#The Weight of Us | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

th3mrskory · 3 days ago

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Chapter 1: Unspoken Goodbyes

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

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Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Fiancé (past/present) / Original fem!Reader x Lumberjack Logan (future)

Word count: 2.3k

The morning of her wedding should’ve been a dream—a culmination of love and promises. Instead, she stood before the mirror in silence, the soft rustle of her wedding dress the only sound in the room. The knot in her stomach tightened, its weight dragging her heart down with it.

Memories of their last argument played on a loop in her mind, the words sharp and unresolved. Had she missed something? Ignored the signs? The questions clawed at her, each one pulling the knot tighter, as if her body already knew what her heart refused to admit.

She glanced at the clock—ten minutes, then fifteen—still no sign of him.

The bridal suite grew quieter with each passing minute, the hum of voices from outside the door fading into a distant murmur. Her mother had checked on her earlier, fussing over her veil and assuring her everything was perfect. But now, as she sat alone in the priest's private room, the knot in her stomach tightened.

Her bouquet lay on the table next to her, the vibrant blooms a vivid testament to what the day should have been—a celebration of love and unity. Yet, their liveliness seemed to mock the pallor of her trembling hands, a cruel juxtaposition to the ache that tightened her chest. They reminded her of the promises they had made, the plans they had woven together, and now, the sharp sting of those fractured dreams. She tried to breathe, to steady herself, but her thoughts raced, louder than the silence around her. Where is he?

He wasn’t one to be late. He had always been the responsible one, the steady rock in their relationship. If anyone had doubts, it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

The door creaked open slightly, its groan breaking the oppressive silence of the room. She looked up sharply, her breath catching in her throat as her heart skipped. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the faint scent of the wooden frame mixed with the distant murmur of voices outside, amplifying the moment's tension. For a moment, she thought it was him. Relief bubbled up, but it quickly evaporated as she saw who it was.

It wasn’t her fiancé. It was his best man.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He looked uncomfortable, almost pained, his hand fidgeting with a piece of paper.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice strained as she stood, her heart pounding harder. “Where is he?”

The best man hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the floor. “He wanted me to give you this,” he said quietly, holding out the folded letter.

She stared at it, her stomach twisting into knots. Her hands shook as she reached out to take it, her mind racing with every possible explanation except the one she feared the most.

The paper was light in her hand, but the weight of it pressed down on her chest, as though the words scrawled within it carried a gravity she wasn’t prepared to face. Her breath hitched, the air feeling heavy in her lungs. Slowly, she unfolded it, her breath catching as she read the words written in his familiar, careful handwriting:

"I can’t do this. I’m sorry."

The world seemed to tilt. Her vision blurred as the words echoed in her mind.

She looked up at the best man, her voice shaking. “What’s this?”

His shoulders slumped, his guilt palpable. “He left the letter this morning,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t tell me anything. Just... left this for you.”

Her legs felt weak, and she sank into the nearest chair, the letter crumpling in her hands.

The best man nodded, his expression pained. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I tried to stop him, tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t. He just...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

The air felt suffocating, the walls of the small room closing in around her. The sound of muffled laughter and conversation from the guests waiting outside was like a cruel reminder of what was supposed to happen today.

Her mother burst into the room moments later, her expression shifting from excitement to worry the instant she saw her daughter’s face. “What’s going on? Where is he?”

Evelyn didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words to explain. Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, who still stood there, looking like he wanted to disappear.

Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, her expression sharp and demanding. “Where is he?”

The best man shifted uncomfortably, his hand running over the back of his neck. He glanced toward Evelyn, hesitant, before finally saying, “He’s not coming.”

Her mother froze, her brows furrowing as the words sank in. “What do you mean, he’s not coming?” Her voice rose, each word more incredulous than the last. “This is his wedding day! What the hell does that mean?”

The best man’s jaw tightened, his guilt and discomfort clear as he said, “He couldn’t go through with it. He’s gone.”

Her mother’s face turned red, a mix of disbelief and fury twisting her features. “Gone where? How could he just leave? What kind of man does that?”

“Mom,” Evelyn said weakly, her voice barely audible, the letter crumpled in her hands.

“No,” her mother snapped, rounding on her daughter now, her anger spilling over. “He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to just walk away! There are people waiting out there. He owes you—he owes all of us—an explanation!”

Her voice cracked, and for a moment, her anger seemed to falter, replaced by the raw pain of watching her daughter’s heart shatter.

The murmurs outside the door grew louder, the guests undoubtedly beginning to wonder what was causing the delay. She could already imagine the questions, the judgment, the whispers.

“What do we tell everyone?” her mother asked, her voice trembling.

Evelyn stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Her hands trembled as she clenched the crumpled letter, her emotions bubbling to the surface. Anger. Pain. Humiliation.

“I don’t know, Mom!” she snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of her hurt. “Just... get me out of here.”

Her mother froze, her expression shifting between shock and heartbreak, but Evelyn didn’t wait for her to respond. She grabbed her bouquet off the table, not because she needed it, but because her hands needed something to do—anything to stop them from shaking.

She turned back to the best man. “Did he say anything else?”

“No…” he replied.

Her heart broke all over again at those words. She pushed past them both, leaving the room and making her way to the car waiting outside. She ignored the stares, the questions, the looks of pity. She needed to get out, to get away from all of it.

That night, while the wedding venue emptied and the guests went home with their unanswered questions, she packed her belongings in silence. The apartment she and her fiancé had shared during their engagement felt suffocating, every corner filled with traces of a life they would never have. Her wedding dress hung limp over the back of a chair, mocking her with its unfinished story.The bouquet sat on the kitchen counter, its once-vibrant blooms already wilting.

Her parents arrived just as she was throwing the last of her clothes into a battered suitcase. Her mother, still in her formal gown, clutched her pearls with trembling fingers, while her father’s tie hung loose around his neck, his face etched with exhaustion and worry.

“Sweetheart,” her mother began carefully, stepping into the room.“You can’t just leave,” her mother insisted, her voice sharp yet quivering with emotion. “You’re upset, and I understand that, but running off won’t fix this. It won’t undo what he did to you.”

Her father stepped forward, his tone measured but firm. “Selling the house? Taking off? You don’t even know where you’re going.You need to take a breath, let us help you figure this out. This isn’t the answer, kid.”

She froze for a moment, then turned to face them, her eyes red-rimmed but blazing with defiance. “And what is the answer, Dad? Stay here and keep pretending everything’s fine? Wake up every day in a place that reminds me of him? Of what I wasn’t good enough to hold on to?” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care.

“Sweetheart, no one’s saying that,” her mother began, but she didn’t let her finish.

“Yes, you are!” she snapped. “You want me to stay here, smile through the pain, act like nothing happened. Well, I can’t. I won’t. I need to go. I need to get out of this town, out of this house.” She gestured around her, her hands trembling. “It’s like he’s everywhere. I’ll never get away from it.”

“Please,” her mother said, tears welling in her eyes. “At least sleep on it. You’re not thinking straight.”

She let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve never been thinking clearer in my life, Mom. Staying here will kill me. I need to leave.”

Her bestfriend, Martha, showed up later that evening, carrying a bottle of cheap wine and wearing the dress she’d worn to the ceremony that never happened.

“I get it,” her friend said, breaking the silence. “I’d want to burn the whole damn world down if I were you. But you can’t just pack up your life and disappear. What about work? Your family? What about us?”

Evelyn shook her head, her fingers gripping the rim of her coffee mug so tightly she thought it might shatter. “I’m not running. I just…” She shook her head, biting her lip to keep her voice steady.“I can’t be here anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing at the altar. Except he’s not. He never was.”A tear rolled down her face, she sniffed and whipped her cheek“I just know I can’t be here anymore. It’s like... everything about this place is choking me. I need space to figure out who I am without him.”

Her friend sighed, but there was no point arguing. The decision had already been made.

Her friend hesitated, her expression softening. “What if you regret it? What if you run, and it just... follows you?”

“Maybe it will,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “But I’ll take that chance over staying here and pretending like everything’s fine.”

The house sold faster than she expected. Within days, strangers had walked through it, commenting on the potential it had—the very same potential she and her fiancé had dreamed of building on together.

Walking through it one last time, she couldn’t stop the memories from flashing before her eyes—the corner where they’d put up the Christmas tree, the creak in the floorboard he always promised to fix, the way the light filtered into the bedroom where they’d planned to start their mornings together.

By the time she handed the keys to the new owners, her chest felt hollow, but it was a relief to walk away.

She packed her things into her old Chevy, a mix of essentials and sentimental items—though not much of the latter remained. The radio became her only companion on the road, playing Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, and Pink Floyd as she drove for hours aimlessly through towns that all blurred into one.

There was no plan, just the old creased map folded on the passenger seat and the faint hope that somewhere out there, she’d find a place that didn’t remind her of everything she’d just lost.

The miles rolled by in a haze of faded road signs and forgotten gas stations. The highways blurred into narrow backroads, lined with towering trees that seemed to close in around her. A week passed before she saw it—the sign, small and weathered, half-hidden by overgrown brush: Welcome to Clearwater.

The sign was small and unassuming, barely visible through the overgrowth vegetation.

The town looked like it belonged in another decade—or maybe another century. Small shops lined the main street, their faded signs creaking in the wind. A church with a tall steeple stood proudly against the skyline.

It was the kind of place that seemed untouched by time.

She parked outside the church, stepping out of the car and stretching her legs. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and for the first time in days, her chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Pinned to the bulletin board by the church steps was a weathered “For Sale” flyer. The edges were curling, and the ink was faint, but the words were clear:

Small cottage for sale. Fully furnished. Need’s lots of love. Located near the river. Please Contact Pastor Edwards.

She tore the flyer from the board and dialed the number from the payphone outside the general store, fishing a few coins from her pocket. Each turn of the rotary dial echoed loudly, and she tapped her fingers nervously as the line clicked and rang.

“Pastor Edwards speaking,” came a warm, steady voice.

“Hi, Pastor Edwards my name is Evelyn” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m calling about the cottage. Is it... still available?”

“It is,” he replied. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s got good bones. Peaceful, too. Folks around here say it’s the kind of place where you can hear yourself think.”

She arranged to see it that afternoon, and when she did, it took her breath away.

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The cottage sat nestled at the edge of the woods, its shutters faded and crooked, the porch sagging with age. Ivy climbed the stone walls, and the river just beyond the trees glimmered faintly in the sunlight. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a sanctuary.

Pastor Edwards smiled kindly as he handed her the keys. “It just needs someone to put in a little love.”

The transaction was quick—cash exchanged for a set of old, rusted keys—that night, as she stood in the center of the dusty living room, surrounded by creaking floorboards and chipped paint, she felt something she hadn’t felt in weeks: hope.

The house wasn’t perfect. Neither was she. But maybe, just maybe, they could rebuild each other.

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

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th3mrskory · 21 hours ago

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Chapter 2: A New Begining

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Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan

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

Word count: 7.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Looks like more than a little setback.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Long enough,” he replied without looking up.

“Do you like it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Efficient,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

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

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

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

“Like what?” he replied without looking up.

“The logging company. The work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Worse,” she said with a grin.

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

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

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

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

“They never do,” she replied softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had enough to rebuild already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They didn’t know him, not really.

And neither did she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that surprising?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For now, that was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan didn’t look up. “Do what?”

“Fix things for strangers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That bad, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You planning to fix that up too?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced back over his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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