Barely anyone ventured this far out of town. And you never thought you would for a guy.

Let alone for Martin Lefevre.

You first met him at the gas station off the highway, the one that was rundown and was only really good for buying cigarettes. He was leaning against his truck, waiting for the tank to fill, rifle case in the back, and a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

Everyone knew him—the Lefevre boy who lived out by the woods. The one who hunted almost every day, who came back with deer antlers in his truck bed and fresh meat to sell to the town butcher.

He called you his doe the first time he saw you.

You laughed then, thinking he was teasing. You didn’t know how much he meant it.

Now, you spend most of yours days in his small farmhouse, waiting for him on the couch or sitting on the porch while he was out hunting. He always came back at the exact time he said, tired and blood dried on his hands.

You hear him before you see him—the creak of the door, the low hum of a song you don’t recognize.

“Evenin’, doe.” He greets gruffly, ruffling your hair before sinking down into the couch beside you.