𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐕 : 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

Following your two-hour chat with Sunny, where she informed you of every whispered word, stolen glance, and accidental belch, you threw yourself straight into bed, absolutely exhausted from the day's happenings. In the morning, you woke early, prepared a hearty breakfast for your makeshift family, tended to the horses, squeezed in a light dusting and mopping, threw together lunch with what few groceries you had left, and read a book well into the early afternoon.

While others may yawn at the lack of spectacle, you relished the calmness. Yesterday was such a marathon of peaks and valleys that you couldn't handle much more excitement.

Sunny decided to keep to herself all morning, and Martin and Mr. Kirstein had gone off on their own to do Lord-knows-what in the yard.

Not having to worry about anyone other than yourself was a nice change of pace, even if it was only for a few hours. Maybe it made you selfish, but this was the first time in years that your relaxation was your only priority.

That feeling abruptly ended when you heard the front door bash into the frame under your feet. How many times had you told the youngest Springer that the door didn't need to shake the entire house each time he entered and exited?

"Martin, I asked you not to slam the door when coming inside!" you yelled from your sewing room.

A small silence followed until a deeper voice than expected shouted up the stairwell, "You've got the wrong brother, but feel free to try again, squirt!"

Disbelief carried you from your bench and out to the guest room window. Looking out over the street, you spotted an unfamiliar carriage waiting at the edge of the road, and you barely made out Mrs. Springer's frustrated face in the back seat.

That sight could mean only one thing.

Connie was finally home.

Before you even realized you dashed from your vantage point, you were already at the bottom of the stairs. There, the gray-haired traveler stood with two wooden crates shaking in his hands, his lucky knife tucked snuggly in a sheath on his belt, a paper-wrapped square strapped to his back, and a painful grin plastered on his lips. His hair had grown an inch past its usual close shave, but his hazel eyes kept their familiar glow of mischievousness despite his ever-increasing age.

"Well, well, well. Look who's all grown up!" he shouted over the short distance.

"Connie! Goodness, it's so good to see you!" You ran over to him, stole the top box to lighten his load, and peeked into the parlor to find Sunny.

She was reading on the sofa, utterly unbothered by the fact her brother had finally returned after being gone for almost a year. Lucy rested in her lap, her eyes never leaving her pages as she itched the kitten's head.

"Sunny, look! Connie's home!"

She looked up for a brief second, annoyance darkening her gaze. "I saw. Hello, Constance. I hear you think I'm too annoying to come to Philadelphia?"

"She gets more and more like Ma every year," Connie muttered. "Come on, Y/n. I've gotta be quick packing up the little rats to take 'em home, but I've brought some trinkets for you and Niccolo."

Connie strode into the house, tracking his dirt-caked boots onto your freshly cleaned floors. He hauled the box to the kitchen, and you closely followed as he slammed the crate on the counter. The sharp noise made you flinch internally, hoping the countertop did not splinter. Niccolo would be livid if he came home to find the wood needed to be replaced for a third time because of Connie's carelessness.

"Sun!" He called to the other room. "Start packing and find Martin while we unbox!"

"You go find him!" she yelled back. "Mother told you to get us, so it's your responsibility to find him! Not mine!"

"This is why I banned you from coming to get me, you know!"

"Well, I didn't want to come anyway! Who would want to be gone all week just to pick up some idiot like you?!"

"I'll get him," you said as you put down the other box.

You hated spending time with Connie and Sunny at the same time. Although they were siblings who secretly loved one another from the deepest pits of their hearts, they also brought out the worst in each other. Although Connie was twenty-five and Sunny was seventeen, they still acted like small children–pulling hair and scratching skin.

Before you fled out the back door, you hopped over to the traveler and snuck your arms under the thin package on his back to hug him so firmly that his back cracked in three different places.

"Goddamn," he gritted as he patted your shoulder blades, "Niccolo's been working you too hard. You've got bigger muscles than Jim McCormick."

You pulled away and flashed a joking pout. "Are you saying I look like a sweaty baseball player?"

"No, but you hug like one. Maybe smell like one, too," he laughed.

You released Connie from your vice grip and left to track down the little boy who had been mysteriously quiet all morning. Sauntering out into the lawn, you spotted an adorable scene at the lake's edge. Two figures sat hunched over on the dock, their features shaded by the sun casting shadows on their backs. Both had their heads focused on something resting in the smaller silhouette's lap.

When you were flush with Mr. Arlert's cabin, your vision clarified to reveal Mr. Kirstein squeezing paint onto a pallet. Martin heavy-handedly smeared them onto his small canvas in messy streaks–violent motions swiping in every direction. Mr. Kirstein made a few concerned faces at the crudeness of his protégé's technique but ultimately decided to keep his mouth shut the more paint the little boy globbed on.

You approached the pair quietly, not wanting to startle their peaceful picture-painting with loud voices from across the grass.

"Martin?" you called gently.

Martin whipped his head around with a big smile while Mr. Kirstein jerked from his position on the wood beams. Despite your efforts to ease into their closed world, you always managed to force Mr. Kirstein out of his skin.

"Y/n! Look what I painted for you! It's the lake! You can hang it up in your room!"

Martin flipped around his canvas to show a wash of greens, blues, and yellows. No matter how close you came to the work, it bore little resemblance to anything you had ever seen. You kept that critique inside.

"Thank you, Marty. I love it." You ruffled his hair while you took the canvas from his hands. "I've got a surprise waiting for you in the kitchen. Go see what it is."

"Really?!" His eyes reflected the sun. "A puppy?"

"Something like that. Dog might be a better word."

Martin tossed his paintbrush to the dock. His legs carried him quickly back to the house, and the gnats he shook from the ground soared up over the grass in tiny smoke clouds. The creaking of the dock behind you signaled that Mr. Kirstein had risen to his feet. His presence closed the small space between you.

"Do you know what you need?" he asked you with a slight groan from stretching his back.

"What?"

"A chain and a bell around your neck. You and Lucy. It would stop the sneaking."

You had to fight the urge to giggle. "What do I look like to you? A cat?"

"T'es mignonne comme un chatton," he mumbled as he bent down to pick up his paints and brushes.

"You know I don't understand you when you speak French."

Mr. Kirstein chuckled softly to himself. "I am practicing."

You bent over to pick up Martin's discarded brush and extended the little instrument to its rightful owner. "Can't you keep practicing your French with the horses and practice your English with me?"

"We could try. In time," he mumbled with a smirk, retaking his tool.

We. Such a simple word should not have affected your heart so strongly, but it did. You felt your brain fog just a touch as your usual sharpness fizzled down to your toes.

"So," Mr. Kirstein continued, saving you from the ensuing embarrassment rising to your cheeks as his voice grounded you back into the earth, "What is his surprise? Did you bake?"

"No. His brother finally came home."

"Ah. A shame. I was hoping for more of your little sweets. But Martin will be happy. He speaks of this brother highly when we are alone. Is it true he is a... what was the word... A cowboy?"

You blew a raspberry. "Connie's spent time in the West, but his only shared traits with cowboys are a love of women, a nasty impulsiveness, and an obsession with taking his Lord's name in vain. I doubt he could lasso a rock, let alone livestock."

Once Mr. Kirstein collected the rest of his supplies, you quietly walked side-by-side toward the house. When it came time to split off and return his things to his cabin, he slowed.

"We will be alone after today," he stated awkwardly, stopping at the fork in the path.

"It would seem so."

"We should do something. To celebrate the freedom from children," he said firmly.

"Do you have anything particular in mind?"

Mr. Kirstein scanned over the property, looking anywhere but you. "Well... we could... take the horses for a ride. Go to town. Find somewhere to eat. Then... if you are interested... there should be a full moon tonight, so..." He didn't finish his sentence. He just nodded nervously; his lips pressed tightly together in a stiff smile.

"Very well. I can start the preparations once everyone leaves." You were about to walk off but turned back to say, "Just so you know, you're more than welcome to join us in the house if you'd like to get acquainted with a cowboy. I know you aren't skilled with first impressions, but it's up to you."

Mr. Kirstein still refused to lock eyes with you. "I will be up soon," he said before turning his heel toward his lodging.

You studied his stiff back before walking up the yard, not fully understanding what had him tense so early in the day.

Choosing to ignore it, however, you focused on all the little chores he had just added to your list instead. You had to saddle the horses, prepare a light snack for the ride, bring enough money to cover his and your meals, and pack a few sacks if Mr. Kirstein was like his companion and enjoyed shopping. Lastly, you had to review the summer sky's placement of the planets since stars would be invisible in the full-mooned azure.

You would never complain, as it was the first time you needed to act as an actual hostess since Mr. Arlert stole Niccolo off to the city. Regardless, you still weren't particularly excited to work. You would prefer staying home, resting in preparation for tomorrow's beach trip, and having a quiet dinner in the comfort of the dining room. It would be much more relaxing and intimate, but this wasn't your vacation. Your job was to execute an itinerary, not dictate the orders of the day.

You crept back into the house to find Connie throwing his little brother into the air. Martin's laughter filled the kitchen with such warmth you could have sworn you left the oven burning after breakfast.

"I can't believe how big you've gotten, Marty!" Connie exclaimed. "How old are you now? Ten?"

"I'm six, silly!"

"Coulda' fooled me! Soon, you'll be as tall as Sunny, but that's not saying much!" Connie finally caught your presence in his peripheral. "Oh, perfect! You're back! Let's start with all the presents before my mother loses her head."

The traveler sat his brother on the counter next to the crates, unlidded the first box, and began pulling out item after item. The first was a gorgeous china set with bright and crisp flowers that its artisan could have painted it yesterday. The next was a book, but the title was in an unfamiliar language. The last was three of the cutest honey jars you had ever seen. They were wrapped with sweet little ribbons with painted-on bees and filled to the brim with that sweet, ambery goodness.

The rich hue reminded you of Mr. Kirstein's eyes.

"These are for Niccolo. Here's a new set, imported from England. Seller said Queen Victoria herself used it for afternoon tea, but I'd be damned before I believed that. Challenged him to a game of Whist for 'em and won with only a little cheating. Oh, and the book's just something little I found in Florida to match the cookbook from France I brought back last year. Spanish food. Lots of meats. Looked good. Honey's from a Philadelphia market. Nothing special since he whines when I find him nice things.

"Now, onto your presents." Connie reached into the box and pulled out two leather-bound books, trading the canvas in your hands for the novels. "I drank with an author while I was in Connecticut. He could put down a bottle of scotch like no other. His name was... Clark Bane? I don't remember. The one on the top is about Bane's trip to the West, and the second is about some little boys who saw a murder and then turned into pirates. At least, I think that's what they were about. If I'm being honest, I wasn't listening to him during that part of our conversation. I'm not a big reader, but you are, and he gave me signed copies to keep."

You investigated the cover to find that the man's name was not Clark Bane but Mark Twain–the writer whose humorist style was taking the nation by storm.

"That's... very kind of you, Connie," you whispered in shock as you held the leather. It may have been wrong, but your first thought was how much you could sell them for in a few years, should the books continue to be great, long-term successes.

"Don't mention it, and just think! If they've got any real value, you can sell those puppies at an upcharge to collectors in a few years."

It made you instantly feel better knowing that you and Connie were birds on the same branch when reinvesting valuable goods.

Next, the traveler pulled out the softest-looking scarlet fabric you had ever seen. Sunlight reflected off its sheeny surface like glares off the ocean at sunset. He extended it to you, and you wrapped your fingers around the smooth cloth and nearly melted from its exquisite quality. Fabric that fine was meant for the daughters of Rockefellers, Pulitzers, or Mellons–not some poor girl living in the middle of nowhere. To make you feel worse, Connie had easily secured you eight yards worth with how tightly and densely he folded the fabric.

"I can't accept this," you mumbled. "It must cost more than every dress I've ever made combined."

"Don't worry about the price. The pretty lady I bought it from let me have it half off after we spent the night..." Connie looked at Martin's innocent, smiling face, gently taking the fabric from your hands to hold it up to your neck. "You know what? Don't worry about how I got it. I thought it would look nice on you, and I was right."

"But what did you do?" Martin asked, swinging his feet off the counter's edge.

"Nothing, Marty."

"You said you spent the night. What does that mean?"

"It means I had a friendly, polite sleepover with a pretty lady, and we slept in different rooms. That's all you need to know. Now, do you two want to see Sasha's presents?"

You had almost forgotten with all the wrangling you'd done the last few days. If tomorrow was Niccolo's birthday, Sasha's was in four days.

Whether she was here or gone, Connie never missed Sasha's birthday. He would force his mother to make the famous Springer family chocolate and coffee cake for both to share when she was alive. After she passed, he'd cook or bring some new food from one of his expeditions, eat it in the graveyard with you, Niccolo, and the Braus', and leave a Sasha-sized portion at her tombstone.

As soon as you nodded, Connie spun around the other box, which was the one you had carried. It was simply labeled 'FRUIT' in black paint. He pulled his knife from his hip, jammed it under the lip, and pried the top off to pull out two pieces of produce you had never seen before. The first was an ovular, green, and red chunk. The second had prickly green leaves and a golden body with little points sticking out–almost like a giant, yellowing pinecone.

"What are those?" Martin asked.

"No idea," Connie answered honestly. "When we left Philadelphia, the box fell off some rich people's cart. I stopped our coach to investigate. Ma was miffed. She said I was wasting more time and legroom, but they looked fancy, so I thought taking them'd be better than leaving them rotting in the street." The traveler's eyes softened. "I think it was a little message from Sasha. Only she would send us strange food to bring to her from Heaven."

You exhaled a little laugh because that was the most Sasha-sounding message her soul could send. You leaned over the box's edge to find two more yellow pinecones and seven red and green fruits.

"She would," you sighed as you took hold of one of the smooth fruits and rubbed your thumbs affectionately over the skin. "Must be delicious if she sent so many in advance."

"My thoughts exactly. I was hoping Niccolo'd be here so I could ask him what they were. Ma said he's off in the city."

"He'll be home before Tuesday. You know he'd never miss her special day," you mumbled.

"I know. The earth would have to snap in two before he skipped out on her."

Until a few days ago, Connie was the only one you ever felt comfortable discussing Sasha with.

You both lost a sister the day she departed. You also handled your pain similarly–shutting down, cracking jokes, finding distractions, and running. Connie never made you dig too deep beneath the burial mound she left in your heart. If he did, he would also have to dig up his own. There was an unspoken agreement to leave deeper feelings undisturbed like the six feet of dirt that separated her from the two of you.

The somberness dragged on for too long, and Connie wasn't one to sit in silence for more than a minute. He put the fruits back in the box and slid the final present from his shoulders.

"This last one is for you and Niccolo to share. I think it's gonna knock the dust off your cabinets," Connie said.

He tore the paper and slowly revealed a beautiful painting that, unlike Martin's, actually looked like a lake. You approached the canvas to take in its more minor details. It was a memory painted–clear from a distance but blurry up close. The lakefront was a series of tiny green, blue, white, and yellow brushstrokes and dots flying in hundreds of directions that blended in one gorgeous wash of colors. No clear lines or sharp edges–it was soft and abstract in the most captivating way.

"You see," Connie began one of his long-winded, unnecessary explanations, "I bought it off a man, who bought it off a woman, who bought it off another man, who'd won it in a game of chess from a thief, who'd stolen it from someone in France, and then I have no idea who had it before that. Pretty interesting, huh? This painting has some real history behind it. It reminded me of here, so I thought you needed it."

You barely listened to the traveler's ramblings as you studied the painting. Your eyes found a small, orange scribble in the bottom right-hand corner, and you leaned in to make out the writing.

"Who's... Claud-e Mo-net?" you tried pronouncing the name.

"Probably the painter. Bottom right is where the fancy artists normally sign these types of things."

"Maybe Jeanie will know! He's my new best friend. And he paints!" Martin explained to his brother.

"Who the hell names their son Jeanie? Sounds like a girl's name." Before you could answer Connie's question, the backdoor flew open, and the subject of the traveler's question appeared, shadowed in the sunlight. Connie screeched out, "It's the Ripper! He's finally come for me! Get down!"

Everything happened so fast. A hand smashed into your shoulder, shoving you to the ground. You hit the floor, crashing all your weight onto your forearm and elbow. That familiar ripple from your funny bone shot through your entire arm as a loud thud rang out from the wall across the room. The noise sounded like Niccolo chopping carrots too roughly, and your blood instantly ran cold.

You turned to see Mr. Kirstein–his back pressed against the door. Connie's lucky knife stuck straight into the white paint no more than two inches from his long face. Terrified honey eyes slowly drifted to the blade. His back slid down the wall until he sat on the floor with pale skin and an agape mouth.

"Connie, what the hell?!" you screamed from the ground. "That isn't the Ripper, for Christ's sake! That's Mr. Kirstein! He's a guest! One of the men Sasha and Niccolo met on their honeymoon!"

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?!" Connie strode across the room to the hyperventilating painter, ripped the knife from the wall, and extended a hand to pull Mr. Kirstein to his feet. "Name's Connie Springer, friend. Sorry 'bout the greeting, but you can't blame a man for protecting himself and his family. Good thing my hands were a little sweaty, though, or you'd need an eye patch now."

Mr. Kirstein warily took Connie's hand and pulled himself off the ground. "Jean Kirstein," he huffed, still trying to catch his breath.

As soon as Mr. Kirstein was off the ground, Connie patted him on the arm a few times as a sign of good faith and then stepped to you to lend a hand. You ignored him, taking it upon yourself to stand on your own. You rubbed the pain from your buzzing arm, knowing you might have a nasty bone bruise tomorrow morning.

Martin only giggled from the countertop. After all these years, the little boy was so accustomed to his brother's antics that he was oblivious to the fact that his precious Jeanie had nearly met a violent end in your kitchen.

"Jeanie, do you know a Mister or Misses Claud-e Mo-net?" the little boy asked once he quit giggling.

"Claude Monet?" His voice trembled slightly until he made eye contact with the art across the room. The painter's feet carried him so quickly to the frame. "How... how did you...where did you..."

"Alright, so I bought it off a man, who bought it off a woman, who–"

"Long story short, Connie is the last of this piece's many owners," you cut through. "Are you alright, Mr. Kirstein?" You were far more concerned about the permanent psychological damage Connie had created with a simple flick of the wrist than hearing another Springer narrative.

"Oh, I'm sure he's fine. A tall, muscular guy like him is sure to have seen his fair share of action in his life. Say, have you ever seen anything like these before, John?" Connie held up the two different fruits.

"Jean," the Frenchman corrected. He shook his head, probably clearing his mind of his racing thoughts regarding his almost-death. "You have a mango and a..." Any fear clouding those honey eyes clarified into wonder. "A pineapple. How did a fool like you manage to find one of those?"

"Connie's not a fool," you warned gently, not wanting another first impression to go awry. "He might be hasty, but he's a very astute business–"

"No, he's right. I can be a bit of a fool," the traveler cut off your defense. "But I found it on the street."

Mr. Kirstein scoffed in disbelief. "The street? These do not belong in the street. Do you know how much it costs to import? I have seen merchants selling one for eighty pounds."

"Y/n?" Connie asked.

"Yes?" you answered.

"You still good at quick math?"

"I am."

"Do you know the conversation rate of American dollars to those made-up British coins?"

Your eyes flickered to Mr. Kirstein. "Four to one."

"So, how much are we looking at?"

"Nine hundred sixty dollars. If you can hit the same marks as the foreign markets, that is."

"Hmm... We gotta save one for Sasha. You know how mad she'd get if she didn't get to try this golden moneymaker. How much for just two?"

"Six hundred forty."

"Alright, John. Here's what I'll–"

"Jean," Mr. Kirstein corrected again, his voice more rigid and less fearful.

"Do you want a cut of this money or not, John?" Connie's voice was deathly serious. When Mr. Kirstein didn't argue, the traveler continued, "I'll give you five percent of whatever I make off selling these as a thank you for your information and an apology for almost killing you. Y/n? Since these were supposed to be yours to eat, I'll give you ten. Deal?"

Connie offered you sixty-four dollars to give up something you didn't even know existed until a few minutes ago. It was the most straightforward deal of your entire life. All you had to do was accept, and you could mentally add your earnings to your little tin of money for future adventures.

"We both want twenty-five percent," Mr. Kirstein replied. "For my duress and her door."

"Fifteen. Take it or leave it."

"Twenty."

Before you could scream at Mr. Kirstein for jeopardizing your gains, Connie spat on his palm and stuck it out. Without hesitation, the Frenchman shook his hand, signaling a brokered deal, and you were potentially one hundred and twenty-eight dollars richer.

"I like this one," Connie said to you before bringing his attention back to Mr. Kirstein. "You got a wife, Frenchie? My sister could use a husband. She's a bit of a handful, though, with all the complaining she does."

"Jeanie doesn't need a wife. He already has a girl he likes. Can you tell us about your trip now?" Martin sweetly asked, no longer caring about strange fruits, paintings, or earnings.

A girl? Mr. Kirstein said he was single the other night. Had he lied?

You glanced at Mr. Kirstein to find his eye twitching at the child sitting on the kitchen counter. His giant hand flexed, and broad shoulders tensed like he was ready to cover the little boy's mouth at any second.

"Oh. Guess we got a little off track, huh?" Connie reached over to poke Martin in the forehead, stopping the boy from saying anything else. "I already told you about Connecticut with the writer. So where did I go next?" The traveler nodded in deep thought. "Oh! There was this other man–Alex... Gland... Smell... Something like that. Met him in Boston while shopping. We struck up a good conversation, and he invited me into his home to look at his little machine. If you talked into it, it would send your voice to the next room over. He even let me speak into it a few times."

"How does it work?" Martin inquired, entirely intrigued.

"Hell if I know. I'm not a scientist. Then I went down to New Jersey and met a man who told me to call him Thomas, but I called him Tom. He was a bit of an ass, but he had just invented a pho... pho-go-graph? It's hard to remember all the stupid names. Should have just named it a music machine because that's all it did–played music! He bragged about this other invention he had called 'the light bulb,' but I thought it was pointless since candles already–"

"Constance Springer!" His mother yelled from the kitchen entrance, silencing the room at her sudden appearance. "I asked you thirty-some-odd minutes ago to grab your brother and sister so we could go home! Not stay here! You've officially worn out my patience!"

"Mommy," Martin whined, "You never let him finish his stories! He hasn't even told us about all the cowboys!"

"He can tell you when we get home. Come on, Martin. Sunny's already in the carriage waiting with your things." Mrs. Springer walked to the counter to grab her littlest child. Just before her grand exit, she stopped before you and gave the sweetest smile she could muster despite her evident frustration. "Thank you so much, dear. My family owes you such a service. Connie?"

"I'm not doing it, Ma," Connie mumbled.

"Constance. Do what I told you."

"Ma, it's so strange. It's like when you tried with me and Sasha! She's like my sist–"

"Constance. Springer. Do. What. I. Told. You."

Connie rolled his eyes, and his customarily animated voice turned bland as oatmeal. "My mother wants me to ask you to be my wife."

"No."

Everyone in the room turned to the individual who answered Connie's question in your sted. Mr. Kirstein's face was darkly serious until he realized four sets of eyes were awaiting an explanation.

His honey eyes fell on you, and only you, before he spoke. "I mean... she is too young to marry... and Niccolo is not here to give permission... Although... it is her choice to do what she pleases." He cleared his throat awkwardly, and his eyes lowered to the floor. "I am sorry for... for interrupting."

Connie's snicker rumbled in your ears, and when you looked at him, he raised his brows. It was like he knew something you didn't, which hadn't happened since you were ten, and you asked him and Sasha where babies came from.

"Unfortunately, I have to agree with Mr. Kirstein." You did not speak to Connie but rather to his mother, who was the true mastermind behind his proposal. "While I am flattered by the offer, I don't plan to marry anyone soon. At least, not until I have decent savings. It's what Father would have wanted."

"Very well," Mrs. Springer sulked. "If you ever change your mind, you know where to find my son. Sunny also wanted you to know she'll visit again soon. You know how she hates saying goodbye." The older woman turned her attention to Mr. Kirstein. "She also wanted you to know she said, 'Good luck.' Now... I can see why."

"I do hope you rest well tonight, Mrs. Springer. The children were lovely guests," you said.

"You don't have to lie, Y/n. I know the children I raised."

The matriarch ushered her boys out of your kitchen, and Martin waved to you sleepily from his mother's arms. Connie mouthed a quiet 'thank you' as he trailed her with two pineapples in hand.

"You have very odd friends," Mr. Kirstein sighed long after the front door shut behind them. "Poor proposers, limbless heroes, chatty children, intimidating mothers and... Yeager."

"Why doesn't Eren get a silly epithet?"

"Because you said I should be more respectful to your friends. If I were to give him a description, it would not be respectful."

"I believe I also asked you to learn their names, not create monikers of your own," Your tone was not as it had been in previous spats. You were softer–more like correcting a puppy rather than barking at a dog. "I'll give you a pass because I can't imagine having a knife launched at your head so early in the afternoon is easy on the mind. Are you alright?"

"A little shaken, but I will manage."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't fault you for feeling uneasy."

"I am. I can be..." Mr. Kirstein puffed his chest and stood up a tad bit straighter. "Very tough."

"Is that why you trembled like Lucy when you were on the floor?" you joked as you began packing away Niccolo's presents to set aside. "But if you still want to go for a ride and look at the moon, Tough-Man, plan to be ready in an hour. I just have to prepare before we head out."

"What do you need to do?" he inquired instantly. "I will do it. Whatever it is."

You tilted your head while he blinked at you with sweet, honey eyes. "Mr. Kirstein, while I–"

"Jean. You can call me Jean. Or Jeanie. If it suits you."

"Mr. Kirstein," you emphasized, "While I appreciate your help with the children, I regret to inform you that you are a guest here who pays for my services. You don't have to assist me with doing my job."

"I hate when you call me that. It makes me feel so much older–like my father."

"I'll give you the same answer I gave Mr. Arlert when he asked me to call him by his first name: Niccolo prefers I keep a formal relationship with our guests."

"But he is not here." His eyes flicked to the bottom of your face before meeting your eyes again. "I believe... relaxing our relationship would benefit us both. If that is alright with you, of course. I would like us to be closer."

Great heavens, that sentence made your heart skip a few beats. It might have stopped your heart entirely. You couldn't feel pulses in your fingertips anymore but could hear them in your ears. Whatever this feeling was, you had never felt it before. It was too loud to be awkward, too pleasurable to be anxiety, and too terrifying to be bliss.

"I'll tell you what," you filled the unbearable lull and picked up two strange red and green fruits. "Do you know how to open these things?"

"I do."

"Then I'll put you in charge of cutting them while I ready the horses. Pack them in a little container and bring them out for the ride, along with a blanket and something to drink other than alcohol–preferably water. I won't call you by your first name, but you can keep playing housewife since you like it so much. When you finish, find me at the stables. Does that work?"

Mr. Kirstein exhaled sharply, unsatisfied with your compromise. "What if you call me Jean only when we are alone? You can still call me Mr. Kirstein in public, and I will tell no other soul what we do in secret."

"I'm sorry." Your brain took the reins of your mouth. "When you are no longer a guest, I'll be free to dissolve our formality. For now, I'd like to separate my work and our personal association. I hope you understand."

In the back of your mind, you knew it was much too late to separate truly. You had already invited Mr. Kirstein into your life all week. He had entwined himself with your heart as much as your veins, and while the beating muscle wanted to take the key of his name and unlock your hesitance, your brain fought to secure more locks on your boundaries–boundaries meant to keep you safe.

Mr. Kirstein was not a poor proposer, a war hero, a chatty child, an intimidating mother, or Eren. He was a guest in your home and a guest in your life. He would leave the first week of September and drift into memory.

Compared to your close circle, with whom you had invested years into loving, Mr. Kirstein might as well be a stranger. No matter how desperately you desired to be closer to the man who gave you room to speak your inner thoughts into words, you needed to guard yourself, too. He could revert to his old ways at any time; if he did, you weren't sure you could stitch the hole he would leave in your seams.

It was such an overreaction for a man you met in June and hated until mid-July, but it was how you felt.

You should never have kissed him on the cheek. That single, stupid choice would be the downfall of your entire summer. Maybe your whole life. You were sure of it as he blew a big puff of air from his perfect, full lips.

"I understand," he sounded more frustrated than anything else. "You are a very tough egg to crack. Do you know this?"

"A symptom of my upbringing, I'm afraid."

"Clearly."

French Translations:

T'es mignonne comme un chatton = You are cute like a kitten

Author's Note: I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER! The last two weeks were WILD. On my vacation, a bear walked mad close to my cabin and had me gooped for the rest of the trip. I love bears because they're super cute but not that close up, and I kept thinking the little angel would break in through the front door or a window at night. It freaked out my dog, too, and all his anxiety made him DEAD ASS DESTROY MY PHONE where I had written this chapter in my notes app, AND he chewed up one of my AirPods.

Literally never going to the state of New York again. I regret setting this story there. I will only be staying in NYC for the rest of my life. Actual hell on earth.

Good news: the next chapter has been something I've been looking forward to writing for literal weeks, so hopefully, I pull out my best stuff and make it a vibe.

Bad news: we have like maybe three happy chapters left before things start to get a little... intense. I swear, I'm not doing this because I lost all my puppy pictures and dropped mad money on a new phone.

Thanks for being patient :)