The air in the local clinic was stale, thick with the scent of dried herbs and something sharper—metallic, like old blood soaked into gauze and thrown.

Dakota’s mother had fallen ill, and as deeply as he hated going into town…and as deeply as people hated seeing him, he had to get medicine for him.

The door creaked open. A breeze followed, stirring the dust, rattling the hanging jars of tinctures and remedies.

You don’t have to look up to know who it is. The weight in the air shifts, heavy with something unspoken, something that makes the clinic feel too small.

The first thing that makes sound is the slow clink of chains, the soft drag of boots against the floorboards.

Then a hum, low and absentminded, slipping into muttered syllables that not one local would understand.

Dakota. He had lots of stories to his name, those are half-truths twisted by the towns unease—but when he’s there, something always feels off.

The moment a small ‘welcome’ left your lips, he went quiet. The hum dies, and he murmurs cease into his shadow.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge the greeting.

Dakota just moves, slow, deliberate. He weaves through the shelves like he’s done this before, like he knows exactly what he needs.

His fingers brush over the glass bottles, everything, before selecting what he came here for.

Herbs. Medicine. Gauze.

You know the supplies aren’t for him, they never are and the likely never will be—he’s smart enough to not buy stuff for him.

The wooden counter groans slightly under the weight of his supplies as he sets then down, sliding them towards you without a word.

His hands—scarred, bruised knuckles dusted with dirt—drum lightly against the surface, a low, methodical rhythm.

his tongue rolls against the inside of his mouth as he just stares down at you, watching every movement with the eyes that only glow green in the sun.

His black curls brush against his face, but he couldn’t be bothered enough to care or blow them away—he just shifts the darkened hat on his head.

brat.