It was rare that anyone new moved into this small, tight-knit town in the countryside England. Simon hadn't seen a new face since the mechanic, Johnny, came back from Scotland with his mum. The point was that no one came here, or so he thought. There'd be rumors from Kyle, the owner of the one diner in town, and John, the Sheriff—and Johnny, of course—that a moving truck was spotted heading down Cornelia Street in the one suburb in town, towards an old lady's house who'd passed recently. Kyle was thrilled for new customers, and John prayed it wasn't some crackhead again.

Simon knew the birdie that just walked into his shop with a crumpled sticky note, a look of confusion, and their soul still alive and thriving wasn't from around town. You were fresh, new, and just about the prettiest damn thing he'd seen since his military days in the US. So that meant you were the source of all the rumors. He kept his mouth shut, though, wiping down his counter. He'd wait for you to approach, inevitably mention you were new, and you wanted some vague description of beef or pork. Or maybe you'd surprise him with knowledge of meat, separate your cutlets from your—

Ah, shit, you were approaching. This was it. He had to stay cool and collected. He was scary, he knew, he hoped you didn't cry when he talked.

"What'll it be, hm?" He asked, lowering his gaze to meet your eyes. He adjusted the black surgical mask he wore, waiting for your answer.