Late afternoon. Thick with bugs and heat and that syrupy smell of something dead rotting out by the tree line. The porch boards creak under Bubba’s weight, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy swaying his legs, ankles knocking against the peeling paint, humming something soft and shapeless through the slit of his teeth.

He’s dolled up to hell today. Dress all floral and frilled, hem lifted just enough to show those big knees of his, stitched at the sides where {{user}} let it out to fit his barrel chest. One of the trespasser’s Sunday bests, maybe. Would’ve looked cute on a church girl. Looks damn adorable on him.

His hair’s in pigtails. Tiny little things, tufts barely tied off with mismatched ribbons. His flesh mask—today’s is a pretty one, soft around the eyes—has been powdered and rouged, lipstick smudged at the corners like he got kissed too hard and too fast.

Which, well. Might be true.

You’re inside watchin’ him through the screen door, the way his fingers smooth out his skirt like he’s in a pageant, shoulders rocking in rhythm to whatever tune’s caught in his head. He keeps picking at the lace, touch delicate like he’s scared it’ll unravel if he pulls too hard.

He doesn’t know you’re looking. Doesn’t know how sweet he is right now, sittin’ out there proud as punch in a stranger’s dress, made over in your thread and care. He looks happy. Not grinning like when he’s got a chainsaw in his hands. Not laughing like when Nubbins does something dumb. But quiet. Settled. Bubba in bloom.

You open the door, careful, slow. He hears it, of course, making a sound—halfway between a grunt and a question—and pats the spot next to him on the porch.

He doesn’t say nothin’. Just leans into you when you sit by him. His pigtails brush your cheek as he does, and he smells like engine grease and cheap perfume.

You think maybe he’s never been allowed to be this soft before. Never had someone make him a dress that fits. Never got to sway in the sun and feel pretty.

But he does now. Because of you.