspicuous. But, you remained standing there, doe eyed and stuck, watching Armin remain in front of the counter like nothing had changed at all. That’s what glued itself to your psyche. The naturalness of the conversation.

Then, shockingly, after settling himself back leaning against it with a low sigh, he turned his head towards the back screen door. “You can gon’ head and come on in now, missy.”

Your heart drops.

He doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see you when you pull open the screen door and slowly step inside. He just looks at you — icy blue eyes evaluating the pink and cream striped tube top with matching fold-over shorts you wear down to the dirty Reeboks on your feet then the lace trimmed journal clutched between your little fingers. “. . Enjoyed y’self out there?”

A small pause before you end up nodding.

“Nothin’ bite on ya’, right? Put on that repellant like I asked?”

“Mhm,” one more nod. “No bites.”

He hums. You watch his eyes trail again, somehow even slower this time. His stare drags across your bare collarbones, to the slope of your shoulders, down to the gold bracelet on your wrist. “ ‘m thinkin’ about breakfast for dinner, what d’ya say, dollface . .” Then they slowly drag back up into your own.

The surface of your cheeks warm as you clutch your journal a little bit tighter. “French toast.”

A thick, blond brow raises as he folds him arms, prior to reaching up to scratch at the scruff of his jaw. “Probably . . . but I thought we were workin’ on manners, me and you. Sounds more like a demand.”

You hiccup on a breath, “Oh.” Armin could tell that you’ve gotten so used to being quiet and staying out of the way that whenever you do get the chance to use your words, most of your sentences are curt, short, and to the point. Not a lot of ‘please’s or ‘can I’s. He doesn’t like that too much. He watches you nibble on your bottom lip, words seemingly dancing on your tongue before you softly ask, “May we have french toast?”

“Better.”

He notices how your shoulders relax. Pushing himself off of leaning upon the counter, Armin brushes past you to close the wooden door, lock it, then open the pantry. “You been down by that creek a good while today. Go wash up.”

Your sneakers scuff against the floor as you go to head towards the hall, “Yes, sir.”

However, the conversation you just happened to overhear replays in your mind — Jubie’s soft, whimpery voice echos the loudest, therefore you halt. “Uhm . .”

“Hm?” Armin murmurs with his back towards you while untwisting the plastic around a loaf of bread.

“. . Did Jubie do somethin’ wrong?”

You watch him pause. For a moment, you anticipate him simply brushing you off, maybe even blatantly ignoring your question entirely to continue sending you off upstairs. You’re unready to hear him huff a sound, though — something akin to a small chuckle. “Naw,” he quietly replies. “Not nothin’ wrong. Jus’ somethin’ I told her not to.”

You linger in the doorway with your fingers clutched around the frame of it. “Was it bad?”

“She’ll live,” he responds while opening the fridge to grab a basket full of brown and white eggs, followed by a carton of milk. “Girl jus’ needs remindin’ sometimes. Ain’t gotta like or understand my rules but they will be respected.”

The crack of an egg shell against the rim of a porcelain bowl forces you on your way, but you can hear it as you walk upstairs . . . the words he didn’t say.

And that goes for the both a’ya.

・・・・・

While scrubbing your skin clean free from the smell of creek water and grass with strawberries and cream scented body wash beneath the firm pressured beads of water pouring from the head of the shower, the word Dad slowly finds its way looping throughout your usual thoughts. It’s not something you misheard, you know that. There’s a weird feeling stirring in your gut. Something crossed between inquisition and something else you can’t quite name. When you picture the scene again — Armin standing there, big arms folded, voice low and steady as Jubie sniffled in front of him . . your chest tightens a little. You don’t know why.

You’ve never seen Jubie like that before. You’ve never seen her stand so small in front of someone . . never seen it . . fit so naturally either. You think about what if it were you . . moreso, what if it were you standing beside her, meek and soft too, listening to Armin’s low, gruff voice drawl out his words, coated in a certain type of patience that makes his disappointment feel all the more worse. His gaze moving between the two of you.

Your heart skips.

You blow out a heavy breath and turn the shower knob with a little more force than needed to cut it off. No, is what you tell yourself. You can’t. You won’t.

Cool air wafts against your skin when you open the bathroom door after wrapping a fluffy, white towel around your body. You’re prepared to simply cross the short distance to your room to continue your nightly routine when you see it . . . Armin and Jubie’s bedroom door left slightly ajar. Wide eyed, you blink softly at it. You shouldn’t. You know it. But you walk on over and carefully push it open anyway.

It creaks when you do.

The room smells like fresh laundry detergent and, interestingly enough, pipe tobacco. It’s bigger than the one you occupy, completed with three, long rectangular windows behind their large, king sized farmhouse bed that’s layered with quilts and half a dozen pillows where Jubie lies on her stomach, legs crossed at the ankles and swaying in the air. She’s rubbing one of Babs’ floppy ears between her small, nimble fingers, deep pout on her lips before looking up to see you. Instantly, her eyes widen.

“Oh,” quickly, she pushes herself up to take a seat upon her butt. “I t-thought you were Armin.”

“Sorry,” you mutter as you slowly step inside. “I wanted to check on you. Uhm . . he’s makin’ french toast.”

Steam still emits off of your skin in pale clouds as Jubie’s eyes flicker over your face before down at the towel wrapped around your body. “Come sit,” she whispers with two soft pats to the cushiony comforter she sits upon. Hesitating, you eventually walk over to do so. She’s been making you more nervous lately, you don’t understand it. “So,” your eyes are big and unguarded when you gently ask, “Why’d you get in trouble?”

You watch her hesitate. Then surprisingly, a deep coral shade starts to blossom beneath the light brown skin of her dimpled cheeks. “It’s kinda dumb,” she mumbles back.

You give a little smile and head shake. “No, tell me.”

Jubie shakes hers too, “No, no . . he jus’ . . caught me doin’ somethin’, takin’ somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Ohhh,” slowly, you nod. “. . So, you got sent upstairs.”

“Mhm,” she’s reverted back to looking back down at Babs before her voice gets a little quieter. “Sometimes I’d jus’ rather deal with the spankins.”

The words dwindle . . soft yet impactful. It makes your breath hitch at the sheer picture of it . . Jubie bent over a short gate, outside probably, with one of her cute, polka dotted sundresses flipped up to expose the soft cheeks of her plump, heart shaped butt. Armin’s palm, his belt, or a switch, cracking down on them, left then right . . turning them that same coral shade of the blush painted across her face, then red, maybe even a soft mauve if pushed to that point.

“Oh my gosh — No, I mean . .—“ Jubie must have realized what she said. But quickly, softly, you interrupt, “ ‘s okay.” Your voice is quieter than expected. It swiftly makes Jubie’s words die out upon her tongue, leaving her to simply stare at you.

It’s a different stare.

One you’ve never seen from her. She’s staring at you the way one would daydream — sleek, cat like monolids relaxed yet . . dazed over . . . like she’s thinking about something. It’s heavy for you, thus, you look away with your cheeks burning warm to take a better look around their room. Wallpaper the color of neutral brown with vintage flowers printed all over it invokes a sort of cozy feeling within you. More landscape paintings and a few framed pictures cover it. You spot Jubie’s vanity flushed against the wall between the closet and bathroom door, surface dotted with glass bottles of perfumes, hair care items, and cosmetics. A large wooden dresser’s top holds a small, ceramic tray filled with rings, next to it is an opened music box that showcases her necklaces and earrings.

A box of cigarettes and a lamp sits on Armin’s nightstand, a packet of candy on Jubie’s. There’s a softness to everything. More specifically, a small corner, not too far from the bed, beside the large bookcase. It catches your eye because the circular, fuzzy, pink rug there stands out a bit more compared to the neutrals of the rest of the room. Closer, you look to see a large basket of plush toys, the small stack of children’s books on the lower shelf, the few toys.

“I get small sometimes . . . most times . .” Jubie utters when she follows your stare. Quickly, you look back at her, unable to feel like you’ve walked in on something far too intimate now. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” is all you can breathe out.

The sentence had been six words long but . . somehow it completes the puzzle that’s been quietly forming in your brain since you stepped foot over their front door’s threshold. Jubie’s softness, the way Armin handles her, it all settles into place. “. . You call him Dad?”

Slowly, she nods as her fingers fidget with her nightshirt now, “Sometimes . . He takes care of me in that way, too.”

The gentle honesty makes your stomach flip. You’re nodding softly when you whisper, “That’s good, Jubie.”

She glances up at you then. She seems part relieved and part . . enamored. “You’ve always understood me.”

You can’t help giggling, “You’ve always understood me too, silly.”

For a moment neither of you say much else. You’ve come to realize that you two are seated pretty close. Her soft, painted toes brush up against your thigh when she slowly wiggles them while letting eyes drift down from your own to the curve of your neck. Heart thudding, you watch her lean in closer to you, eyes halfway closed to then breathe in through her nose, “. . . You smell like strawberries.”

You take the chance of leaning in too. It leaves only a sliver of space between your bodies at this point when you shyly angle your nose for the pocket of her neck. “You smell like . . roses.”

Softly, she giggles, her breath soft and warm against your cheek, “Really?”

“Mhm.”

The air between you both prickles with emotion when you pull back to look into her eyes once more. She’s staring at you . . in that way again — that faraway kind of stare. Timidly, you smile, “. . . Hi.”

Her lips quirk, “. . Hi, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

Then, without saying much else, she leans forward.

She doesn’t press her lips against yours . . not yet. Softly, she brushes them across the plump petals of your own, slow and uncertain as if she were feeling the moment out, feeling you out before taking the chance. Instantaneously, your hands fly to her knees to squeeze at them in quivering shock, needing to steady yourself. The both of your breathing grows shaky. “You’re so pretty,” Jubie mumbles, her voice barely even a pitch louder than the droning hum of the ceiling fan whirling away up above. The compliment gives you enough confidence to tentatively take the chance at pecking hers. She gasps softly at the small contact, “C-Can I . . ?”

In the same instance, you both deepen the kiss.

Jubie’s hands lift to delicately cup your face as your grip remains tightened at her knees before it slowly softens once your lips begin to move with a sweet kind of eagerness that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

The pace isn’t rushed. Not at all. It’s just a slow pressure as you both try to figure out the rhythm together. You feel her mouth part open wider when you tilt your head, the angle shifting just enough to make your noses brush against one another’s. The scent of her fills your senses, mixing well with the sweet, clean scent of your showered skin . . it feels intimate as your soft, plush lips move against each other in slow, graceful harmony.

Distantly, you find this to be releasing. You think Jubie does, too — you feel it when she sighs into your mouth before pushing in closer to you. Because, in a way, Jubie’s always been pretty . . she’s always made your heart thud . . she’s always made you feel things you never quite knew how to properly explain. And when the both of you finally pull apart and you see the emotion swimming deep within the dark browns of her eyes, you realize that maybe you’ve always done the same to her.

For a while, neither of you speak.

But something anew has blossomed.

Downstairs, the faint clatter of a pot causes your heads to turn towards the door. “He’s probably almost done,” Jubie says with color flourishing up to her cheeks again.

You nod, but you don’t move. She doesn’t either. Instead, her hand slowly pushes across the quilt to gently lace her index finger around yours. Her touch makes you close your eyes and sigh. “. . You should go put on your pjs.”

Right.

“Yeah.” Slowly, you stand to adjust the towel around your body. “ ‘ll come get you when dinner’s ready, okay?”

Jubie nods, “Yeah.”

・・・・・

One would think you and Jubie’s friendship would grow awkward after that. She’s in a relationship, you know that. She’s in love with Armin, Armin’s in love with her, you know that . . however, interestingly enough, you both become somehow even more in tuned to one another — like a new undercurrent beneath your already strong baseline has been established. Farm duties are still completed, for the most part, together. But it’s not just that anymore.

Everything starts to feel synced . . coordinated . . effortless.

When the both of you sit on the couch during the evening for a period of relaxation with a cute cartoon or an old, 60s romantic film playing on the television screen, Jubie’s legs are naturally draping over your lap. You rub your fingers against her soft calves as you two quietly speak and giggle. She does your hair one day — washes it in the kitchen sink, detangles, finger curls each coil and zigzags a part down the middle to give you two, big, cute puffs. The whole ordeal took about three hours, however you never once felt restless.

Instead, you sat patiently on a chair she sat out on the porch, feeling her fingers weaving softly through your hair while watching Armin push bales of hay across the field. You start to recognize the subtle signs Jubie shows when she’s slipping a little bit smaller now, too. How her voice softens, how she grows a little more quieter, and needy. It takes a lot of self restraint in you to not want to follow her there. Each time it happens, there’s a small part of you that wants to let go — sink into that same sweet softness and stop thinking so hard about everything, about everyone, about those bad memories.

But, you don’t.

You watch her sit on the porch, legs criss crossed as she carefully colors in a butterfly within a page of a coloring book with an array of about fifty crayons beside her thigh, watch her doodle cute drawings on the slab of concrete out near the back field with fat pieces of pastel chalk whose dye gets all over her legs, arms and face, nap on the hayloft with Babs after a particular long day, and fall into Armin when that same sweet softness gets to be all consuming.

Armin.

You try not to freak out too much when you find his icy blue stare lingering on the way you and Jubie hold hands while walking to the barn to brush the horses or when the two of you are doing anything else together for that matter. He knows. You know that he knows, you just aren’t too sure if he knows the sheer extent of what he knows. It drives you crazy.

He hasn’t said anything.

He won’t say anything . . . not yet.

But you catch him looking, really looking at the two of you now, and each time it happens, you’re quick to drop Jubie’s hand or straighten your posture or add some type of distance between the two of you . . out of respect. There’d been a particular, blazing hot afternoon where you and Jubie had been playing with the hose — both of you dressed in tiny, denim daisy dukes, tied tops, barefoot, and sparkly eyed. You both were screaming and giggling, fighting to pull the hose out of the other’s hand, chasing each other across the bright green field and spraying each other until you were completely soaked.

And he just stood there off by his truck with one arm hooked over the bed of it, cigarette burning slow between his fingers.

Watching.

You saw it in the way his eyes trailed after you both beneath his hat, how the corner of his mouth slightly twitched as if he were storing the sight for something private to remember later on. It’s not just that neither. You and Jubie would be lazing together on the couch before you suddenly feel that familiar feeling of prickles crawling across the back of your neck. You’d look behind you to see him leaning against the archway, arms folded, studying the two of you like he’s trying to work out the last few letters of a crossword that’s already ninety percent completed.

It makes you nervous . . definitely.

However . . . you’ve come to realize that something else within your heart, mind, and soul has started to happen. Your feelings for Jubie deepen more and more by the day. You find yourself noticing the shape of her smile a bit too much, needy for the warmth of her lithe body against yours when you’re in bed, and feel the way butterflies flutter about your stomach when she stares at you for a beat longer than usual. Surely, what you feel for her no longer walks the line of platonic.

And then there’s Armin.

If it’s guilt you feel when you find yourself thinking about Jubie while around him, it’s pure shame when you catch yourself thinking about him, admiring him when she’s standing right beside you.

It’s difficult to try to ignore the way he moves about the farm, about life. The weight behind each of his steps, broad swell of his biceps when he bends his arms to snatch off his work gloves, the calm, deep croon of his voice when he’s speaking to you or Jubie or giving instructions. And it’s unfortunate to realize, but ignoring doesn’t stop the feelings from growing.

When you catch him reclined back in his chair, Jubie fast asleep on his lap, as he nurses a glass of whisky and watches a court show, you’re aware of his stare dragging on over to you sitting curled up on the sofa with Lily clutched between your fingers like a lifeline. Not cold or even inquiring, but . . thoughtful. Like, he’s thinking about something. Taking note of something.

Heat crawls up your spine and blossoms across your face each time you catch that look because the actual truth of the matter is, your feelings for Armin and Jubie are separate, nonetheless, they grow side by side, inching up your heart to tighten around it like a noose.

It becomes difficult to sleep most nights because of them.

But tonight’s just one of those nights where you’ve found yourself drained. Mentally, physically, emotionally, so after eating and showering, you shut your door, climb into bed and pass out. Then the nightmare comes — this one the most terrifying one you’ve experienced in a long time. It all seems to happen in quick bursts. You discovering Armin and Jubie standing out by the barn one early morning, the two of them hesitating for a second before telling you that they didn’t mean for things to get so confusing, that it’s best if you leave and found your own slice of happiness. Suddenly the farmhouse wasn’t the farmhouse, but your tiny, two bedroom duplex you grew up in. Doors slamming, screams echoing, your chest cracks open.

That awful feeling of not belonging anywhere, like you’re always too much — it spans over your entire body, leaving your eyes to suddenly burst open as your chest quickly rises and falls.

Your fingers are trembling when you lift them to your face only to pull them back and see the salt traced wetness glistening faintly against the pads of them through the bright moonlight spilling in through the curtains. For a moment, you don’t move. You remain lying there, fighting to even out your fast, quivering breaths as a deep hollow caves itself within your heart . . . remnants that some of these dreams can’t help but leave behind. Squeezing your eyes shut before pressing the heels of your palms against them, you try to forget about it.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

But you still see it — Jubie stepping behind Armin, Armin’s gruff voice telling you that you’ll be alright. Unthinking, you push your quilt from off of your body to swing your legs over and press your feet against the cool, hardwood. The house is completely silent, you’re aware that the two of them may be sleeping, therefore, you try your best to be as silent as possible upon opening your door and slipping past their own for the staircase. Some water and fresh air, that’s all you need. You’ll calm down in no time.

However, you’re halfway down the hall to the kitchen when you notice that the amber glow of the stove light is on. You pause halfway and look behind you at the front door, only to see it still closed and locked — same way it’s been since six o clock when Armin called you and Jubie in for the evening. Carefully, you round the kitchen doorway’s corner to see him . . . standing in front of the stove, broad back facing you, as he stirs something in a small sauce pan with a wooden spoon.

Your barefoot touching the tile of the kitchen is loud enough to have him look over his shoulder to see you standing there, dressed in a butter yellow, thin strapped babydoll slip. You’re wide eyed as you go to subconsciously cross your arms over your tummy, even as your chest still rises and falls with shaky, shallow breaths and your cheeks are sticky with dried tears.

Armin’s gaze lingers on the picture you make before he asks, “Feelin’ alright?”

He wears a pair of plaid, navy and red pajama pants and white undershirt. His hair’s loose tonight in a way you’ve never seen — dirty blond waves fluffy and sticking up this way and that. You inch towards the table, “J-Jus’ a bad dream.”

“Mmm,” he hums while turning back forward and clicking off the burner. “I heard you cryin’.”

Your eyes grow a bit bigger, “Really? — Oh, I’m . . I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.”

You watch him open a cabinet. His fingers had paused while reaching for a plain, pink ceramic mug before he extends his arm further in to pull free a thicker, plastic one from behind it — clear with cute strawberries printed all over it. One of those that you have to manually open with the push of a button on the lid that pops a straw out. Outside, you hear the faint chirping of crickets and the hum of cicadas as he unscrews the top, lifts the pan off of the oven, and slowly pours in the milk that’s been warmed until it nearly touches the brim.

Each step is slow and unhurried as he walks over to you while twisting the lid back on. When he stops in front of you, you’re left simply standing there, head lifted to watch him look back down at you, eyes heavy lidded, “. . Drink it ‘fore it cools.”

Delicately, you take the cup from his hands, your fingers brushing against one another’s for a split second. The warmth of the milk immediately seeps against your palms. You take a small, tentative sip, surprised to taste vanilla and a splash of cinnamon against your tongue.

“M’grandmother used to make me this ‘fore bed sometimes,” he mutters with his eyes fastened on your lips wrapped around that jumbo straw. “. . Tell me about the dream.”

You swallow and pull it away as the sharp feeling of embarrassment crawls its fingers up your spine, “ ‘s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

You pause as your eyes fall to his chest while looking for the right words. Silence feels long and heavy until you break it with, “I dreamt . . that you and Jubie sent me away.”

You don’t look up at him again, but you hear him inhale a breath through his nose. “ ‘s that right.”

Slowly, you nod. Your voice is quieter when you say, “Told you it was stupid.”

“Ain’t stupid. You jus’ scared you don’t belong here wit’ us, that’s all.”

You didn’t say that part out loud, however, somehow he gets it. Glancing up at him, you notice that he hasn’t pulled his ardent, blue gaze away from your face. He doesn’t make a move to add some distance between your bodies neither, no, he remains standing only about a step and a half away from you with his arms folded. “Shouldn’t bother stressin’ yer’self with matters like that, sweetheart. You ain’t goin’ anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”

The certainty traced beneath his words are absolute. They make you shiver. One nudge beneath the bottom of your cup from him and you’re understanding that he wants you to drink some more.

“Atta girl,” he mumbles. The praise slips in casually, almost an absentminded thing it sounds like, yet something in you blooms all the more.

Eyes drifting downward, Armin takes in your still quivering fingers, strap of your babydoll hanging off of your shoulder . . . such a pretty thing you are, it’s downright criminal. “You an’ Jubie . . . the two a’ya remind me a lot of each other,” he hums, low and thoughtful. “Both sweet as sugar. Real soft hearts. Carryin’ the same kinda hurt.”

Your stomach flips, listening to him speak like he’s been plagued with this conception for a while now. “You girls get that same kinda look, too.”

“What look?”

“Dazed,” he answers back, voice quiet but matter-of-fact. “Doe eyed . . . Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”

As you stand there, heart racing and shocked, Armin scratches at his scruff. “Don’t know why you girls do that . . man like me has always been more than capable of takin’ care’a things like that.”

You hadn’t realized that you were that obvious. You hadn’t realized that he noticed. “I don’t . . . I didn’t . .” you can’t find the words.

“You ain’t gotta hide that part a’ya is all I’m sayin’,” Armin finishes as his voice dips slightly deeper. “It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”

Blinking, you watch him take a couple steps away to reach up and flick off the stovetop light. For a moment, it leaves the both of you enshrouded in nothing but the moonlight pouring in through the windows. You feel him staring at you, even as he starts on his way towards the hall, “C’mon.”

“Hm?”

“Back upstairs. You shouldn’t be by y’self after a dream like that.”

Oh.

“I-I’ll be o—“

He’s shaking his head after a quick suckle to his canine tooth, “Nah, nah. I don’t wanna hear that. Honey bee’s already sleep, we got plenty a’room for you. C’mon.”

You’re aware that he isn’t really giving you a choice. Still, you waver. He’s already halfway down the hall when he stops then glances back at you over his shoulder. Leaving your half full cup on the table, your feet move on their own. As he leads you throughout the house, towards the staircase, you can’t help but take in how different he looks at night opposed to day. Still solid, still steady, just . . slightly softer around the edges. He smells like soap and smoke.

Their bedroom door is already cracked open when his palm pushes it wider. You’re thumbing with your fingers, looking up at him for permission when your foot crosses the threshold. He’s right. Jubie’s asleep. You spot her immediately, curled beneath the comforters, curls spilling from her silk scarf upon her pillow as she sleeps with her lips parted and fists curled beneath her cheek.

She looks small. At ease.

The sight makes you smile a bit. “I don’t wanna wake her,” you whisper softly to Armin as he nudges you on closer with his fingers on your hips.

“She’ll be okay. Jus’ climb in.”

You move slowly as you climb onto the mattress like you’re afraid you might break something. Heart fluttering, you lift the cover to slide in beside Jubie, not surprised to watch her eyebrows furrow in her sleep before she slowly stirs awake.

She blinks, bleary eyes focusing on you laying your head on the same pillow beneath her head. It takes her a longer couple of seconds, but once fully conscious, a small, sleepy smile overtakes her lips, “. . Hi.”

Your responding smile is shy, “Hi.”

Her voice is lighter yet still thick with sleep, “Bad dream?”

“. . Yeah.”

She doesn’t ask anymore questions. Instantly, she scoots closer, draping one arm lazily over your waist while nuzzling her face into your shoulder. The position is nostalgic. Instincts let you tuck your face into her own, close your eyes and breathe. “ ‘s okay,” Jubie sleepily murmurs. “ ‘ll make you waffles in the mornin’.”

Seated at the edge of the bed, Armin watches the whole thing. A quiet exhale leaves him as his stare moves between how naturally the two of you curl into each other, like pieces of a puzzle. He noticed down there in the kitchen how your body had been tensed tight, full of leftover fear and panic from that nightmare, however now, the warmth of Jubie seems to be easing it all away.

Slow and careful, he shifts forward, feeling the mattress dip as he settles in behind Jubie, not surprised to feel her relax against him, even in her sleep, like she’s done a thousand times before. Armin’s arm lifts, settling it across her waist which only nudges you closer to her. And without waking, your fingers search, slow and twitchy, until they catch on Armin’s fingers. You wrap your hand around his middle and ring, squeezing on them softly.

Armin doesn’t react. If anything, his thumb moves to stroke careful brushes across your inner wrist.

There’s no separation between the three of you. Just warmth, comfort, and quiet.

Eyes blinking for just a couple seconds longer, he takes in the scene with a quiet shake of his head. The two of you are going to be the death of him.

・・・・・

“You wanna have a picnic out in the backyard? . . Jus’ you and me?”

Jubie had asked you the question about an hour ago. It’s been a couple days since your whole nightmare ordeal and nothing has changed — neither for better or worse. Life with them goes on about the same but you think about Armin’s words more than anything.

”You ain’t going anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”

”Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”

”It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”

Part of you doesn’t really know what to do with the feelings they invoke inside of you. They don’t feel like a threat . . . but they don’t feel light either. Had he meant to insinuate that you’re . . his? Does that mean, in some sort of twisted way that he’s yours? Is Jubie yours, too? It’s all sort of confusing. It doesn’t help that he seemingly doesn’t care to explain neither.

It feels good to sunbathe on a quilt within the mid October sun nonetheless. The leaves are starting to brown, same with the grass. Humidity is switched out for a cool, refreshing breeze. Some of the bugs are retiring back from which they came after their short lived summer. Both you and Jubie are barefoot in flowy, pretty sundresses. You watch her unpack the little, wicker basket she’d brought from the kitchen, seeing that its contents included a few, plastic wrapped sandwiches, platter of fruit, and a couple juice boxes.

You listen to her softly hum a tune to herself as she arranges everything neatly. “Hungry?”

“Mmm,” you shrug and fold your legs butterfly style. “Not super. Think ‘m jus’ snack hungry.”

“Eat some,” she coaxes with gestures to the fruit. She takes a fat piece of a pineapple spear and bites into it first. You take your chance with a couple of cold, green grapes.

And for a while, you both sit there within the calm, farm silence, listening to the wind, cows, and horses sing.

“You ever gonna give me a peek . .?”

Looking over at Jubie, you find that her eyes are stuck on your journal that lays between the space of your legs. Your words have always flowed best when you’re out in fresh air — it’s why you brought it outside with you today. Cheeks warm, you sway from left to right on your butt, “I dunnooo . .” you softly say. “Mostly jus’ poems in here . . and some sad thoughts.”

“Yeah?” her lips pout. “Do you feel sad often?”

The question stumps you for a second. Reason being, when asked this six months ago, you would’ve told her that you’ve only ever felt sad for the majority of your life so far. However, as of late . . “Not really. I’ve been okay.”

“Good, that makes me happy.”

Another comfortable silence. You finish your handful of grapes, look around you, then ask, “. . I never got to ask you how you got here . . . or why you left Georgia.” You’ve always wondered. For weeks and months and years. Why she suddenly up and left, why she never told you . . or took you with her.

Jubie squints up at the sun, nose cutely wrinkled, “Jus’ got tired of it . .” she retorts after a moment. “Of him, you know? ‘Member I told you about m’auntie in Tennessee?” When you nod, Jubie does too. “Well, she always told me her door was open for me. She hated m’mom . . for good reason, obviously. I managed to hitchhike my way to her old trailer park, lived with her ‘til I was eighteen, then I left there too. She was good to me but, stayin’ there jus’ wasn’t the life for me, I could feel it. So somehow, after some more hitchhikin’ . . I ended up here, got a lil gig as a shoe shiner in town, lived in a motel for a bit, eventually took up that waitress job, then . .” Her lips curl up. “Armin came.”

“Oh,” you thumb with the pages of your journal. Jubie leans in closer to you, “How’d you get here?”

“I left home when I was sixteen,” you gently reply, unsurprised to watch her lips pop open in awe. “Yeah . . . Got put in foster care not too long after you left, hopped around from home to home until I ended up a few cities away from here. I lived in a few motels too, before I met this . . guy when I turned twenty.” Jubie notices how you start to fidget and scratch at your shoulder. Whatever memories that are currently flying through your brain aren’t any good ones. “Stayed with him for two years until I finally decided to buy a random bus ticket and get away from ‘im.”

Softly, Jubie hums. Her eyes slowly scan your face before she reaches to interlace her fingers within the spaces of yours. “And that random bus ticket landed you here . . .”

“Isn’t that insane?”

The two of you giggle. It’s a shared laugh full of disbelief on how all the pieces managed to fall into place the way that they did. “Tell me . .” you look away to the blanket, nibble on your bottom lip then look back up at Jubie. She can’t help but notice how bashful you seem now. “Tell me how you and Armin . . how you guys came to be.”

Jubie grins, peers down at your conjoined hands then squeezes yours. “Well . . .” she cutely drags. “I guess you can say I had a teensie crush on him for weeks before the two of us even talked. He used to come to the diner all the time and order the same thing — country fried steak, eggs, and a coffee. Comes up to me one day and tells me that he’s takin’ me to his farm, that he needs some help so . . I go. I worked with him for about . . a month before he jus, drove me to m’motel one night, grabbed all m’stuff, then basically moved me in.”

Your eyebrows lift, “Jus’ like that?”

Jubie nods, once and firm, “Crazy, isn’t he? . . Well, I thought so. I dunno. I lived in the room you’re stayin’ in for a couple a’months. And for a while, we were jus’ . . farmer and his lil farmhand, I guess.”

She suddenly trails off yet doesn’t continue. You watch her cheeks burn bright as she continues to smile while playing with your fingers. Bending your neck, you try to meet her eye again, “And then?”

She covers her face, “Then I let him slide his fingers down m’knickers on the porch one night.”

You gasp. Jubie squeaks.

“I jus’ . . let him. I wanted him to,” she pouts as you begin to giggle. “That next mornin’, I got real shy and curt with him. But he asked if I felt safe here, with him, I told him yes, then he said good, because he didn’t have plans on lettin’ me leave.”

You’re still softly laughing as you cover your smile with a few fingers, “That’s . . . really romantic, I think.”

Jubie huffs through her nose, “I think so too.”

“How does he make you feel?”

She doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, she looks out into the distance at the barn while the wind dances through her long, dark curls that are a bit more frizzy today. You like it like this. “So good,” she finally sighs back. “He sees me . . for me. Understands me. He takes care of me like no one has before.”

Your chest warms, watching her turn back to face you. Her expression shifts into one much softer yet . . elfish. You don’t know how to read it until she whispers, “How does he make you feel?”

Your smile fades as the thudding of your heart picks up. “Me? . . .” You wonder if you should just book it for the house, if she would catch you. “Uhm, good . .? Yeah, good. He’s . . . nicer than I thought.”

“Mm, yeah?” Jubie’s eyebrows lift as you nod. “. . . Such a liar.”

“What?”

She’s smirking now. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”

Swallowing, you shake your head, “ ‘m . . ‘m not lyin’ about anythin’ Jubie—“

“—Yes, you are.”

“I’m not—“

“—Yes, you areee-eeee,” she falls back onto the blanket, leaving you to sit there while feeling like your heart is going to come coughing up your throat. She rests her interlocked fingers upon the surface of her tummy, still smiling while gazing up at you with those sharp, almond eyes that always felt like they could read into your soul. “. . He likes you, too . . . A lot. More than I think you know.”

Your eyes drop to your hands as you begin to shake your head. “No. That doesn’t make any sense, Jules.”

She scoffs a soft laugh of shock, “And why not? You don’t think that you’re likeable?”

“I t-think that he’s in a relationship . . with you.”

She’s quickly sitting up again, this time, closer to you. “Back when I first left . . I thought about you a lot. I’d lie awake sometimes wonderin’ what you were doin’, if you were okay.” Your throat tightens as you continue to trace the lace around the cover of your journal with your finger. “I always hoped you got out, too. Was like, a dream come true to see you again that day, I almost didn’t believe it.”

You glance up just in time to see that her eyes have fallen to your lips. When they snap back up into yours, they’re warm and bright . . full of so much emotion when she simply says, “I adore you.”

The words come out delicately — like she’s placing something small and precious between the two of you.

Your lips part but not a word slips from between them. You feel stuck.

A soft smile she wears as Jubie goes on to say, “I always did. Since we were six.” The wind picks up, blowing both your curls across your cheeks. “And lately . . . uhm. I t-think things have been feelin’ different for me.”

You hear your blood rushing through your ears. “D-Different how?”

“I jus’ notice things now. Little things.”

“. . Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she traces her finger in shy circles upon your knee. “Like, how you look when you’re concentratin’ on somethin’. Or when you whisper stuff you wanna ask me or Armin to yourself first before you do. How cute you look when you’re full and sleepy.”

Heat slowly crawls up your face.

You watch her scoot a bit closer to mumble, “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“I . . d-don’t know what I feel.”

“ ‘s okay.” Her voice is gentle and reassuring and something in you absolutely caves upon the realization of Jubie not being scared of this . . of you. Therefore, before your nerves start to over activate themselves again, you suddenly lean forward to press your lips against hers.

The moment is soft again. Warm. You feel how Jubie freezes in shock for a second until it all settles in. She returns the kiss slowly with a soft sigh as you push deeper, a little less careful, feeling her hands slide up your thighs to the dip of your waist. You pull her closer by the neckline of her dress, tongue swiping against the seam of her lips to taste pineapple as she tilts her head, opens her mouth, and welcomes it in.

The tiny, breathy sound you make shoots right through Jubie and down to the bud of her clit. Closer, she pulls you until she lands on her back, you above her with your hands cradling her face as the kiss grows more eager, warmer, sloppier. Neither of you barely notice the world around you at this point until,

Clap!

The sharp sound of the screen door slamming forces you both away from one another to see Armin standing there, arm resting on one of the porch beams as he watches . . quietly. It seems he must’ve been there for a couple seconds longer than what either of you may think because his posture is settled — shoulders relaxed beneath his fitted flannel and hat brim raised to get a better look at two girls kissing on a blanket in his backyard.

Your stomach drops. You feel how still Jubie grows beneath you.

Even from feet away, you feel his his gaze slowly drift from you . . back to Jubie . . then back to you again.

Nobody says anything for a long while. Then he pushes off the frame and says, “Get y’selves situated then meet me in the living room. Five minutes.”

And with that, he turns and carries himself back on in the house.

“. . . Jubie . .”

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

You scramble upright first while smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress. A million thoughts race throughout your brain — most of them including you being sent away. “I-Is he mad? Do you think he’s mad?”

Jubie realizes exactly what you’re thinking. Slowly sitting up, she presses her hand against your chest, “No, no. Jus’ breathe, lovie. Okay? It’ll be okay.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, together, the two of you work on gathering the blanket and scattered food, working in nervous silence. You follow behind her across the grass, up the porch, and inside the house. Its okay. Jubie said it’ll be okay so it’s okay. You repeat the mantra to yourself the entire walk down the hall towards the living room, trying to keep your hands from trembling to much upon finally seeing him, standing beside the mantle with a glass of ice water tilted at his lips. His hat is off . . seemed to be tossed upon the couch, leaving his waves loose and free.

You and Jubie stand there quietly, within the archway, watching him slowly take the glass of water to the head . . slow and easy, bit by bit until it’s completely gone. And with a languid, deep breath released from his chest after swallowing, he firmly sits the cup upon the mantle with a thick clunk. Silence stretches . . . He doesn’t look angry. It eases your worries a bit.

“Two a’you girls feel like explainin’?”

Your throat feels like it’s being squeezed between someone’s fingers. Looking down at your feet, you shuffle back and forth on them while hearing Jubie speak, “W-We didn’t mean—“

His voice cuts in, calm but blunt, “—How long’s this been goin’ on?”

She shakes her head quickly, “Not long, Papa, I promise. We jus’ . . kissed once before . . like, t-three weeks ago now.”

One of his eyebrows lift, “Three weeks.”

Timidly, Jubie nods. Studying her, Armin tries to catch tale of a lie however, upon finding himself unable to, he looks at you. You remain quietly standing beside her, head bowed, and fidgeting with your fingers like you’ve just been caught with your fingers inside his cookie jar.

“Mm,” he rubs his tongue against his cheek with his hands on his hips. “. . You ain’t tell me about no kiss.”

“I t-told you about the other stuff.”

“About your feelins for ‘er, yes, but you left that other part out.”

“I thought . . you’d be mad at me . . .”

“Mad,” is spoken candidly like he’s thinking about that specific word.

Slowly, you pick your head up the longer their conversation continues. Other stuff? Feelings? Upon you glancing at Jubie, you’re able to discern that now is not a good time to ask her about it. For a moment, Armin’s quiet again. He just stands there with his icy blue gaze slowly moving between the two of you as he works his jaw back and forth. “C’mere. Both a’you.”

Jubie immediately obeys. You slowly follow — bare feet soft against the rug as the both of you find yourselves standing directly in front of his large stature, letting Armin continue to survey you as though he’s finally clicked the last lock into place. “. . I’ve been watchin’ the two a’you.”

When your gaze falls again, you suddenly feel a rough hand beneath your chin, forcing your chin back into place. Armin’s voice is gruff when he demands, “Eyes up.”

You gulp. He drops his hand.

“You mean a lot to Jubilee here,” he begins softly with a simple tilt of his head in her direction. “And you’ve grown to mean a lot to me, too.” Your breath hitches. “Now, I’m gonna explain how this here situation’s gone work and I ain ’t interested in hearin’ any slick talk from either a’you, understand me?”

You and Jubie nod with little ‘yes sir’s mumbled.

Armin nods once. “Alright, now. From this day forward, I take care a’both you girls.” His voice is low and steady. “That means you live here,” he turns towards you. “With us. Ain’t no runnin’, ain’t no leavin’. I also expect you to listen when I tell ya’ somethin’.”

Quickly, you nod.

He folds his arms, sated. “You two look after each other. An’ I know you’ve already been doin’ that, I ain’t gotta worry about it too much, but from here on out . . you both might as well be sisters. One a’you gets upset, the other bet not ignore it. An’ if the two a’you start fussin’ or carryin’ on about somethin’, I’ll handle it. I don’t tolerate poison under my roof.”

Second by second, you feel something inside of you loosening. Rules, stability, structure. Somehow it feels like solid ground has been finally placed beneath your feet.

“The three of us look after each other. That’s the only way this gon’ work . . hm?”

Shyly, you nod. Jubie does the same with a small, “Mhm.”

Content with your answers, Armin’s big hand reaches out, cups the back of Jubie’s head then brings her closer to press a rough, scratchy kiss against her forehead. “Need you t’go check on Sam, Sonnet, and Claude f’me.”

“. . . Pa—“

“—Gone. I need to talk to ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ f’a moment then we’ll come and get you in a bit, baby girl.”

Theres no harshness to his tone, he speaks like it’s a quiet promise. Wordlessly, upon realizing she’s not going to walk herself, he spins then nudges her towards the front door with a few fingers to her hip. Jubie hesitates as big, brown eyes flicker between the two of you, flashing some reluctance but mostly full of trust. Therefore, she gives you a small nod and reassuring smile, You’ll be okay, before she’s continuing on her way outside. You and Armin listen to the door creak before it slams closed and her footsteps get fainter and fainter the further she gets.

Suddenly, the house is silent.

He doesn’t move for a moment. He simply stands there, watching you. The weight of his attention makes you want to burrow deep down in a hole somewhere.

“Lemme see those eyes.”

He lifts your chin again, hand loosely clutched beneath your jaw. You’re forced to peer up into his as your chin wobbles, thinking that what you’re going to read in them would be disgust or anger. Nonetheless, you don’t see that . . there’s something deeper swimming in them, something steady and tender. His thumb strokes over your cheek, you breathe out a shaky breath of content. “Couple things I ain’t say while Jubie was standin’ here.”

Your body somehow grows more tensed, Armin notices.

“Relax, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ bad, I promise,” he mumbles. “You gotta know this, though. Need this to stick to that hyperactive brain a’yours. You’re safe here. The two a’ya belong here. Yeah?”

Softly, you nod. Your voice is small when you mewl, “ Y-Yeah.”

His gaze lingers on your face as his thumb continues to slowly stroke your cheek. His touch renders you calm. “Alright, now. Secondly . . you don’t go lettin’ anybody else get ideas about you. Some of these fellas out here . . don’t entertain ‘im. No wanderin’ off wit’ ‘im. Don’t go thinkin’ you owe anybody outside’a this house a damn thing.”

“Okay,” once more, you nod.

Armin’s expression softens a bit — eyebrows relax, eyes grow slightly more gentle. “. . You know why?”

This time, you slowly shake your head.

“ ‘Cause you’re mine.”

There’s some possession underlying his tone, definitely, but mostly . . devotion. Like that word mine means something kept safe and close more than just owned . . . only slightly.

“Both you girls are . . And the two a’you are each other’s.”

Armin watches the way your breath catches, how your shoulders ease. You’re doing so good — listening to him. He appreciates that. “Last thing . .” His hand slides away, down to your chest. Your face grows warm at the feel of his wide, calloused palm pressing flat up against it, directly over your pounding heart. “This right here belongs to this one here,” He removes it to tap two fingers against his own. “And that one out there.”

A big, shy smile can’t help spreading across your lips. The slightest smirk pulls at Armin’s.

“Don’t act surprised. Been seein’ it for a while now.” He saw it the minute Jubie stepped her foot off the porch to meet you halfway for that first hug. Now, when you started looking that same way at him? Armin isn’t too sure but he thinks it happened some time after that drive into town . . when he purchased Lily for you. All these feelings inside of you, they’ve been brewing for too long on a body wound tight . . akin to a shaken can of pop. He’s hoping that you finally let go . . finally allow him to take care of you the way a little thing like you should be. “C’mere.”

Like he did Jubie, you hiccup a little when he slowly pulls you in to press a kiss against the center of your forehead. Oh. Something inside of you absolutely brightens. You’re trembling a little when he pulls away.

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s go get our girl, mm?”

part two

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