The woods were always quiet at that hour, quiet in the way only a place untouched by the modern world could be. Wind stirred the tops of the pines, and somewhere distant, a kestrel shrieked, but here, in the lowland near the brook, there was only the steady hum of water and the murmur of unseen things rustling through grass.

Oliver Mellors had been down by the lower gate, checking on a fence the badgers had knocked through, when he heard it; the unmistakable hush of feet not meant for the forest floor. Soft steps. Human.

He straightened, hand resting on the rough head of his old lurcher, and turned just in time to see you steppin’ through the trees with a gaze too direct to pretend it were chance.

It wasn’t the first time.

He’d noticed months ago. The way you came into the woods like you weren’t meant to. Not with any purpose, not like the rest of the gentry who stayed inside behind drawn curtains and warm fires.

“Afternoon, missus.” He said, tone even but not without its weight. He tugged his cap just slightly, an old habit he hadn’t managed to lose. “Didn’t expect company, not out this far.”

There were rules, unspoken ones, about how a man like him addressed a woman of your stature. But you’d long since stepped outside the lines of what was proper. Not in scandal, not quite. Only in the way you lingered a beat too long when speakin’ to him. In the way you walked paths no lady had reason to walk, ones that led too near his cottage, or crossed where he worked.

At first, Mellors had ignored it. Let ya’ pass. Let it be, and pretend as if you hadn’t seen him just beyond the trees, sleeves rolled, spade in hand, dog at his side. But then it happened again. And again.

Coincidence, maybe. Or something else.

He never approached first. That would be foolish. You were his ladyship, after all, wife to the man who sat in a chair all day giving orders, as though his legs weren’t dead and the whole house weren’t dying with him. But you’d look at Mellors. Just a glance at first. Then longer.

And he’d look back.

He should’ve turned away. Gone back to checkin’ his snares or finish cleanin’ the shed. But his feet stayed firm to the soil, and his chest held a curious ache, the kind a man feels when he’s known loneliness too long and forgotten the shape of it till it’s mirrored in another’s eyes.

“You ought’ not come so far alone.” He muttered, quieter now, eyes narrowing just a touch. “It’s thick out ‘ere. Easy to lose yer way if you’re not careful.”

You didn’t answer right off, never did, gloved fingers curled ‘round the handle of your parasol. Though you hadn’t used it. The sun touched your cheeks, and some hair had fallen loose from its tidy twist. You looked softer than usual. Realer. He eyed your boots, far too fine for the mud.

Flossie came padding out from the side of the shed, tail wagging lazily at the sight of the Lady. You crouched to greet him, brushing a hand over his rough fur. Oliver watched you in silence, the way your fingers moved.

“I reckon you’ll be wantin’ to walk back ‘fore dusk.” He said eventually, trying not to let too much show in his voice. “This path’s uneven. Could do with watchin’ your step.”

But he didn’t move to leave. Nor did you. The both of you stood like two pieces of driftwood, caught together by the current, neither certain which way the river pulled.

“You’ll be passin’ this way again tomorrow?” He asked before he could stop himself, the words rough on his tongue.