Chapter Text
The air in the Stardrop Saloon was thick with the scent of spilt beer and regret.
Shane sat slouched in the corner booth, one hand curled around a half-empty glass, the other tugging idly at the hem of his hoodie. His eyes were bloodshot, not from the alcohol, not entirely, but from the exhaustion that came from feeling too much for too long.
Outside, the rain had just started—soft at first, then building into a steady, soaking rhythm against the windows. Rotten luck, Shane thought, he'd have to walk home through the rain again. Maybe he should finally invest in a raincoat, or at the very least, an umbrella.
Gus moved quietly behind the counter, pretending not to glance Shane's way, again.
But just as Shane was about to comment on Gus's more than occasional glancing, the door creaked open, and someone stepped inside just as the first thunder growled overhead.
Their eyes met.
Shane's stomach turned. The farmer.
Shane had heard about her from his aunt. She was the new girl who had recently moved here. It seemed to Shane that she was already well known and perhaps even loved by everyone here, given the way everyone reacted to her entering the Saloon: all smiles and greetings. What a contrast to when he enters.
"Gosh, you're soaked-through!" Emily rushed over to the farmer, already holding a blanket she snatched from behind the counter, and draped it over the farmer's shoulders. "You're going to catch a cold at this rate!"
The farmer giggled. "Sorry, Em." Shane raised a brow at 'Em', but didn't say anything. "I was walking back home from Willy's, and then it started pouring!"
Emily shook her head with a smile. "So busy already, huh?" She said as she used the blanket to dry the farmer's hair, as well. "Well, good thing we're open so late! How about some pizza to warm up?"
The farmer smiled at the offer and eagerly nodded, sitting down at the bar.
Shane barely stifled a scoff as he watched the newcomer. Big, doe eyes—too soft for this place—paired with a sheepish little smile, like she wasn't sure if she'd made a mistake. Her hair clung to her face in damp, tangled strands, plastered there by the rain, and her boots were already caked in mud, the leather worn thin like she'd borrowed them from someone who actually knew what they were doing. This was the new farmer? He squinted. She looked like she belonged in a coffee shop, not knee-deep in turnip fields. What the hell was someone like her doing out here, in a place like this? From the city, they'd said—but it didn’t make sense. People didn’t just choose to leave all that behind. Not unless they were running from something.
Despite all that, she was settling in fairly fast. Too fast. He narrowed his eyes. How old was she, anyway? Twenty? Mid-Twenty? She didn’t look like she belonged here—but something told him she'd decided she did.
Deciding to stop the staring before he got caught, Shane rolled his eyes and dropped his gaze back to the pint in front of him. Another starry-eyed kid with big dreams and a future wide open—and yet here she was, throwing it all away on a town that hadn't seen change in decades. The bitterness crawled up his throat, thick and sharp, too familiar to fight. Before it could settle into words or something worse, he tipped back the glass and drained it in one pull.
But his wallowing was soon interrupted by a voice speaking directly to him.
"Shane, right?"
The farmer leaned in, elbows on the bar and forearms flush against the wood like she belonged there—like this place didn’t bother her one bit. Like the stench of alcohol and misery radiating off him in waves wasn’t there at all.
"I'm new her—"
"I know who you are." Shane grunted, eyes fixed on his drink. Why was this kid talking to him? Hadn't his body language made it abundantly clear that he wasn't looking for conversation?
He glanced around, silently pleading for Emily to swoop in and save him from this social trap—but she was still busy by the oven, wrestling with the pizza dough. No wonder the farmer had ended up talking to him.
"Ah. Right." She scratched the back of her neck, sheepish, like she'd just been caught trespassing. "Well, either way… I was hoping to run into you, actually."
Shane’s frown deepened. In his experience, anyone looking for him meant trouble. Better to shut this down now before she started asking questions he didn’t want to answer.
He opened his mouth to speak—
"Why are you talking to me?"
"I brought you some peppers."
They stopped, blinking at each other, the words hanging there like they'd taken a wrong turn.
Shane stared at her. Peppers?
Her mouth quirked into a small, nervous laugh as she slid a small paper bag across the bar. "I asked around. Heard you liked them, so I've been carrying some with me in case of catching you somewhere. Please… take them. As a gift."
He eyed the bag, then her, then the bag again. He liked peppers—sure—but this? This was weird.
Shane narrowed his eyes at the bag, as if it might explode.
"You… heard that from who?" His voice was flat, suspicious.
"Marnie," she said simply. "Said you liked them with breakfast."
Of course. Marnie. She'd always been too friendly for her own good. Shane was amazed and grateful that none of that friendliness had somehow rubbed off on him yet.
He sighed through his nose, not quite touching the bag. The air between them was thick now—not tense exactly, just full of things unsaid.
"You can't bribe me into talking to you."
The farmer blinked, then gave a lopsided smile. "It's not a bribe. It's a gift."
That made it worse, somehow. Shane wasn't used to gifts unless it was a pity beer or a birthday card signed by Jas in crayon. Still, he didn’t push the bag away. Just stared at it like it had personally offended him.
"Thanks." He muttered, barely audible.
The farmer's smile softened, just a touch.
"You're welcome." She didn't sound smug or overly cheerful—just genuine. It made something twist low in his chest. What was she playing at here? Did she think that throwing produce people's way was going to score her brownie points with them? If anything, he was just creeped out that, without even meeting him first, she already knew what he liked.
He looked away, pretending to focus on a crack in the bar top.
"You'll hate it here." He said suddenly, voice quiet.
The farmer hummed as she watched Emily slide the pizza from the oven, the scent of melted cheese filling the air.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
She paused, then gave a small smile—not bright or beaming, just soft at the corners, like it came without thinking.
"I haven't found anything to hate yet."
Before Shane could say something in reply, Emily placed the pizza in front of the farmer with a big smile. "Voila! Freshly made pizza just for you, dear farmer."
The farmer giggled, clapping her hands a few times. "It smells so good. I'm starving!"
As the two women laughed, Shane glanced away, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth creeping up his neck. She hadn’t found anything to hate here yet? He scoffed under his breath. What a joke.
Give it a week more. Maybe two. The rot would show. It always did.
This place—Pelican Town—wasn’t some wholesome countryside dream. It was a trap with fresh paint. A holding cell disguised as a postcard. People didn't come here to thrive; they came here because they had nowhere else left to go. Just like him.
And her? From the city? Bright-eyed, full of naive optimism and carrying around peppers like friendship tokens? She had no idea what she was doing. He'd bet good money she still thought this place was quaint. Still thought she was 'finding herself' or whatever delusional nonsense people like her told themselves before the loneliness hit like a goddamn freight train.
He took another sip of his drink—warm, flat, and familiar. Just the way he liked it.
Still… it didn’t make sense.
Why talk to him? Why even bother? He wasn't nice. He didn't make small talk. He wasn't charming, or friendly, or good with people. Half the town avoided him on instinct. The other half tolerated him because of Marnie—or Jas.
And yet she'd walked right up to him. Smiled at him. Gave him peppers. Peppers, of all things.
He frowned harder, the bitterness in his chest tightening like a vice.
Was she trying to fix him? Was that it? Did he look like a project? A sad little stray she could pat on the head and bring back to life with homegrown vegetables and forced kindness?
Or worse—did she actually mean it?
That was the part that got him. The worst part. She didn't seem fake. There was no pity in her eyes. No judgment. Just… whatever that smile was. Easy. Warm. Like she didn't know who he was supposed to be. Like she hadn't heard the whispers, or worse, had and still didn’t care. But how could she not have heard the whispers about him by now? It was damn near the end of Spring. People surely would have talked about him already.
He hated that. Hated how it made him feel seen in a way that was too exposed, too raw. If she wanted to introduce herself so bad, why not simply say 'hello' and be done with it all? Why burden him with this bullshit kindness that would, overtime, turn to dust? It was too much to handle. Too much, too soon.
So instead, he leaned back in his seat and let the laughter wash over him like background noise.
Let her find something to hate. Eventually, she would. Everyone always did.
And when she did, maybe then the world would make sense again.
Suddenly, Emily perked up when she noticed the bag of peppers by Shane. "Oh! You brought peppers?"
Shane resisted the urge to audibly groan.
"No."
He didn't bother elaborating, unhelpfully.
The farmer, unfazed, spoke up around a mouthful of pizza—cheese stretching from her lip as she tried and failed to look casual. "I brought them. For him."
Emily made a little 'o' with her mouth, then beamed like it was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. "Oh, I see! That’s so nice of you."
She turned her grin to Shane, who took a long sip of his beer like it might somehow shield him from the moment. He could already feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck.
"Wasn't that nice of her, Shane?"
Shane didn't look at her.
"Sure."
He said it flat, clipped—somewhere between a grunt and a whisper. The farmer didn't seem offended. That somehow made it worse.
Why wasn't she offended? Was she just clueless?
Emily laughed softly, taking the now-empty plate from in front of the farmer and putting it away. "Well, if she's feeding you and flattering you, Shane, maybe you've finally got a secret admirer."
That made Shane choke slightly on his beer.
The farmer coughed too, whether from laughter or embarrassment, he couldn't tell. And honestly, he didn't want to know.
He just wanted to be left alone.
So when Gus also perked up and joined the conversation, Shane knew he had to bounce, and fast. Shane's had enough conversation for the year.
He quickly gulped down his beer, and set the empty cup down with a clank. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and stood up hastiy.
"Thanks for the beer." He said to Gus before turning around to leave.
Emily tensed, her smile faltering as Shane's stool scraped against the floor with a screech that turned a few heads. She reached toward him instinctively, flour-dusted fingers pausing midair.
"Wait, Shane! It’s still raini—"
Her voice caught at the end, softer than she meant it to be.
But Shane was already turning away, shoving the bag of peppers under his arm like he regretted taking them. He didn't look at her. Didn't look at the farmer, either.
"I know." He muttered, his voice flat, like the rain might do him a favour.
The door swung closed behind him a second later, bell jingling too cheerfully for how heavy the air had turned.
Now that he was outside, the rain soaking through his jacket and the bag of peppers tucked awkwardly under his arm, the weight in his chest only sank deeper.
What a shitty day.
First the farmer with that too-bright smile, then the damn peppers, the awkward conversation, Emily's teasing—just one thing after another. Everything sucked.
He huffed, glaring at the stone path like it had personally wronged him, his sneakers splashing in shallow puddles as he walked faster. Without thinking, he tugged the bag of peppers closer to his side, shielding it from the rain—more carefully than he meant to.
Shane couldn’t even fully understand what was making him so upset. Sure, he was jaded—had been for years—but he didn’t think he was this easily thrown off by a stupid conversation and a smile. And yet, his stomach was twisted in a knot he couldn’t name, his jaw clenched like he’d been grinding his teeth for hours.
What the hell was even wrong with him?
It wasn’t like this was new. People were always trying to be friendly. It never stuck. He usually brushed it off, kept his head down, and drank until he couldn’t feel the awkwardness settling under his skin. But this time it was different—she was different. She hadn't flinched at his tone, hadn't backed off at the first sign of his misery. Hell, she'd sat there, eating pizza with cheese on her chin, acting like they were just two normal people having a chat.
It should’ve been easy to ignore. He should’ve forgotten it already. So why did it feel like her words had crawled under his skin and stayed there?
He exhaled hard, breath fogging in the cool air as he stomped through the gravel, the rain relentless above him. The peppers were starting to make his arm ache, but he kept them tucked close anyway. Like some idiot. Like they meant something.
Eventually, he entered Marnie's ranch, exhaling.
Perhaps it wasn't her smile or supposed cluelessness. It was something else. His own dreams and youth reflected back at him like an unwelcome sunbeam through the blinds, forcing its way into his room each morning, daring him to wake up and care again.
Something started boiling under his skin again, dark green liquid that moulded itself into clay and hardened around the ribs protecting his heart.
He scowled.
What was the point of agonising over this? As if he hadn't enough things to agonise over as it was.
He tossed the bag of peppers on the counter, sighing heavily.
He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't even noticed Marnie standing there, looking at him with thinly veiled concern, and when she spoke up, he jumped slightly.
"Shane, you're all soaked." Marnie said as she approached him. "What were you thinking walking about in the rain?"
Shane pursed his lips, looking down at himself and his wet clothes. Dang it. Today truly was the worst.
"Sorry. I had no choice." He mumbled awkwardly.
Marnie observed him for a minute longer, opting out of saying anything more. She knew Shane well enough to recognise when he was in a bad mood, and decided against pushing it further. Instead, she turned her focus to the bag of peppers.
"Peppers?" She asked curiously and looked into the bag. "They look fresh."
Shane bit his tongue before running his fingers through his hair roughly, shaking the rain out of his locks. "Yeah. The what's-her-face farmer gave them to me."
Marnie smiled to herself, taking a pepper out of the bag and inspecting it. "What a nice girl she is."
Nice. Again, the word 'nice' was used to describe her.
Was he the crazy one thinking this whole gift-giving schtick was creepy?
"Yeah. Nice." He muttered, barely sparing the peppers another glance as he moved to open the fridge.
But Marnie’s voice stopped him cold.
"Shane. Shower and change—first." She said, firm in that way only she could manage. "You'll catch a cold, soaked like that."
He paused, hand still on the fridge door, and his eye gave a small, involuntary twitch. For a second, he looked like he might argue—but he didn't.
He just nodded, shoulders stiff.
"Fine."
Marnie nodded. "Good boy, Shane." She smiled at him tenderly. "Goodnight."
Shane nodded. "Goodnight, aunt."
Without another word, he turned and headed down the hall, the weight of his wet clothes sticking to him like everything else he couldn't shake.
After the shower, dressed in a dry hoodie and sweatpants that still smelled faintly of detergent, Shane trudged back into the kitchen. The light over the sink buzzed softly. Marnie was gone, and the peppers had been tucked away—cleaned, sorted, stored somewhere out of sight.
Good. He didn’t want to look at them anymore.
Out of sight, out of mind.
That was the goal, right?
His stomach gave a low, hollow grumble. He absently rubbed a hand over his soft middle, frowning. Eating sounded like an effort. But a drink—that he could manage.
He opened the fridge, grabbed a can, and cracked it open with a soft hiss. The cold of it bit at his fingertips as he leaned back against the counter, sipping in slow, practised pulls. The silence of the house pressed in around him.
One beer. That’s it.
Just enough to quiet the noise.
The can was half-empty by the time he wandered back to his room, the rest of it still cold in his hand. Inside, everything was exactly where he’d left it: cluttered, dim, and stale with the faint scent of beer and dust.
He kicked off his slippers, set the can down on the nightstand—still unfinished—and dropped onto the mattress with a groan, barely pulling the blanket over himself. His body sank into the bed like it hadn’t held itself up in years.
And still, his thoughts pressed in.
Not about the peppers.
Not about the farmer.
Not even about the stupid day.
Just that strange, quiet feeling in his chest—one he hadn’t had in a long time, one he didn’t have the name for anymore.
He closed his eyes.
What a goddamn day.