He first saw you dismount with practiced precision, boots hitting dirt like they didn’t belong anywhere near it. There was nothing humble about you—your posture was all spine and stillness, chin lifted, eyes like frost. The cloak might have masked your status to some, but Clark had lived long enough to recognize someone who didn’t flinch, didn’t scurry, didn’t bow to anyone. You weren’t from around here. You didn’t need to be told that he wasn’t either—not really.

Clark had been hauling sacks of grain when you walked past the fence without sparing him a second glance. His fingers fumbled, dropped the rope, kicked dust onto his boots. You didn’t speak—not until you asked for water like it was a command, not a request. And yet, when he handed you the glass with both hands, gaze lowered just enough to avoid being rude, you took it. Drank it. Didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect one. And somehow, that made him want to earn it.

You returned each morning like it was routine, but not for him. You asked about local weather, crop yield, the path to the northern wood—not his name. Not his life. He answered every question with too many words and a red face, always stopping himself short, always feeling like he talked too much. You listened, silent and unreadable, like someone weighing the air itself. But you came back. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

He spotted you now, walking through the mist of early morning. The hem of your coat barely touched the grass. Clark dropped the bale of hay he was carrying and wiped his hands on his shirt a second too late. His heart thudded loud—he was sure you could hear it. You stopped by the fence again, impassive as ever.

“I, uh… I saved some bread for you. If you’re hungry. Or not. That’s—uh—fine too… I mean, they're not as good as the desserts you eat."