#automated brewing

[maigetheplatypus57]

Reading like. every mcyt pregnancy fic I could find in the past several months is SO fun and makes for some interesting worldbuilding exercises

I just started the discussion of "if a baby needed potions for health reasons would the potions even work since babies drink primarily milk and milk cancels out potion effects"

[zeb-eb-beb]

hello 2am gender feelings/crisis. why are you here.

[maryjohnfinds]

EP2: AI vs Creativity | Disruptor or Tool? | The Future of Art and Advertising | Brew Bytes Podcast

Join us for an insightful and controversial discussion on Brew Bites as Osama Siddiq, co-founder of Lion and a creative industry expert, delves into the evolving impact of AI on creativity, art, and advertising. In this thought-provoking conversation, we explore whether AI is a revolutionary tool enhancing artistic expression or a disruptive force threatening creative jobs. Osama shares his personal journey from Pakistan to Dubai, discussing his rise in the advertising world, the challenges creatives face, and how AI is reshaping industries.

[jay-catsby]

we need excel macros for real life i need to be able to tell my house "okay at 9pm brew coffee and put it in the fridge following the exact same procedures we've used every night for five years"

[lesmana-enterprise-ltd]

Windslar M-Train Station (NO CC)

Windslar M-Train Station is the northern terminus of the Windslar-Lykke-Britechester line in the Windenbahn high-speed rail network. Originally built in 1998 through a collaboration between Lesmana Enterprise and the Windenburg Royal Ministry of Transport, the station now stands as a state-of-the-art transportation hub. It houses a dedicated maglev rail for the A12 Seraphim, the fastest train in the Western SimWorld, offering seamless, high-speed connections across the region. With premium waiting lounges, a spacious café, a capsule hotel for overnight stays, digital information kiosks, automated ticketing, and high-speed Wi-Fi, Windslar M-Train Station ensures a smooth and comfortable travel experience for all passengers.

New Interior Facelift

The Windslar M-Train Station interior blends modern sophistication with passenger comfort, offering a seamless travel experience. The spacious concourse features sleek ticketing kiosks, automated turnstiles, and a real-time departure board in Simlish for easy navigation. Soft ambient lighting, elegant architectural details, and lush greenery create an inviting atmosphere, while premium seating areas provide relaxation before boarding. A cozy café (POLA Coffee) serves freshly brewed coffee and local delicacies, making it a perfect stop for commuters and travelers alike. With its futuristic design and high-tech amenities, Windslar Station embodies the pinnacle of efficient and luxurious transit in the Windenbahn network.

Windslar Greets You

The peron offers a breathtaking view of the lush countryside, ready to greet travelers with its serene landscapes.

The A12 Seraphim is a masterpiece of speed and comfort, soaring across the landscape at an impressive 510 km/h. Inside, the cabin is designed for both luxury and efficiency.

Seraphim Business Class

Step into the A12 Seraphim Business Class, where elegance meets high-speed innovation. Plush black leather seats with personal entertainment screens ensure a serene and private travel experience. Soft ambient lighting enhances the cabin’s refined atmosphere, while panoramic windows frame breathtaking countryside views at unmatched speeds.

Seraphim Coach Class

For those who seek both comfort and affordability, the Seraphim Coach Class provides spacious seating with deep blue ergonomic chairs designed for long-haul relaxation. Overhead luggage compartments ensure a clutter-free space, while the warm glow of the ceiling lights adds to the welcoming ambiance.

BONUS: A12 Seraphim on Rail, Photo op Lot

Capture the thrill of high-speed travel with the A12 Seraphim on Rail photo op lot! This scenic location is the perfect backdrop for Sim stories, machinima, and breathtaking screenshots.

Positioned along an elegant elevated railway, the A12 Seraphim glides through a picturesque landscape, surrounded by lush greenery and golden-hour lighting that enhances every shot. Whether you're creating a travel blog, showcasing futuristic transportation, or simply looking for a cinematic rail-themed scene, this lot offers stunning views and dynamic compositions.

Set up your Sims for dramatic departures, high-speed action shots, or tranquil countryside journeys—all with the A12 Seraphim as the star.

Techincal Informations

Packs Used

Download via SFS

Windslar M-Train Station : Download A12 Seraphim Photo op : Download

Sul Sul!,

Lesmana Enterprise Co., Ltd.

[kiiozawa]

and i know it's going to eat you up inside

As much as sukuna had been groveling in my drabbles, I decided to write the breakup scene between sukuna and reader.

It got kinda long, so I put it under a read more so it doesn't take up ppl's dashes xoxo

☼ pairing; ex-bf! sukuna and server! reader (this is reader breaking up with sukuna)

☼ warnings; sfw, this is basically a prequel, but there isn't a happy ending here. slight toxicity. sukuna may be a little ooc here idk bro i'm new to this, modern!au non-curse!au, reader is called princess, brat, sweetheart,

☼ word count; 1,047

☼ notes; thanks to everyone who likes my little universe!! i appreciate it. 🌺🤞

Your bedroom is pitch black despite it being late morning already. The gunk in the inner part of your eyes feels gross as you rise from your slumber. You have last night’s mascara running down your tear-stained cheeks, but at least you don’t have to work a shift at the restaurant tonight. Time feels like it's moving so slowly yet too fast simultaneously. You swear that you have heart palpitations as you make a poor effort to get out of bed. 

Bzz-Bzz-Bzz

The familiar sound comes from your phone which is at 18%. The blue screen is the only source of light: 23 voicemails and 45 missed calls from Sukuna, your now ex-boyfriend. Ice fills your veins and you want to go back to sleep again. Despite your better judgment, you decide to listen to the voicemails, starting with the first one and making your way to the most recent one.

[9:38 PM]

“You can't be serious. Princess, this has to be a joke. You wouldn't break up with me over this. C'mon, answer my calls, baby. You wouldn't do this.” 

End of voicemail.

[11:12 PM]

"Listen you fucking brat, pick up my calls. I'm not fucking around. You're not breaking up with me. You can't."

End of voicemail

[1:56 AM]

"You're mad, I know that sweetheart. I'll take you to your favorite restaurant tomorrow and I'll get you flowers again. We can talk it out."

End of voicemail

[3:02 AM]

"Princess, I tried to stop by your apartment again, but you didn't answer. You're my girl, princess. You should know that by now."

End of voicemail 

[9:45 AM]

"I'm still going to be here for you sweetheart. Call me when you come back to your senses."

End of voicemail

Silence fills your room as you finish the very last voicemail. The automated voice asks you if you want to delete the messages, but you can't bring yourself to do it—your phone powers down from being left uncharged during the night. Fresh tears start to bubble up, you bite the inside of your cheek to keep your sobs in. 

A storm is brewing in your heart because a part of you wants to call Sukuna back and tell him that you made a mistake. The other part of you reminds you that you left for a reason. The memory of last night comes flooding back in as tears roll down your cheeks. 

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

You accidentally tell Sukuna "I love you." at the end of your call only to be met with silence on the other end. It has only been a couple of months since you began dating the tall tattooed man, but it comes out so naturally that you don’t even realize it until it is too late. You quickly excuse yourself and tell Sukuna that you’ll see him in a little bit for your date. 

You could feel your nerves going haywire in your body as you check yourself out for the 10th time in your vanity. Surely, Sukuna will tell you that he loves you, right? He might have the empathy capacity of a walnut, but he will definitely assure you that he does love you, right? Except, you don’t hear those reciprocating words come out of his mouth throughout the whole date. The earlier nerves were replaced by a dull pain in your chest. You’re hoping and praying that Sukuna will just say it as you’re in the passenger seat of his car when he pulls up to your apartment building. It starts to dawn on you that he isn’t going to tell you those four little words that you yearn to hear. And it sends your heart to your stomach. 

"Umm... About earlier-" Your voice is shaky as you try to find the courage only for it to be in vain. 

"Don't worry about it." Sukuna interrupts as he leans over to kiss you only for you to hold up your palms to his chest and look at him with wide eyes. 

"Excuse me? Is that really all you have to say?" Frustration coating your words. You hear Sukuna grumble as he looks at you with what you can only categorize as annoyance. 

"Tch, you shouldn't be so needy, babe. Y'know that I don't like clingy girls." He mocks as he leans back into his seat, pulling a cigarette out of his pack from his leather jacket. 

Something in you snaps and you swear you feel the moment your heart shatters into tiny million pieces. Heat coats your cheeks as you press your lips together. You have your fists so tight that they turn your knuckles white. Despite the pain in your heart, your eyes remain surprisingly dry as you open the door. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, doll." He says as he exhales the smoke from his cigarette. 

"No you won't."

"I thought you didn't work tomorrow?" Sukuna raises an eyebrow. 

"I don't. I'm saying that I'm breaking up with you, Sukuna." The words feel like they weren't coming from you, but you have your resolve of steel. You slam the door shut as you run into your apartment building. Even through the glass doors, you hear Sukuna’s booming voice calling out your name. Still, you refuse to turn back. Your phone buzzes and you don't need to look to know who is calling you as you enter your unit. 

Once you get into your room, you yank the sheets off your bed because it all smells like him. A fresh change of sheets later, you lay down as tears suddenly start to escape your eyes. All you want is to answer Sukuna’s calls, you want to give up and tell him to come up and hold you and comfort you.

Soon enough everything in your room starts to remind you of Sukuna. The dresser he put together for you, the pictures of him on the wall, the nightstand where he would put his pack of Camel cigarettes. You feel like you are being haunted as the tears keep flowing out. Your choked sobs are silent as the buzzing of your phone fills the room. You have to stay strong because you deserve better. If Sukuna can’t tell you that he loves you, then you’ll move on, right?

 well we all know how that works out don't we rip reader

[amberlynnmurdock]

Neighbor Pt. 6

Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: On a random midnight, she comes to Matt's apartment to feel less lonely. Matt lets her in.

Words: just under 3k!

Genres: FLUFF with a dash of angst because of course... they are just two lost souls confiding in the other <3

A/N: I sort of had trouble with this chapter but she's finally here lol. This picks up from Pt. 5... hope you like it!!!

Part 5

Matt felt rejuvenated the next morning. 

Maybe it wasn’t stress he had been feeling the past few weeks… maybe it was something else, something he hadn’t felt in a while. Something that made him need sweet relief that throwing punches and taking hits couldn’t provide. He needed something more sensual—intimate. Something else to get his anxiety and frustration out. Even if it was a brush of contact. Something as simple as a touch. 

Yeah, it had been a while since he’d felt that. And it felt so good to listen to her like that… despite how wrong it was. That was until she said his name out loud. Matt pondered the question all morning as he lay in bed waiting for his alarm to go off. What did it mean? Did she like him like that? What should he do next?

  Nothing, he decided. It was wrong he knew she felt that way about him… it was wrong he continued to listen to her. It was wrong of him to think he could ever make her happy when he leads the life he leads. But God, did it feel so good to think that for a moment—just a moment—it might be possible. 

He rolls out of bed as soon as he hears his automated alarm go off. Wake up, wake up! Matt slams the alarm with his fist, harder than he intended to. He sits for a moment on the edge of his bed, feeling achy all over. Other people in the apartment are waking up right now, too. Downstairs, someone turns their stove on and begins to cook bacon. Another apartment opens its windows to the cool winter air. And her—she’s awake now, too. She turned her TV on to the news.

“Daredevil took down an armed robbery and saved an old woman at the corner bodega…“ 

Matt tunes it out immediately. 

It was strange to hear news about himself playing in her apartment. It made him uncomfortable. There he was, imagining a future with her and playing with the idea of being intimate with her, all the while having one of the biggest secrets ever. 

After a hot shower and brewing coffee, Matt was just about to be on his way out. He heard her shuffling behind her door, slipping her boots on, and zipping up her coat. They always walked out at the same time, an unspoken ritual. Maybe it was safer to keep it like this, Matt thought. Maybe this was as far as they’d ever go. 

Matt took a deep breath as he stepped out, unsurprisingly at the same time as she did. Matt heard her heart rate quicken as she saw him. 

“G’morning, Matt,” she said softly, as casually as she could.

“Morning,” he smiled. Act natural. ���Sleep well?” 

She paused, ever so slightly, and locked her door. “I did, better than I normally do. You?”

“Same,” Matt answered, picking up on her hesitation. Maybe he should leave the conversation at this, not push anything further. From the way she was speaking quietly to her slight quiver, Matt knew she was nervous. He didn’t want to make her feel that way. 

“I hope you have a good day, Matt,” she smiled, walking ahead of him down the stairs. Before Matt could give a response, she was already out the door. Matt slowly followed behind, somehow feeling guilty about it all over again. 

She weighed heavy on his mind all day—did he do something wrong unknowingly? All of this was confusing—he heard her say his name at her most intimate, and this morning she seemed to want to avoid him altogether. What happened?

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong. 

***

Matt walked up the steps to his apartment slowly, one hand using his cane to guide himself, the other holding onto the rail. He passed the floors of the other apartments. They were all so loud to him. Fran had the TV on a bit higher than usual. Someone’s dog was barking begging to be fed. Another was on the phone having a heated conversation with an in-law. All day, Matt was consumed by conversations he wished not to be part of. Sounds he wished he could drown out and turn off.

Finally, he reached the floor of his apartment—and hers. He liked that he shared this floor with only her. He paused at the top of the steps and pressed his fingertips against the wall. She was inside, home already from work. From the sound of her soft breathing and very still movement, Matt knew she was sleeping. A part of him melted inside. Tired from a long day of work himself, he walked as quietly as he could to his apartment and opened the door slowly to avoid making any sound.

He wasted no time changing into his Daredevil gear and waiting on his roof.

***

Matt felt accomplished when he arrived back on his rooftop after a night out as Daredevil. He stopped another robbery and saved an old couple’s bodega. He saved an old man from being mugged. He saved a young girl and her mother from an abusive ex-boyfriend. 

Entering his apartment, he stripped himself of his Daredevil gear and locked it away in his old trunk. He paused, hand still on the locked trunk that held his most detrimental secret. This trunk used to belong to his father. He pushed it inside the closet and closed the door. He made a sign of the cross and stalked off to the bathroom. 

It was shortly past midnight. After washing off in the shower, Matt changed into sweatpants. He lay in bed and shut his eyes. His thoughts always drifted to the same thing: was there more to this life, than just keeping a secret? 

After reciting a prayer and just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard a gentle knocking on his door. His eyes shot open and his senses were fully engaged in the source of the sound. More knocks came. It was her. She shivered under her cardigan and shifted in her slippers from foot to foot, anxiously. Was something wrong? Why was she at his door so late?

Matt threw on a shirt quickly and walked over to open his door. Just as she was about to turn around and retreat to her apartment, thinking this is stupid, Matt opened his door. She stood there with her arms tucked around her frame and shivered from the cold in the hallway.

“Hi,” she said in a tired voice, “I’m sorry, Matt. I know it’s late. But I heard your shower go off and assumed you were awake and—God, I realize how creepy that sounds that I heard your water running so I knew you were awake—never mind. I’ve spoken too much,” she rambled nervously, shivering from the cold in the hallway. Matt was surprised by her presence; he wasn’t upset at all. He welcomed her sudden appearance but couldn’t help but wonder why she was there. 

Not to mention her apologizing for hearing his water running, and assuming he was awake. After all the things he’s heard her do through her apartment… Matt was in no place to judge (not that he would, anyway).

“It's okay,” Matt whispered her name. “I was awake. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, and Matt didn’t have to listen to her heartbeat to know she was lying. It was in her voice, her mannerisms. The way she answered quickly without really considering his question. “I just—“ and she was shivering so much.

“You can come in,” Matt opened the door wider. “It’s cold in the hall.” 

“Okay,” she stepped inside his apartment and away from him as he shut his large, old door. Matt locked it and turned around to smile at her. It was then Matt realized he forgot to put his glasses on. 

“I’m sorry, let me get my glasses on,” Matt said sheepishly, reaching for them on the side table. 

“It’s okay,” she said, “you don’t have to put them on.” She paused, looking at his handsome face in the low glow of his apartment. He wasn’t hard to look at at all—from his warm hazel eyes to his plump lips. 

“Are you sure you won’t be uncomfortable?” He asked. 

“Yeah,” she answered. “I’m barging in on your place—you don’t have to sacrifice your comfort for mine.” 

He smiled at that and then offered her to take a seat on his couch. He allowed her a moment to get a sense of her surroundings—she’d never been in his apartment before. Her heartbeat was steady. She looked around his living room and squinted at the windows when the large screen across the street flashed bright purple and pink lights. 

“Wow,” she said, looking back at his dark apartment. “Those are bright.”

“So I’ve heard,” Matt said lightly with a warm smile. “Do you want any water?”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

She curled up on the corner of his brown leather couch, tucking her feet in underneath her legs. She was still shivering. Matt offered her the blanket that lay on it and she took it gracefully. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said sheepishly wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, “truthfully, I couldn’t sleep and I could use a friend to talk to.”

A friend? Matt’s heart jumped at this. She considered him a friend. 

“I’m glad you came,” Matt replied. 

“On Christmas, you told me that any time I felt lonely, I could come by. So… this is one of those times.”

“Yeah,” Matt nodded. “Felt lonely tonight?”

“Not anymore,” she sighed, pleasantly, like his presence alone was enough to cure whatever it was she was feeling. “I took a long nap after work to avoid it and woke up feeling worse than I did before. Like a harrowing, deep hole in my chest.” 

Matt knew that feeling all too well—a hole he’d been trying to fill since he was 11. It occurred to him in that moment Matt hardly knew anything about her. Where she came from, what her story was. She knew bits and pieces of him but he didn’t know anything more than that she lived alone and worked at a bookstore. 

“I understand,” Matt said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe another time,” she said, pushing the matter away. “I just wanted to get my mind off it.”

Matt was happy she was comfortable enough to come to him this late at night for nothing more than just another person to talk to. He could be that person for her—he wanted to be that person for her. 

“I didn’t know you had hazel eyes,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t hide them as much as you do behind those red glasses.” 

Matt blushed—unfamiliar with this feeling in his chest, like a bubbling warmth spread over that harrowing hole she was talking about just moments ago. “Oh,” he said. “People can get uncomfortable when they see my eyes.”

“Then screw them,” she said defiantly. “Like I said…you shouldn’t sacrifice your comfort for theirs.” 

“Thank you,” Matt replied. “For understanding that part.” 

“Were you—“

“Born blind?” Matt had finished this question so many times, that it became a habit to interject whenever anyone began to ask it. “No. It was an accident when I was a kid.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind,” Matt shrugged. He wanted to open up to her, as much as he could—without revealing his biggest secret of all. “I saw an old man crossing the street. A large truck with chemical containers was coming down the block at the same time. I pushed the old man out of the way. The truck lost control, and swerved to avoid hitting us. Well, it did bump me a little, and all the chemicals fell over, leaking everywhere. Some of it got in my eyes and—“

“That was it,” she finished his sentence. “Wow.” 

“That was it,” Matt repeated. His gaze fell on the carpet. He sat at the opposite end of the couch. 

“So, little Matt was a hero?” He could hear the smile in her voice when she said this. Matt chuckled. 

“I did what anyone else would have.”

“How many adults were there, do you remember?”

“It was on a random corner in Hell’s Kitchen. Plenty of people were walking around.”

“So, you did what anyone else would have avoided.”

Matt blushed, looked away from the general direction he was looking in. It felt different to be called a hero when it was coming from her lips. 

“Sure,” he finally said. “We can go with that.”

“Do you…” her voice trailed off, unsure how to phrase her next question without sounding offensive. 

“You can ask me anything,” Matt assured her. “You know a lot about me that some of my closest friends don’t know. Nothing’s off the table.”

“Do you miss having sight? That’s probably a silly question. Do you remember the last thing you saw?”

“The sky,” Matt answered, a flash of blue appearing in his mind. “That was the last thing I saw. And I do miss having sight,” Matt took a deep breath. “But there are other ways to see.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “How do you see in other ways?”

What a loaded question, he thought. 

“Touch, for one. I can get a sense of something when I touch it. Smell—easy to distinguish what’s on my plate. I still know what a majority of things look like.”

“But not people,” she stated. 

“Not people,” Matt affirmed. “But there’s a way for me to paint a picture in my mind.”

“How? A person describes what they look like?”

“Descriptions help,” Matt answered, “but touching their face helps a hell of a lot more.” 

She was silent for a moment, understanding his answers and pondering them. She wondered what he would think of her if he could see. Matt felt as if she was wondering that very thought.

“Do you want to touch my face?” She asked in a hesitant voice. “Or I can describe to you what I look like.”

Matt felt his heart grow in his chest. How could he answer that question, without revealing his true feelings for her right then and there? It had been months of being her neighbor that he hoped and prayed he could cross that threshold with her. Hell, it was a miracle she was in his apartment at that moment. 

“Only if you’re comfortable,” Matt finally said, shifting in his seat. 

“I am,” she whispered, leaning forward. “Come here.”

Matt moved closer to her on his couch until his left knee was touching her right. When he sat close enough to her, she grabbed his hand and wrapped her fingers around his wrist to guide him. 

Starting with her hair, she gently brushed his fingers through it. It was soft. Every thread of her hair felt like water slipping gently through his fingers. Matt held his breath as his fingers grazed her neck. He had to close his eyes for this part. Matt gently placed his hand on the side of her neck, feeling how soft her skin felt on his fingertips. Like Braille, he ran his fingers ever so lightly on her skin, goosebumps following his touch. 

He moved his hand to the side of her face, cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. He gently ran his thumb over her brow bone, smoothing it out. Then he traced his thumb under her eye in a sweeping motion. His gaze fell on her chin. He traced the pad of his thumb down the bridge of her nose, stopping at her cupid’s bow. She gently let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Matt gently let out a breath too. He took his other hand and cupped the other side of her face in his palm, feeling her cheeks heat against him. Her heart was pounding in her chest, a steady boom boom, boom boom, he had come to memorize to help him fall asleep. He caressed her chin with his thumb and traced her jawline before slowly running his hand down the length of her neck, retreating to his thigh. 

“Beautiful,” Matt whispered. It was all he could say. 

“Matt…” she uttered his name, trailing off, losing her words. Her heart felt like a cement block in her chest. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to touch her again. She reached for his hand and placed it on her face, desperate to feel how gently he held her again, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

She turns her head into his hand and kisses his palm. Matt moves his fingers to the back of her head and guides her lips to his, a kiss that should’ve happened a long time ago. Her lips molded to his, the taste of her bringing him back to life, filling that empty hole in his chest again. He hoped it had the same effect on her. Her hand moved to hold his face, a plan to not break the kiss. A plan that didn’t matter if it worked or not, because Matt wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. He wasn’t going to let go of her. 

When she eventually did pull back, he only wanted more. 

“Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly, “for letting me in.” 

Letting her into his apartment, or letting her into his heart—both answers were suitable. 

Eventually, she did go back to her apartment, for reasons they didn’t need to say out loud. But it would be a while until they brought up this night again. 

______________________________________________________________

TAGS: @mattmurdocksstarlight @yentroucnagol @danzer8705 @allllium @i-marvel-bitch @babygrlmurdock @writtenbyred @uncle-eggy @marvelcinematiquniverse @sweetbee0108

[th3mrskory]

Chapter 2: A New Begining

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan

Warning: none. Just a slow burn (I promise it will be worth)

Word count: 7.6k

The first night in the cottage passed in a haze. She didn’t unpack much—just a quilt and a pillow to make the lumpy couch tolerable. Exhaustion clung to her, but sleep came in fits and starts. Every creak of the old house startled her awake, and the unfamiliar quiet wrapped around her like a heavy blanket. There were no city sounds to fill the space, no neighbors talking through paper-thin walls. Just her and the whispers of the forest beyond the cracked windows.

When morning came, it brought light that crept hesitantly through the dirt-streaked glass, casting long shadows across the floorboards. She sat up slowly, her body stiff from the couch, and stared at the room around her.

It was a mess. Dust coated every surface, cobwebs clung stubbornly to the corners, and the air smelled faintly of mildew. But this was her mess, and for the first time, that didn’t feel so bad.

The first thing she did was clean. There was no ceremony to it, no grand plan—just an overwhelming need to make this space livable. Scrubbing the windows became her first priority. The grime that clouded the glass blurred her view of the outside world, and with every stroke of the cloth, the light grew brighter, sharper. It felt like wiping away the fog that had settled over her life.

Next came the floors, their creaks and groans a constant reminder of the cottage’s age. She swept and scrubbed until her arms ached, until the scent of lavender soap replaced the stale air that had lingered when she first arrived. The work was hard, and every movement sent protests through muscles she hadn’t used in months, but it grounded her. Each small accomplishment—the gleam of the newly cleaned kitchen counters, the way the sunlight finally warmed the floorboards—felt like a step forward.

As the day stretched on, her thoughts wandered to the life she had left behind. The ache of betrayal still lingered, but here, in this little cottage tucked away from everything, it didn’t seem quite so sharp. The solitude wasn’t something to fear. It was space. Room to breathe.

By the time the sun began to set, she was covered in sweat and dust, her body demanding rest. She sank onto the couch again, this time with a mug of tea she had brewed on the cottage’s ancient stovetop. The sound of the river beyond the woods whispered faintly through the open window, a soothing backdrop to the crackling of the fire she had started in the hearth.

The cottage was still far from perfect. There was so much left to do—repairs she didn’t know how to make, corners she hadn’t yet touched. But as she sat there, wrapped in her quilt, staring into the flickering flames, she felt something she hadn’t in weeks: peace.

This house wasn’t a clean slate, not yet. It was a work in progress. And maybe, just maybe, so was she.

Sunday arrived with the chime of the church bell echoing through the quiet streets of Clearwater. It wasn’t the kind of morning she would’ve imagined for herself a few weeks ago—no hurried rush to get ready, no busy streets filled with strangers. Here, the world seemed to move slower, and for once, she didn’t mind.

She had planned to keep to herself, but the church bulletin board was how she’d found the cottage, and Pastor Edwards had been kind enough to help her settle in. Attending Sunday service felt like the least she could do.

The little white church stood proudly at the center of town, its steeple rising against the pale blue sky. Inside, the wooden pews were worn but polished, and the air smelled faintly of aged hymnals and lavender sachets tucked into the corners. She slipped into a seat near the back, hoping to remain unnoticed, but her presence didn’t go unnoticed for long.

After the service, Pastor Edwards approached her with a warm smile. “Good to see you here, Evelyn. How’s the cottage treating you so far?”

She returned his smile, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s... a work in progress. I’ve got the cleaning under control, but there are a few things I’m going to need help with. The porch, the plumbing…” She trailed off, feeling a little self-conscious about airing her problems.

The pastor nodded knowingly. “It’s an old place. Built to last, but it’s seen its fair share of years. I’ll ask around for you. See if anyone’s willing to lend a hand.”

A group of townsfolk lingered by the doors, chatting and casting curious glances her way. Pastor Edwards noticed and gestured toward them. “Why don’t I introduce you? Best way to feel at home here is to get to know the people.”

Before she could protest, he led her over, his booming voice breaking through their chatter. “Everyone, this is Evelyn. She just moved into the old cottage by the river.”

The townsfolk greeted her warmly, their curiosity softened by genuine kindness. She exchanged pleasantries, learned a few names, and politely answered their questions about where she came from and why she’d chosen Clearwater.

“You’ll love it here,” one older woman assured her. “Quiet, peaceful, and we’re a helpful bunch when you need us.”

“Actually,” Evelyn said hesitantly, glancing back at Pastor Edwards. “I could use a bit of help. The cottage needs some repairs—the kind of work I can’t do myself. Do you know of any handymen in town?”

The pastor’s expression shifted slightly, his smile turning a touch more cautious. “There’s Logan,” he said after a moment. “He works with the logging company, but he’s good with tools. Knows his way around repairs.”

“That sounds perfect,” she said, relief washing over her. “Do you think he’d be willing to help?”

Pastor Edwards hesitated. “He’s not... much of a people person,” he admitted carefully. “Keeps to himself, mostly. But if anyone can convince him, it’d be me. I’ll ask him next time I see him.”

She nodded, grateful for his kindness but curious about the man the pastor spoke of. A handyman who wasn’t good with people? It was an odd description, but for now, it was enough. She’d take whatever help she could get.

The drive back from church was quiet, the kind of silence that was more a companion than an intruder. The dirt road curved through the woods, the sunlight filtering through the branches in fleeting patterns that played across the windshield. It was peaceful, but her thoughts weren’t.

The brief conversation with Pastor Edwards lingered in her mind. “He’s not... much of a people person,” the pastor had said. It was a strange way to describe someone. Most people were either kind or curt, polite or brusque. Logan, apparently, was none of those things—or maybe all of them at once.

She was so lost in thought that the sudden jolt of her truck made her gasp. The vehicle lurched, its engine coughing out a metallic groan before it stuttered and died. She gripped the wheel tightly, guiding it to the side of the road as it rolled to a stubborn halt.

“No, no, no.”Climbing out, she inspected the vehicle with a growing sense of frustration.With a resigned sigh, she sitted on the dirt road.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the road, and the forest seemed to close in around her.

The sound of an approaching engine broke the stillness, a low rumble growing louder as a pickup truck rounded the bend. She glanced up, squinting against the glare of the headlights as the vehicle slowed to a stop just behind hers.

The man who stepped out moved with a quiet confidence, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached. Broad shoulders filled out a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms streaked with sawdust. His face was sharp, framed by dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes—sharp and unreadable—held hers for just a moment longer than she expected.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice rough, carrying an edge of concern that didn’t quite match his guarded demeanor.

“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, brushing her hands against her jeans. “Just a little setback.”

“Looks like more than a little setback.”

She bit back a retort, her pride bristling under the weight of his assessment. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Right,” he said dryly, crouching down to inspect the damage anyway. His movements were deliberate, his hands steady as he examined the undercarriage. After a moment, he straightened, brushing his palms against his jeans. “Your axle’s shot. You’re not driving this anywhere.”

Her shoulders sagged, the weight of the day settling heavier on her. “Great,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Just what I needed.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her for a moment. “You live nearby?”

She hesitated, reluctant to share too much. But then she remembered Pastor Edwards’ words: He keeps to himself. “The cottage by the river,” she said finally, gesturing vaguely down the road.

Recognition flickered across his face, subtle but undeniable. “Figured you were the new tenant,” he said. “The pastor mentioned you.”

“Of course he did,” she said, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Small town, huh?”

“Yeah,” he replied. He nodded toward her truck. “Grab what you need. I’ll give you a lift.”

She hesitated again, her pride and practicality at war. Finally, practicality won. “Thanks,” she said, retrieving her bag before climbing into the passenger seat of his truck.

As he started the engine, he glanced at her. “Logan,” he said simply, offering his name without ceremony.

“Evelyn,” she replied, studying his profile as they pulled back onto the road.

The drive was quiet, save for the low rumble of the truck and the occasional creak of its suspension. She couldn’t help but steal glances at him, her curiosity growing with every passing second. There was something about him—an intensity that seemed to vibrate just beneath the surface, like a tightly coiled spring.

When they reached the cottage, Logan parked the truck at the edge of the driveway, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel as the engine idled. She climbed out, pausing to sling her bag over one shoulder before turning back to him.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

He gave a slight nod, his expression steady and unreadable. “I can take a look at your truck,” he said after a beat, his tone straightforward but not unkind.

She hesitated, unsure if the offer was out of convenience or obligation. “You don’t have to,” she replied carefully, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

“I know,” he said simply, his gaze meeting hers for a moment before shifting back to the windshield. “But it’ll save you a trip into town. Up to you.”

His words were practical, but something about the way he said them—low and even, without any trace of expectation—made her relent. “Alright,” she said softly. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Tomorrow morning. I’ll call my buddy that has a tow.” he replied, his tone final.

“Okay. Tomorrow morning,” she echoed, stepping back from the truck.

He nodded once more, putting the truck in drive. “See you then,” he said, his voice carrying just enough weight to linger as he pulled away.

She watched the taillights disappear into the woods, the sound of the truck fading into the quiet of the evening. There was something about him—something steady and solid, yet distant—that stayed with her as she turned toward the cottage.

For now, she told herself, it didn’t matter. But as she pushed the door open and stepped inside, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that it did.

The next morning arrived with a chill in the air and a pale haze of dawn spreading through the trees. She pulled a cardigan over her shoulders as the hum of an engine broke through the quiet. Logan’s truck rolled up her driveway, followed closely by a rusty tow truck that looked as worn as her own.

Logan stepped out, his movements deliberate, the crunch of gravel under his boots louder than the low rumble of the trucks. He gave her a nod, his face unreadable as usual. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she replied, her voice soft against the brisk air.

The tow truck driver climbed out and gave a brief wave before getting to work. Logan stood back, arms crossed, watching the process with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

“Thanks for arranging this,” she said, her fingers tightening on the mug of coffee she held.

“Needed to get it off the road,” he said simply. “Truck like that needs careful handling. Old axles don’t forgive mistakes.”

His words felt practical, not critical, but something in the way he said them made her feel exposed—like he saw more than she was ready to share.

“Well, it’s not much, but it’s mine,” she replied, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone.

He nodded, his gaze briefly meeting hers before shifting back to the truck. “That’s what counts.”

The tow truck driver had the vehicle secured in her driveway with a few well-practiced moves, stepping back to dust off his hands. Logan approached her then, his expression as steady as his voice.

“She’s old, but it’s not hopeless,” he said, jerking his head toward the truck. “I’ll need to get under the chassis tomorrow, but the axle can be salvaged.”

A small surge of relief lightened her chest. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he replied, his confidence simple and unassuming. He turned to the driver, exchanged a few quiet words, and handed the man a couple of bills. The driver tipped his cap before climbing into his own truck and pulling away, leaving the two of them alone.

Logan stepped closer to the truck, crouching down again to check the undercarriage. His hands moved with an ease that spoke of long familiarity with this kind of work. “It’s seen better days, but it’s solid,” he said, more to himself than to her. “This kind of thing doesn’t give up easily.”

She didn’t know if he was talking about the truck or something else, but the words settled over her in a way she didn’t expect.

He stood, brushing his hands on his jeans, and looked at her again. “I’ll bring the tools by tomorrow morning. Don’t try driving it until then.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” she replied, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. “Good.”

As he turned to leave, she found herself hesitating, unsure if she should say something more. “Logan,” she called after him.

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Thanks. Really,” she said, the words carrying more weight than she intended.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, unreadable but steady. “You don’t owe me a thanks,” he said simply before climbing into his truck.

The engine rumbled to life, and she watched as he drove away, the sound fading into the quiet of the woods. Left alone in the stillness, she looked back at her cottage, her truck, and the faint trail of dust left by Logan’s departure.

Something about the moment—about him—stuck with her, like the faint imprint of his voice still hung in the air. There was a steadiness to him, a quiet strength she hadn’t realized she needed until now.

She stepped back inside, her coffee mug still cold in her hands, and let herself wonder for a moment what it was about this town—and the people in it—that already felt so different.

The next day came quietly, the morning sky painted in soft hues of blue and gray. She spent most of it tidying the kitchen, organizing what few things she had unpacked. The routine was calming, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the man who had promised to return.

True to his word, Logan’s truck rolled into her driveway just as the clock struck ten. She stepped outside to greet him, brushing her hands on her jeans, trying not to seem too eager.

“Morning,” he said, pulling a heavy toolbox from the bed of his truck. His tone was as steady as ever, his expression unreadable.

“Morning,” she replied, offering a small smile.

Without wasting any time, Logan set the toolbox down beside her truck and crouched to get to work, his movements precise and methodical. She lingered nearby, unsure if she should offer help or leave him to it.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Logan said after a few minutes, his voice calm but direct. “This might take a while.”

She crossed her arms, the hint of a grin tugging at her lips. “I don’t mind. Besides, I might learn something.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smirk, before he returned his focus to the truck. “Suit yourself.”

For a while, the only sounds were the faint clink of tools and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. She watched him work, noticing the quiet confidence in his movements. His hands were sure and practiced, every action purposeful.

“Have you lived here long?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Long enough,” he replied without looking up.

“Do you like it?”

He paused, wiping his hands on a rag, and glanced at her. “It’s quiet. That’s all I need.”

She tilted her head, intrigued by the simplicity of his answer. “I guess I can see the appeal,” she said softly. “It’s a lot quieter than what I’m used to.”

Logan glanced up again, his gaze lingering this time. “City girl?”

She gave a small nod. “Born and raised. This is the first time I’ve lived somewhere like this.”

“Why’d you come here?” he asked, his voice even but not prying.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the hem of her sweater. “I needed a change,” she said after a pause, her tone guarded. “Something different.”

Logan didn’t press her. Instead, he nodded and returned to his work. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it felt more like a truce, an agreement to leave certain things unsaid for now.

An hour later, Logan stood and dusted off his hands. “Your axle’s patched for now,” he said, his tone practical. “Should hold up, but you’ll need a proper replacement soon.”

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, stepping closer. “Really, I can’t thank you enough for this.”

He shrugged, already packing up his tools. “Not a problem.”

“No, I mean it,” she insisted, brushing her hair out of her face. “I’d feel better if I paid you for your time. You’ve already done so much.”

Logan paused, his gaze meeting hers. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, but then he said, “You’ll pay me when I’m done.”

Her brow furrowed. “When you’re done?”

He nodded toward the cottage. “Place like this? You’ve got more than a truck that needs fixing. If I’m coming back to work on it, might as well settle it all at once.”

She blinked, surprised by the offer. “Are you sure? That sounds like a lot of trouble.”

Logan’s expression didn’t change. “Trouble’s part of the job.”

A small laugh escaped her, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Alright. I guess I’ll owe you, then.”

“You will,” he replied simply, closing his toolbox.

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice softer now.

Logan gave her a slight nod, his gaze lingering just long enough to make her heart stumble before he climbed into his truck. “I’ll be by tomorrow to check out the porch,” he called through the open window.

Before she could respond, the engine roared to life, and he was gone, the sound of his truck fading into the woods.

Left standing in her driveway, she looked at the now-functional truck and then at her cottage. For the first time since moving here, she felt a flicker of something more than just survival—a tentative hope that maybe, with a little help, she could start building a life again.

The next day, she decided to head into town for groceries. Her cupboards were mostly bare, and while the cottage’s solitude was soothing, it lacked the essentials to make it feel like home. The small grocery store sat on the corner of Clearwater’s main street, its weathered sign swaying gently in the breeze.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and crowded with goods that seemed frozen in another decade. A bell chimed as she stepped through the door, drawing the attention of the clerk behind the counter—a woman in her late forties with sharp eyes and a kind smile.

“Well, you must be the newcomer everyone’s been talking about,” the woman behind the counter said warmly. 

“I guess word travels fast here,” Evelyn replied, grabbing a basket.

“It does,” the clerk said with a chuckle. “I’m Nancy. How’re you settling in?”

Evelyn smiled politely, picking up a basket. “It’s been... a change, but a good one. The town’s been welcoming so far.”

A few other customers—older women browsing the shelves and a man flipping through a newspaper near the counter—turned their attention to her. One of the women spoke up. “Oh, you’re the one fixing up the old cottage by the river, aren’t you? Brave thing, taking on a place like that all by yourself.”

Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “It’s a work in progress, but it’s starting to feel like home. Had a little trouble with my truck the other day, though. Luckily, Logan stopped to help me out.”

At that, the room seemed to pause. The man with the newspaper lowered it, the clerk straightened, and one of the women in the aisle actually turned to face her fully.

“Logan?” the Nancy echoed, her tone edged with disbelief.

“Logan Howlett?” added the woman in the aisle, her brows furrowing.

“Yes, Logan,” she replied, glancing between their surprised faces. “He patched up my truck and even offered to help with some repairs around the cottage. Why?”

The clerk exchanged a look with the man at the counter before leaning forward again and letting out a low whisle. “Are you sure it was Logan who helped you? Tall fella? Always looks like he’s in a bad mood?”

“That’s him,” she confirmed, starting to feel self-conscious under their scrutiny.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the man muttered, folding his newspaper. “Doesn’t sound like the Logan I know.”,the man said, his tone edged with curiosity.

“I’d say,” the woman in the aisle chimed in, shaking her head. “He keeps to himself, doesn’t talk much. Not the type to go out of his way for anyone.”

“He didn’t seem unfriendly,” she said carefully, setting a loaf of bread into her basket. “Just... reserved. He was kind, in his own way.”

Nancy leaned over the counter, her curiosity evident. “Reserved is one way to put it. Man’s been in this town for years, and he barely speaks to anyone. You must’ve caught him on a good day.”

Sensing the conversation turning into speculation, she smiled politely and changed the subject. “The cottage is keeping me busy. Between cleaning and figuring out repairs, I haven’t had much time for anything else.”

“Good for you, dear,” the woman in the aisle said, though her curiosity lingered. “It’s a nice town. Quiet. You’ll find your rhythm soon enough.”

“That’s all I want,” she admitted, her tone softening. “Just peace and quiet. I’m not looking for anything more than that.”

“That’s probably for the best,” the older woman said kindly. “You’ll love it here. It’s a quiet town. Peaceful.”

Nancy handed her the receipt, her curiosity fading into a smile. “Well, you’ve come to the right place for that. Folks’ll let you be, though they might talk your ear off first.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Evelyn said with a small laugh.

As she stepped out of the store, the cool air wrapped around her. As Evelyn loaded the items into the passenger seat, her mind lingered on their reactions to Logan. They’d spoken about him as though he were an enigma—someone unknowable, even to the people who’d lived here for years.

Driving back to the cottage, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man Logan really was. Reserved, yes, but there had been no malice in his quiet demeanor. 

The next morning came with a crisp chill that seeped through the windows of the cottage. Evelyn had spent the early hours tidying up, though she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to make the place look presentable. It wasn’t like Logan would care about the half-unpacked boxes or the persistent layer of dust clinging to the baseboards. Still, there was something about the prospect of having him around that made her want to at least look like she had things under control.

True to his word, Logan’s truck rolled into the driveway just after nine. She stepped outside as he climbed out, toolbox in hand and the same calm, unreadable expression on his face.

“Morning,” he said, nodding briefly as he approached.

“Morning,” she replied, crossing her arms to keep the chill at bay. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything important.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

She gestured vaguely toward the road. “Don’t you have work? At the logging company, I mean. Or do you make house calls full-time now?”

It was meant to be playful, but the corners of his mouth twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to take her seriously.

“Not due there ‘til later,” he said simply, crouching down to inspect the porch steps. “Figured I’d get this done first.”

“Efficient,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

He glanced up, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in his eyes. “Something like that.”

The faint exchange felt oddly satisfying, like breaking through the first layer of ice. She lingered on the porch as he worked, watching the way his hands moved with practiced precision. The hammer in his grip looked like an extension of himself, every strike deliberate, every movement efficient.

“Do you like it?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Like what?” he replied without looking up.

“The logging company. The work.”

He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag as he considered her question. “It’s a job,” he said finally, his tone neutral.

She tilted her head. “That’s not exactly a glowing review.”

Logan’s mouth twitched again, but this time, it was closer to a smirk. “Pays the bills. That’s all that matters.”

“Fair enough,” she said, leaning against the railing. “You’re good at this, though,” she added, nodding toward the step he’d just finished reinforcing.

He shrugged, already moving on to the next. “Picked it up over the years. Comes in handy.”

“I can see that,” she replied, watching him work for a moment longer. “Still, I feel a little bad. Seems like you’ve got better things to do than fix up my mess of a house.”

Logan paused, his hands stilling as he glanced up at her. “If I had better things to do, I wouldn’t be here,” he said simply, his tone matter-of-fact.

The bluntness of his answer caught her off guard, leaving her momentarily at a loss for words.

“Well,” she said finally, clearing her throat, “I appreciate it. Really.”

He gave a small nod, returning to his work without another word.

As the morning wore on, she brought him a glass of water, which he accepted with a quiet “Thanks” before drinking it in a few quick gulps and setting the empty glass on the railing. She noticed how little space he seemed to take up, despite his broad frame and commanding presence. Logan moved like someone who was careful not to disturb the air around him.

“You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you with this place,” he remarked after a while, stepping back to assess the repairs.

“Tell me about it,” she said with a dry laugh. “You should’ve seen the kitchen before I attacked it with a bottle of bleach.”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the door. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” she said with a grin.

Logan didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly—an almost-smile that was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You didn’t have to take it on,” he said after a moment, his gaze briefly flicking toward her.

She shrugged, resting a hand on the railing. “Felt like the right thing to do. A new place, a fresh start... or something like that.”

“Fresh starts don’t come easy,” he said, returning to his work. His tone wasn’t dismissive, but there was a weight to his words that made her wonder if he was speaking from experience.

“They never do,” she replied softly.

By the time Logan packed up his tools, the porch looked sturdier than it had in years. He stood, brushing sawdust off his jeans, and nodded toward her.

“That’ll hold for now. You need anything else, let me know.”

“Do you always offer your handyman services, or am I just lucky?” she teased lightly, though there was genuine gratitude in her tone.

“Depends who’s asking,” he replied, his tone even but not unkind.

Her brows lifted slightly at his response, but she chose not to push further. Instead, she smiled and said, “Well, thanks again. Seriously.”

He nodded once more, then headed back to his truck. As the engine roared to life and he drove away, she found herself standing on the newly-repaired porch, her thoughts trailing after him.

Logan was an enigma, no doubt about it. Reserved, distant even. But there was something about his quiet presence that felt grounding in a way she hadn’t expected. It was as though he carried a steady gravity that made the world around him feel less chaotic.

She leaned against the railing, watching the horizon where his truck had disappeared. For now, she told herself, she didn’t need to figure him out.

She had enough to rebuild already.

The day passed quietly after Logan left, the cottage settling back into its usual rhythm of creaks and whispers. Evelyn spent the afternoon unpacking more boxes, though her mind kept wandering back to their conversation. His words had been sparse but weighty, each one carrying a subtle truth she hadn’t expected.

By early evening, her curiosity won out, and she decided to take a walk by the river. The air was cooler now, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows across the forest floor. She followed the worn trail that wound behind her cottage, the faint rush of water growing louder with each step.

When she reached the riverbank, she stopped, taking in the sight of the glassy water reflecting the gold and orange hues of the setting sun. It was peaceful, almost otherworldly in its stillness.

But even here, Logan lingered in her thoughts. The way he’d paused when she’d asked about the logging company. The almost-smile that had flickered across his face when she’d mentioned the kitchen. And the way he’d said, “If I had better things to do, I wouldn’t be here.”

It wasn’t a grand declaration—far from it. But the simplicity of his words had stayed with her, as though they meant more than he’d let on.

She crouched near the water’s edge, picking up a smooth stone and running her thumb over its surface. The town’s reactions to him echoed in her mind, too—the disbelief that he’d helped her, the quiet curiosity when she’d mentioned his name.

They didn’t know him, not really.

And neither did she.

The next morning, Evelyn made another trip into town. She needed groceries, but more than that, she wanted to get a better sense of the place—the people, the rhythm of life here.

The grocery store was small, its aisles narrow and cluttered but charming in their own way. She moved slowly through them, taking her time as she filled her basket with the essentials.

“You’re back,” Nancy, the clerk, said warmly when she approached the counter.

Evelyn smiled. “Looks like I’ll be a regular here.”

“Good,” Nancy replied, ringing up her items. “We like having new faces around here. How’s the cottage coming along?”

“It’s getting there,” Evelyn replied. “I’ve still got a lot to do, but I’m making progress.”

Nancy nodded approvingly. “I saw Logan’s truck heading that way yesterday. He helping you out?”

“Yeah, he fixed up my porch,” Evelyn said, her tone casual.

Nancy’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Did he now?”

“Is that surprising?”

“A little,” Nancy admitted. “He’s not exactly the helpful type, if you know what I mean. Keeps to himself, mostly.”

“That seems to be the consensus around here,” Evelyn said, her curiosity piqued.

Nancy leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Don’t get me wrong—he’s a good man. Just… guarded. Don’t take it personally if he doesn’t say much.”

“I won’t,” Evelyn said with a small smile.

As she loaded the groceries into her truck, her mind lingered on Nancy’s words. Guarded. It was a fitting description, though it didn’t explain the flashes of kindness she’d seen in him. The quiet patience in the way he’d fixed her porch. The faint trace of amusement in his voice when she’d joked with him.

Driving back to the cottage, she glanced at the road ahead, wondering how long it would take for the mystery of Logan Howlett to unravel—or if it ever would.

When she pulled into the driveway, her gaze landed on something unexpected. Neatly stacked against the side of the house was a pile of freshly chopped firewood. She frowned, stepping out of the truck and approaching the stack.

It hadn’t been there that morning, she was sure of it.

Her first thought was Logan, though the idea surprised her. He hadn’t mentioned anything about firewood. He hadn’t said much of anything, really. But who else could it have been?

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly as she ran her fingers over the rough surface of the logs. It was a simple gesture, but it felt... deliberate.

Inside the cottage, she lit a fire in the hearth, the warmth spreading slowly through the room. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, she watched the flames flicker and crackle, her thoughts drifting back to him.

She wasn’t looking for love, or even connection. Not here. Not now. But Logan’s quiet presence had a way of grounding her, pulling her focus from the chaos of her past and planting it firmly in the present.

For now, that was enough.

The third morning after their encounter, Evelyn had settled into the rhythm of the cottage—cleaning, organizing, and slowly shaping the space into something livable. The day was crisp, the air sharp with the scent of pine when a steady knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

She opened it to find Logan standing on the porch, toolbox in hand, his familiar unreadable expression in place.

“Morning,” he said, his voice as steady as ever.

“Morning,” she replied, stepping aside to let him in. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Logan stepped inside, glancing around briefly before setting his toolbox down near the kitchen. “Figured I’d get the cabinets done,” he said plainly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe with a hint of amusement. “You know, for someone who doesn’t seem to like people all that much, you sure go out of your way to help.”

He paused, turning his head slightly toward her, though his hands stayed busy unpacking his tools. “You saying you don’t need the help?”

“No,” she admitted, her voice softening. “I’m just saying it’s unexpected.”

Logan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he crouched to inspect the cabinets, his broad shoulders filling the small space beneath the sink. “Unexpected doesn’t mean unwelcome,” he said finally, his tone low but even.

She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his words. He didn’t say them like they were meant to be comforting, but they landed that way regardless.

As Logan worked, Evelyn busied herself around the kitchen, though her eyes often wandered back to him. There was a certain ease to the way he moved—calculated, deliberate, as though every motion had purpose.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” she asked after a while, her voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Logan didn’t look up. “Do what?”

“Fix things for strangers.”

He paused briefly, his hand tightening a bolt on the cabinet door. “You’re not a stranger,” he said simply, his tone matter-of-fact.

She raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. “I’m not?”

“You’re part of this town now,” he replied, moving to the next cabinet without looking at her. “That makes you not a stranger.”

The corners of her lips twitched into a faint smile. “That’s an interesting way of looking at it.”

“It’s just the way it is,” Logan said, his voice steady.

She watched him for a moment, her curiosity growing. “Well, either way, I feel like I owe you. For the cabinets, the porch, the firewood...”

Logan glanced at her briefly, his eyes sharp but unreadable. “You’ll pay me when I finish everything that needs fixing.”

There was no room for argument in his tone, and something about it made her decide not to push further.

By midday, Logan had made significant progress, the cabinets now sturdy and functional. The kitchen felt less like a relic of the past and more like a space she could actually use.

“Lunch?” she offered, gesturing to the small table where she’d set out sandwiches and coffee.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, wiping his hands on a rag before sitting across from her.

The silence between them was comfortable, the soft hum of the radio filling the space as they ate. Logan’s gaze drifted briefly to the stack of boxes in the corner, but he didn’t comment.

“Moving in isn’t as glamorous as it looks,” she said, following his gaze.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re in a rush,” he replied, taking a sip of coffee.

“I’m not,” she admitted. “After everything that happened... I think I just need to take my time.”

He nodded slightly, his expression thoughtful but guarded. “Makes sense.”

She hesitated, then asked, “You ever feel like that? Like you need to step away from everything for a while?”

Logan’s gaze met hers for a brief moment before he looked down at his mug. “More than you’d think.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning she didn’t press him to explain.

By the time Logan packed up his tools, the kitchen looked sturdier than it had in years. He stood by the doorway, his toolbox in hand, and gave her a brief nod.

“That should hold for now. I’ll check the roof next time,” he said.

“Next time, huh?” she said with a faint smile. “Do I need to schedule you in, or should I just leave the door unlocked?”

“Depends,” he replied, his tone carrying the faintest hint of humor. “You planning on giving me more work?”

Her smile widened slightly. “I’m sure I can find something.”

Logan’s lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smirk, but he didn’t let it settle. “See you around,” he said, heading to his truck.

As the engine roared to life and he drove away, Evelyn lingered on the porch, watching until the truck disappeared from view.

For someone who claimed not to like people, Logan Howlett seemed to go out of his way to help her. And for someone who claimed not to need help, she was beginning to realize how much his presence steadied her.

The thought stayed with her as she turned back toward the house, the faint smell of sawdust lingering in the air.

The following days passed quietly, the steady rhythm of her routine broken only by the occasional creak of the cottage or the distant sound of the river. Though the repairs Logan had done made a world of difference, there was still so much left to tackle.

True to his word, Logan returned a few days later, his truck pulling into the driveway with the same low rumble she was beginning to recognize. This time, he was inspecting the roof—a task she was more than happy to leave entirely in his hands.

From the safety of the porch, she watched as he climbed the ladder, his movements deliberate and practiced.

“Find anything up there?” she called up, shading her eyes from the midday sun.

“Leaky spots,” he replied, his voice carrying easily over the breeze. “Couple shingles need replacing.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Could be worse,” he said, crouching to examine the roofline. “At least it’s not caving in.”

“Well, there’s a silver lining,” she said dryly, though her tone carried a hint of humor.

Logan glanced down at her briefly, his lips twitching in what might have been amusement before he returned to his work.

As the afternoon wore on, Evelyn busied herself in the garden—if it could even be called that. Overgrown weeds and tangled ivy spilled over the edges of a weathered stone path, and she’d decided it was time to tame at least part of it.

She was crouched near the base of an old oak tree, pulling stubborn roots from the soil, when Logan’s voice startled her.

“You planning to fix that up too?”

She looked up, brushing her hair out of her face to see him standing a few feet away, his toolbox in hand.

“Eventually,” she said, gesturing to the mess around her. “It’s on the very long list of things to do.”

He nodded, setting the toolbox down near the porch. “Looks like it’s been a while since anyone’s touched it.”

“More like decades,” she replied, straightening and wiping her hands on her jeans. “But I guess that’s what I signed up for.”

“Not many people would,” Logan said, his tone matter-of-fact.

She tilted her head, studying him. “What about you? Ever think about fixing up a place like this?”

He shrugged, leaning against the railing. “Not really. I’m not much for settling down.”

The words lingered between them, heavy with a meaning she couldn’t quite place.

“Well,” she said finally, forcing a small smile, “good thing I’m not asking you to move in.”

Logan huffed softly, a sound that might have been a laugh, before picking up his toolbox again.

By the time the sun began to set, Logan had finished patching up the roof, and Evelyn had managed to clear a small patch of the garden. The quiet hum of the forest filled the air as they stood on the porch, the fading light casting long shadows across the yard.

“Thanks again,” she said, her voice softer now. “I know I keep saying it, but... I really mean it. This place would probably collapse around me if it weren’t for you.”

Logan shrugged, his expression as steady as ever. “You’re doing most of the work. I’m just keeping it from falling apart.”

“Still,” she said, meeting his gaze, “I appreciate it.”

He nodded once, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than usual before he turned toward his truck.

“Logan,” she called after him, her voice stopping him mid-step.

He glanced back over his shoulder.

“You said you’re not much for settling down,” she said, her tone careful. “But... why stick around Clearwater, then? What keeps you here?”

Logan didn’t answer right away, his gaze shifting to the treeline in the distance. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more thoughtful.

“Sometimes it’s easier to stay where people already expect you to be alone.”

Her breath hitched at the weight of his words, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond.

Before she could find the right thing to say, Logan nodded again and climbed into his truck. The engine roared to life, and within seconds, he was gone, leaving her standing on the porch, the quiet settling around her like a heavy blanket.

That night, as the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Evelyn sat curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over her lap. The cottage was quiet now, save for the occasional groan of its old frame and the faint murmur of the river beyond the trees.

Logan’s words echoed in her mind. Sometimes it’s easier to stay where people already expect you to be alone.

She hadn’t known what to say to him then, and even now, hours later, she wasn’t sure she had an answer. But his honesty had left a mark, stirring something deep within her—a recognition of the weight they both seemed to carry in silence.

Her gaze drifted to the stack of firewood by the hearth. She hadn’t mentioned it to him, hadn’t asked if it was his doing. Somehow, she didn’t need to. The gesture felt like an extension of who he was—quiet, steady, always keeping his distance but still leaving something behind.

The faint glow of the fire bathed the room in warmth, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a flicker of contentment. It wasn’t happiness, not yet. But it was something close to it—a fragile sense of being grounded, of starting to rebuild.

As she sipped the last of her tea, her eyes grew heavy, the day’s work and lingering emotions finally catching up to her. She let herself sink into the cushions, the blanket pulled tighter around her shoulders.

Tomorrow would bring more work, more repairs, and, if she was lucky, another visit from Logan. Not that she’d admit she was looking forward to it—not even to herself.

For now, the fire burned steadily, the cottage standing strong around her, and the quiet of the night felt more like peace than loneliness.

With that thought, she let her eyes close, the rhythm of the river lulling her into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 3

_______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know):

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[harvestmino]

unfortunately I won't be able to do many seasonal outfits, but a summer variant for nitori was a must.

her workshop is where you buy automation and processing gadgets like sprinklers and brewing machines. in order to run them, you need power from a kappa generator, which you'll need to purchase and then upgrade to expand its capacity.

[lmaonade]

no hate but it's insane to me when starbucks employees talk like they know anything about coffee because they work at starbucks. you can be around coffee all day doing automated brewing stuff and know absolutely nothing about it. the title of "barista" is functionally meaningless. starbucks is button coffee

[risingchaos]

Kirk, Spock, and McCoy play Minecraft.

Kirk, ever the adventurer, dies constantly trying to complete all the achievements, collect all the animals, so on and so forth. He tries so hard to make a very complex Nether base because of course he would. Has a Mumbo Jumbo-esque mission to “get good”. He is determined to learn all the clutches so he doesn’t have to keep dying.

McCoy speed brews potions because a certain dumbass keeps going to the Nether and he lacks a delicacy needed for it (Kirk thinks shifting is for pussies cowards, he then loses all his armor fifty times from falling in). He gets way too into redstone and rage quits consistently. He does fucking love his farms and auto-sorters though, so it was worth it.

Spock has killed the Ender Dragon by the end of day one. Motherfucker just grinds materials and extorts the other two for real life favors for in game supplies because specifically Kirk doesn’t want to do multi-hour gathering sessions. Helps out McCoy with redstone and automation, makes things look nice because what the fuck is this Kirk you just have a bunch of loose chests with random shit in them.

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

“Do you have any idea what I said?” “No but I support you anyway.” With Harvey!

✩ Prompt list link, feel free to send in more ✩

☽ ◦ ◦ ◦ ✩ ❤ ✩ ◦ ◦ ◦ ☾

"Look I know that it's a busy month for you, but I think you should remember to take it easy." Harvey had spotted you earlier in the week, and immediately pulled you aside telling you to just stop for a second. He had voiced his concern and at the time you brushed it off, it's Summer you've got lots to do but you should have a calm period coming up soon to catch up on rest.

He wasn't really convinced by your words. Brows furrowing and frown appearing onto his face. He had opened his mouth, and you assumed it was to give you a lecture, so you scurried off in the other direction with so much still left to do. You now wished you had taken him seriously, or at the very least attempted to listen to him more.

You'd passed out from exhaustion. And you can only imagine the lack of surprise on Harvey's face when you were brought into the clinic. Completely unconscious. You also can imagine the lecture he had brewing while examing you before leaving you to rest. Regret immediately filled you upon your eyes opening to the concerningly familiar ceiling of the clinic.

"When it comes to health matters, I normally wouldn't use 'I told you so' but considering that it was less than three days ago I warned you this might happen, I think I might be within my rights to say it." Harvey is quick to pop into the room upon the sound of you stirring. With the dark circles under his eyes and coffee already in his hand you guess that he didn't really leave your side much at all last night.

"I'm sorry..." you murmur, but his gaze doesn't ease.

"Are you really sorry? Because I have the strangest feeling the second I let you leave the clinic you're going to exhaust yourself all over again."

"There's just so much I have to do." He shakes his head with a sigh.

"Well have you considered maybe eating foods with more proteins? Or taking more breaks throughout the day?" Here comes the lecture, you feel bad that you start zoning out. "Or doing those in combination, there's lot of benefits to doing both a lot of studies have shown..." it doesn't help that as he speaks you find yourself wondering if his eyes have always been such a nice shade of brown.

"Yeah..." you occasionally insert into the conversation to have him continue his words.

"Do you have any idea what I said?"

"No, but I support you anyway." The words out of your mouth are an almost automated response and he shakes his head at this.

"It's not about supporting me, it's about taking care of yourself and your health." His gaze softens ever so slightly, his expression turning into a plea. "Can you please just promise me that you'll remember to at least take a breath? You'll give me gray hairs otherwise."

"I promise to not exhaust myself and pass out face first in the dirt," he doesn't seem satisfied with just that, staring at you in silence beckoning for more. "And to take more breaks during the day."

"Thank you."

☽ ◦ ◦ ◦ ✩ ❤ ✩ ◦ ◦ ◦ ☾

[reasoningdaily]

NEWBERN, Ala. — There’s a power struggle in Newbern, Alabama, and the rural town’s first Black mayor is at war with the previous administration who he says locked him out of Town Hall.

After years of racist harassment and intimidation, Patrick Braxton is fed up, and in a federal civil rights lawsuit he is accusing town officials of conspiring to deny his civil rights and his position because of his race.

“When I first became mayor, [a white woman told me] the town was not ready for a Black mayor,” Braxton recalls.

The town is 85% Black, and 29% of Black people here live below the poverty line. 

“What did she mean by the town wasn’t ready for a Black mayor? They, meaning white people?” Capital B asked.

“Yes. No change,” Braxton says.

Decades removed from a seemingly Jim Crow South, white people continue to thwart Black political progress by refusing to allow them to govern themselves or participate in the country’s democracy, several residents told Capital B. While litigation may take months or years to resolve, Braxton and community members are working to organize voter education, registration, and transportation ahead of the 2024 general election.

But the tension has been brewing for years. 

Two years ago, Braxton says he was the only volunteer firefighter in his department to respond to a tree fire near a Black person’s home in the town of 275 people. As Braxton, 57, actively worked to put out the fire, he says, one of his white colleagues tried to take the keys to his fire truck to keep him from using it.

In another incident, Braxton, who was off duty at the time, overheard an emergency dispatch call for a Black woman experiencing a heart attack. He drove to the fire station to retrieve the automated external defibrillator, or AED machine, but the locks were changed, so he couldn’t get into the facility. He raced back to his house, grabbed his personal machine, and drove over to the house, but he didn’t make it in time to save her. Braxton wasn’t able to gain access to the building or equipment until the Hale County Emergency Management Agency director intervened, the lawsuit said. 

“I have been on several house fires by myself,” Braxton says. “They hear the radio and wouldn’t come. I know they hear it because I called dispatch, and dispatch set the tone call three or four times for Newbern because we got a certain tone.”

Not only has he been locked out of the town hall and fought fires alone, but he’s been followed by a drone and unable to retrieve the town’s mail and financial accounts, he says. Rather than concede, Haywood “Woody” Stokes III, the former white mayor, along with his council members, reappointed themselves to their positions after ordering a special election that no one knew about. 

Braxton is suing them, the People’s Bank of Greensboro, and the postmaster at the U.S. Post Office. 

For at least 60 years, there’s never been an election in the town. Instead, the mantle has been treated as a “hand me down” by the small percentage of white residents, according to several residents Capital B interviewed. After being the only one to submit qualifying paperwork and statement of economic interests, Braxton became the mayor.

Stokes and his council — which consists of three white people (Gary Broussard, Jesse Leverett, Willie Tucker) and one Black person (Voncille Brown Thomas) — deny any wrongdoing in their response to the amended complaint filed on April 17. They also claim qualified immunity, which protects state and local officials from individual liability from civil lawsuits.

The attorneys for all parties, including the previous town council, the bank, and Lynn Thiebe, the postmaster at the post office, did not respond to requests for comment.

The town where voting never was

Over the past 50 years, Newbern has held a majority Black population. The town was incorporated in 1854 and became known as a farm town. The Great Depression and the mechanization of the cotton industry contributed to Newbern’s economic and population decline, according to the Encyclopedia of Alabama.

Today, across Newbern’s 1.2 square miles sits the town hall and volunteer fire department constructed by Auburn’s students, an aging library, U.S. Post Office, and Mercantile, the only store there, which Black people seldom frequent because of high prices and a lack of variety of products, Braxton says.

“They want to know why Black [people] don’t shop with them. You don’t have nothin’ the Black [people] want or need,” he says. “No gasoline. … They used to sell country-time bacon and cheese and souse meat. They stopped selling that because they say they didn’t like how it feel on their hands when they cuttin’ the meat.”

To help unify the town, Braxton began hosting annual Halloween parties for the children, and game day for the senior citizens. But his efforts haven’t been enough to stop some people from moving for better jobs, industry, and quality of life. 

Residents say the white town leaders have done little to help the predominantly Black area thrive over the years. They question how the town has spent its finances, as Black residents continue to struggle. Under the American Rescue Plan Act, Newbern received $30,000, according to an estimated funding sheet by Alabama Democratic U.S. Rep. Terri Sewell, but residents say they can’t see where it has gone. 

At the First Baptist Church of Newbern, Braxton, three of his selected council members — Janice Quarles, 72, Barbara Patrick, 78, and James Ballard, 76 — and the Rev. James Williams, 77, could only remember two former mayors: Robert Walthall, who served as mayor for 44 years, and Paul Owens, who served on the council for 33 years and mayor for 11.

“At one point, we didn’t even know who the mayor was,” Ballard recalls.  “If you knew somebody and you was white, and your grandfather was in office when he died or got sick, he passed it on down to the grandson or son, and it’s been that way throughout the history of Newbern.”

Quarles agreed, adding: “It took me a while to know that Mr. Owens was the mayor. I just thought he was just a little man cleaning up on the side of the road, sometimes picking up paper. I didn’t know until I was told that ‘Well, he’s the mayor now.’” 

Braxton mentioned he heard of a Black man named Mr. Hicks who previously sought office years ago.

“This was before my time, but I heard Mr. Hicks had won the mayor seat and they took it from him the next day [or] the next night,” Braxton said. “It was another Black guy, had won years ago, and they took it from.”

“I hadn’t heard that one,” Ballard chimes in, sitting a few seats away from Braxton.

“How does someone take the seat from him, if he won?” Capital B asked.

“The same way they’re trying to do now with Mayor Braxton,” Quarles chuckled. “Maybe at that time — I know if it was Mr. Hicks — he really had nobody else to stand up with him.”

Despite the rumor, what they did know for sure: There was never an election, and Stokes had been in office since 2008.

The costs to challenging the white power structure

After years of disinvestment, Braxton’s frustrations mounted at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when he says Stokes refused to commemorate state holidays or hang up American flags. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, the majority-white council failed to provide supplies such as disinfectant, masks, and humidifiers to residents to mitigate the risks of contracting the virus.

Instead of waiting, Braxton made several trips to neighboring Greensboro, about 10 miles away, to get food and other items to distribute to Black and white residents. He also placed signs around town about vaccination. He later found his signs had been destroyed and put in “a burn pile,” he said.

After years of unmet needs of the community, Braxton decided to qualify for mayor. Only one Black person — Brown Thomas, who served with Stokes —has ever been named to the council. After Braxton told Stokes, the acting mayor, his intention to run, the conspiracy began, the lawsuit states. 

According to the lawsuit, Stokes gave Braxton the wrong information on how to qualify for mayor. Braxton then consulted with the Alabama Conference of Black Mayors, and the organization told him to file his statement of candidacy and statement of the economic interests with the circuit clerk of Hale County and online with the state, the lawsuit states. Vickie Moore, the organization’s executive director, said it also guided Braxton on how to prepare for his first meeting and other mayoral duties. 

Moore, an Alabama native and former mayor of Slocomb, said she has never heard of other cases across the state where elected officials who have never been elected are able to serve. This case with Braxton is “racism,” she said.

“The true value of a person can’t be judged by the color of their skin, and that’s what’s happening in this case here, and it’s the worst racism I’ve ever seen,” Moore said. “We have fought so hard for simple rights. It’s one of the most discouraging but encouraging things because it encourages us to continue to move forward … and continue to fight.”

Political and legal experts say what’s happening in Newbern is rare, but the tactics to suppress Black power aren’t, especially across the South. From tampering with ballot boxes to restricting reading material, “the South has been resistant to all types of changes” said Emmitt Riley III, associate professor of political science and Africana Studies at The University of the South.

“This is a clear case of white [people] attempting to seize and maintain political power in the face of someone who went through the appropriate steps to qualify and to run for office and by default wins because no one else qualified,” Riley added. “This raises a number of questions about democracy and a free and fair system of governance.”

Riley mentioned a different, but similar case in rural Greenwood, Mississippi. Sheriel Perkins, a longtime City Council member, became the first Black female mayor in 2006, serving for only two years. She ran again in 2013 and lost by 206 votes to incumbent Carolyn McAdams, who is white. Perkins contested the results, alleging voter fraud. White people allegedly paid other white people to live in the city in order to participate in the election and cast a legal vote, Riley said. In that case, the state Supreme Court dismissed the case and “found Perkins presented no evidence” that anyone voted illegally in a precinct, but rather it was the election materials that ended up in the wrong precincts.

“It was also on record that one white woman got on the witness stand and said, ‘I came back to vote because I was contacted to vote by X person.’ I think you see these tactics happening all across the South in local elections, in particular,” Riley said. “It becomes really difficult for people to really litigate these cases because in many cases it goes before the state courts, and state courts have not been really welcoming to overturning elections and ordering new elections.” 

Another example: Camilla, Georgia. 

In 2015, Rufus Davis was elected as the first Black male mayor of rural, predominantly Black Camilla. In 2017, the six-person City Council — half Black and half white — voted to deny him a set of keys to City Hall, which includes his office. Davis claimed the white city manager, Bennett Adams, had been keeping him from carrying out his mayoral duties. 

The next year, Davis, along with Black City Council member Venterra Pollard, boycotted the city’s meetings because of “discrimination within the city government,” he told a local news outlet. Some of the claims included the absence of Black officers in the police department, and the city’s segregated cemetery, where Black people cannot be buried next to white people. (The wire fence that divided the cemetery was taken down in 2018). In 2018, some citizens of the small town of about 5,000 people wanted to remove Davis from office and circulated a petition that garnered about 200 signatures. In 2019, he did not seek re-election for office.

“You’re not the mayor” 

After being the only person to qualify and submit proper paperwork for any municipal office, Braxton became mayor-elect and the first Black mayor in Newbern’s history on July 22, 2020.

Following the announcement, Braxton appointed members to join his council, consistent with the practice of previous leadership. He asked both white and Black people to serve, he said, but the white people told him they didn’t want to get involved.

The next month, Stokes and the former council members, Broussard, Leverett, Brown Thomas, and Tucker, called a secret meeting to adopt an ordinance to conduct a special election on Oct. 6 because they “allegedly forgot to qualify as candidates,” according to the lawsuit, which also alleges the meeting was not publicized. The defendants deny this claim, but admit to filing statements of candidacy to be elected at the special election, according to their response to an amended complaint filed on their behalf.

Because Stokes and his council were the only ones to qualify for the Oct. 6 election, they reappointed themselves as the town council. On Nov. 2, 2020, Braxton and his council members were sworn into office and filed an oath of office with the county probate judge’s office. Ten days later, the city attorney’s office executed an oath of office for Stokes and his council. 

After Braxton held his first town meeting in November, Stokes changed the locks to Town Hall to keep him and his council from accessing the building. For months, the two went back and forth on changing the locks until Braxton could no longer gain access. At some point, Braxton says he discovered all official town records had been removed or destroyed, except for a few boxes containing meeting minutes and other documents.

Braxton also was prevented from accessing the town’s financial records with the People’s Bank of Greensboro and the city clerk, and obtaining mail from the town’s post office. At every turn, he was met with a familiar answer: “You’re not the mayor.” Separately, he’s had drones following him to his home and mother’s home and had a white guy almost run him off the road, he says. 

Braxton asserts he’s experienced these levels of harassment and intimidation to keep him from being the mayor, he said. 

“Not having the Lord on your side, you woulda’ gave up,” he told Capital B.

‘Ready to fire away’ 

In the midst of the obstacles, Braxton kept pushing. He partnered with LaQuenna Lewis, founder of Love Is What Love Does, a Selma-based nonprofit focused on enriching the lives of disadvantaged people in Dallas, Perry, and Hale counties through such means as food distribution, youth programming, and help with utility bills. While meeting with Braxton, Lewis learned more about his case and became an investigator with her friend Leslie Sebastian, a former advocacy attorney based in California. 

The three began reviewing thousands of documents from the few boxes Braxton found in Town Hall, reaching out to several lawyers and state lawmakers such as Sen. Bobby Singleton and organizations such as the Southern Poverty Law Center. No one wanted to help.

When the white residents learned Lewis was helping Braxton, she, too, began receiving threats early last year. She received handwritten notes in the mail with swastikas and derogatory names such as the n-word and b-word. One of theletters had a drawing of her and Braxton being lynched. 

Another letter said they had been watching her at the food distribution site and hoped she and Braxton died. They also made reference to her children, she said. Lewis provided photos of the letters, but Capital B will not publish them. In October, Lewis and her children found their house burned to the ground. The cause was undetermined, but she thinks it may have been connected.

Lewis, Sebastian, and Braxton continued to look for attorneys that would take the case. Braxton filed a complaint in Alabama’s circuit court last November, but his attorney at the time stopped answering his calls. In January, they found a new attorney, Richard Rouco, who filed an amended complaint in federal court.

“He went through a total of five attorneys prior to me meeting them last year, and they pretty much took his money. We ran into some big law firms who were supposed to help and they kind of misled him,” Lewis says. 

Right now, the lawsuit is in the early stages, Rouco says, and the two central issues of the case center on whether the previous council with Stokes were elected as they claim and if they gave proper notice.

Braxton and his team say they are committed to still doing the work in light of the lawsuit. Despite the obstacles, Braxton is running for mayor again in 2025. Through AlabamaLove.org, the group is raising money to provide voter education and registration, and address food security and youth programming. Additionally, they all hope they can finally bring their vision of a new Newbern to life.

For Braxton, it’s bringing grocery and convenience stores to the town. Quarles wants an educational and recreational center for children. Williams, the First Baptist Church minister, wants to build partnerships to secure grants in hopes of getting internet and more stores.

“I believe we done put a spark to the rocket, and it’s going [to get ready] to fire away,” Williams says at his church. “This rocket ready to fire away, and it’s been hovering too long.”

Correction: In Newbern, Alabama, 29% of the Black population lives below the poverty line. An earlier version of this story misstated the percentage

[bellobambino]

The Claim That Broke the Camel's Back

828 words

Summary: Frustrated CS student, Luigi Mangione, battles the maddening bureaucracy of his insurance company while juggling midterms and back pain. An underwhelming trip to Panda Express inspires him to make a change. Luigi's POV Author's Note: I could write about incompetent insurance reps all day. My whole life is working with this broken fucking system. Free Luigi.

I'm on my third cold brew of the day to get ready for this evening Machine Learning lecture. I'm wired, to say the least. I've written down a few questions I have for the professor that I'm hoping will be covered by the midterm review he's “gifting” us today. 

"Good evening, folks!" he booms, addressing the class. There’s a few murmurs from some students giving a half hearted hello. "I was debating whether or not to make a midterm review for this section of the course. Considering your test scores from February..." 

My phone vibrates with a 1800 number I know all too well. Dammit. I've been waiting a whole week for them to call me back about this billing mistake. I can’t believe they’re calling right now, but I have to settle this billing issue. I sigh, and claw my way out of the row of backpacks and purses, answering the phone as quietly as possible.

“Hello, this is Luigi.” I spit it out like I've said it a thousand times, flinging open the back door to the main hallway.

“Hi, Luigi, this is Tiffany calling from Blue Cross Blue Shield. I’m returning your call about a claim you want to appeal.”

Appeal? Appeal. Because nothing says "customer service" like making me clean up a mess they made and then gaslighting me about it.

I’m whisper-shouting now, rehashing for the millionth time how I never got the bill they insist they mailed to an address I haven’t lived at since MySpace peaked. Tiffany’s hitting me with the most insincere “mm-hmm”s—" i've ever heard.

“Why did you send the orthopedic bill to my parents’ house? I don’t live there,” I say, trying to keep the vein in my temple from exploding.

“Mr. Mangione, can you confirm your address for me, please?”

Confirm my address? I swear to God, these people couldn’t find their own ass with both hands and a Garmin. “Which address do you have on file for me? Because you’re sending this bill to Maryland, and I live in Pennsylvania.”

Tiffany pauses like she’s consulting the Oracle of Delphi. “Mr. Mangione, I’ll need you to confirm your mailing address in order to continue discussing your account.”

Breathe, Luigi. Breathe. “Fine. 212 Fairway Lane, Baltimore, Maryland, 20906.”

There’s the familiar clackity-clack of her keyboard, a sound I’ve come to associate with malicious incompetence. “Okay, Mr. Mangione, can I put you on hold?”

“Hold? You guys are killing me. I’m a full-time student; you called me in the middle of a lecture.”

“I’ll need to review your account information in order to transfer the case to the billing department.”

Hold on. “You’re not the billing department?”

There’s a pause so thick you could spread it on toast. “This is the claims department.”

I could scream. I peek through the window of the lecture hall door. The TA’s handing out the review sheet, and I’m out here playing phone tag with someone who doesn’t even have the power to solve this issue. “Alright, Tiffany, can you just give me the billing department’s direct line? So I can call when i'm not in class.”

She rattles off a number. I punch it into my phone notes like I’m defusing a bomb. I thank her—halfheartedly, because I was raised right- and hang up.

I'm back in my seat, having missed the professor going over test expectations. I unlock my phone and look at the number Tiffany gave me. Wait. I look at my recent call log.

No way. It’s the exact same number I’ve been calling for weeks. The member services line. An automated phone directory service that will "connect you to the best department", but only sends you in circles for hours just to disconnect you when you’re waiting to speak with a supervisor.

They’ve already threatened to send the bill to collections—a bill I’ve never even seen. They told me the procedure was 100% covered. Now I’m supposed to fork over cash I don’t have for something they said I didn’t owe in the first place.

Back at my dorm, I'm eating Panda Express alone like a fucking schmuck. The noodles taste like cardboard. I’d kill for my Ma's chicken parm. I gotta call her.

I finish up, and grab the take out bag to throw away the container. 

Oh, thats right. There’s the fortune cookie. I almost chuck it in the trash, but ... maybe Lu deserves a little treat today.

I crack open the cookie, shoving one half in my mouth, and unfurl the little piece of paper.

Be the change you want to see in the world.

I immediately roll my eyes. The change I want to see is insurance companies prioritizing patients' well being over shareholder profit. If I could do anything about that, I would. Trust me, I would.

I tape the fortune to the inside of my laptop, right next to the sticker of Breloom my sister gave me, and fling myself onto my bed. 

Be the change. Maybe I could.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Up All Night 1

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)

Note: I wasn't serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You rub your cheek as you check the time in the corner of the screen. You should’ve been gone an hour ago, you should have your bottle of shiraz and your episode of housewives to keep you company. You don’t know why you expected that, nothing ever goes to schedule, not with your boss.

You sigh at his empty office. You haven’t seen him for two days. He has an automatic reply that he’s ‘working remotely’. You know Mr. Drysdale well enough. He doesn’t work outside the office, he barely does anything at the office.

You go back to the PDF, your red notes in the margin of the manuscript. Big meeting tomorrow. Hopefully your boss got that message. You can only imagine what would happen if a publishing house missed their introductory conference with a major writer. That could mean thousands, if not millions, in losses. Somehow, you suspect you won’t have to imagine.

You finish the chapter and press your finger to your phone. It lights up but you don’t have anything more than the several reminders you set for yourself and automated notifications from apps you never use. Drysdale…

His last name rolls from your throat without meaning too. Something about him just irks you to the bone. Maybe it’s envy, or at very least, resent. You’ve worked all these years in the publishing business to become an assistant, all while he was born into his editor’s chair.

Another bubble pops up. You’re not the social media type. You never got much into it. Your generation came a bit too early for that, but you’ve found with men like Drysdale, narcissists really, it is a great tool.

You tap the notification and it opens the story. There he is, taking a shot with a pair of statuesque twins. Not the best look for an editor, on that night, of all nights. 

You clamp your lips shut and flare your nostrils. Right. You close your laptop as you see Eugene making his sweep. Once security pops up, you know you’ve got to go. You pack up your things and say hello to the man in the blue uniform on your way out. He knows you by name too.

You shift your glasses on your nose, the little rubber pieces starting to squeeze your bridge. You come out the front of the building and make your way to the only car left in the lot. You throw your bag in the back and drop into the front seat.

No wine for you. You’ll have to stream the episode when it comes out on Prime. You set a new alarm for the morning, early enough for you to make sure Mr. Drysdale meets his obligations.

📗

As expected, you don’t have a single call from Drysdale. You’ve left several messages since your alarm blared and broke through your four hours of sleep. You see his last activity on Insta from three in the morning and you want to throttle your own phone. This isn’t good.

You have only enough time to get yourself ready. Your morning routine of a perfectly portioned breakfast and precisely brewed dark roast is nixed. You get in your car with coffee in a travel mug. You have only one thing on your mind.

As you draw up the long drive to the ultra-modern facade, the revulsion courses from your stomach into your throat. There’s something about his style that makes your eyes roll. So obnoxious and absurd. He’s exactly a caricature of a silver-spooned brat.

You park behind the beamer and take a draw from your insulated mug. Ugh, you need caffeine, you need strength and patience. You put it back in the cupholder and force yourself out of the peace of the front seat.

You stride up the white stone walkway and hit the doorbell. Once. Twice. Five times before you admit you will not receive an answer. You bring up the emergency file in your phone and key in the door code. Drysdale would shit if he knew his mother sent you it but she is a lot smarter than him. It makes you wonder how the apple rolled so far away after falling.

You let yourself in. It’s quiet but for the catch and skip of a forgotten record. You go into the front room. Open bottles of liquor forgotten on the glass table, a broken glass on the floor, and the record player crackling through the speaker.

You pull the needle off and pause to look out through the transparent wall that gives a clear view of the entire room. You know Drysdale to be shameless but really?

You put your phone away and approach the stares. The large gap between each gives a sense of vertigo to your ascent. You get to the top and head down the hall, glancing down over the entryway as you do.

You carry on and open a door; closet. The next, a bathroom, the other, a bedroom but not used. And finally, you find the door you’re looking for. On the other side, Mr. Drysdale sleeps with his ass naked in the room, upside down on the bed with his head hanging off the foot. The same woman from his Instagram are entwined with him as they sleep the right side up. Ugh, you don’t want to picture it.

You go into the en suite bathroom and take the sleek black plastic cup from beside the sink. You fill it with cold water and unhook the amber satin robe from the door as you pass. You march to the bed and dump the water onto Ransom’s head, watching it splash down his back.

He yipes and whips his head up with an unattractive snort, “what the fuck–”

“Robert Laing is due at nine. It’s ten to eight.” You drop the robe over him carelessly and spin on your heel, “let’s go., Mr. Drysdale.”

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

I’ve always had a fondness for The Dispossessed’s concept of kleggich.

For context, in the ambiguously utopian novel The Dispossessed by Ursula K. LeGuin, the anarcho-syndicalists all moved to their planet’s moon and started speaking Pravic, an invented language designed to promote their anarchist ideals, and in which the words “work” and “play” are the same thing. But since LeGuin knows enough about linguistics to know that wouldn’t actually happen, another word has arisen: “kleggich”, roughly meaning “drudgery”, meaning work that is too tedious or hard or unsatisfactory to ever be mistaken for play.

For something that arose by accident, kleggich became a key part of Anarresti society. All people take shifts of kleggich work, like agriculture or mining or construction, the sorts of things that people need to do but no one enjoys to do, or that are dangerous to do long-term. A computer system makes sure that no one is worked too hard or too long, and most people take pride in their kleggich work. In fact one of the recent controversies that gives Anarres its “ambiguous” moniker is the possibility that kleggich could be abused by the customs developing around it.

Remember that old meme about how “what’s your job in the leftist commune?” And how those blue haired pronouns people all said they wanted to be tarot readers? (Ignore the fact that the actual Twitter thread had things like cooking, teaching, welding, crops, manual labor, and the only tarot reader was the person who said it as a joke after people began claiming that her ‘planning and logistics’ wasn’t a real job. Otherwise people will notice that the original joke was that their commune will of course fall apart since those are feminine jobs and clearly only real masculine jobs like welding and manual labor actually contribute to society.) What if instead of giving into the right-wing stereotype of useless liberals with their useless jobs, we took that and said “Yes, and?”. Iris brews tea for her regular job and for her kleggich. Isaac does tarot and likes doing agriculture for his kleggich. Sophia has kleggich work as her primary job because she finds it meaningful to pick up shifts when others can’t do kleggich themselves. And so on and so forth.

Since I’ve been introduced to it, kleggich has found its way into my idea of utopia. A reminder that we don’t need to wait for full automation to make odious and dangerous work less exploitative. When there is difficult work to be done, we can do it together, make the work light with many hands. We don’t need an underclass to be broken in our stead.