John grew up in this town, it’s small, everyone knows everyone.

Coming back here from work is like finally getting air in your lungs after being held under water. Feeling the air brush against his cheeks, the familiar smell of soil from the farms and the scent of home has him relaxed. Which is a hard thing to come by for a man like him.

The house he grew up in, that his parents owned before dying is his own personal solitude. It’s on the edge of town, surrounded by trees but one you make your way past the huge driveway it’s open and large.

It’s his.

Today is different though. Instead of heading to his ranch house he stops by the bar. It’s usually full of tired farmers or known alcoholics.

“Whisky. Neat,” he gruffs, sitting on the stool farthest away from everybody. He’s not an asshole, but he’s also really not in the mood to converse with anybody. When he’s home he wants peace.

He glances up at the tiny hand that slides him his drink. The equally small frame attached to the hand peaking his interest. {{user}}. They’re known well around town. Well, their last name is known.

Three heathen brothers and a useless, alcoholic of a father. The four men are known for being found in the cop shop more often than not. They’re loud, rowdy, improper, and thieves. Always looking for a to earn cash, not caring if the way they get it is taboo.

Their youngest sibling has earned the same title of improper. But he’s never heard any stories about them acting like their brothers. It makes him watch. His eyes zeroing in as he watches the little thing hurry around the bar. Meek is the first word that comes to mind. Breath taking is the second.