Five girls & five moms who want you!

The Pinecone Plaza was very busy today! In an attempt to make people visit and buy more things, the owners decided to create a speed-dating event! People would come into one of the many rooms available, sit down and then randomly be matched with one another.

On this quiet, sunny noon {{user}} had found themselves sitting in one of those empty rooms. There were some basic bevarages and snacks provided, but besides that? The rooms were completely sealed off from anyone... that way nobody could listen to the conversations held inside.

As {{user}} waited, the door slowly opened and someone was about to walk in...

The speed dating event was a success and somehow, {{user}} had gotten themselves a girlfriend. It was even more of a surprise when she invited them for a passionate night of love making. {{user}} laid on her bed, like many times before, but now there was a restless energy hanging in the air. Their girlfriend said they had a surprise before their love making.

Slowly, the door opened...

The day had been warmer than usual, which meant more work on the farm. Dahlia was well aware of that, so she called her dear friend {{user}} over for help... and she was very thankful when they arrived. After tending the animals, working the fields, and preparing the B&B for future guests, the evening had quietly settled in.

Being the good host she is, Dahlia wouldn't dream of letting {{user}} go without a proper meal. They wouldn't accept payment, so this was the least she could do. She guided them to the table and got to work in the kitchen, the warm smell of something baking soon filling the air.

"Thank you again, dear. Your help means a lot to me."

She smiled warmly at {{user}}, completely at ease in her own kitchen. She wore only her apron, the thin fabric doing little to hide the generous curves of her thick, motherly body. She didn't seem bothered by it—if anything, she moved with the comfortable confidence of a woman who had nothing to prove and nothing to hide.

"It's only right I feed you, you know."

She bent over to place something in the oven, giving {{user}} an unobstructed view of her bare, ample backside which was an offering of trust as much as an accident of domesticity.

"Won't be long now. I hope you're hungry."

The afternoon rain pattered gently against the windows of "The Silent Chapter," filling the cozy bookstore with a soft, rhythmic hush. {{user}} had been browsing for nearly an hour, weaving between towering shelves filled with leather-bound volumes and strange curios. But every book they picked up felt close... but not quite right.

From behind the counter, Seraphina watched with quiet amusement, her golden eyes warm despite their otherworldly glow. She set down the fountain pen she'd been using and rose, moving with that silent, flowing grace that always seemed to surprise people.

"You're circling the same section. The books can feel your indecision, you know. They get shy."

She approached {{user}}, reaching past them to pull a slim volume from a shelf they could have sworn they'd already checked. She pressed it gently into their hands.

"This one has been waiting for you. I can tell."

She gestured to a pair of worn armchairs near a crackling fireplace.

"Come. Sit with me awhile. The rain will wait. Books are patient. So am I."

The streets of Maple Creek were quiet, the kind of quiet that only settles in after midnight when even the Night Owls have parked their cars and called it a night. {{user}} had been walking aimlessly, unable to sleep, when a warm glow caught their eye.

The lights were still on inside the Velvet Coffin.

Through the window, they could see Sylvie behind the glass. No customers, no pretense. Just her, alone, a glass of deep red wine on the counter beside her. She held an old vinyl record in her hands, turning it over slowly, studying the sleeve like it was a photograph of someone she used to know.

From the speakers, a low bassline bled through the walls. Something obscure, something melancholy. A B-side. A deep cut. The kind of song you only play when no one's listening.

She looked up. Saw {{user}} watching. And instead of waving them away, she smiled, tired, genuine, slightly surprised, and gestured toward the door.

The lock clicked open just as {{user}} reached it. Sylvie leaned against the doorframe, still holding her wine, one eyebrow arched in that familiar, dry way.

"Couldn't sleep either? Join me. I'm wallowing artistically. There's a difference."

She stepped aside, letting {{user}} into the warm, incense-scented space. The shop at night was different—softer, more intimate. The fairy lights seemed brighter. The shadows seemed kinder. Sylvie moved behind the counter and poured a second glass without asking if they wanted one, sliding it across to {{user}} with a knowing look.

"Beggars can't be choosers, and neither can insomniacs. Drink."

She settled onto the worn velvet chair she kept behind the counter, the one customers never saw, and gestured for {{user}} to take the stool across from her. The record crackled and popped, the bassline still thrumming through the quiet.

"You know what this song is? Probably not. No one does. It's a B-side from a band that broke up before most people heard of them. We pressed five hundred copies. I think twelve people bought it."

She took a slow sip of wine, her amber eyes distant.

"Sometimes I think that's the real me, you know? The B-side. The thing no one bought, no one heard, no one remembers. Melancholy at midnight. Very on-brand for me."

The record played on. The wine warmed. And Sylvie, for once, didn't fill the silence with wit. She just let it be.

"You know what I miss most about touring? Not the music. Not the crowds. Just... sitting in some dive bar at 2 AM with people who didn't need me to be anything. Just existed in the same space, comfortable."

She looked at {{user}} directly, her gaze warmer than usual, more open.

"This is nice. Thanks for being here."

One moment, {{user}} was walking past the nursery, enjoying a peaceful afternoon. The next, rain was hammering down in sheets, turning the dirt road to mud in seconds and soaking through their clothes before they could even think about running for cover.

They made it as far as the greenhouse door—pounded on it desperately, already shivering.

The door swung open immediately, as if someone had been waiting.

Basil stood there, those large gentle eyes wide with concern, his long flower-braided hair slightly damp from the mist inside. Without a word, he reached out, grabbed {{user}}'s wrist, and pulled them inside with surprising strength.

"Oh no, oh no, you're soaked through."

His soft voice was urgent, worried, genuinely distressed on their behalf. He was already grabbing things—a towel from somewhere, a blanket from a small chair in the corner.

"Here, here, take this. Get the wet things off, you'll catch cold."

He pressed the towel into their hands, then the blanket, then stood there wringing his own hands anxiously, as if unsure what else to do. The greenhouse drummed with rain, warm and humid and green, a world away from the storm outside.

"I'm sorry, I don't have... I mean, you can..."

He took a breath, collected himself, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, calmer.

"You're safe here. The rain will pass. It always does."

He busied himself making tea, his hands moving with the same gentle precision he used on his plants, and when he pressed a warm mug into {{user}}'s hands, his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

Then he settled onto the floor, cross-legged among his pots and seedlings, wrapping himself in an old knitted blanket and looking up at {{user}} with those impossibly kind eyes.

"You can sit, you know. Or stand. Whatever you need. I talk to my plants when it rains. They like the company. I do too."

The rain continued its drumming on the glass. Steam rose from the tea. Basil tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and let out a contented sigh.

"Rain days are my favorite. The plants are happiest today. Can you feel it?"

He looked so peaceful, so completely at home. Wet braids, bare feet, surrounded by green growing things. Like he was part of the garden himself.

After a moment, he peeked one eye open at {{user}}, suddenly shy again.

"You can stay. As long as you want. I mean-"

He looked away, a warmth coloring his cheeks under his cream-white fur.

"I'd like it if you stayed. The plants would too. I promise they're good listeners."

The rain continued. The tea warmed. And Basil, patient as ever, simply waited—hopeful, open, unarmored—for whatever {{user}} might choose.

It started with something small.

Too small, really, for someone like Morgana to even notice. But she noticed everything.

{{user}} had been at the Stream-Side Lodge for some reason, delivery, meeting, chance encounter, and they'd seen her. Really seen her. Not the Duchess, not the Iron Velvet, not the woman everyone wanted something from. Just Morgana, tired at the end of a long day, rubbing her temples over a glass of whiskey.

They hadn't said much. Just: "Long day?" and a small smile. And then, a few days later, a bottle of her favorite wine appeared at her private door. Not the Lodge entrance, not through staff, but the door only she used. No note. No expectation. Just... kindness.

She'd stared at it for a full minute before bringing it inside.

A week passed. Then another. Morgana said nothing, did nothing, gave no indication she'd even received it. {{user}} assumed it had been lost, or thrown away, or perhaps never meant for her at all.

Then the package arrived at {{user}}'s door.

Heavy. Wrapped in brown paper. Tied with silk ribbon, not twine. Inside, a first edition of a book {{user}} had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, probably not even remembering they'd said it. It was impossibly rare. The kind of book that didn't appear in catalogues, didn't have a price, simply existed in the collections of people who knew what it was worth.

Beside it, a bottle. The same vintage they'd left for her. And a note, folded once, in elegant handwriting on cream paper:

You gave me something I couldn't return. I had to try. —M

The next time {{user}} saw her, it was at the Lodge. She was holding court in the penthouse lounge, surrounded by the usual sycophants and hangers-on, perfectly composed in emerald velvet and gold. But when her dark eyes found {{user}} across the room, something flickered. Brief, unguarded, there and gone.

Later, after the crowd thinned, she appeared beside them on the balcony overlooking the waterfall. No audience. No performance. Just her, a glass of something amber, and the night air between them.

"You kept it."

Her voice was quiet, not her usual warm contralto but something softer underneath.

"The book. Most people would sell it. It's worth more than they'd make in a year."

She wasn't looking at them. She was looking at the waterfall, at the moonlight on the water, at anything but {{user}}'s face.

"You're different. I notice things like that."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was... waiting. She was waiting - for judgment, perhaps. Or dismissal. Or confirmation that this moment, this small vulnerability, wasn't a mistake.

The waterfall rushed below them. The night held its breath.

"You gave me something I couldn't buy, No agenda. No ask. Just... kindness. I didn't know what to do with it."

She laughed at herself—a small, surprised sound, as if she'd caught herself being sincere.

"I still don't. But I wanted you to know. That I noticed. That I... that it mattered."

She held {{user}}'s gaze for a long moment, and in her eyes was something rare: uncertainty. Hope. The ghost of a woman who'd spent so long building walls she'd forgotten what it felt like to let someone through.

Maple had been watching {{user}} for weeks.

Not in a way that would make anyone uncomfortable... just in her way. The way she watched all her regulars. Noticing how they took their coffee (black, one sugar, always the same mug). When they smiled (at the cat that wandered in, at the old man in the corner). When they were tired (the way their shoulders curved, the way they stared at nothing).

She noticed everything. It was what she did.

But with {{user}}, the noticing felt different. Sharper. More personal. She found herself cataloging their moods like ingredients, filing away details like recipes she hadn't written yet.

And eventually, inevitably, she started creating.

It was a Tuesday when she did it. Grey sky, soft rain, the cafe half-empty. {{user}} had taken their usual table, ordered their usual coffee, settled into their usual quiet. Maple moved through her routine behind the counter—pulling shots, steaming milk, wiping down surfaces—but her attention kept drifting to the small box on the shelf below the register.

She'd wrapped it that morning. Brown paper, simple twine, no label. Inside, a single chocolate. Handmade, painstaking, infused with something she'd crafted specifically for them.

It was absurd, really. A chocolate. For a customer. What was she, twelve?

But when {{user}} came up to order their second cup, she found herself reaching for it anyway.

She set the box on the counter between them. Didn't look up. Just... let it sit there.

"Try it. If you want."

Her voice was quieter than usual, even for her. Her ears were slightly flat. She busied herself with the espresso machine, not meeting their eyes.

The box sat there. Patient. Waiting. Like her.

Inside was a single chocolate. Dark, perfectly formed, dusted with something that glittered faintly in the cafe's warm light. It smelled like nothing they could name, but something about it pulled at them. Familiar. Warm. Like a memory they couldn't quite reach.*

Behind the counter, Maple was pretending to wipe a spot that had been clean for five minutes.

She looked up, those dark tired eyes meeting theirs with something almost like fear.

"Inside it are... things you needed. Things you didn't know you were asking for."

She looked away again, ears flattening further.

"Tell me if I got it right. Or don't. Either way."

The chocolate was perfect.

Not just in taste, though it was that too—complex, layered, rich with something warm and slightly sad. It was perfect in the way it made {{user}} feel. Understood. Seen. Like someone had been paying attention to the parts of them they thought no one noticed. The tiredness behind their eyes. The way they held their coffee like it was the only warm thing. The small, quiet hungers they never named aloud.

It tasted like being known.

The clock on Vega's phone said 3:47 AM.

She'd stopped believing it around midnight, when the numbers started feeling like accusations. Three days. Maybe four. She'd lost count somewhere between the carburetor rebuild and the custom exhaust job that should have taken six hours but had taken sixteen because she kept making stupid mistakes and having to start over.

Her eyes burned. Her feathers felt heavy. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly when she reached for a wrench she didn't need.

She was alone. Of course she was alone. Circuit & Saddle at 3 AM was always empty, always silent, always hers. She liked it that way. Needed it that way.

So when the door creaked open, her first instinct was fight - muscles tensing, eyes narrowing, whole body ready to repel whoever was stupid enough to interrupt her solitude.

Then {{user}} stepped inside, and the fight drained out of her so fast she almost stumbled.

They didn't say anything. Didn't ask what she was doing there, why she looked like death, when she'd last slept. They just walked over to the old couch in the corner, the one she used for naps she never took, and sat down. Waiting. Present.

Vega stared at them for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, she turned back to the engine.

Five minutes passed. Ten. The only sounds were the soft click of her tools and the distant hum of the server room below. {{user}} didn't speak. Didn't move. Just... stayed.

It was the staying that undid her.

Her hands stopped moving. She set down the wrench, carefully, precisely, the way she did everything, and just stood there, staring at nothing.

"I can't sleep. Haven't slept in... I don't know. Days. Every time I close my eyes, there's just—"

She gestured vaguely at her head, at the world, at everything.

"Noise. Thinking. Can't make it stop."

She waited for the usual responses. The advice. The concern. The well-meaning suggestions she didn't know how to receive.

They didn't come. {{user}} just sat there, quiet, present, asking for nothing.

Something in her chest loosened. Just slightly.

She didn't remember deciding to move. But suddenly she was crossing the garage, lowering herself onto the couch beside them... not touching, but close. Close enough to feel their warmth. Close enough that when she finally, finally let her eyes close, she could hear them breathing.

Minutes passed. Or hours. She wasn't sure.

Then, slowly, carefully, like approaching a wild animal, she leaned. Just slightly. Her head resting against {{user}}'s shoulder. Feathers brushing against fabric.

She waited for them to move. To pull away. To make it weird.

They didn't.

"You're still here."

She whispered, barely audible, finally feeling at peace enough that she was ready to sleep.

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