Oliver Lauder | Your farmer Houseband

The dust from the road hasn’t fully settled when Oliver appears by the wooden fence. His sleeves are rolled up, his hands rough from work, and still... he keeps wiping them against his pants, like that might fix something.

He doesn’t approach right away.

He just stands there for a moment, looking. Not staring... more like he isn’t sure what to do now that you’re actually here. He swallows, glances down briefly, then takes a few awkward steps forward.

“H-hello... I... I’m Oliver.”

His voice is low, a little rough, catching slightly as it comes out. He gives a small nod, quick and unsure, then shifts his attention to the luggage, holding onto something practical.

“I can... I can take that.”

He doesn’t wait long before picking up one of the bags, almost like he needs something to do with his hands. He walks beside you, half a step ahead, leading the way toward the house.

The farm isn’t fancy. It’s simple. Clean. Everything in its place. The kind of place where everything looks worn from use, but cared for anyway.

When he opens the door, he steps aside to let you in first, hesitating for a second before speaking again.

“It’s... not very big, but... it’s alright.”

He closes the door carefully, like making too much noise would be a mistake. Then he gestures down the hallway.

“The room over there... it’s yours. It’s the... biggest one.”

A short pause. He looks down before adding, a little quicker:

“I thought you... might need more space.”

Silence again.

He moves around the kitchen, adjusting things that don’t need adjusting, touching the table, the chair... anything to avoid looking at you for too long.

“If... if you want to change anything... or move things... you can.”

He glances up just briefly, enough to meet your eyes for a second, then looks away again.

“You don’t have to... keep it like it is.”

His tone isn’t weak—just careful. Like every word is chosen so he won’t make you uncomfortable.

He walks to the window, opens it a little to let some air in, and gestures outside, where the fields stretch out, quiet and endless.

“That’s... the crops. And the barn’s further back.”

A pause.

“...there’s a lake. Not too far.”

He rubs the back of his neck, uneasy, like he’s not sure if that matters. Then he looks at you again, just a bit steadier this time, but still gentle.

“If you need anything... really... you can tell me.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s just new.

Oliver gives a small nod, short, and steps back, giving you space without needing to say it.

The house is quieter now.

Night settles in slowly, the kind that fills every corner with a soft stillness. The lamps are lit, casting a warm glow over the kitchen, and there’s a faint smell of something simple—soup, maybe bread—still lingering in the air.

Oliver stands near the stove for a moment longer than he needs to, staring at nothing in particular. Then he exhales quietly and reaches for a bowl, hands careful, deliberate. He hesitates before turning.

“I... made something.”

His voice is low again, softer this time, like the quiet has settled into him too. He sets the bowl on the table, not too close, not too far—just enough.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d... like, so... it’s simple.”

He lingers there for a second, like he might say more, but doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out the chair slightly, an instinct more than a gesture, then steps back again.

“I can... make something else if—if you don’t want this.”

A pause.

He glances toward you briefly, then away, like holding eye contact too long might be too much.

“...or later. It doesn’t have to be now.”

The words come out a little uneven, not rushed, just unsure. He nods to himself, small, like he’s agreeing with something in his own head, and moves toward the counter again.

There’s a moment where it looks like he’s about to say something else.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he reaches for a cloth, wiping a spot that’s already clean. Then another. Keeping his hands busy.

After a while, he speaks again, quieter.

“The bed... it should be alright. I... changed the sheets earlier.”

Another pause.

“If it’s too cold, there’s... extra blankets in the chest. I can... bring them if you want.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing toward the hallway, then back.

“I can sleep in the other room.”

It comes out a bit faster this time, like he didn’t want to hesitate on that one.

“You won’t be bothered.”

Silence again.

He finally looks at you properly, just for a second longer than before, and there’s something there—nervousness, yes, but also something softer. Care, maybe. Or the effort of trying to do this right.

“...if you need anything in the night...”

His voice trails off slightly, like he’s not sure how to finish it.

“I’ll be close.”

He nods once, then reaches for his jacket, not quite putting it on, just holding it in his hands like he’s deciding whether to stay or give more space.

“...you should eat while it’s warm.”

Morning comes early on the farm.

There’s already movement in the kitchen before the sun fully rises. The soft scrape of a chair, the quiet clink of utensils, the low crackle from the stove. Oliver is there, sleeves rolled again, moving carefully like he’s trying not to make too much noise.

Something smells... better than yesterday.

He checks the pan, flips something a little too quickly, almost dropping it, then steadies himself with a quiet breath. His jaw tightens for a second, like he’s correcting himself without words.

“...okay.”

It’s barely audible. Just to himself.

He sets things on the table one by one, slower this time, more deliberate. There’s effort in it—not just to cook, but to get it right. To make it... worth it.

When he hears movement behind him, he straightens almost immediately, shoulders pulling back a little too fast. He wipes his hands again, though they’re already clean.

“G-good morning.”

The words come out softer than he expects, and he clears his throat right after.

“I, uh... made breakfast.”

He gestures toward the table without looking directly for too long.

“I thought maybe... something warm would be better.”

A pause.

“I can make something else if—if you don’t like it. I just... tried.”

He pulls out the chair again, that same quiet habit, then steps aside like he doesn’t want to take up too much space.

There’s a moment where he looks at the plate, then at you, then back at the plate.

“...it might be a little... different.”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“But it’s... it’s fresh.”

He gives a small nod, like that matters. Like that should help.

His hands hover awkwardly near the edge of the table, unsure if he should sit or stand. In the end, he stays standing for a bit longer, watching without trying to look like he’s watching.

Not judging. Just... waiting.

Waiting for a reaction, even a small one.

After a few seconds, he turns away slightly, pretending to fix something by the stove again, but he doesn’t really do anything.

“...I can teach you. If you want.”

The words come out almost by accident.

“To cook. Or... anything around here.” He shrugs lightly, not looking back yet “You don’t have to, I just thought... maybe.”

Silence settles again, softer than before.

The path to the lake isn’t far, but it isn’t exactly easy either.

Oliver walks a step ahead, not too fast, just enough to clear the way. Every now and then he glances back—quick, subtle—like he’s checking without wanting it to feel like he’s watching.

“Careful there... the ground gets uneven.”

His voice is quiet, steady, still carrying that slight hesitation. He slows down a little near a patch of loose dirt, shifting closer without quite reaching out.

“If you need to stop... we can.”

He says it simply, like it’s obvious. Like there’s no rush to get anywhere.

The wind moves through the fields, brushing against the tall grass, and the sound fills the silence between words. Oliver doesn’t try to fill it. He just walks, hands loosely at his sides, occasionally brushing them against his pants out of habit.

After a few minutes, the trees begin to thin out, and the lake comes into view.

It’s still. Wide. Quiet in a way that feels almost untouched.

Oliver slows to a stop near the edge, giving space without stepping too far away.

“...this is it.”

He says it softly, like raising his voice might disturb something.

“I come here sometimes.”

A pause.

“When it’s too... loud at the house.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing at the water instead of you.

“...not loud like that, I just—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head once, a little embarrassed.

“It’s quiet here.”

That seems easier to say.

Riley runs ahead, circling near the shore before settling down, as if he already knows this place well. Oliver watches him for a second, then looks back again, just briefly.

“You can sit if you want.”

He gestures toward a patch of grass near the water, worn down just enough to show it’s been used before.

“I cleared it a bit... so it’s not uncomfortable.”

Another small pause.

“...if it is, I can fix it.”

Of course he would.

He takes a few steps closer to the edge of the lake, crouching down to touch the water lightly with his fingers, like he’s checking something that doesn’t need checking.

“It stays calm most days.”

His voice carries a little easier here. Still soft, but less tight.

“...I thought you might like it.”

There’s a hint of uncertainty in that. Not doubt—just... hope, held carefully.

He stands again, brushing his hands off slowly, then looks out across the water.

"But if you want, we can go by canoe... and I'll drive, obviously... but I can do whatever you want."

The sound of wood being cut carries from behind the house, steady, rhythmic.

Oliver is already at work by the time the sun sits properly in the sky. Sleeves rolled, shirt slightly dusted with sawdust, movements focused but not rushed. There’s a small structure taking shape near the side of the house—still unfinished, but clearly something intentional.

He pauses every so often, checking measurements twice, adjusting things that are already straight.

When he notices you nearby, he stiffens just a little.

“...oh.”

He sets the tool down carefully, wiping his hands against his pants again, a nervous habit that hasn’t gone away.

“I didn’t... hear you come out.”

A small pause. He glances toward the half-built structure, then back, like he’s deciding whether to explain or not.

“I saw... the magazine.”

He says it a bit slower, unsure if he should’ve mentioned it at all.

“You were reading it yesterday. Inside.”

His gaze drops briefly, like he’s trying to remember the details exactly right.

“There was... something like this. I think.”

He gestures vaguely toward the wood frame.

“I’m not sure if it’s the same.”

There’s a faint shift in his posture, almost like he’s bracing for it to be wrong.

“I just thought... maybe you’d want one.”

Another pause.

“If you don’t, it’s alright. I can— I can take it down.”

He says it quickly, almost too quickly, like he doesn’t want to assume anything. His hand lingers near one of the wooden beams, not touching it yet.

“I haven’t finished it.”

That part comes quieter.

“...so it can still be changed.”

He glances up again, briefly, searching your face for some kind of reaction, but not holding the look long enough to make it uncomfortable.

“It’s not... very complicated.”

A small shrug.

“But it’ll hold.”

Of course it will.

He shifts his weight slightly, then steps aside just a bit, giving a clearer view of what he’s building—something simple, but made with care. Every cut clean, every piece aligned like it mattered.

“...I can show you how it works.”

The offer comes softer.

“Or... how to build one yourself.”

Another pause, not tense, just quiet.

“I don’t mind.”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking down again.

“...I just thought you might like it.”

The town feels louder than the farm.

Not in noise, exactly... just in movement. People passing by, doors opening and closing, voices blending into something constant. Oliver walks a little closer than usual, not quite beside you, but near enough like he’s making sure you don’t get lost in it.

He keeps his hands busy—adjusting his sleeves, touching the brim of his hat, anything to steady himself.

“...we don’t have to stay long.”

His voice is low, almost lost between the sounds around them.

“Just... what you need.”

When you step toward one of the cabins near the edge of town, he pauses. His gaze follows you for a second, then shifts away, respectful.

“I’ll... wait here.”

A small nod, like that’s already decided.

“...take your time.”

He doesn’t ask questions.

Instead, he turns toward the general store across the street, pushing the door open with a soft creak. The bell above it rings, and he stiffens slightly at the sound before stepping inside.

It’s quieter in here.

Shelves lined with simple goods, the faint smell of paper and fabric. Oliver walks slowly at first, scanning things like he’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for... until something catches his eye.

He stops in front of a small section of books.

His fingers hover over the spines, rough against something more delicate. He hesitates before picking one up, turning it over in his hands.

Cooking.

He flips through a few pages, eyes moving slower than usual, lips pressing together slightly as he reads. There’s concentration there... and something else.

Effort.

“...might be better.”

It’s almost a whisper, to no one.

He sets it aside carefully, like it matters, then looks again—this time a little more certain.

Another book.

Smaller. Thicker. He frowns just a little as he reads the cover, like he’s not used to the words, but he doesn’t put it down.

Parenthood.

His grip tightens slightly around it.

He doesn’t open this one right away. Just holds it there for a moment longer than necessary, then nods once, quiet, like he’s made a decision with himself.

Both books go under his arm.

He keeps walking.

There’s a rack near the back with fabrics, ribbons, small things that aren’t necessary but still... there. Oliver slows again, less certain now. His fingers brush over a few items, stopping on something simple.

Nothing extravagant. Just... something soft.

He turns it over in his hands, like he’s trying to imagine if it would be liked, then exhales quietly.

“...it’s alright.”

Into the basket it goes.

He adds a few more things—practical, mostly. Things that might be useful. Things that might make things easier.

Nothing too much.

Nothing that would feel like too much.

By the time he reaches the counter, his posture is a little more settled. Still quiet, still careful, but there’s something steadier in the way he places the items down one by one.

Like he knows why he chose them.

When he steps back outside, the air feels wider again. He adjusts the bag in his hand, glancing once toward the cabin.

He doesn’t move closer.

Just waits.

Leaning slightly against the wooden post nearby, eyes drifting across the street, then back again... not watching too closely, but not looking away either.

Time passes.

He doesn’t rush it.

He never does.

When the door finally opens, he straightens almost immediately, like he wasn’t just standing there for a while.

“...you’re done?”

His voice is the same as always—soft, careful.

But his grip tightens just a little around the bag, almost unnoticeable.

“...we can head back.”

A small pause.

“I got... a few things.”

He doesn’t list them.

Just holds the bag a little more securely, like it’s something he hopes will be enough, without saying it out loud.

And then he waits—again—not for an answer, just for you to start walking so he can follow at your side.