The Farmer in the Dell; Chap. 1
soldier!Soap gets lost in the middle of the desert, stumbling into a barn at the dead of night and frightening farmer!oc.
what you need to know: olderman/youngerwoman, mentions of religion, slow burn (sort of), bittersweet ending, infertility, angst, smut, fluff, broken English, +10k words, SLIGHT somnophilia (these are themes you’ll read in the upcoming chapters but a reader of mine on TikTok really wanted me to post this so here you go). i don't wanna spoil too much so just read it! This was written on my iPad so the formatting might look a bit weird if you’re using a phone or computer lol
I was born between two rivers — the Tigris and the Euphrates — where the air smelled of dust and palm sap, and where the horizon always looked like it was burning. Leila Al-Abadi, a daughter of a farmer and his wife, sister to a girl who never learned to grow old.
When I close my eyes, I can still see my father’s hands, calloused and cracked from years of pulling dates off the palms, still smell the smoke of my mother’s bread as she pressed it against the hot stone. Those memories come to me not as pictures anymore but as sounds — the thud of the water bucket, the bleating of sheep, the faint laughter of my sister as she ran barefoot through the dust. Then there was the thunder. The kind that came not from the clouds, but from men.
I lost them all to that thunder.
I was eight when the sky opened above Baghdad and swallowed everything I knew. One moment I was clutching my sister’s hand, the next, I was running through a refugee camp, my feet cutting on broken glass, the air alive with screams. I had thought my family was only separated from me, that I would find them again if I kept breathing long enough. But war has a way of teaching you what “lost” truly means.
It was in that camp that I found the can — the small, rusted one that looked like food. I remember shaking it, hoping to hear rice or beans. I remember the click. And then, nothing but light and heat.
When I woke, the right side of my face was gone. Burned away. What was left of it looked like melted clay, pulled down by gravity and shame. My lips on that side had vanished into fire, exposing my teeth like the grin of a skull. For years, I hid behind scarves and shadows, convinced that if God hadn’t taken me then, it was only because He wanted me to live as a reminder of His wrath.
But He gave me something else, too — land.
My father, it turned out, had written my name into his will before the world ended. A small farmhouse by the Euphrates river, surrounded by palms and barley, was left in my care. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
For the last ten years, that farm has been my kingdom.
Every morning I wake before the call to prayer, my hands reaching for the rough cotton scarf I wear over my face before stepping out into the dawn. The goats bleat first, impatient things, followed by the sheep. Fahad, my Kurdish mastiff, is always waiting by the door — big, golden, eyes like worn amber. He’s my guard, my friend, my only witness to the life I’ve made from the ashes of another.
The land has grown kind to me again. The date palms I tend stretch tall and patient, their fruit heavy and sweet when the season comes. I climb them barefoot, feeling the fibers scrape my skin, feeling alive again each time I reach the crown. I trade what I harvest — milk, cheese, wool, eggs — at the nearby village. They know me as Leila al-mukhtalifa, Leila the different one. They do not stare anymore.
At night, the world quiets in a way that both comforts and hurts. The cicadas hum in the reeds, and the river whispers against its banks. I eat simply — lentils, rice, a bit of goat cheese — and watch the stars until sleep takes me.
That night, however, was not meant for sleep.
It wasn’t the lazy, deep-throated bark he used when testing his strength. This was sharp, frantic — the kind of sound that made my stomach twist. He barked again, louder, and I could hear the scrape of his claws against the wooden floor of the barn.
“Shu fi, Fahad?” I whispered, rising from my mat. “What is it?”
The night outside was a sheet of black silk, scattered with thin clouds. The wind carried the smell of sand and hay. I grabbed the dagger I kept by the door — an old thing, its hilt worn smooth by my thumb — and threw my scarf over my head.
When I stepped into the yard, the moon was pale and swollen above the date palms. Fahad stood near the barn, hackles raised, teeth bared, barking into the darkness.
“Fahad!” I called softly. “Khalas! Enough!”
He didn’t stop. His growl deepened, and I followed his gaze — to the shadow standing near the edge of the barn.
He was tall, dressed in dark tactical gear that looked heavy with sand and dust. His shoulders were broad, his stance tense, one hand raised as if trying to calm the dog. His accent when he spoke was sharp, Scottish maybe, though the words came out quick and desperate.
“Easy, lad. I’m no enemy, aye? Shhh, quiet now.”
Fahad lunged a step forward, barking so hard it made the air tremble.
I froze, the dagger slick in my grip. “Who are you?” I managed, my voice low but steady.
The man turned, startled, his eyes flickering toward me beneath the shadow of his helmet. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to scare you, lass.”
He took a cautious step back, hands lifted now. “Name’s Johnny. Johnny MacTavish. Soap. I— I got separated from my team. Didn’t mean to trespass.”
His English hit my ears like cold water — too fast, too clean. I could understand half of it. My gaze swept over him: the torn fabric, the mud-stained boots, the faint trace of blood on his sleeve. He was no villager.
He nodded once. “Aye. Task Force 141.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew enough of soldiers to know they brought danger with them. Still, there was something in his eyes — exhaustion, maybe. Desperation.
Fahad barked again, stepping closer. I clicked my tongue sharply. “Run, Fahad! Go!”
Reluctantly, the mastiff obeyed, circling once before retreating deeper into the barn.
Now it was just us — the stranger and I, under the pale watch of the moon.
“What you want?” I asked again.
He hesitated. “Just a place to rest. Till sunrise. I’ll be gone after that, swear it.”
I tightened my grip on the dagger, weighing his words. His face was smeared with dust and sweat, eyes rimmed red from the wind. He looked like he’d been walking for days.
“Ya Allah…” I breathed under my scarf. “You cannot sleep in barn. Animals will be…” I struggled for the word, gesturing. “Scared.”
He blinked, confused, then nodded slowly. “Right. I understand.”
There was silence then, save for the rustle of palms and the quiet breath between us. I could feel the old instincts rising — fear, suspicion, the same feelings that had kept me alive when the world was fire. But I also saw the tremor in his hands, the slump of his shoulders. He was not here to fight.
“Come,” I said finally, gesturing toward the farmhouse. “You… come inside.”
He looked surprised. “You sure?”
I nodded once. “Yes. But you walk front.” I pointed the dagger ahead of me. “I do not trust you yet.”
A faint, tired grin tugged at his mouth. “Fair enough.”
We walked together across the yard, his boots crunching softly over the sand. The farmhouse’s door creaked open, and the smell of olive oil and ash drifted out. Inside, the light was dim — a single lantern casting amber shadows against the cracked plaster walls. The floor was cool underfoot, covered by woven rugs faded from years of wear.
He stepped in first, careful not to touch anything. I followed, closing the door behind us with a soft click.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air felt heavy with the sound of his breathing, the slow tick of the old wall clock.
“You… sit,” I said, pointing toward the low Arab jalsa couch near the wall. Its cushions were old but clean, patterned with deep red and gold.
He removed his gloves before sitting, resting his rifle carefully against the side. “You’ve got a nice place here,” he said quietly.
I gave a short shrug, moving toward the small kitchen area. “Is small. But safe.”
He nodded, eyes following me as I lit another lamp. The flame illuminated the right side of my face, and I saw his gaze falter. Not in disgust — more in shock, like he hadn’t expected the scars to be so real. I pretended not to notice. I was used to that kind of silence.
“You… hungry?” I asked, my voice softer now.
He hesitated. “I don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble,” I said, pulling a small clay pot from the stove. “I make timman and lentils tonight. Is enough for two.”
His lips curved faintly. “Thank you.”
I ladled the steaming rice and lentils into two small bowls, setting one before him. He murmured something that sounded like cheers before eating. His eyes closed briefly as he tasted the food, and for the first time, I saw the soldier’s mask slip away. He looked human. Just a man, hungry and tired, like so many I’d seen before.
I sat across from him, silent, watching. The lantern’s light shimmered in his eyes — blue like the sky after rain.
“You are far from home,” I said.
“Aye,” he replied quietly, spoon pausing mid-air. “A long way.”
We fell into silence again, the kind that fills a room without choking it. Fahad barked once outside, more softly this time, as if sensing the storm had passed.
When he finished eating, I gestured toward the couch. “You sleep there tonight. Is comfortable enough.”
He nodded, standing to remove his vest and jacket, folding them neatly. He didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes lingered on me just long enough to say what words could not. I turned away, adjusting the lantern. The light dimmed, casting us both in the hush of amber and shadow. The wind outside shifted, rustling the palms. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone.
I woke to the sound of movement.
For a long moment, I didn’t know where I was. The light that spilled through the shutters was soft and gold, the kind that usually came right after dawn. The air smelled faintly of dust and milk. My head felt heavy, my dreams tangled and half-remembered — something about the river, and a man’s voice echoing in the dark.
Then I heard it again. A clatter. The scrape of something metallic.
Someone was in my kitchen.
I sat up sharply, my dishdasha falling in loose folds around me. It was a long, cotton thing — the kind I slept in every night, soft from years of washing. My hair had come undone while I slept, and now it hung in wild curls around my face. I pushed a few strands away and listened again.
There it was — a low hum, a cupboard opening, the unmistakable sound of glass tapping against wood.
And then it all rushed back.
The night. The barking. The man — Johnny, he called himself — standing in my barn like a shadow pulled from war. How I had let him in, fed him, watched him eat as if he had never seen a warm meal before. I remembered his blue eyes, the soft “thank you” that didn’t sound like pity, when we shared our names, and the silence that followed.
So he was still here. And now, apparently, he was ransacking my kitchen.
I threw on my scarf loosely, though it hung uneven across my hair, and padded toward the stairs, my bare feet silent against the floor. The dagger from last night still lay on the small table near the door, but I didn’t take it this time. I didn’t need to — not yet.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw him.
Johnny stood in the middle of my small kitchen, his back turned to me. He was still in that same dusty gear, though he had taken off his vest and gloves, leaving them in a pile near the counter. His boots — those same filthy, mud-caked boots — were still on his feet.
The fridge door was open, light spilling over his figure as he leaned in, rummaging through my food like a starving man on a mission. I watched, incredulous, as he muttered under his breath, pulling out a jar of pickled turnips, then setting it down with a clank.
Of all things to wake up to — this was by far the worst.
“Ya ibn al-kalb!” I hissed under my breath, grabbing the nearest thing I could find — a spatula.
With a quick stride, I swatted the back of his head.
He jumped like I’d fired a gun. “Bloody—!”
I swung again, the wooden spatula clinking off his shoulder. “You make mess in my kitchen? You think you are in your own home?”
He turned, eyes wide, looking somewhere between alarmed and guilty. “Leila— I was just—”
“Just what?” I snapped, pointing the spatula at him like a sword. “You wake me up from sleep, you make noise like crazy man, and you wear shoes in my house?!”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Ah— the shoes, right. I didn’t think—”
“You not think at all!” I interrupted, waving the spatula again. “I clean this floor yesterday! Yesterday! Now you put all mud again, ya Allah!”
It was comical, really — him standing there, a six foot soldier trying to look harmless while I scolded him like a mother catching her son stealing sweets before dinner.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean to— I was just lookin’ for somethin’ to eat. Didn’t want to bother you.”
“You already bother me,” I said flatly.
His mouth twitched, maybe fighting a smile. “Aye, seems so.”
“Go,” I said, pointing toward the living room with the spatula. “Sit there. I make breakfast. You no touch anything.”
He hesitated, then nodded sheepishly. “Right, I’ll stay out of your way.”
“And boots!” I barked. “Off! Leave by door. You stay in my house, you respect it.”
He looked down at his boots, then back at me. “Aye, right. Boots off. Got it.”
When he bent down to untie them, I gave him one last warning swat on the back of his head for good measure. “Faster!”
He flinched and laughed under his breath, stumbling toward the door like a schoolboy escaping punishment.
Once he was gone, I turned my attention to the chaos he’d left behind. The countertop looked like a battlefield — jars half open, lids missing, crumbs everywhere. My loaf of bread hung halfway out of the fridge, the poor thing drying under the cool air.
“La ilaha illa Allah…” I muttered, rubbing my temples.
It took me a few minutes to restore order, putting everything back in its place. Then I began preparing breakfast properly.
The routine steadied me, as it always did. I washed my hands, set the pan on the small gas stove, and poured oil until it shimmered gold. The smell filled the kitchen quickly — warm, nutty, home. I reached for the dates I had harvested last week, their skins wrinkled and dark, sweet as memory. I pitted them carefully, setting them aside.
Then came the kahi — thin sheets of pastry fried until crisp and flaky, layered with cream and syrup. I worked quietly, the movements familiar as prayer. The geymer I had made the night before still rested in the fridge, thick and cool. I brewed chai the way my mother once did — with cardamom pods that hissed when dropped into boiling water.
As the smells deepened — butter, sugar, tea — I let my mind wander. It had been a long time since anyone else’s voice filled this house. Years, maybe. The silence had become so much a part of me that even now, with him only a few rooms away, I didn’t know how to feel.
When the food was ready, I arranged everything neatly on a round tray: kahi and geymer, dates, and two small glasses of chai. The tray felt heavier than it should have, maybe because of the quiet weight in my chest.
In the living room, he sat exactly where I told him to — cross-legged on the jalsa, elbows on his knees, eyes down. Without his boots, he looked strangely human, less like a soldier and more like some lost traveler who had wandered too far.
He glanced up as I entered, guilt flashing across his face. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly.
I set the tray down between us. “You already did.”
He huffed a small laugh, accepting defeat. “You’re a tough one, Leila.”
I ignored that, tearing a piece of kahi with my hand and dipping it into the soft geymer. The pastry flaked apart, the cream melting against my tongue. He watched for a moment, then frowned slightly, glancing between the food and me.
“You… eat with your hands?” he asked carefully.
I raised a brow. “Yes. Problem?”
“No, no,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Just— wasn’t expectin’ it.”
I leaned back, eyeing him. “In my country, we eat with hands. Is normal. Is how family eat together. You have problem, you can eat alone.”
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “No problem at all. Just… new to me.”
“Good,” I said simply, pushing the tray toward him. “Eat. You hungry enough to steal my fridge, you hungry enough to eat my food.”
That made him grin — a real grin this time, crooked and tired but warm. “Fair enough.”
He reached for a piece of kahi, but his movements were awkward, clumsy. He tried to scoop the geymer with the edge of the pastry and failed miserably, the cream sliding off and plopping back onto the plate.
I sighed. “No, no. Like this.”
Leaning forward, I showed him — folding the pastry slightly, using the curve of my fingers to guide the geymer into it. “See? Easy.”
He mimicked me carefully, tongue poking out in concentration, and this time managed to get it right.
“Hey,” he said proudly. “Not bad, eh?”
I hid a smile behind a neutral expression. “You learn fast.”
We ate in silence after that. The quiet wasn’t awkward this time — it was… gentle. The kind that sits between two people like a truce. Outside, the wind moved softly through the palms, and the distant bleating of goats drifted in through the window.
After breakfast, I gathered the plates, stacking them neatly. He moved to help, but I waved him off. “No. You make mess before, you sit now.”
He laughed softly, settling back on the couch. “Aye aye, boss.”
I pretended not to understand, though the tone made me suspect he was teasing.
As I washed the dishes, I could feel his gaze from the other room — not intrusive, just curious. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. A woman with half a face. A farmer. A ghost. Maybe all three.
When the last dish was clean, I turned to him. “You need shower.”
He blinked. “Come again?”
“You smell like barn,” I said bluntly. “And you have dust everywhere. I not let you sit on couch again like this.”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, fair point. Been a few days since I had a proper wash.”
“Wait here,” I said, heading toward my late father’s old wardrobe. After rummaging for a moment, I found what I was looking for — a simple white thobe, loose and long, with a few faint stains but still clean. I brought it back and held it out to him. “Here. You wear this.”
He looked at it, then at me, an amused smirk tugging at his mouth. “Don’t think I’ve ever worn somethin’ like that before.”
“Then first time for everything,” I said, placing it into his hands.
He chuckled, taking it carefully. “Aye. Thanks, Leila.”
I led him toward the small bathroom in the far corner of the house. “Water heater works. You use small knob, not big. If you use all hot water, I make you sleep outside with goats.”
His laughter echoed lightly against the hallway. “Understood.”
I pointed toward the small cabinet. “Shampoo, soap, towel — all inside. You clean everything, yes?”
When he stepped inside, I lingered a moment, hearing the door click softly behind him. The sound of running water followed soon after.
I stood there in the hallway, staring at the closed door, feeling something strange twist in my chest — part amusement, part uncertainty. It had been years since another person’s presence filled this home. Years since laughter had echoed off these walls.
Maybe it was foolish. Maybe dangerous. But for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel the silence pressing in on me like a curse.
When I heard the door creak open, I expected to see the same disheveled soldier from last night — all mud, dust, and exhaustion. Instead, what stepped out of the bathroom nearly made me forget my own composure.
He looked… different. The thobe I’d handed him hung loosely around his frame, crisp white against his tanned skin and the faint red marks of a hot shower still clinging to his cheeks. His damp hair was pushed back, curling a little at the ends, and for a moment he just stood there — barefoot, blinking under the strip of morning light that filtered through the window.
“Fits, aye?” he said with that easy grin, tugging at the hem as though the robe itself might answer.
I blinked once, then twice. “Too long,” I muttered. “You look—” I waved a hand, searching for the word, “—like my uncle.”
That seemed to amuse him. “Well, cannae say I was goin’ for fashion week, lass,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’m clean, at least. Smellin’ less like a barn.”
“You still look like a foreigner,” I said, trying — and failing — to hide the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth.
He caught it anyway. His grin widened. “Ach, progress, then.”
I turned away before he could see more than that flicker of amusement, pretending to busy myself by folding a few cloths near the sink. The house smelled faintly of chai and the earthy sweetness of dates — remnants of breakfast. Outside, the wind hummed against the shutters, stirring the curtains softly.
“You plan to leave now?” I asked finally, keeping my tone neutral.
He hesitated. “About that…”
I looked up, and his expression told me before his words did — that he wasn’t going anywhere, not yet.
“My team,” he began slowly, “we got separated last night. Radio’s gone — lost it somewhere in the sand. Been tryin’ to reach ‘em since I got here, but… no luck.”
I frowned. “So you stay here because you are lost?”
He nodded, sheepish. “Just for a bit. Till I can get word out, or they come lookin’. Promise I won’t be a bother.”
I sighed, rubbing my temple. “You already bother. You eat, you make mess, you wear shoes in house—”
“Alright, alright,” he said quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender, that grin still intact. “I’ll behave, I swear on it.
His tone was too warm to stay angry at for long. Against my better judgment, I felt the edges of my irritation soften.
I was halfway through gathering my tools when he appeared in the doorway.
“I’ll come with ye,” he said suddenly.
I turned, one eyebrow raised. “Come where?”
“T’help. Whatever needs doin’. You shouldn’t be workin’ alone out there.”
I blinked at him. “You?” I asked, tone incredulous. “You mess up my kitchen, and now you want to help with farm?”
He scratched at the back of his neck. “Aye. I owe ye that much, don’t I?”
I opened my mouth to argue — then saw the flicker of something in his expression. Not arrogance. Not pity. Just a quiet sincerity.
“You want to help? Then fine. You help on farm.” I met his eyes then, serious. “But you respect my land. You not break anything. You not scare my animals. Understand?”
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Scout’s honor, lass.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but his tone was earnest enough.
Outside, the world was bathed in gold — the kind of morning light that made the wheat shimmer like coins. I tied my scarf around my hair, tucking away the loose strands as I stepped into my sandals. Soap followed behind me, his bare feet slapping the floor until I pointed firmly toward the doorway. There was a pair of sandals my late father never got to wear that I had managed to find.
“Shoes, by the door,” I reminded him.
“Aye, aye,” he said, grinning as he slipped on the shoes.
Fahad, my Kurdish Mastiff, came bounding up the path, his tail wagging before his nose caught the stranger’s scent. The wag turned to a low growl.
“Fahad,” I said calmly, resting a hand on the dog’s back. “Hada dayf, understand? Guest.”
The dog huffed but obeyed, tail twitching. Soap stiffened slightly.
“He does not like strangers,” I said, smirking. “You stay still. He sniff you first.”
Fahad approached, snorted once, then huffed and trotted off to round up the sheep.
Soap exhaled in relief. “Aye, didn’t fancy losin’ a leg today.”
I laughed quietly, shaking my head. “He not bite… much.”
“He like me,” I said simply. “Not you. Yet.”
He chuckled under his breath, still wary. “Aye, story of my life, that.”
We began walking toward the stables, where the morning air was thick with the scent of hay and sun-warmed dust. The sheep bleated softly from their pen, and I could hear the distant cluck of hens. I grabbed a bucket, handed another to him.
“You carry this,” I instructed. “We feed animals first, then we go market.”
“Yes. I sell eggs, cheese, wool. You help.”
“Help?” he repeated, eyebrows raised. “Thought I was just passin’ through.”
“You want to eat dinner again, yes?”
He laughed — loud, genuine. “Fair point, lass. Fair point.”
He wasn’t terrible at helping, though his clumsiness showed every few minutes. When I went to scatter feed for the chickens, he startled at the sudden flutter of wings. When I showed him how to collect eggs, he cracked two before managing one whole.
“Ya Allah,” I muttered under my breath, snatching the last unbroken egg from his hand. “You have hands like child.”
“Oi, careful now,” he said, mock offense in his tone. “These hands’ve saved lives, y’know.”
“Not chicken lives,” I replied, earning a burst of laughter from him.
It was strange — the sound of it. Warm. It filled the empty corners of the air where silence usually lingered. For a heartbeat, I forgot to be guarded.
“I’ve never been to an Iraqi market before,” he said eagerly. “Could be fun.”
“Fun?” I repeated, arching a brow. “We go to work, not fun.”
He chuckled. “Work can be fun, aye?”
I rolled my eyes but said nothing, secretly amused.
When the morning chores were done, I went to prepare Amal, my camel, for the journey to the village. Her long lashes fluttered as I fastened the saddle and packed the woven bags full of eggs, wool, and jars of milk. Soap stood beside her, gawking like a child.
“She’s massive,” he said. “Didnae think they were this tall up close.”
“Her name is Amal,” I said, patting the camel’s neck. “Means ‘hope.’”
He softened a little at that. “Hope, eh? Suits her.”
When I gestured for him to climb up, he hesitated. “I’ve never ridden one o’ these before.”
I smirked. “Then today, you learn.”
He took the saddle awkwardly, nearly slipping once before finding his balance. When I climbed up in front, Amal rose to her full height with a deep groan, pitching him backward.
“Bloody hell!” he yelped, gripping my shoulders as if his life depended on it.
I couldn’t help it — I laughed. Not just a smile, not a polite chuckle — a full, surprised laugh that felt almost foreign after so long.
“Hold tight,” I said through the laughter. “Or Amal throw you off next.”
He tightened his grip slightly but leaned back once he steadied. “Aye, aye. Not plannin’ on dyin’ in a camel accident, thanks.”
The ride to the village was peaceful. The desert stretched endlessly around us — dunes melting into the horizon, the wind whispering like a song. Occasionally, he’d point out something — a bird, a passing herd, or some shape in the distance — and ask questions, his curiosity genuine.
“What’s that wee town called?”
“Al-Khadr,” I said. “Small, but busy. Everyone know everyone.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Bet they’ll notice me straight away.”
I smirked. “You wear thobe. You blend in.”
He gave a mock glare. “Oh aye, lass, nobody’ll notice the pale Scotsman ridin’ a camel through town. I’m invisible.”
That earned another small laugh from me.
By the time we reached the village, the sun was high and the air was thick with the smell of cumin, fresh bread, and diesel from the few old trucks that still rattled down the streets. The market was already alive — merchants calling out prices, children darting between stalls, the clatter of metal trays echoing in the heat.
I set up my stand the way I always did — careful, organized, neat. Soap hovered nearby, trying to help without knocking anything over. He held the crate steady as I arranged the eggs, then stacked the cheese jars on the table. For once, he didn’t fumble.
“Not bad,” I said quietly.
He beamed. “I’ll take that as high praise.”
The first few customers came quickly — neighbors and familiar faces. An old woman bought two jars of milk, blessing me with a smile. Then came the children — always bold, always curious.
One of them pointed at Soap, whispering something in Arabic that made another giggle.
“What are they sayin’?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“Nothing,” I said, turning away too quickly.
“Doesnae sound like nothin’.”
“They say you look funny,” I admitted finally, stifling a laugh.
He blinked, pretending to be wounded. The children giggled harder, and even I couldn’t hold back my laughter this time. He took it well — ruffling one of the boys’ hair before turning to me.
“Y’know,” he said, “you laugh more than you think you do.”
I froze for a heartbeat, meeting his gaze — and there it was again, that disarming ease of his. He wasn’t mocking, not really. Just noticing.
“Don’t get used to it,” I said finally, turning back to the table. But the warmth in my chest lingered.
When the last of the jars were sold and the sun began to dip, we packed up the stand together. He carried the heavier bags this time without me asking, whistling softly under his breath as Amal chewed lazily on some straw.
As we rode back toward the farm, the light changed — everything turning softer, the dunes painted in gold and rose. For the first time since the war reached these lands, I found the quiet not suffocating, but peaceful.
As the farm came into view, Fahad’s bark carried on the wind, welcoming us home. I felt the faintest tug of a smile again, unseen beneath the veil of dusk.
Maybe, I thought, the stranger in white wasn’t such a bad omen after all.
yay! you’ve made it to the end, might as well follow me for more fics lol ;)
Tag list: @p4rkcha3w0n i know this might not be the fanfic I usually post, but I thought you’d maybe also like this one ˶ˆᗜˆ˵
