Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Powder R Cane is miserable. 

She’s spent a sizeable portion of her young adult years studying at Zaun Tech, all in the hopes of becoming a big-shot engineer for the Under-City’s biggest firm, Hexcore, only to find it fucking soul-sucking. 

Turns out being an engineer isn’t all technological innovation and implementing life-changing stratagems into the public eco-sphere. Most of her job entails maintaining what’s already there - analysing structures to make sure they’re functioning at optimal capacity, or implementing new products to boost profits. 

She hates it. Her manager, a reedy man aptly named Singed, walks around like he’s seconds away from death’s door, and barely seems to like it himself. One time she’d trudged over to his office mid-project, only to catch him dead-ass asleep in his office. She'd turned back, obviously, all too happy to follow his lead.

His in-office days are bearable enough. At best, he's intelligent enough to summon some form of workplace stimulation. At worst, she gets to clock in an extra five minutes every break time to sneak out to the rooftop garden and stare mindlessly straight into the sun. 

When the other guy - that thick-headed assistant manager Finn, who has a persistent stick up his crack pipe - shows up to work, her day is rendered miserable. The only way to earn a promotion and topple Singed is apparently to be an insufferable, idiotic jackass. 

It's days like this that she misses her brute of a big sister, who’s fucked off out of her life a decade ago - who definitely would have grabbed Finn by the collar of his stupid shirt and threatened his pretty nose if he speaks to her or anyone else like that again. 

She’s gone, though. Like an asshole. 

The pencil in her hand snaps. 

Half of it lands on her desk, the other she watches roll slowly to the edge of the table until it just…drops. 

Someone peers over the cubicle beside her, curious about the intrusion into an otherwise dead-silent office, the only sounds being the clacking of keyboards and an occasional cough. 

Powder scowls, bending down to find the other half, her cheek pressed against the table, barely trying to make an effort in only just to pass the time as quickly as possible without doing any work. Her fingers brush against an envelope. She frowns, picking at it and bringing the thing up to her desk. 

Funny, she thinks, as she flips the brown envelope around. She doesn’t remember leaving any of her mail on the ground here. It must have tipped over and out of her bag at some point, if the thick layer of dust on it is any indication. She blows on it, sputtering as a cloud of dust billows around her. 

“Quick break,” she manages to cough out, then stumbles out into the patio area. Her thumb lifts the flap, letting the letter slip out into her hand as she catches it and feels her breath hitch. 

It’s his writing. 

Powder,

If you’re reading this, you must be in dire need of a change. 

There will come a day when you feel crushed by the burden of modern life, and your spirit will fade before a growing emptiness.

The same thing happened to me, long ago. I’d lost sight of what mattered most in life…real connections with other people and nature. So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong. 

I’ve enclosed to deed to that place…my pride and joy: Shimmerbrook Farm. It’s located in Firelight Creek, on the southern coast. It’s the perfect place to start your new life. 

This was my most precious gift of all, and now it’s yours. I know you’ll honour the family name, Powder. Good luck.

Uncle Silco

P.S. if Sevika is still alive, say hi to her for me, will you?

Memories come flooding back - to his funeral, the year before. An eerie silence, a rustle in the leaves. Shrouded and surrounded by mourners, a presence refusing to make herself known, she'd hidden at the funeral. 

All the people from her past were there - Vander, Mylo, Claggor, Sevika. Far enough to never clock her arrival, but close enough for her to catch the grief etched into their faces. What was it again? Fear? 

Fear that they’d see her absolutely miserable when she’d known for a fact that all he and Vander could talk about was how well she’d done, making it in the big city. 

And how he’d been the orchestrator behind that - Uncle Silco, looking out for her from the day her parents passed and she moved into his farm. Uncle Silco, comforting her and giving her purpose when Vi went on the lam. Uncle Silco, encouraging her to pursue further education and make a name for herself out in the big, wide world. 

The pressure to perform is immense. She can’t go back to her old life, not when everyone’s expecting her to make it big. Not when the thought of seeing his ghost lurking within the walls of the old farm house makes her body quiver in dreaded fear.

Powder had barely made it through the funeral procession before she bolted out of Firelight Creek last year, shredding down the highway in her shitty little car, leaving all remnants of that haunting provincial life behind. She can't go back. She cannot. 

…Or can she? 

Every day that she clocks into work makes her soul wither away a little bit. How much would they really miss her if she just…left?

The world constantly speaks to her through dusty hazes of grey and smog; a stark contrast to her monumentally more colourful, vivid youth on the Farm.

She’s not sure if she wants this soul-sucking life anymore. 

Because Powder R Cane is miserable, and maybe she’s sick enough of it to finally take that leap. 

One cancelled rent agreement, a quick check of her savings with the bank and a rapid emptying of her apartment into her beloved Fishbones (read: car) later, Powder hightails it out of the Under-City to her new - old - life. 

Shimmerbrook Farm isn’t quite what she’s expecting. 

From her childhood, she remembers a well-maintained craftsman cottage surrounded by patches of flourishing vegetables and neat animal pens. 

A cursory look driving inbound tells her it’s in complete disarray. Overgrown grass, and a litany of trees, boulders and branches strewn across the dirt. A year of her absence, likely coupled with her Uncle’s prior declining health clearly hasn’t been favourable. 

The moment she pulls up, Sevika’s already there waiting for her with the keys, a knowing smirk playing at her lips as she kills the engine and steps out of the car. 

“Should’ve known you’d finally get your shit together” - are the first words to come out of the Mayor’s mouth. 

Powder grins. Oh, how she’s missed the no-nonsense honesty of country folk. “Still a grouch, are you?”

“Depends,” the woman fishes a key from her pocket and tosses it over. Powder catches it between her fingertips before it can arc downwards. “You here for long?”

She plays with the key, turns it over in her hand. The town is small, and achingly close knit. He’s only ever needed the one key to his house - the rest of the farm is left wide open, a gaping testament of small-town trust. 

As a child, Powder remembers running into the farm to play with the baby lambs, feeding them with milk bottles as her parents caught up with their old friends. She’d loved it, being with the baby chicks and ducklings, petting calves in the field with Vi and the others. 

On some occasions, Silco had let her help him - a decision he knew he’d regret every time. Small Powder almost always chose play time over ushering the chickens back to their coop. Had always dropped the watering can and smushed the lettuce sprouts before they’d had a chance to flourish. And every time, he’d ruffled his hand in her hair and smiled. 

She could do it. She could give it a try. 

Embrace the simple life. Get back to her roots. 

She realises she’s been silent for too long when Sevika clears her throat, clearly annoyed. 

“Yeah,” Powder pockets the key. “I sure will.” 

Leaving Powder to her own devices is never a good idea. 

She’s given instructions to access the house - take a left at the first tree, wind around the old trellis and make sure to leap over the grass patch or she’ll trip over the underlying rocks. She immediately takes the wrong left, somehow ending up at a small clearing of water she doesn’t remember from back then. 

It has been a good five years since she’s left to study. Things can change. 

By the time she reaches the house, the sun has gone down and her legs are all scratched up from her forcefully pushing her way through the underbrush. She manages to make landfall on the front porch, tossing the duffle she’d stuffed with as many belongings as possible onto the decking as she fumbles around with the doorknob. 

It’s sticky at best. She makes a note to find the local hardware store tomorrow to replace it, first thing. For now, it’s just functional enough for her to shove her duffle into the house and heave the door shut for the night. 

Powder flips the switch. There’s zero power. 

Sevika’s other instructions ring clear in her head - electricity should come back on tomorrow, but the water should be in ship shape by now. There’s a chest of tools on the porch and a generous pack of parsnip seeds she can use to start farming, if she wants. If there’s any produce she wants to sell, she can do so at Benzo’s Shop. 

Janna, she hasn’t heard that name in years. 

The last time she saw Benzo, he’d been elbow-deep in crops with Vander, readying the next harvest for sale in the store. 

Uncle Vander. 

Don’t be a stranger, aye?

A sharp prick of guilt tugs at her senses. If there’s anything Powder has been good at this past year, it’s aggressively avoiding any remnant or reminder of SIlco, and by extension the memory of her parents. The memories mess with her. They summon those scratchy feelings of loss and grief, and every time she leans in she feels her soul just…shatter. 

Even walking through this house, with her eyes attenuating to the pitch darkness, feels like reliving every memory again. Her and Vi and Mylo and Claggor, clamoring around in the hallways playing hide and seek. The tiny sheep prancing around, oblivious to her grubby little fingers scheming to catch it for more cuddles. Mum and Dad, sitting by the dining table, laughing with her Uncles - their oldest friends. 

She’s running her hand along the walls when they come into contact with something soft. Her fingers grasp it, feeling worn leather, and when she squints she makes out the outline of a coat hanger. 

It’s his coat. 

As a kid, she used to climb into Vander’s coat. Her head had been comically small. Small enough to fit through the loop of his massive arm holes and waddle around like a duck. He’d been the fun uncle - stern with Vi, soft on her. 

Silco had been more reserved. Quieter, more calculating, more difficult to mess around with unless he’d felt like humouring her. His coat had been slimmer and longer, with plenty of pockets he’d amuse her with as he pulled out bits and bobs and tiny toys that made her giggle. 

Powder gently pries it off the hook, barely blinking as the dust swirls around her. 

If there are tears in her eyes when she brings it up to her nose and crumples to the ground at his achingly familiar scent, she blames it on the dust. 

“Come onnn, you stupid piece of junk!” 

Her boot barely lands a dent as it thumps into Fishbones’ rear. Powder feels the shock reverberating back to her spine and grimaces. 

Stupid thing’s out of gas already. 

Hadn’t she just refueled it before driving out here? 

Powder frowns. Maybe she didn’t. It’s all a haze, really. All she really remembers is packing everything up and hightailing it out of the big Under-City. 

“Okay, relax,” she mutters to herself. “I can walk it…right?” 

It’s a small, rural town. Silco used to drive into town, but that had been a matter of convenience to transport the sheer amount of produce and supplies back and forth. It took him maybe five minutes tops. Surely that’s a walkable distance for her? 

Powder stares down the road, and just makes out the beginning of the path leading her into town. 

Yeah, she’ll be right. The fresh country air will probably do her some good anyway. 

It’s all a mistake. 

While she’s not a gym rat, Powder isn’t unfit by any means. She’d clocked in enough hours to have a good physique that can sustain the walk easily. It’s not the journey, though. It’s the destination. 

Because the moment she steps foot into the town square she’s swarmed by flies. 

The flies being complete strangers who seem to know everything about her, from the fact that she’d grown up here down to her missing sister’s name. 

Someone named Lux and her friend Sera wave a friendly introduction and a life story she hadn’t asked for. 

They live together, apparently - “as friends ,” a point which Lux seems to arbitrarily stress. Powder raises a brow at that. 

Sera’s a part time singer with some new guitarist named Gert, and Lux clocks in part time shifts between Benzo’s Shop and Dr Heimerdinger’s office. All these details she learns within the first five minutes. 

“Haven’t heard that name in a while,” she remarks, for lack of anything else to contribute. 

Dr Heimerdinger must be at least a hundred years old by now. Chances are if she walks into that clinic, he probably looks exactly the same as when she was about three apples tall. 

“Is he still huffing the nitrous?” 

Powder means it as a joke. They seem to take it literally, going by their twin stares of shock. 

“I thought it was just a rumour!” Lux gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. 

“Oh,” she gapes, then wonders how much fun she wants to have with it. As it turns out, quite a bit. “How do you think he looks so young?” 

They both exchange scandalised looks. Sera looks like she’s fraying at the seams to know more, only just holding herself back from an all out inquisition.

“Well, this has been nice,” Powder says slowly. They both beam at her. “But I got errands to run, so…bye.” 

“Wait!” Sera cries, quickly whipping out a music sheet from her bag and scribbling something down. With a blush, she folds it and passes it over. “In case you needed help settling in. Or, just to…hang out.” 

… Oh.

That’s what’s happening here.

Well she’s a bit obtuse, isn’t she? 

Sera is pretty. Any other time in the city she may have gone for her, but with the way Lux is very unsubtly chewing her lip at the note in Powder’s hand, maybe not this time. 

“Thanks,” she says, pocketing the note, “I’ll reach out if I ever feel like…hanging out.” 

She turns on her heel, blue braids whipping behind her, and beelines to her own personal hell.

Her past.

The Last Drop hasn’t changed at all. 

The old wooden beams are still very much straining to hold up the building. The brick wall’s showing signs of wear and the nails holding in the countless photographs across the wall are doing their very best. 

Even so, it’s clear he takes pride in his establishment. 

The bar’s countertop is worn but spotless. The tables and chairs don’t have a single screw loose or a scrap of food dirtying the surface, and as far as she can tell, the pool table and all those old gaming consoles still seem to be in working order. 

The place smells like home and hearth; tinged with beer and ash from the fireplace. Stepping in feels like moving through a living time capsule, only the people she’s most dreading to run into are certainly not stuck in her past anymore. 

She pushes through the discomfort and, realising he hasn’t registered her arrival, clears her throat. 

“Powder,” is the first thing Vander says when his head whips up. His hair is graying. His features are starting to wrinkle. But it’s him. 

“Vander,” she chokes out, then practically leaps over the bar to throw her arms across his chest. He catches her, mostly out of shock at first. Her voice is muffled in his chest. “You’ve gotten old.”

Then he recovers, chuckling. His arms wind around, encasing her in a big bear hug. “That's what happens when you stress out your poor old man.”

“Please. I’ve barely been around.” 

“Exactly.” He pulls back, large hands engulfing her shoulders, and appraises her fondly. “You’ve gotten so big.” 

“Only an extra head,” she grins. “Maybe one day I’ll be taller than you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Vander says, so genuine it almost hurts.

Why had she stayed away for so long when it feels like having her dad back? 

 “How long are you staying? I’ll let the boys handle the pub for a few days.” 

He looks at her thoughtfully. “Though I’m sure you may not have that long before you head back.” 

Her smile drops, just slightly. Right. The awkward question.

In her nostalgia, she’d almost forgotten why she’d been hesitant to visit Vander. From Silco’s old letters, in the earlier years of her move to the Under-City, he’d never stopped raving about her success. 

You’re too smart to spend your life behind a bar.

This is so not a conversation she wants to have right now, but it’s a bit difficult lying through her teeth about it when he’ll definitely see her tilling the soil just down the road. 

With a resolved sigh, Powder decides to come clean. 

“I-uhhh,” she scratches the back of her head. “I quit. I also- I moved back here. As of yesterday.”

Vander stares at her, hard. The moment stretches out, terse with silence, until he breaks it with a small smile. 

“I understand. Once in a while, you’ve got to fill your own cup.” 

Oh, man. Vander is the best. She feels the tension leave her like a weight off her chest. 

“Thanks,” she says softly. “Might try my hand at vegetables. How hard could it be?”

At that, he lets out a sudden, roaring laugh, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Powder stares at him, confused. 

“Oh,” he says, sobering up quickly. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Riiight,” Powder squints at him suspiciously. “Sure.”

“You’ll likely sell well enough,” he continues, now letting go of her to pack up the glasses, “We’ve had a new PiltieMart open up across the river.” 

He wrinkles his nose at the chain’s mention. “Chief’s not too happy with it, but it’s brought in a lot of jobs and a lot of younger people.” 

Well, that explains Sera and Lux, and the fact that this town is now way younger than the aging population of her memories. 

He pauses, looking at her thoughtfully again. “They’re nice. Maybe you’ll make some new friends.” 

Powder rolls her eyes and leans against the counter. “Thanks dad,” she says sarcastically. “I suppose you’re the one telling everyone my life story as well then?” 

Vander smirks, points a thumb at the gallery wall behind him, where she’s now noticing a litany of photos that make her skin blanch. 

Little Powder nestled in the hay hugging a baby sheep. Little Powder running around chasing after hens around the coop. Teen Powder with braces grinning at the camera with a peace sign. 

She looks back at Vander in horror. “You didn’t.”

“Guilty,” he shrugs, very much not remorseful. “Even Silco constantly talked about you before he kicked the bucket. We’re proud of you, Powder. That’s never gonna change.” 

His words are more touching than he realises. Not enough to stop her from cringing at another photo of teen Powder getting licked in the face by a cow, but certainly enough otherwise. 

There’s a raucous clatter behind her, followed by the slow spinning of a metal bowl as it circles the ground. It whirls to a gradual stop. 

Powder snaps her head back, meeting the source. 

“Holy shit,” Claggor gapes at her, blinking once, then twice in disbelief. “You’re back.”

“I’m back.” 

Mylo rounds the corner, and has a much more normal reaction. “Fucking hell,” he says, clutching at his chest. “I thought you were a ghost.” 

Well, normal for Mylo. 

Claggor’s a big hugger - always has been. Mylo is a little more skittish about it, but he joins in the circle anyway. 

Powder grins, squished in the middle of her three favourite people, and feels the warmth settling deep in her chest. 

Finally, she’s home. 

Hours pass by in the pub before she remembers her actual agenda for the day. 

It’s not her fault. She’s too busy beating Mylo and Claggor at billiards, then trying to beat some schmuck named Tuff-Tuff at the Pacman machine. It’s driving her nuts that she can’t seem to beat their level. The ghosts are too fast! 

Her only consolation is she’s the only one who’s even come remotely close, but consolation isn’t a win and now she’s mad. 

Mad enough to aggressively play for hours, but not mad enough to remember that she urgently needs a new doorknob lest she bust another nail heaving the door into place, or at least some new seed packets and fertiliser to get started on the farm. 

It’s almost half past four by the time she races out of The Last Drop, waving quick goodbyes and promising up and down to come back every other night to hang out. 

She only has half an hour left until the entire town apparently shuts down, so Powder has to choose quickly. She has the choice of either getting the parts for her new doorknob, or enough seeds to finally get the farm kick-started tomorrow. 

She has a vision of a cute, luscious crop farm with tomatoes and bean stalks and cherry trees lining the back fence. It’s beautiful. She wants it. She wants that Pinterest, cottage-core life desperately.  

The sun starts to wane. She purses her lips, looking between the glass doors of Benzo’s shop and the bridge to the carpenter Scar’s shop, apparently a bit further away. 

It’s decided. 

Benzo’s manning the counter when she walks in. 

He looks exactly the same: balding, with brass spectacles, and a huge grin on his face the moment he lays eyes on her. 

“Well, if it isn’t little Powder!” he manoeuvres past the counter, grinning madly. 

“Hey, Benzo!” Powder jumps into his hug. “You haven’t changed at all!” 

“You’re a terribly good liar,” he says, grinning. “But thank you nonetheless. And look at you!” 

She holds her arms out, also grinning. 

“You’re all big now! Are you here to visit your man for the weekend, lass?”

“Nah,” she says with a small, amused huff. “Just moved back. Paid him a visit about,” she checks her non-existent watch, “six hours ago.”

Benzo peers at her through the tops of his frames. “You stayed for the games, didn’t you?” 

Her only response is another cheeky grin. 

“I suppose you’ve taken up your Uncle’s farm then,” he adds. 

“Does everyone know my next move here?”

“Just about,” Benzo admits. “He never stopped yapping about you and the dream he had for the farm in his final days. Bless him.” 

She clasps her elbows, feeling her nails just dig into flesh. “Did he?”

“Of course,” he smiles at her gently. “Now the farm itself may shape up a bit of a challenge for you. I’ve heard it’s in disarray-“

She snorts. “That’s an understatement.”

“-but there’s a pretty good crop guy who can-oh, Ekko! We have a new - er, old - girl in town!”

The ‘Ekko’ in question is not Benzo going temporarily loopy and screaming about echoes. He is, in fact, the hottest person Powder has seen in her life. 

It all pans out in slow motion. 

Powder, turning around to match Benzo’s line of sight, sees the box of vegetables first. The man comes after, emerging from between the shelves, muscles straining from the effort, eyes big and brown as he rounds the shelves expectantly. 

A friendly smile graces his lips - thick and luscious - and Powder cannot rip her eyes away from the broadness of his shoulders beneath his dark green t-shirt or the way those loose jeans seem to hug his ass just right. Her mouth runs dry. Her heart beat quickens. 

“Hey,” he says, still with that neutral, friendly smile, “I’m Ekko.”

Oh Janna, that voice. He’s so hot. She should introduce herself. 

What was her name again?

“Uhh-I-“

“This is Powder,” Benzo - thankfully - saves her from total humiliation. “The old boys’ niece. She’s finally come back to rebuild that old farm!” 

His smile instantly drops. Ekko drops the box onto the counter with a dull thud. Fists clenching, he fixes her with the stinkiest glare she’s ever seen. 

“Oh,” he grinds out, razor sharp, "that Powder.” 

“Ekko!” Benzo gasps, scandalised. 

“Uh, hi?,” Powder holds her hands up in a placating gesture, “Did I jinx you in a past life, or…?” 

The muscle of his jaw twitches. “It’s more what you didn’t do.” 

Her hands slam down to her hips. She clenches her teeth, suddenly irate. “The hell does that man? I’ve been here five minutes, and you’re acting like I burned your house down.” 

He leans forward just enough to make her bristle. “Probably better you did. At least then we wouldn’t be stuck pretending you give a damn.” 

“Now, boy-“

“Oh please,” she scoffs, stepping into his space, smiling triumphantly when he instinctively shifts back. “I don’t even know you, but you’ve clearly been thinking about me long enough to write my memoir. Obsessed much?” 

His eyes narrow. “Takes five minutes to read someone like you.”

Powder snorts. “You must be real proud of that thick head of yours if five minutes is all it takes.”

“You left,” he says sharply. “You left the farm alone. You let it all fall to shit while I picked up the pieces after Silco died.”

He takes a step forward, stare hardening. “Vander talks about you all the time. I used to sit there for hours listening to all these stories of you being helpful on the farm, so imagine my surprise when their prodigal niece hadn’t even bothered turning up to the funeral, let alone stepping back into town to at least hire someone to manage the farm. I-” 

Ekko cuts himself off, breathing heavily, looking at her like hadn’t meant for it all to slip out so hard. 

“…Guess I did need more than five minutes,” he says, voice tight. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, echoing regret. 

It hardly matters. He’d said enough. 

The air stills, so eerily still she hears her blood rushing past her ears. Even Benzo is frozen between them, staring at Ekko with bewildered eyes.

She swallows, deeply, and huffs. “Like I said, you don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through, so do me a favour,” she points a finger into his hard chest, “and fuck right off.” 

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something more - something else, maybe something softer - but shakes his head and storms off instead.

The shop bell rings on his exit, the sound slicing through the tension in its wake. 

“Powder,” Benzo says quietly, “I’m so sorry. I have never seen him like that. He must’ve been carrying that for a while. Let me talk to him, see if I can-“

“No need,” she says, tired. “I’ll be taking the parsnips, please.”

It hurts hearing all her insecurities thrown back in her face, least of all from a stranger. She’s angry. She should be angrier. 

But there’s something in the way he said it that sticks under her skin like a splinter. It gnaws at her, festering like an open wound she can’t approximate. 

At the very least, Benzo feels guilty enough to load her with a canvas carry bag full of seeds and a helping of vegetables for her troubles. She’s happy for the freebies - Janna knows she needs them - but still. 

Walking home with her thoughts in the darkening sunset is an ordeal and a half. They swirl in her mind, whipping up a frenzy, up until she gets caught in the branches again and only barely makes it through the stupid door just before sundown. 

As promised, she’s back on the grid. With the lights switched on, the house is a right mess. The floorboards and walls need a good scrub and almost everything needs to eventually get gutted and lined back up to code. 

Powder writes down a to-do list of things to fix up. 

And by list, she means a text message she sends to herself and hopes she won’t forget about the next day. It’s lengthy, and she hasn’t even touched the exterior yet. 

By the time her head hits the pillow, she’s completely exhausted, drifting off and dreaming of a grouchy man with cauliflower for hair. 

Spring 1

It’s Powder’s first day as a farmer. 

She’s immediately shit at it. 

It’s all too easy watching the morning gardening show on Silco’s shitty old box television, which she’s only just managed to wire up by the skin of her teeth. Some friendly old lady on the show’s telling her to be persistent with the seeds and plant with plenty of soil to let them germinate. 

That’s all the information she gets for the day. In her rush to leave the city, she’d forgotten to arrange an internet provider so now she’s stuck living off the grid. Well, as off the grid as she can get, with a (mercifully) fully-functioning bathroom and electricity. 

She slips into a pair of old leggings and an old flannel shirt, making a note to find the nearest store for sturdier clothes later, and slaps Silco’s wide-brimmed hat on so the sun doesn’t beat down so hard.

In practice, it should be easy. She’s an engineer by trade. She could probably figure out the exact dimensions required for a planter trough to sit just right to allow water to pass through to the root. 

It’s just that she has no idea what a hoe does, or how deep the soil actually should be for parsnips to not get eaten up by birds, or how much spacing is required between each seed, or how much water she needs to stop her plants from drowning. 

Powder wings it, hoping the small holes she digs work well enough, and makes sure to count to ten for every seed she waters. 

The rest of it is easy. Weeds are a pretty straight forward removal process, even if they do make her back sore from how much she’s bending over to get them out. The brambles slice away well, too, with the machete she finds at the bottom of Sevika’s tool box. 

Soon, there’s a clear pathway between Fishbones, now rapidly accumulating leaves on the windshield, and the porch. At the very least, she doesn’t have to run a parkour course every time she wants to go indoors. 

Sharp tools are easy. She just swings them around and usually achieves the desired outcome. 

The seeds, though, are a whooole different ballpark.

Spring 2

Welcome to Livin' Off The Land!

Got woes from crows? You need a scarecrow!

Placing one deters crows from a pretty good distance.

Make sure to protect your valuable crops!

Perseverance is key. 

It’s just really difficult when she walks out the next morning and all her seeds are very much not in their holes. 

A crow lands on one of the patches, ignoring her infuriated gasp as it burrows around in the dirt and flies off with a seed. Powder shakes a fist at it, screaming, only to be awarded with a firm gloop of white bird shit in her hair, on her cheek, and over her knuckles. 

Powder is annoyed. She’s so, so annoyed. 

Not enough to ditch the entire ordeal - yet - but enough to almost consider quitting. 

Despite all her best efforts to tamp it down, she can see that grouchy guy from her first day, with his stupidly handsome face and stupidly beautiful cheekbones, laughing at her from the back of her mind. 

At least we can stop pretending you give a damn.

Screw him. She cares about the farm. She cares a lot! 

She’s just really, really bad at it. 

Spring 3

The crows have a vendetta against her. 

Nothing lands - not the deeper holes she’s digging, nor the scarecrow she’s fashioned. Granted, it’s pretty low effort - more of an assembly of twigs and sticks and her old shirts thrown on an angry face scribbled on in black sharpie - but at this point, Powder feels her resolve crumbling. 

The farm life is not built for her. She has zero patience as it is, and every time a fly cries overhead she swears she can hear it mocking her with its brittle caw. 

Maybe she’ll go into town again tomorrow and ask Benzo for that crop guy’s number, see if he can send her a few pointers, or at least some half-grown crops so she can hit the ground running. 

It never hurts to ask - right ? 

“Heya, Benzo!” 

The old man is stooped over a crate when she walks in, buns disheveled from the walk, grinning ear to ear. When he sees her, he gives her a wide smile. 

“Powder!” he straightens up, “Glad to see you, lass. I was worried we’d scared you away.” 

Powder makes a ‘pfft’-ing noise. The sound bubbles up from between her lips. “I was born here,” she smirks. “You can’t scare me that easy.”

“I s’pose not.” Benzo chuckles before heaving the crate onto his counter. A spattering of dirt dusts onto the surface. When Powder peers inside, there’s a crate of fresh, juicy vegetables. “So, what can do you for?” 

“That,” she points directly at the vegetables, “I wanted to know where you get those veggies. Farming’s harder than it looks and I could really use some help.” 

Benzo follows her finger, seems to pale a bit, then meets her eyes hesitantly. His next words seem to be carefully worded.

“There’s a guy just outside of town who runs a farm,” he tells her, “He’s been supplying the shop for years now.” 

“Perfect!” she claps, ignoring everything about his tone. She figures he must be some weirdo with a penchant for vegetables and nothing else. Whatever. She’s lived in the city for years, and everyone is weird there. As long as she can get some pointers, he can be as weird as he likes. “Could I get his address?” 

Benzo pauses, seemingly deep in consideration, then nods slowly. “Yes, actually,” he says, more to himself. “That’ll do you both some good.” 

Powder barely catches the last part. “Sorry?” 

“What?” Benzo straightens up again with a look of surprise. “Nothing,” he adds quickly. “Here you go.” 

A piece of paper with the crop guy’s address is passed to her. She pockets it and throws him a salute. 

“Thanks Benzo! I owe ya one.” 

Powder exits the store; the bell jingles in her wake. 

Benzo lets out a stressed sigh. “Don’t thank me yet.” 

Powder practically skips her way across the Town Square, waving at any passers-by as she makes her way to the Firelight River. Looking at Benzo’s quick scrawl, she realises it’s actually pretty close to her farm. If she’d known he was just down the road, she would’ve made her introduction far sooner.

Once she reaches the River, the crop guy’s farm is just a short walk down the beaten path due west. To get there, she has to walk past the residential zone, through a forest-y trail and trek her way through a dirt road before the farm becomes evident. 

It’s actually quite a lovely walk. She closes her eyes once she reaches the dirt road, breathing in the fresh country air, listening to the gurgling sounds of the River close by. The dirt beneath her boots crunches the further along she walks, the sound occasionally dampened by patches of fluffy grass as she draws closer to the farm. 

It brings her some sort of peace, reconnecting with this kind of serenity, where the only true struggle is to figure out how to toil the land rather than suffer behind a desk at someone else’s whim. 

If she weren’t struggling so much, Powder would say it was her calling. 

Unfortunately, however, she is. 

There’s a sharp bark, followed by the realisation that she’s no longer covered by an overlying canopy of trees. The sunlight bears down on her, and Powder lets out a small curse when she realises her hat is still at home. Her eyes flutter open, and she is met with the sight of a quaint, sage green cottage and a gigantic, tan German Shepherd staring at her suspiciously. 

It sits there behind a fenced-off area of the front yard, nestled between some lovely daisy bushes, simultaneously locking eyes with her and wagging its fluffy tail. She stares back, confused. Does it hate her, or does it want to play? 

Powder takes a gamble and walks up to it, hands firmly planted in the pockets of her overalls, and makes a sucking sound with her tongue. “Hey, boy! Wanna play?”  

The dog perks up, running to her with its tail wagging even faster, and leaps up to the fence. Its front paws land on top of the fence, long nose poking at her, sniffing curiously. With a giggle, Powder reaches her hand out and pats his head. The dog nuzzles into her hand, closing its eyes at the sensation, before licking a stripe up her palm. 

“Oh, aren’t you just precious?” she cups his face between her palms and rubs his face aggressively. “Such a good little boy!”

“Eve!” a voice calls from inside the house. Eve - not a male dog, she supposes - perks up to attention, giving her one final lick before jumping off the fence to run to the door. Someone seems to be walking closer to the entrance - the crop guy, probably. 

Powder straightens her overalls, wiping her salivated hands onto her pants before pasting a wide, friendly smile on her face. She’s consistently been told over the years that while her face rests in a close-to-murderous state ninety-percent of the time, the ten percent where she actually smiles is quite nice to look at. And If she’s going to endear herself to this guy enough to get free starters, she needs all the help she can get. 

The door opens, just a crack.

 “Where are you-oh.” 

Her smile instantly drops. “You.” 

Ekko crosses his arms, jaw tight, and glares. “Yes, me. How the hell did you find my house?” 

“Your house?” she gapes, looking around in disbelief. How can such a lovely home be owned by the grumpiest asshole in existence? Look at all the flowers in bloom! “This doesn’t look like the Third Gate to Hell.” 

“Oh, wow,” Ekko steps out, closing the door behind him. Eve follows, looking between them with a happy grin, and a tongue wagging back and forth. “You’re probably the rudest stalker I’ve ever had.” 

“You take that back.” Powder glares back, lips curling into a snarl. “If I wanted to stalk someone, I would’ve chosen anyone but the human version of a papercut.” 

“Sheesh, you’re unpleasant.” 

“Pot, kettle,” she says, gesturing between them pointedly the moment he comes to a halt before her on the other side of the fence. “And aren’t farmers supposed to be friendly, down to earth people?”

“I’m plenty of those,” he bites back. “Just not to city folk like you.” 

Powder rolls her eyes. “Spare me your sermon, pretty boy. You made your opinion of me abundantly clear.” 

A small flicker of something passes in his eyes, so quick she barely catches it before his lips curl into a smirk. “Pretty boy?” 

Powder sighs. Darn. That must’ve slipped out. There’s no way she’s saving face from this, so Powder does what she does best: disorienting people.

She leans in, head tilted, eyes raking over his form deliberately before she meets his gaze again. “Don’t get too cocky. It’s just the jawline.” 

For one, triumphant second, he falters. 

“I-Noted,” he clears his throat, eyes darting briefly away. His smirk twitches, almost breaking, then returns too quickly - like a reflex. 

Ekko leans in just slightly, close enough that she can smell hay and heat and something dangerously intoxicating. Her lashes flutter. “Good to know you’ve been looking that closely,” he says, smugly. “Anything else you noticed?”

Powder scowls, fighting a blush. She hadn’t expected him to catch that ball and throw it back so quickly. “Yeah. That you’re insufferable.” 

“Sticks and stones.” Ekko huffs a laugh before leaning back with a wider smirk. “Even so, I’ll humour you. What are you even doing here?” 

Biting back another retort, Powder eats it. She still needs a favour, even if it’s from the last person she wants to help her.

“I was hoping for some pointers,” she grumbles, looking at the soil beneath her boots.

“Sorry, what was that?” Ekko tilts his ear to her with a smug grin. “Couldn’t hear you there.” 

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and counts to three. When Powder’s eyes snap open, she still wants to slap that expression off his face.

“I said,” she grinds out, “I need help. Benzo told me you were the guy who could.” 

“Really,” he says flatly, “Benzo sent you here?” To his credit, he looks genuinely surprised. “We were all there that time, weren’t we?” 

“Obviously,” Powder rolls her eyes again. “He’d neglected to mention it was you, though.” 

“Huh,” is the only thing Ekko offers her, though it’s a nice change not having him gloat or glare at her for once. “You must’ve been pretty desperate then.” 

Never mind. She hates him.

“Look,” she says, eating her pride, talking as nicely as she can. Judging by the unconvinced look on his face, she’s not doing very well. “You were right. I can’t get a seed to germinate to save my life, and my scarecrow is good for shit all. I could really use some pointers from you. Help a girl out?” 

The look he gives her screams denial. Man, this guy is a tough shell to crack. Not for the first time, Powder wonders if any of this is worth it, when the guy has been unfailingly, unfairly rude to her. 

Just as he’s about to open his mouth, Eve lets out a small whine, nudging at Ekko’s hand. She hops up to the fence again, licking at Powder’s hand with a small bark.

His smirk drops. Ekko stares at her thoughtfully. “She hates people,” he mutters, more to himself.

A strangely quiet moment passes between them. Powder feels hope swell up in her chest. Then-

“No,” Ekko says, with an air of finality. “Farming’s hard work. If you already can’t handle it, take a hike back to the city.” 

Powder bites her cheek in frustration. “Fine, asshole. I’ll figure it out myself.” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Good luck.” 

What an ass, she thinks, when she flips him off and storms down the road. He must think she’s such an idiot, only in this farming business for the fun work-life balance. She’ll show him. She’ll run the most fucking amazing farm ever and shove it right in his stupid, hot face. 

What’s his damn problem anyway?  

Spring 4

Mercifully, there’s at least one subset of people in this town who seem happy to tolerate her presence and it’s her family. 

The crops - if she can call them that - are as fruitful as she’d expected, which is not at all. The crows still fly overhead, perching in the treetops with their beady eyes watching her sow the last of her parsnip seeds. As easy as it is to remove the weeds and cut down the grass around her field, there’s still an offensive number of trees in her way and only a blunt axe with which to chop them down. 

She’s envisioning fences to organise the farm, and maybe with all those rocks lying around she could send them to the local blacksmith for something to craft - maybe some better tools instead of Sevika’s hand-me-downs. 

The woman barely seems to care about them anyway. Frankly, she seems surprised that Powder’s still even trying. 

“If I were you, I would’ve just ditched the whole endeavour and gone to Town Hall. Could really use someone like you to whip these people into shape.” 

Mylo squawks behind the bar. “What’s wrong with us?” 

Sevika levels him a tired stare. “Must I answer that?” 

“Be that as it may,” Powder rants, clutching her drink with a tense fist, ignoring Mylo’s continuing protest, “I can’t farm for shit. The plants don’t work with me, but I just know I could be pretty fucking good at it.” 

“Well you weren’t particularly good with plants as a kid,” Vander says, unhelpfully. “In fact, I distinctly remember your small patch being very bare.” 

Powder makes an offended sound. “I could plant! Everyone kept saying I could!” 

Mylo snorts. “Only because you’d cry if we said otherwise.” 

She crosses her arms, defeated. “Fuck, okay. Sure. So, what - now I just have a huge acreage with nothing on it?” 

Vander rests his arms on the counter before her. “Not entirely. What about animals? You were pretty good with them.” 

He points a thumb at the gallery wall behind him, to where there’s a plethora of photos of small Powder waddling around with ducks and baby sheep. Mylo, Claggor and Sevika don’t even make a sound to the contrary. With wide eyes, Powder fixates on a photo of her and mum cuddling a calf, grinning. 

“Huh.” 

“And we have a shortage of animal products in town,” Vander continues, smiling at her dumbfounded expression. “Do well enough and you’d probably make those PiltieMart goons obsolete.” 

“Must you point out my greatest regret,” Sevika says flatly. 

“It’s nice having new people here,” Vander holds up his hands placatingly, “But you have to admit. They’re a bunch of dicks. Especially that manager.” 

Sevika shrugs, then lights her cigar, saying nothing else. 

“So where do I get animals?” Powder looks at him, eyes still wide with hope. “There a local supplier somewhere?” 

“Nah,” Claggor chimes in, “But there is this travelling merchant who comes every Friday and we usually turn him away. What was his name? Loris?”

“Yeah, Loris,” says Vander. “Give him a ring over at the booth so he knows to bring ‘em next time.”

Powder follows his finger to the phone booth, and feels her resolve sharpen. 

Powder’s Farm? Maybe not. 

Powder’s Ranch? 

…Perhaps.

“Hey, is this Loris?” 

“Err, yep! Who’s asking?” 

“Powder. I heard you were the guy to buy livestock from.” 

“That’d be me. What can I get you?” 

“I’ll start simple - a cow, a hen, and some chicks, maybe.” 

“Done, done and done. Whereabouts?” 

“Ever heard of Firelight Creek?” 

“You betcha. Gimme a extra week, and I’ll be there.” 

Powder grins. “Perfect!”

Spring 5

Welcome to Livin' Off The Land!

Let's talk fences. They're useful for keeping the weeds at bay and protecting your crops. 

They also let farmers contain their livestock. Fences will break down after a while, so be sure to invest in good materials.

To house animals, she needs shelter, feed and space - none of which she currently has. 

Yet.

She starts with the basics first: asking around for someone who can help her build the sheds. With all the wood and rocks lying around her property, she doesn’t need supplies - just skill.

She’s directed to Scar, a local Chirean carpenter with a reputation for quality work and the pleasant disposition of a thunder cloud. Seriously - what is it with grouchy men in this town?

Scar lives a bit north of town with his wife and kid. When Powder walks into their shop, he’s slouched behind the counter, looking monumentally bored. There’s a slight twitch in his ear when he registers her arrival, though it’s the only indication that he’s even noticed her arrival.

“Heard you needed animal sheds,” he says, gruff with a smattering of disinterest.

“Word travels fast,” she replies.

“Small town,” he shrugs. “Tends to happen.” 

Powder studies for a second. He looks disgruntled, checked out, and mentally pacing behind the eyes. She knows that look all too well. He’s itching for a challenge, and lucky for him she has just the solution for it. 

Her hands hit the counter, game face on. Scar straightens instinctively, caught off guard. 

“What if I told you you didn’t have to make generic rustic chairs for a while?”

His ears perk up. “I’m listening.” 

“I’ve got a plan to make my farm fucking excellent. I spent five years busting my ass in uni designing irrigation systems, layout logic, material flow - you name it. Only to waste it at some firm tweaking Hextech software for corpos who never looked past their own bonuses.” 

“All that’s still up there,” she taps her temple. “Only now I’ve got a ton of ideas, too much wood, and more than enough money to make this farm work.” 

She steps back, letting the pitch sink in. His expression is already shifting. Boredom and shock give way to intense interest. 

“The place is a mess. But that means you’ve got full creative control, access to all the abundant materials on my property and freedom to do something interesting. I need a cowshed and a chicken coop in one week. More, though, if you’re game.” 

Powder extends a hand, eyes sharp, smile sly. “But I’ve got a feeling you already are.” 

Scar is silent for a moment. She can see the gears in his mind turning. 

Then, he smirks. “You got a deal, you psycho.” 

He shakes her hand. 

Powder grins. 

Spring 14

Loris is a burly man who almost reminds her of Vander when he angles himself in a certain way. It throws her off at first, but she quickly recovers when he rolls onto the farm - ranch, actually. 

Powder’s Ranch. 

And she’s ridiculously happy with it. 

Fishbones has been given a much needed fuel boost thanks to Scar, who’d apparently taken pity on her enough to tow it across town, refuel it, and drop it back off without fanfare. The leaves have been dusted off, the sturdy port beneath which she now sits built by Scar and his team. 

But that’s hardly the biggest change. 

A new fence runs around the entire perimeter. It’s solid and clean and worlds better than the rotting one Silco left behind. She’s not thrilled to learn it borders Ekko’s place (the ass), but worst still is finding out he and Scar are close. Fortunately, Scar doesn’t seem to share Ekko’s frosty attitude toward her, which suits her just fine. 

Because after showing Scar her blueprints and rattling off her big picture ideas, he’s enlisted the help of Jayce - the local blacksmith - and together, they’ve executed them with near-perfect precision. 

There’s a greenhouse tucked into the back corner in case she ever decides to try planting lower-yield vegetables again - unlikely, but it’s a thoughtful touch. A newly fenced-off pasture holds room for cows, with a coop nearby for the chickens, and a neat little feeding and watering area right at the centre of it all. 

A small pond glimmers in the heart of her ranch. She’s planning to use it as a mini fishing spot once the Ranch opens up to locals. Around it, Scar’s team has carved out tidy dirt paths winding through the grounds. For once, Powder can walk the property without tripping over rogue weeds or random logs…so long as she sticks to the trails.

There’s still a long way to go. But today? It feels like a win. 

Especially when Scar - Scar - gives her a real smile. Not a sarcastic smirk, nor an exhausted half-grimace. A smile . 

It happens as the hen and her chicks settle into their new coop, and her new cow munches happily on the grass nearby.

"The team hasn't been this animated in a while," he nods his chin to the crew packing their supplies back into the truck. "You should stay a while. We could use a fresh face."

And there it is. She’s so taken aback by it she barely gets a chance to comment on its appearance before it disappears. 

“Anyway, imma talk to Jayce about that door of yours,” he points in the direction of her house, which still looks obscenely derelict. “Later.” 

He gives her a quick salute before driving away. 

Powder uses this moment to crouch beside the cow, brushing a hand along her smooth spotted brown coat and murmuring softly. 

“Violet,” she says, “that’s your name, girl.” 

Violet moos back, content. 

She grins to herself. If Vi ever finds her, she’s about ninety-five percent sure she’ll get an earful about naming a cow after her sister. That’s if she comes back. 

From the coop, the chorus of chirping chicks rings out. Everything feels full - balanced, almost. 

Powder exhales, her smile stretching wider as she breathes in the crisp afternoon air. 

Finally . This is her calling. 

Spring 15

Welcome to Livin' Off The Land! 

Need a bigger backpack to hold all your stuff? 

Be sure to check out your local general store.

Powder is up bright and early one morning, humming softly to herself as she crosses the damp grass to the animal shelters. The morning cuts through the mist just right, casting sparkles over every dew drop. It’s a gorgeous, serene sight. If she gets to wake up to this for the rest of her life, she’ll die a happy woman. 

The chickens come first. She scatters feed and coos at them while they peck enthusiastically at her feet. They’re adorable. If it wouldn’t traumatise them, she’d probably carry them around all day in her pockets.

…In fact, she’s seconds away from seriously considering it - especially with the bigger chick - when something shifts in her periphery.. 

A figure - sudden, and too close. She whirls, grabbing the nearest object like a weapon. 

“Whoa there,” Ekko lifts his hands in surrender, “Just…doing my thing.” 

Her heart’s still thudding when she blinks rapidly, registering the watering can at his feet and the oversized gloves swallowing his hands. 

“Oh.” Her expression falls flat. Her good mood quickly sours. “It’s you.” 

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says, with a hint of amusement in his voice, “But we do share a fence.” 

“How could I forget,” she mutters. “Scram, buster. Before I do something I regret.” 

Ekko grins. “Oh yeah? You gonna beat me to death with that backpack?”

Powder glances down and winces. Her weapon of choice is indeed, her old, scruffy backpack, clutched between her fingers like a lifeline. She needs it to run some errands in town today, but it’s presence sours her mood further. She lets go with a scowl, and it drops to the ground with a soft thud.

She exhales sharply, blowing a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Don’t you have other people to antagonise? I’m busy.” 

“I see that,” he nods toward Violet, who’s openly staring at him in wonder. “Pretty cool set up by the way. Saw it all come together from my end.” 

Janna above. Why is he still talking? Will this guy just leave her alone? 

She can already feel a headache forming, and it’s barely 5AM.  

“Yeah, and I’m sure Scar gave you all the juicy details too,” she says, gesturing grandly at her ranch. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to tend to a farm that I don’t care about.” 

She gives him a pointed look. To her surprise, and minor delight, he flinches, just as she’s turning to walk away.

“I said some shitty things to you,” he says suddenly. 

Powder blinks, taken aback, and freezes. Her back is still facing him, but she does angle her head just enough to study his face. He looks…almost apologetic. 

“I know it doesn’t fix anything - not after I turned you down after you asked for help - but I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I was pissed off at the world and took it out on you.” 

Silence stretches between them. 

Powder shifts on her feet, turning the words over in her head. They sound sincere enough. 

The memory still stings - his cold dismissal, the sheer rejection of it - but maybe he’s caught her on a good day. The sun is shining and she’s finally getting into a groove with the ranch. Miracles are known to happen. 

She turns, ever so slightly, with a small smirk on her lips. “I can’t believe you actually apologised.” 

Ekko exhales, chuckling as he leans against the fence post. “I swear I’m usually better than this.” 

“Uh huh,” she says with a drawl. “And I suppose this idiot girl from the city’s supposed to just take you at face value.” 

“I really only have one face,” he says with a shrug. “What you see is what you get. But I’m sorry you had to experience the anger.” 

That’s twice now. Twice he’s apologised. 

She eyes him. A part of her is tempted to just sweep it under the rug. It’s a small town, and burning bridges isn’t exactly sustainable - especially not when he’s the only other farmer nearby and might come in handy.

But, then again…watching him squirm is kind of fun. 

Powder lifts her chin, sniffing at him. “So what, we just wave a magic wand and forget all this ever happened? I’m still miffed you wouldn’t help me earlier.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Let me make it up to you.”

She eyes him warily. “How?”

“For starters,” he points to her feed stash. “You’re gonna run through that grain real quick. Try mixing it with ground oats or barley; it stretches the supply and keeps better come winter. You’ve got plenty of time, but I’d stock up anyway. And ask Scar to add insulation to the coop before the cold hits.” 

She glances at Violet, who’s looking at Ekko through a mouthful of grass, and crosses her arms, nodding in begrudging acceptance. “...Thanks. That was actually quite helpful.” 

He taps his temple. “I’ve got more up here, if you’re open to it.” 

She presses her lips together, mulling over her options. She almost asks how - how he knows so much, why he’s being decent to her now - but stops herself. No need to feed his ego and his redemption. 

She lands on a curt - “Sure,” and shrugs.

“Cool,” he replies with a small smile. “I’ll let you get on with your day,” he adds, already grabbing his watering can. “See you around, Powder.” 

He gives her a quick wave and starts off. She stares, rather obsessively, at the flex of his forearms as he walks away.

Damn, he’s hot. 

And now, with the apology and olive branch and honest to Janna decency, that little spark - the one she’d felt on their first meeting before he’d obliterated it - ignites again. 

Back then, it was easier to smother it under her righteous anger. But now? He’s being thoughtful and helpful. The guy claims to be an open book but here she is, helplessly confused about him. 

Unfortunately for Powder, she has a very specific weakness: complex, hot men with niche expertise. 

Damn it. Damn it all. 

She lightly kicks the backpack at her feet, cringing as it topples over and spills supplies into the grass with a pathetic flop. She exhales, crouching to gather it all back up. 

Next stop on her list: Benzo’s Shop for extra feed. 

And, probably, a much sturdier backpack. 

♥️

Chapter Text

Five years ago…

The air reeks with the scent of alcohol - a sharp, cloying scent that clings to everything. It snakes through the room like a living room, curling into his nostrils, seeping between the crush of sweaty, dancing bodies in the middle of the living room.

Three years ago, this would’ve been fun. 

Three years ago, Ekko would’ve downed his shots without blinking, letting the burn scorch down his throat as he stumbled into the fray. It would have been a blur of purple strobe lights, foreign arms wrapped around his neck, bodies swaying to the beat of his friends’ questionable tastes in pop remixes. 

But Ekko’s old now. 

He’s hit the ripe age of twenty-two - young, by his parents’ standards, much to his ongoing frustration - but apparently ancient in party-going years. The last time he got drunk at one of Gert’s parties, he’d blacked out and woken up in the middle of Zaun Tech’s engineering library. 

How he’d gotten there is still a mystery. But Ekko very much enjoys retaining his own memories, so the excess drinking is a no-go tonight. Not when he’s due to graduate tomorrow and needs his faculties with him to survive the day posing for photos with mum and dad. 

Unfortunately, it also means that parties lose a lot of their charm when you’re one of the few still sober. 

What was that saying, again? You don’t need alcohol to have fun?

Yeah, right. 

Ekko tries his best. He really does. 

It’s Gert’s last party - one to celebrate every one of her friends graduating tomorrow, so he makes an effort to have some fun. 

He’d spent most of the night in an indulging mood - charming his way through Gert’s musician friends, tossing around clever remarks, and even making small talk with a pretty girl named Sera who’d giggled, half-drunk, and fluttered her lashes at him until he finally let her drag him onto the dancefloor. 

She was an excellent dancer. And when he’d leaned in close enough to hear her singing along to the music, also an excellent singer.

Ekko had eyed her, mildly enamoured, almost tempted to ask for her number when she’d promptly knelt down and vomited all over him. It was everywhere: streaked across his favourite green t-shirt, running his tan pants, and splattering across his sneakers. 

Perfect. Just perfect. 

Which is exactly how he’s finding himself crouching in Gert’s tiny bathroom, peeling off his soaked sneakers and rinsing them in the tub, trying not to gag as the acidic stench curls into his sinuses. 

Off come the socks, then the shirt, which he dunks and swishes with a scowl. The yellowish bile separates from the fabric in oily clouds, and he watches it run down the drain with grim disgust.

“Hey, Professor,” a voice calls out from the doorway.

He glances over, half-annoyed. Gert’s leaning on the frame, arms crossed, a sympathetic smile tugging at her lips.

“Need a hand?” 

He must look tragic. Barefoot. Shoes tipped sole-up on the bathmat. Miserably shirtless, with his vomit-stained pants still clinging to his legs. There’s a deep frown on his face, and an expression that screams don’t talk to me.

“I’m handling it,” he mutters.

Ekko draws his shirt up and wrings it out hard. Water spills back into the tub with a wet splatter. He gives it a brisk shake, uncaring of the droplets that fling against the tiles, and sighs.

Yeah, it’s home time for Ekko. 

The sooner this shirt dries off, the sooner he’ll duck out and forget this entire night even happened. 

“On second thought,” he says, watching the water swirl down the drain. “Can I borrow your dryer?”

“On your left,” she says with a shrug. 

He stands and tosses his shirt and socks in. The shoes will have to be squelchy and wet for the walk home, unfortunately. 

“Sorry your night turned out like this,” she says after a beat.

“Same,” he sighs. “How’s Sera doing?” 

“Mortified,” Gert grins. “She’s wondering if she still has a chance.” 

Not likely. Without the haze of a dance, and coupled with the creeping uncertainty about his future after graduation, it’s probably best to just leave it as nothing more than a funny party story. 

Besides, there is an alarming kind of clarity one gets from smelling someone else’s vomit during a first meeting. 

“Yeah, no,” he replies, throwing a slightly apologetic glance her way. “Everything’s too up in the air for me right now.” 

Gert shrugs. “I’ll let her down easy then.”

“That’s new,” he counters. “What happened to Gert the Matchmaker?” 

“There’s only a finite number of people I can throw your way before you eventually figure it out yourself,” she says with a smirk. “You’re ridiculously difficult to date, you know.” 

“I’m not that bad.” 

She lifts her hand and starts ticking off her fingers, eye tilted to the ceiling in theatrical recollection.

“Ez, first year. Dumped because you were too busy on that commercial farming placement.”

He opens his mouth to protest, already defensive, but she barrels on.

“Then there was Taliyah. You stood her up because you were stuck in some patch of dirt out west-”

“Some would call that building a bomb-ass irrigation system.”

“-and I think Qiyana left me a very detailed rant about, and I quote, ‘Ekko’s emotional unavailability being his downfall.’” 

She gives him a pointed look. “Have I made my point?” 

Ekko gapes at her. “An agriculture degree isn’t easy.” 

“Apparently so,” she says, still amused. He just chuckles and wets a hand-towel before wiping the vomit off his pants. Then, more casually, “What do you have lined up after this?” 

Ekko hesitates, shifting his weight as he runs the towel beneath a tap. 

“Honestly? There’s this property on the southern coast - a real quiet place. A friend of my dad was talking about it when he visited a few months ago. He said the farmer who owns it is getting pretty old and wants to sell off a portion for cheap just to have a more manageable plot of land. I’ve run the numbers. It’s not a bad deal. I’ll maybe run a few test plots for now. Nothing major.” 

Gert raises an eyebrow. “So, smartest guy in Zaun Tech, going into butt-fuck nowhere to become a farmer.” 

“It’s a farming degree,” he says slowly, “So, yeah.” 

She grins. “You’re absolutely going to grow a beard and talk to cows.” 

Ekko groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Gert lets the joke hang for a moment, the hum of the dryer filling the space between them. 

“But seriously, Ekko. You’re…you know. You. You built a climate-controlled vertical growth system in our dorm kitchen. Don’t you think some big agri-corp would snap you up in a second?” 

He doesn’t look at her, just wrings the towel out one last time and sets it aside. “Yeah, probably.”

“So?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t wanna end up buried in paperwork for some company that treats the land like it’s disposable. What’s the point in all the research I did in sustainable farming if I’m just gonna sell off land so city folk can fatten their pockets?” 

Gert watches him for a moment, then nods in understanding. 

“Okay,” she says, quieter now. “That’s fair.” 

Ekko raises an eyebrow at her tone. “What?” 

Her arms drop to her sides. “Nothing. It’s just weird hearing you talk about leaving. Feels a bit real, I guess.” 

He tilts his head curiously. “Real?” 

She shrugs, but it’s not the flippant way she usually does. “I’m tired of the same circles and the same venues. It’s a lot of people pretending to be interested in my music just to get a feature or a hookup. Been thinking of leaving altogether.” 

That surprises him. “Seriously?” 

Gert lets out a soft laugh. “Curb your shock. It’s not permanent. Just…I want something quieter. Maybe even teaching music, or working in community stuff. I dunno. I feel like I’d have more of a future diversifying for a while.” 

Ekko blinks, taking it all in. The dryer hums on. The bathroom suddenly feels less grimy, less like an afterparty triage zone, and more like a moment suspended between old lives and whatever comes next.

“You know what I always say,” Ekko offers eventually, “if you don’t make the most out of every moment-”

“-you don’t deserve another second,” she finishes, smirking. “Alright, wise guy. Wrap it up with the dryer. I’ll cover for you to head home.” 

He looks at her adoringly. “You’re a real one, Gert.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves him off, pushing herself off the doorframe. “Remember me when I need free fresh vegetables or something.” 

Ekko tosses the hand towel into her laundry basket and ducks down to fish his clothes out of the dryer. 

A voice calls out to her, slightly muffled behind the drum of the machine.

“Yo, Gert! Where’ve you been, bitch?” 

“Jinx!” 

There’s the sound of a violent hug. Ekko stays crouched, even crawling a little into the drum to stay hidden. One introduction and he’ll inevitably be trapped for the next hour talking to another one of Gert’s overenthusiastic bandmates. 

“I didn’t think you’d show?” 

“Couldn’t miss your last big party,” the other girl - Jinx - replies. “Plus, your favourite drummer had to show up at least once.” 

There’s a brief pause. “Who’s the shirtless guy?” 

Ekko freezes. Please no. Just this once. He just wants to go home.

“Don’t worry about him,” she says, mercifully. He could kiss her. Platonically. She’d probably grimace and push him away. “I’ll meet you in the living room?” 

It sounds like there’s a shrug in response. “Sure.” 

“Make good choices.” 

A raucous laugh follows, and Ekko lets out a long breath. He stands, pulls his shirt over his head, slips on his socks and hooks his shoes by the laces between his fingers. Then, without a word, he pulls Gert into a one-armed hug.

“Catch you later, Gert.” 

She pats his back. “All the best, buddy.” 

Ekko’s parents run a pawn shop deep in the Lanes. His dad is handy - the kind of man who can fix anything with two screwdrivers and a bit of string, and his mum’s the sort who can sell it afterward for twice its worth. 

He grew up comfortably. Not particularly wealthy, but everything that mattered had held true. A warm meal every night. A roof that never leaked. And even during the worst of his uni exams, when he’d been bleary-eyed in the midst of caffeine-fuelled revision, he never once went to bed without sitting down at the table and asking how their day had gone. 

Dinner was their ritual. No matter how long the hours at the shop, and no matter how drained everyone was when they shuffled through the front door, the time they took to eat together was sacred.

Tonight is no different. 

The smell of garlic and spices clings to the air, steam rising from the pan his dad’s still stirring. Mum sits across from him, already halfway through plating up the rice. 

Inna fixes him that look, as she always does when something big’s on his mind. “You’ve decided, haven’t you?” 

Ekko nods slowly, resting his elbows on the table. “Firelight Creek. I’ve talked to Benzo’s mate - Silco? He’s happy to sell me a portion of the land for cheap. I’ll get it going from the ground up again. Maybe get enough crops running to supply them inbound to you guys here.” 

Wyeth slides the pan onto a mat quietly. He fiddles with his ear, turning the dial up as he sinks into the seat between them.  Ekko struggles to remember a time when his dad didn’t look so old. “I wish you’d reconsider Factorywood’s offer. I know it’s not what you’d prefer, but at least it’s stable.” 

He doesn’t miss the subtext. 

At least it’s close to us. 

He doesn’t mean to move so far away. He loves the Under-City like it’s an extension of himself. All his friends and family are here. If he goes, who takes care of them? 

But when he briefly considers it, he can’t stomach the thought. A life under Factorywood’s thumb, barely living his wages for some other city’s benefit. For someone else’s glory. 

Nah. 

Ekko wants to live on his own terms, even if it means tilling the soil until his own hands blister and bleed from the effort. And maybe one day, when they’re finally ready to let go, they’ll join him. 

“I’ll succeed,” he says, with a firmness that gives them pause. 

He looks between them - his mum, always sharp-eyed even when she’s tired, and his dad, worn down but still steady in his gaze. His voice softens. 

“Because of you.” 

Wyeth blinks, startled. 

“You’re the ones who taught me what it means to work hard,” Ekko continues. “To take pride in what I build, and in what I give back. I didn’t grow up watching you two clock off at five. I grew up watching you pour yourselves into something every damn day and still come home to cook, to talk, and to show up.” 

He runs a hand through his locs, too aware of the way his dad eyes the unruliness of it. That’s an uphill battle for a haircut that’ll never happen. Just like this conversation. 

“You used to dream of a different life for us,” he says quietly. “This won’t just be a farm. I’ve got the degree, the knowledge - all the planning tools up in here.”

He taps his temple twice. “I know how to make systems work - irrigation, architecture, crop rotation. I’m not just throwing seeds into the ground and hoping they stick. I’ll build something sustainable. Something that’s ours. And I want you both there, eventually, to stay.” 

Inna watches him for a moment, lips pressed together. There’s zero disapproval. In fact, she looks like she’s about to cry. 

Dad is the first to speak, his voice a little hoarse. “Well, as long as you don’t try to name it something insane like Ekko-topia again.” 

Ekko grins. “Too late. I already filed the paperwork.” 

Inna rolls her eyes. “We’ll visit as much as we can. And when the time comes…” 

She shares a look with Wyeth. 

“We’ll think about the move.” 

“Really?” 

She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “Wherever you are, Ekko, that’s home.” 

Welcome to Livin' Off the Land! 

Fruit trees. They take an entire season to grow, so plan ahead!

If the area directly surrounding your new tree isn’t clear, it will interfere with growth. Once your fruit tree is mature, it’ll produce delicious fruit for you every day while in season.

Better start savin’ up!

His new home reads more like a rundown cottage clinging to the edge of a sprawling outgrowth of trees. He barely makes it to the front door without having to leap over rocks and weed, nearly busting down the old, rickety door just to get inside.

This place needs work. 

Clearly, the old guy - Silco, was that his name? - has let it slide too far downhill. There’s hardly enough space to sow a proper seed bed, let alone run a farm capable of sustaining the local markets. And yet, there’s a PiltieMart here, in this tiny town. And he can only imagine why. 

Silco’s too old and too sick - some kind of eye infection he’s barely holding at bay. He doesn’t elaborate, and Ekko’s not one to pry. Not when the skin around the man’s left eye blackens a little more with every conversation. Whatever it is, it’s bad enough to leave a supply vacuum that the mayor has no choice but to fill. 

Ekko isn’t the only one who scrunches his nose at it. 

While he’s here, he makes a new goal: to get rid of PiltieMart.

It’s easier said than done. 

His progress, while steady, is slow.

His agriculture degree has taught him a lot about germination cycles, soil chemistry, sustainable yield models and economic outputs. The placements had helped him a little too. One day, when the farm is cleared up and running a little smoother, he’ll finally get those watering systems built to make his life easier.

But farming is hard. He’s up at the crack of dawn and barely finishes before the sun disappears behind the trees.

The boots that carried him through university placements begin to tear from the sheer volume of soil he tills alone. Weeds slowly vanish, but the sun darkens his arms and the soles of his shoes start to peel with each passing day.

Ekko isn’t one to give up easily, but damn - some days, he barely has the energy to catch up with his parents, let alone all his old friends back home. 

…Home. 

The thought of coming home to his parents after a long day and sinking into their grounded warmth is tempting. He thinks of them more than he’ll ever admit. The quiet tug of Factorywood, the stability that it promises, is too tempting. 

And yet…

At the end of his first month, after weeks of backbreaking work, the first parsnip seeds begin to sprout. 

He stares at them in disbelief. They’re notoriously difficult to plant, and even slower to harvest.

He looks down at his gloved hands, then up at the setting sun. It crashes over him in streaks of burnt umber and dusky pink. It’s by far his favourite part of the day.

Back home, the city skyline was practically non-existent and far too crowded to see sunsets like this. Here, the horizon stretches wide and open.

Each and every time the sun breaks through the horizon, he feels his resolve strengthen. Ekko Lamar has never given up on anything.

And he isn’t about to start now. 

The practical things take time. But man, does it help having a more experienced farmer living on the other side of the fence. 

SIlco teaches him the hidden secrets: for when the rain’s about to turn, how to lay drainage without drowning the root zones, and how to time pollination by instinct more than with spreadsheets.

He makes a regular habit of it, showing up every few afternoons to watch Ekko work. He’s usually deathly silent, unless Ekko does something stupid. 

“You’ll get nowhere doing that,” Silco eyes him as he digs another line for seed planting. 

Ekko throws his shovel down, sunburnt arms flung wide. “Care to give me a few pointers?” 

Silco steps over the fence, kneeling beside a patch Ekko had just finished. He sinks two fingers into the dirt, rubs it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You planted too early,” he holds his fingers to his nose, “The soil’s still holding morning chill. Wait until it smells warm - sweet, not sharp. That’s when the microbes start working.” 

Ekko gawks at him. “You can’t smell that.” 

Silco gives him a faint smirk. “You will. One day.” 

Sooner than he realises, Ekko settles into a steady routine. 

He’s up before the crack of dawn watering crops - an hours-long job in and of itself. He really needs to get that watering system started. The tilling comes next, followed by fertilising and a round of pest control. 

It’d be so much faster if he wasn’t so principled about mixing his own fertilisers and insecticides. Ekko’s nose wrinkles at the thought of using anything other than his biodegradable, non-toxic, zero runoff formulae. The stuff costs him a fortune to make, but it works and his conscious is always clear. 

He takes pride in his work, and the ethic shows.

Firelight Farm is a hit. The locals adore his produce. He’s on a first-name basis with half the town, and the new PiltieMart hates his guts. 

That last part alone makes the time factor worth its weight in gold.

“Do you have a life?” Silco calls dryly from the other end of the fence. 

Ekko scowls, fingers sunken into the dirt. When he draws them up to his nose, it’s sweet. “Bit rich, coming from a guy with one functioning eye.” 

A year ago, he would’ve avoided any joke about that. Lucky for him, country folk are tougher than most. 

Silco doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a husband,” Silco smirks, “And I have four children.” 

Ekko huffs. “This is my life.” 

Silco rests his arms on the fence. “Then maybe it’s time you started wanting more than dirt under your nails.” 

Ekko sticks his shovel in the ground and stares at him. “What are you, my mother?” 

“That depends,” he drawls, “Is she telling you to settle down yet?” 

Yes. Every Christmas. And every phone call, now. He purses his lips together. 

Silco takes his silence as confirmation. “It’s been two years. Tell me you’ve gone on one date since moving here.” 

Ekko opens his mouth-

“Taking the seed catalogue to bed doesn’t count.” 

Ekko closes his mouth. 

Silco rolls his eye. “What about that friend of yours? The one who came with Gert. Seraphine?” 

“Nah,” he says, vividly recalling the acidic scent of vomit. “Not it for me.” 

“Pity,” Silco smirks. “I’ve known monks with more game.” 

“I have game,” Ekko protests.

“You’re not as charming as you think.” 

“Silco, please,” Ekko groans. “Not this conversation.” 

He gives Ekko a long, hard look. “I was you. My life was the farm. I deluded myself into thinking that living off the land and making my own way was all I needed. But when the sun sets, it’ll just be you and silence, and a life no one else fits into.” 

Ekko stares at the ground. His lip curls in distaste.

“Thanks for the lecture,” he mutters, digging the shovel back in. “But I’ll figure that out myself.” 

Benzo’s shop is booming.

Ekko usually spends the last stretches of his work days restocking Benzo’s shelves with his produce. Lux typically likes to make an evening of it, dragging him out to Vander’s pub to ‘live a little’. 

It seems to be a common sentiment in town.

Gert catches his eye on the way in, waving at him as she’s tuning her guitar. Sera immediately swans over, flashing a grin before plucking Lux away from him, giggling. 

At the bar, Vander’s mid-tangent, pointing at an old photo of toddler Powder nestled in amongst a pile of baby sheep. 

“And then she-”

“-got lost in the cloud of fur and decided she was a sheep,” Mylo rattles off without blinking.

“Yes!” Vander laughs, “And for weeks, she-”

“-only spoke in ‘baa’s,” Ekko chimes in, grinning. 

He knows this one by heart. Most of the town does. They come up like clockwork, always wistfully, and each one painting her in soft pastels. But he never minds hearing it again. 

There’s something comforting about the stories about her. He almost lets himself bask in the idea that Powder has never really left Firelight Creek. 

To Vander, she’s still that girl with straw in her hair, failing miserably at caring for succulents, chasing all the chooks and giving them ridiculous names. To Silco, she’s the one who named every lamb. When he talks to them, it’s almost like they need to believe it - that she’ll be back when the timing’s right, when they need her most.

Ekko finds himself believing it too, sometimes.

It’s easy to forget they’re just stories. He’s never actually met her beyond those fading photographs on the wall. But still, Ekko can picture her smiling, burying her grubby little hands in the dirt. He imagines that she’s the kind of person who would’ve loved this place far too much to ever really leave it behind. 

Vander’s gaze lands on him, abashed. 

Ekko smirks. “Tell us a story we don’t know.” 

Vander grins. “Getting a bit predictable, am I?” 

Benzo snorts behind the counter. “You were predictable ten years ago.” 

The pub hums with laughter. Someone drops a glass; Mylo yells something obscene in response. The room carries on. 

Ekko leans back against the bar, arms folded, letting the warmth setting into place. His gaze drifts again to that photo of Powder in the flock, grinning like she belongs there. 

He’s never met her, but he’s certain - certain - that when she finally comes home, it’ll feel like something in this town will finally click into place. 

Four years into his farming tenure, Ekko steps into Shimmerbrook farm and realises how much worse it’s gotten. 

In the earlier days, it had been a bustling, well-maintained property. 

But he’s been so overwhelmed lately, having to take on a mounting number of orders since Silco’s been bedridden, that his visits had been scarce. 

Weeds twist across what used to be a clean-cut footpath. Brambles curl along the edges of his fence. A few trees are taller than he remembers, their roots lifting stones into the walkway. Ekko nearly trips over a boulder on his way to the cottage. 

He knocks once, only to realise the door’s already ajar. 

Alarm flashes through him. It’s gone just as quickly when he steps inside and sees Vander seated on the old couch, his expression drawn and worn.

“Hey,” he greets him quietly, carefully slipping off his boots and setting them by the door. “You holding up okay?” 

Vander looks up at him with red, exhausted eyes. “Been better. Not worse than Silco, obviously.” 

Ekko makes a low sound as he sinks into the couch beside him. “That bad?” 

“Getting worse.” 

It must be brutal for Vander, living in this house, watching his partner wither away by the day. 

Ekko leans forward, elbows on his knees, brows furrowed as his palms rub together in frustration. 

“It’s not fair,” he grumbles. “None of it should’ve gone down like this.” 

Vander exhales a bitter sigh. “Yeah. But it did.” 

He glances sideways. “I can’t thank you enough for taking over. Must be rough without the old man to bail you out.” 

“No sweat.” Lots of sweat, actually. “I’m getting pretty good at it. And, it’s…been a while.” 

Vander nods, lost in thought. 

“We used to have more people around here: Felicia and Connel. Vi.” Each name is said like a bruise. Then, softly, “and Powder.” 

Her name lands like a thud in the silence. 

“It’s sad, now,” Vander murmurs. “You keep farms alive with people, Ekko. Not just crops.” 

Ekko exhales through his nose, leaning back against the couch. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not launching into another Powder story tonight?”

“Because I’m not,” he replies - pointedly, but not unkind.

“We built this place on blisters and bedrock. Two of us stubborn idiots held the hearth together. That’s what kept Shimmerbrook alive all these years. Not the fields, or the tools. Us.” 

His voice wavers a little at the end, but he doesn’t look away.

Ekko swallows down the knot rising in his throat. 

Vander lets out a long, tired sound. He rubs his jaw like he’s trying to chase off something heavier than just grief.

“Silco’s firm on it,” he says eventually. “Shimmerbrook’s going to Powder.” 

Ekko goes still. 

Even though he’s heard it a million times before, even though Silco’s made it abundantly clear, hearing it now - spoken aloud in the dim quiet of a dying house - hits harder than he expects.

“Right,” he says, voice low. “Powder will.” 

Where is Powder, anyway? Still in her fancy city job, never going back to visit her family when they’re at death’s door? 

Isn’t Ekko the only one in town who’s actually invested? The only one who understands their vision? 

He tries to keep the bitterness out, but it leaks through anyway. 

“Is she even coming back? Or is she still holed up in her city tower pretending her roots don’t exist?”

Vander doesn’t rise to it, though the stern look he gives Ekko almost pins him in place. 

Ekko sits up straighter, and more defiantly. “I’ve got systems in place, infrastructure mapped out. I care, Vander.” 

“I know you do.” 

“Then why won’t he let me help? Why her?” 

“Because it’s about hope.” 

Ekko falls silent. 

“She’s our daughter,” Vander continues. “Our legacy. Not just someone to carry on the farm, but someone to carry on him. Maybe she’s not showing up the way you think she should, but he’s holding out. That’s the shape his love takes.” 

Ekko looks away, jaw tight.

Vander softens. “Ekko, you’ve got your own farm. A good one. You’ve built something honest. You’ve done the hard yards, and we couldn’t be prouder. We know you want this place because you love it, and we know you’ll do right by it. Every client you've earned will be yours to keep.”

He leans back on the couch, sighing. “But Silco made his choice. You need to respect it, no matter how much it stings.” 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. Only the creaking of floorboards and the steady beeping of Silco’s monitor in the bedroom fills the silence. 

Then, finally, Ekko mutters, “I don’t want to just be the backup plan.” 

“You’re not,” Vander says gently. “You’ve kept it all running. But Shimmerbrook can’t be yours. Not unless she gives it to you herself.” 

Ekko leans back again, tension bleeding from his shoulders slowly. 

He doesn’t know if it’s disappointment or heartbreak, but either way, it settles in his chest like stone. 

One of the great constants in Ekko’s life is his uncanny foresight. 

It’s like he possesses some magical ability to rewind time, run the outcomes, and land exactly where he wants.

That gift fails him, however, when Powder finally strolls into town. 

Something finally does click into place when he sees her, and not in the way he’d expected. 

It’s that all-too-familiar grin he’s seen a hundred times in old photos and retellings, like bringing two overlapping images into focus. She’s exactly what he envisioned, yet nothing like it. Her eyes are sharper. Her smirk curls with ease, a little too smug. Her hair is long and braided, and she walks like someone who owns the ground beneath her feet. 

It rattles him.  

Worse - it entices him. 

And it only pisses him off.

The anger spills out too easily, gushing out like a tap finally turned. Years of frustration, disappointment, and quietly nursing an impossible ideal - all of it unleashed on the one person he’s been carrying in his head longer than he’d ever admit. 

If he weren’t so furious, he might’ve felt worse the first time. 

If he had a clearer head, he might’ve put his feelings aside and leant her a hand when she asked for help. 

Silco would’ve wanted it. It would’ve been the least he could do to repay the man for his guidance. 

But Ekko is, at his core, hot-headed. 

And he does what Silco would’ve hung him over: he burns the bridge before she even sets foot on it. 

Welcome to Livin' Off The Land!

Ah, refreshing rain…a farmer’s best friend!

When it rains, you don’t have to water your crops. Use this to your advantage!

Spring 10

The Last Drop is lively tonight. Ekko rarely steps foot in, having trained himself into the habit of sleeping at exactly 9:45PM every night to catch the early sunrise. But it’s Scar’s rare free night, having been busy building Powder’s Ranch these past few weeks, and his child is also sleeping over at Zeri’s, so go figure. 

It’s Boys Night, which mostly comprises of them meeting at the bar, having a pint, maybe having Mylo and Claggor join them if it isn’t too busy (it almost always is) and talking shit about their weeks. It’s their version of decompression - sue him for enjoying it. He vents a little about Powder, to which Scar only shrugs and says: 

“She has good ideas.” 

Shock and horror. He can list exactly two people in Firelight Creek who Scar would lay down his life for, and it’s his wife and child. The fact that he’s saying this about Powder can only mean he likes her as a person, to which Ekko quickly realises he can’t talk shit anymore. 

“Don’t sulk over it,” Scar continues, noticing Ekko’s sour expression. “I don’t mind her.” 

Which is basically a shining endorsement for Powder, if he’s ever heard one from Scar, which he never does for most newcomers. And there have been a lot of people moving in since PiltieMart came into the picture three years ago. 

“Are you kidding me?” Ekko guffaws. “The last time you gave a new person the time of day was when Gert moved in.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You two sat and drank beer in complete silence. For two hours.” 

“Best conversation I’ve ever had.” 

“And Powder gets a thumbs up because she pays you?” Ekko stares at him, incredulous. “I don’t buy it.” 

“Ekko,” he sighs. “I get it. You’ve got a grudge from the Silco situation. That’s the work you put in, and I won’t judge it. But take that lens off for two seconds and you’ll see she’s not all bad.” 

Ekko pulls a grumpy face, draining the last of his glass. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

The bell over the door dings. From the corner of his vision, a shock of blue enters The Last Drop. 

He doesn’t need to turn his head to know who it is. Her voice carries, loud and raspy, spilling across the room as she trades barbed jokes with Mylo.

He hates Scar right now. Because even if he’s swears he won’t soften toward this city slicker who’s bound to mess with Firelight Creek before bolting back to her old life, he still - just for a moment - slips the lens off. No one has to know. 

One glance is all it takes. 

Powder leans against the bar, long braids falling over her shoulders, her grin bright as she teases Sevika into a rare smile. Lux and Sera make their way over, greeting her like an old friend. Behind the counter, Vander’s got his usual dishtowel slung over his shoulder and a relaxed smile on his face. 

It looks completely natural, as it should. Her roots are in Firelight Creek. All her family, her land to farm, a ranch in the making and money poured into local businesses. She’s one of them, returning home to lay down the land. Ekko can’t fault her for that.

Begrudgingly, and Ekko swears he’ll never admit this out loud, she has more in common with him that he’d like.

…And it enraptures him.

He doesn’t notice how long he’s been staring until her shoulders stiffen. Her head begins to turn. Panic jolts through him. He looks away too late. 

Their eyes catch, in those precious few seconds before he summons the courage to finally look away. It’s long enough for him to see her expression harden, her lips curve downward. Long enough for her to know he’d been watching. 

The moment breaks, but it leaves him hollow and devastated. Because once that lens slips off, it doesn’t go back on. 

Even when Scar clatters their empty glasses back to the bar. Even when they migrate to the arcade corner, sinking into their ritual Pac-Man and pool routine. Ekko moves on autopilot - laughing, joking, hitting all his marks - but his gaze keeps straying, pulled back to her again and again. 

Scar’s voice cuts in. “I’m telling you. Tonight’s the night. Top five, easy.” 

He smacks the side of the Pac-Man cabinet like it owes him money. At this point, it probably does. 

Ekko humours him, and even manages a half-smile. The scoreboard has Tuff-Tuff filling the top five slots, and Scar has been far below for years. Ekko is the reigning champion, nay, the King of Pac-Man in Firelight Creek. 

“Oh hey. Who’s Jinx?” 

“Huh?” Ekko tears his eyes away from Powder and blinks at Scar.

Scar points at the machine. “There. Jinx is like, a hundred points away from knowing you off the top.” 

No.

He lunges forward, staring at the screen in disbelief. 

Tuff-Tuff. Then Jinx. Then Jinx. And Jinx again. 

The name stacks uncomfortably right beneath his own, taunting him in bright neon letters.

What the fuck? 

Who is the blazes is Jinx? 

And why does that sound so familiar?

Spring 16

❤️

Ekko makes a point of saving the best produce for Benzo’s store. It’s a sticking point for him. Feed the local markets first, then distribute the remaining supply to a select few grocers in the city. Every afternoon, the truck delivery comes at exactly 3PM to deliver the goods inbound to the City.

Very deliberately, he’ll only supply the smaller chain that conveniently has a store right by his parents’ house. They’re easy to talk to, reliable, and offer him a fair price. Unlike PiltieMart, who will never ever touch his goods. 

On principle, they are a hell to the no for him. He’d rather wallow in a vat of acid than supply them, no matter how premium their price is. And they get really premium for him, going by the letters he keeps getting every month. The look on the manager Salo’s dumb face every time they run into each other in the Town Square never gets old either. 

The only issue with his day is that he never actually has time to stock Benzo’s shop until after the deliverer leaves for Under-City goods. There’s usually plentiful supply and Benzo almost always sells out the next morning, but something always breaks in him when he finds the last few wonky vegetables at the bottom of the sack. 

Some capsicums get squished at the bottom. There are mushrooms that aren’t quite uniform, even if they’re good enough to cut up for a stew. And because it’s Mother Nature, his apples and pears are irregular in shape, even if they’re just as juicy as the rest of them. Most of the time, Benzo doesn’t really care if they’re not cookie-cutter uniform. He stocks up whichever ones look presentable, and leaves the squishier lot for compost later. 

It’s technically good for the soil, but they do take a while to decompose and it’s a damn waste of good food. 

It’s 4:58PM, two minutes before closing time. He’s just about done piling oranges into a perfect pyramid when the bell above Benzo’s door rings. 

He pays it little heed, balancing the last grapefruit on the top of the pyramid when a familiar voice rings through the store. 

“It’s me!”

His hands freeze over the fruit. Ekko almost breaks into a sweat. 

It’s Powder. 

He’s screwed it up with her so badly, he almost considers ninja-rolling into the back storeroom and camping out there until she leaves, if it means he can avoid the awkward aftermath of his apology. 

The universe is not in his favour. Before he can even consider jumping off the stool and ducking away, she pokes her head around the corner, and all his hopes of a sneaky getaway are dashed. Guess he’ll have to play it the normal way then. Through talking. 

“Oh,” she blinks at him as he slowly steps off the stool and gives her a silent nod, “It’s you.” 

“Don’t look too excited,” he mutters, doing his best to play it cool, even though he can feel her staring holes into his shirt. 

She clears her throat and points at him. “You’re wearing plaid.”

Ekko looks down at his green plaid shirt, the softest one he owns. He wears it almost constantly, half-unbuttoned and completely untucked, and also completely unexciting. “You’re observant,” he drawls. 

Powder scowls. “Whatever. Benzo here?”

“Working out back.” He points his thumb in the direction of Benzo’s storeroom, hears the tell-tale sign of Benzo’s TV blaring in the background, then purses his lips. So, not working then. “Kinda.”

His eyes trail down to the tattered backpack in her hands, then back up to where she’s still idling there, eyes fluttering between him and the storeroom as if debating something. He clears his throat. “You uh, need any help?” 

She blinks, clearly taken aback. Her eyebrow cocks up. “If I did, would you?”

Ouch. “Someone’s cranky.” 

Powder gives him a look. 

He meets it, refusing to glance away. “What? Gonna bite my head off for asking?” 

“Depends,” she says coolly. “Do you deserve it?” 

He exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Probably. But I meant what I said yesterday. I wanna make it up to you.” 

She stares at him for a long moment, curious blue eyes staring him down like she’s weighing every spoken word in her mind. 

Then, “Sure,” she shrugs, lifting her backpack by the loop. “Bag’s busted, and I need food.” 

He takes the bag from her, feeling the soft fabric practically give way as he turns it over in his hands. For a day to day pack, it’s not bad. But he can see the strands of hay lingering at the bottom and the rips and tears and darkened mud streaks on the exterior, and Ekko gets the feeling she’s using it for far more than casual grocery trips. 

“Busted is one word,” he nods, “have you considered ‘destroyed’?” 

Powder makes a face. “It’s not that bad.”

Wordlessly, Ekko unfolds the torn straps, flips the raggedy bag inside out and thumbs the frayed seams. “You’re lucky it hasn’t fallen apart on the way here.”  

“Okay fine. Jeez. Would you help a girl out?”

“Of course. I’ll get you a new one out back. On me.” 

Powder narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “A patch job is fine.” 

“I could, but we’ve got some sturdier ones out back for your, uh…needs,” he gestures at the hay strewn over the floor beneath her bag. “Ones that won’t disintegrate when you look at it.” 

She huffs. “You don’t have to. At least let me pay up.” 

“I know.” He meets her eyes, dead serious for a second before a grin tugs at his mouth. “Think of it as my housewarming gift.” 

She stands there a moment, arms crossed, and purses her lips together. He tenses up a bit, heart skipping that small beat the longer she takes to deliberate. Letting her battle it out internally in the middle of the store would’ve been considerably more entertaining if he wasn’t also sweating buckets waiting for her response. 

Finally: “Fine,” she relents. “But if it’s ugly, I’m blaming you.” 

He’s instantly walking into the backroom and raiding the shelves before she can change her mind. It’s a mess, really. Benzo’s not known for stacking and organising; a trait he’s semi-inherited since moving here. Everything has its place, as long as you know where to look. As one of the few people who do, Ekko steps over crates and barrels and rummages behind a few shelves before he finds it.

“Just after a bag for Powder,” he says, when Benzo emerges into the room with furrowed brows. Ekko pulls it out: a sturdier, canvas rucksack still sitting in its wrapping. He dusts it off and pulls out a wad of bills for Benzo. “Here. That should cover it.”

It stays in his hand, awkwardly hanging in the air. When Ekko looks up, Benzo’s standing there with a weird smile on his face. Wait. Not weird. 

Encouraging. 

“Sweet of you, lad.” 

Ekko scowls, shoving the bills into Benzo’s hand. “Don’t make it weird.”

"I’ve said nothing, son.” 

He doesn’t dignify it with a response, but the chuffed look on Benzo’s face says everything. Silco hadn’t been the only one telling him to get a ‘life’ all these years, after all. Benzo might not have been a schemer, but he possesses all the subtlety of a freight train. At any point in time, all his cards sit face-up on the table, and right now they’re all pointing to one gigantic, flashing sign: matchmaking.

The last time he’d pulled this stunt, poor Seraphine had to endure the painfully awkward moment where Ekko told her, in no uncertain terms, that he’d firmly lost interest since Barf-Gate. And, honestly, in dating in general. Moving out here and throwing himself into the farm hadn’t exactly left much room for romance either.

All’s well that ends well, but there is no way he’s letting Benzo rope another poor soul into yet another thinly-veiled matchmaking attempt when Ekko, without a doubt, Is Not Available. At All. Period. 

He steps back into the shop and freezes.

Powder is crouched near his sack of damaged vegetables, pulling each one out and holding it to the light. Half of them are sitting in a heap around her, but there’s a small, private smile on her face as she turns them around in her hands. The sunlight catches her blue eyes, makes them glitter like sea glass, and she hasn’t even noticed him yet. 

So he allows himself a moment to drink her in. 

Her hair is long, braided into twin rivers that spill over her shoulders. She’s all long legs and sharp edges, tattoos spilling down her arms and curling across her waist beneath a black crop top. He finds his gaze tracing them before he can stop himself. She moves without thinking, unrestrained, her energy raw and unpolished. And in that afternoon sunlight - his shoulder against the doorframe, her new rucksack dangling carelessly in his hand - Ekko feels the thought land with certainty.

Powder is really, really pretty. 

“Hey,” she calls, still laser-focused on the pile of produce. She holds up a misshapen tomato, considering it, then drops it back into the sack. "If you’re gonna throw these out, would you mind if I take these home for Violet?”

Her eyes flicker up. He pulls his gaze away from her waist, but it’s far too late. She catches him instantly. A smirk blooms slowly. “Enjoying the view?” 

“I-Wh-” he stammers. His mind kicks into overdrive, grasping at straws, failing miserably to land on anything remotely clever. “No. The worst.” 

…

Good one, Ekko. 

She huffs, eyebrow raised, amused, and holds up a shriveled tomato between two fingers. “Yeah, right.” 

Powder tosses it back into the sack, then straightens with a lazy stretch, watching him all the while. He forces his eyes to stay on her face. Her grin widens. 

“So? Is that a yes?” 

“Yeah,” he says quickly, relieved for the excuse to look away. He clears his throat, and tries for casual instead. “I would’ve composted them anyway. Better they go to her.”

It’s the right answer. The easy way out. Except he can feel the heat creeping up his neck before the words are even finished. 

Powder’s eyes narrow, lips curving in that sharp little half-smile. “Huh.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she says lightly, hoisting the bag over one shoulder and accepting the one he proffers to her with a grin - bright, far too mischievous - that tells him she’s noticed exactly what he’s trying to hide. “Well, thanks.” 

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Sure. She’ll like them.” 

“She’ll eat anything,” Powder says with a crooked grin. Then, as if remembering, she adds, “Do I add it with feed?” 

Ekko seizes the safer topic. “You can. Cows’ll do fine in the field anyway, but supplementing never hurts.” 

“Gotcha.” 

“She seems pretty good. Real calm for a cow.” 

Powder snorts. “Thanks, I named her after my cow of a sister.” 

The words slip out sharp, and she looks like she wants to bite them back immediately. 

Ekko blinks again, caught between sympathy and the urge to laugh. Surely there’s a smart, witty response to that? 

Nothing comes.

“Okay, byeee!” 

She saves herself, scooping up the last of the vegetables into her new bag and rushing to the door. He nearly bumps heads with her in his attempt to help load the bag, both of them fumbling in the scramble.

The bell jingles as she disappears outside.

Benzo lets out a roaring laugh from the other room, slapping his stomach in delight. “That was painful, Ekko. So, so painful.” 

Ekko scrubs a hand over his face, groaning. “Yeah, thanks. I noticed.” 

Despite himself, a small laugh bubbles out, a little incredulous. Because who blurts out something like that? 

Powder, apparently.

He glances toward the door, where the sunlight’s still spilling through the glass. His chest is uncomfortably tight, like his ribs are holding in something they shouldn’t. 

She is confusing as hell. Smoking hot, no question, with the tattoos, the grin, the way she moves like a living weapon. IIt’s the same rugged danger of the Under-City he left behind, the one he swore he wouldn’t get pulled back into but somehow can’t shake. And he hates - no, likes. He likes it - that every day she proves him wrong about being some clueless city slicker, carving out her farm like she belongs here more than he does. 

It should make him feel resentful, only they’ve already crossed that bridge and nothing’s come from it bar a terrible first impression and weeks of terse silence whenever she’d chance across him at the Shop, or even walking across town. Which, unfortunately, was almost all the time in a tiny little town like Firelight Creek. And nearly every day for a good while, with her working closely with Scar and his team. 

But the illusion is cracked. 

She isn’t Silco’s prodigal niece, coming back to tear down what he’s spent years building. Neither is she some stranger looking to gentrify the town with performative farming ploys and tourist attractions. The less weight he puts on the stories of her adoring uncles, the clearer she becomes. And the more he likes what he sees. 

So he turns his attention back to Benzo and pretends the knowing laugh he’s giving him doesn’t bother him. Pretends his ears aren’t burning from the interaction with Powder. Pretend that now, as they’re slowly reaching a truce, he can’t deny the undeniable. 

That Powder is so hot… and so utterly impossible for him to ignore. 

Spring 17

They have a shared fence. It’s not that far away from her cows.

Ekko knows this. He watched the new posts go in, saw her pacing the boundary while Scar’s team helped build her coops and pens and pave all the paths down. He’s seen her out there with Violet - the cow, not the sister - more times than he can count, arms wrapped around the beast like she’s a dog instead of half a tonne of cattle. 

This morning, he’s hyperaware of it as he lugs a huge sack of vegetables over to their fence and carefully deposits it on her side. She’ll find it when she makes her rounds later, and with luck she’ll just use them and save him the tragedy of being awkward about it. 

It’s not creepy that he knows her routine, right? 

He’s usually up at the crack of dawn, and she’s always working the fields when he is. That’s not stalking, it’s just noticing. And it isn’t a big gesture, it’s a token of appreciation for her work. For the fact she hasn’t pawned it all off on some poor farmhand (probably him), but actually gets her hands dirty every day. 

Thank Janna for that. Powder has far more of a knack with animals than she does with plants, and it shows. Just a few days ago, she was wrangling a brand new chicken coop, scattering feed, herding her new chicks around like it was second nature. 

He respects that. He really does. And…he notices her, too. The way she moves confidently, even in the quiet work of feeding cows and chickens. He’s not usually a guy who pays attention like that.  

It helps, too, that every once in a while, when she catches him pruning the beanstalks or harvesting parsnips, she now sends him a quick salute instead of outright ignoring his existence. And every time, he feels that jolt in his chest.

It feels really nice having someone around who mirrors his work and shares a silent kind of solidarity. It’s not something he’d expected following Silco’s death. He’d assumed he’d have to sustain the entire town’s vegetable supply alone, and begrudgingly surrender to PiltieMart as the meat supplier. Now, a farming co-op with Powder on the other hand…

He shakes the thought off. There is no hidden agenda. It’s a small token of appreciation for her hard work. 

Ekko’s not a flamboyant guy, and he’s not trying to make this into anything. The sack is carefully steadied against her fence post, the only witness being Violet, who stares at him with round and curious eyes. He makes his quiet escape, hoping she’ll get the meaning when she finds it. 

Spring 20

❤️❤️

She catches him two days later, leaning against her fence post and checking her nails by the time he rocks up in the early hours of the morning with a huge sack of yesterday’s wonky vegetables in his arms. 

He stops in his tracks, mouth agape, as she pivots toward him. He watches it all happen in slow motion. Morning dew glistens in the backdrop. The rising sun casts pink and gold over the horizon.

Her blue eyes twinkle with mischief, cheeks dimpling as she smirks at him. 

“You got something for me?” she asks.

“No,” he blurts out, gripping the bag tighter. “What do you mean?” 

Without waiting for an answer, Powder swings one leg over the fence, then the other, landing gracefully on her side. He makes the mistake of lingering a little too long on her denim-clad legs - the way her boots hit the grass firmly, the curve of her waist, the slope of her calves - and blushes when she clears her throat pointedly. 

Ekko looks up, startled. His cheeks and ears are burning. “I-uh…just, you know.” 

She smirks at him. “Just what?”

“Thought you might enjoy more veggies.” 

“Uh huh,” she says slowly. Powder tilts her head, scanning the sack. “I’ll take them off your hands, sure. But maybe we should even the odds a little.” 

He frowns, curiosity piqued. “Huh?” 

“Yeah. Violet’s about halfway due, so I’ll have fresh milk, and eventually butter. I’ll even be getting a steady supply of eggs soon, and I’ve been thinking of making mayo.” 

Ekko shakes his head, trying not to smile. “You don’t have to. These are just my spares.” 

“Think of it as a swap, then,” she nods at the sack. “I’m dead serious. You can’t keep giving me this stuff for free.” 

“Alright,” he says, attempting casual, though his heart is doing that ridiculous flutter thing again. “Fair. Veggies for your goods. Deal.” 

Her grin widens, then slides into something sly and teasing. “Cool. But I want a super cucumber in there for private use too.” 

He freezes mid-breath. “A…what?” 

“A super cucumber,” she repeats, deadpan, glancing at him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You know,” she waggles her brows. “For girl stuff.”

Ekko’s brain short-circuits for half a second. Her smirk. Her teasing. His cheeks flame, and he almost drops the sack there and then.

“The really big one?” he blurts.

She laughs, long and easy, and leans closer to him, eyes hooded. “Exactly. Don’t cheap out on me.” 

He swears he can feel the warmth from her shoulder brushing against his arm.

Ekko swallows, hard. “Right. Can’t disappoint.” 

She cocks an eyebrow and leans away. “Good. I like a guy who delivers.” 

His stomach twists. He should be annoyed, or embarrassed, but instead he’s grinning like an idiot. “Yeah? Guess you’ll have to keep me on my toes, then.” 

Her laugh curls around him, rich and teasing, and it makes his chest tighten. 

“Oh, don’t worry, boy wonder. I plan to.” 

Spring 22

❤️❤️❤️

Ekko likes to cook. 

It’s a hidden talent, one that few are privy to. The complete list being: his mum and his dad during winter visits, Scar and his family, and…no one else.

His go-tos after a long day are hearty stews or roasted root vegetables. The parsnips are easiest to boil into a rich stock for noodle soup broths, while the heirloom tomatoes add just enough tang to brighten it. His kitchen is wall-to-ceiling stacked with jars of fermenting pickles and vegetables, and dried herbs hang from the ceiling, filling the air with sharp, earthy scents.

It’s his quiet joy, and today Powder is coming over to his house for the first time.

He’s sweating buckets. She’s bringing her first lot of fresh eggs, which he’d insisted she drop off at his place after the day’s work, prioritising the supply to Benzo’s first. 

Now, Ekko is nervous, and he shouldn’t be. It’s quite pathetic for someone who’s usually able to switch on the charm and negotiate contracts with suppliers and deliverers without much effort. 

Whatever happened to the ballsy guy he’d been when she first showed up in town is long-gone. Grumpy, capable farmer Ekko, who? Gert wouldn’t recognise him standing here in his cottage, fidgeting like a teenager as he stirs the stew and sips at it. 

Ekko smacks his lips in satisfaction. Not bad. He throws the dishtowel over his shoulder, and just in time, hears a knock at the door. 

Through the peephole, he sees Powder standing there, basket in hand, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She seems…also fidgety, which helps. The last time she stood at the entrance to his home hadn’t gone so well. This time, he’ll make sure it’s different. 

He rolls his shoulders back, forces his brain to quiet down, and reminds himself to keep it chill. It’s just a casual dinner with a new friend, in the cottage he’s now wishing he’d tidied up a little more before offering to host, but it’s too late.

He steels himself, lets his hand settle at his sides, and opens the door. 

“Hey,” he says, in his lowest register. 

“Hey,” she replies, stepping inside and setting the basket down on the counter. She glances around, then back at him with a small grin. “Nice place. Didn’t take you for a cottage-core kinda guy, though.” 

He looks around. If you could call it cottage core. To him, it feels more like he’s gone searching all over a farmer’s junkyard and brought in gadgets, jars and overalls from every corner of Firelight Creek. 

“Cottage-core only if you squint,” he replies with a shrug, waving vaguely at a stack of drying herbs, a battered teapot on the stove, and a pile of tools in the corner of the living room. “I’m just messy. Haven’t got a whole heap of time to organise the interiors, to be honest.” 

There’s a brief pause, wherein Powder fingers a pile of books and farming ledgers on his coffee table. She thumbs through the pile until there’s an old sketchbook with his un-executed plans and flips it open. There’s a self-conscious shyness that overcomes him - one that he disguises with busying himself with dinner. Those are the plans he hasn’t had time to do: the watering systems, hydroponic planters, the regenerative farming technique he hasn’t had time to fully implement yet. 

After a moment, Powder turns to stare at him. “I don’t know why, but I had it in my head that your house would be annoyingly neat and tidy.” 

“Yeah, no,” he chuckles, switching off the stove. “What gave you that idea?” 

She tilts her head. “Your crops are disgustingly well-organised. You water your plants manually like they’re your children, when you clearly have enough brains to just install a watering system. Your toolshed is just shelving on shelving. You also follow the same routine every single day.” 

He hums, smirking a little as he starts scooping out the stew into a pair of stoneware bowls. “How much of your day do you spend watching me?” 

Ekko says, fully aware that he watches her like a hawk. In a friendly way!

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she swats his arm, grinning. There’s the barest hint of a pink tinge to her cheeks. He takes it as a point of triumph, then loads the toaster with bread. “Your house is like a hoarder’s nightmare at best.”

“Alright, I’ll stop,” he grins. “You probably already get it by now, but most of our farm life is spent outdoors. We rarely have time to just sit back and get our lives together. Most days, Scar just shows up and drags me out so I actually have a life outside of the farm.” 

She shrugs. “I get it. That was my life before I moved here. But actually, I haven’t…had that issue?” 

“Really?” 

“I guess,” she pauses, mulling over her words, “When I left the City, I made a promise to let myself live. To let myself breathe, even while working. So yeah, even though Violet constantly needs me to scoop up her dung, and the chickens drive me insane, I just…” 

Powder bites her lip. “I just want to do what I love. And sometimes you need to take a step back to really appreciate it. You know?” 

Ekko blinks at her. He…hadn’t considered that at all. When was the last time he let himself breathe? The last time he took a step back and remembered what it was he loved about toiling on his own land? 

It’s been so long, and he’s gotten so wrapped up in the routine, that it seems like forever ago that he touched grass and felt it warm his soul. 

“I guess you’re right,” he says, surprising even himself. “I’ve been so stuck in my ways, I guess it all just flew by.” 

She nods, then hums thoughtfully. “Could I make a suggestion?” 

Ekko shrugs. “Sure.” 

“Half your time could be better spent elsewhere. The crops, for instance. If you had an automated watering system, like the one in your sketchbook,” she picks it up and flips open to the mentioned page, “and added some logs beneath a few of your planters, you’d have a self-replenishing nutrient supply and just flip a switch on to water everything. Look here, if you set the timer…” 

He knows his sketches and plans by heart, but still, when Powder points and explains, he listens intently. In uni, all he ever did was plan and draw and research and innovate. When was the last time he did that? Before Silco passed, probably. 

“...And regenerative farming is a good idea. You’d cut thousands in purchasing fertilisers from your annual budget just tilling the land with seeds that can thrive with each other, and your overall output would probably be greater anyway than just keeping it to one plot per seed.” 

She looks up at him, sees him smiling, and bites back a smile. “If you want. I don’t care. Whatever.” 

Powder returns the book back to his hands and crosses her arms nonchalantly. 

Ekko can’t help but grin. “Did you just nerd out over my book?” 

“I did not,” she says, half-affronted, half-smiling. “I’m just smart like that.” 

“Uh huh,” he says with the most casual tone he can muster, for the way his heart is leaping out of his chest. Janna, seeing her nerd out over farming is…really awesome. “You are pretty smart.” 

“I know,” she smirks at him triumphantly. “And as nice as it is seeing you and your arms water the plants every morning, it’s also so, so painful to watch.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Powder. Are you checking out my arms every morning?”

“Oh, God. Please,” she rolls her eyes dramatically. “I’ve seen better.” 

He pauses, considers her words, and the small tinge of something that spikes up in him hearing that. Who has better arms? He has it on good authority (Gert) that his are pretty good. As she says, not better than hers, but passable. It’s all the constant lifting and yardwork he does on a daily basis. 

Ekko almost pouts, then shakes his head, scoffing. “Nah. Not possible.” 

She gives him a tired look. “Do you ever tire of your own ego?” 

“It’s not egotistical when it’s a fact.” 

She leans closer. He catches a whiff of wildflowers and grass clinging to his skin. His breath stumbles in his chest. “You’re cute,” she says, almost offhandedly, then adds a wicked grin. “You’re also the biggest douche I’ve ever met.” 

His brain shortcircuits. Cute? Powder thinks he’s cute?

The toast pops out with a loud ‘ding!’ and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Nearly. 

Instead, Ekko somehow manages to summon some semblance of cool as he plucks the toast out and starts plying it with his rosemary butter. The knife scrapes against the bread, buying him some time as Powder stares at him expectantly. 

He clears his throat, keeps his eyes on the toast, and says lightly, “Careful, Powder. Call me cute too many times and I might start thinking you actually like me.” 

A smile tugs at her lips. “Who says I don’t?” 

The knife stills mid-swipe. He looks up fast, searching her face for a crack, some semblance of a punchline. But all he finds is that wicked grin and a spark in her blue eyes that makes his pulse skip. 

Before he can recover, she plucks the toast right out of his hands, brushing his fingers in the process. A spark grips him, makes the knife falter in his grasp. Powder sets it onto a plate, balancing it easily in one hand while snatching up a bowl with the other. As she saunters toward the table, she glances back over her shoulder, lips curved into a daring smile.

“Don’t just stand there,” she teases, her voice low and raspy. “Come eat with me.” 

His mind spins. His heart thunders. When was the last time he even had dinner with someone like this? It’s all getting a little too real, a little too close, pressing insistently against the solitude he’s built around himself. 

Because Ekko Lamar doesn’t let too many people in easily. Friends, sure - he’s surrounded by them and he’ll always have their backs. But inside the quiet of his home, surrounded by his favourite books and tools, with the rhythm he guards so tightly, it’s rare. 

If he lets anyone too close, disappointment tends to follow for the life he prioritises above all else. 

By the time he looks up again, Powder is watching him with an amused expression. Her blue eyes flicker with something he can’t quite name. 

His shoulders knot, caught between the urge to keep it casual and play it cool, or lean into whatever this is. This spark that’s got him so off-balance.

The silence stretches. 

It’s getting weird now. Oh, hell. 

Say something Ekko. Anything. 

He’s saved by the bell. The bell being his hellhound of a dog, Eve, exploding through the doggy door after what must’ve been her nightly patrol.

Claws scrabble against hardwood. Her ears are perked upright, tongue lolling, every muscle wound tight with excitement. She bolts toward him, then barrels right past with barely a second glance. 

Powder laughs, dropping into a crouch as Eve wriggles against her legs and promptly flops onto her back for belly rubs. 

“Hello baby,” she coos, her voice switching into a high-pitched pet tone. She digs her fingers into Ever’s fur, and the dog sighs in bliss. Her eyes roll shut.

Ekko can’t help the warmth that swells in his chest. Like him, Eve doesn’t hand out trust. He noticed it a fortnight ago at the fence, though it hadn’t been quite enough then to soften him. Now, though, the pin has dropped. 

He crouches beside them, giving Eve’s ear a fond flick. It goes completely unnoticed. The traitor. His eyes linger on Powder instead.

“Hey, Powder?” he says softly.

She peeks at him through her eyelashes. “Yeah?” 

“Thanks…for this.” 

Her smile is small but sure. “No sweat.” 

She pats Eve’s side, then lifts her gaze back to his. There’s a glimmer there, playful and unreadable all at once. “To being friends?”

Her words are easy, but the air between them isn’t. It hums, charged. Their eyes catch and hold just a fraction too long, neither of them moving to break it. 

Break what, exactly? The fact that he feels far more hanging beneath that one safe word? Is it even safe enough for him to admit that maybe, just maybe there’s something forming between them? 

His throat feels tight, but he forces a smile past it. “Yeah. To being friends.” 

The silence that follows says everything neither of them dares to.