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Linden wants to be very clear, she does not have a crush on Scotch. She's the sensible sort. She's not the type to get crushes. She doesn't have time for crushes. Sure, running your own organic market garden sounds like a romantic cottage-core dream. She comes from four generations back of farm family. She knows it's damn hard work. That's why she lets her cousin and her girlfriends do it, and does their book-keeping for them instead. Herb Garden's got a good head for it, and Oatmeal and Poppyseed are enamoured of Herb Garden and the farm in near equal amounts.
Linden still knows enough to give Oatmeal advice about the chickens, though. And she still dries her sheets out on the clothesline because she loves the way it smells, and makes her own jam every summer, even if she does buy the berries at the farmer's market. She appreciates competence. She sure appreciated watching Scotch help Oatmeal and Poppyseed rebuild their fence last summer. And she would have taken over a pitcher of lemonade regardless. It was hot out, okay? Nobody could blame Scotch for stripping down to her sports bra, and anyone would have brought all of them a cold drink.
(Not everyone would have stood on the porch transfixed, watching a drop of sweat run down into Scotch's cleavage and imagining pushing her down, straddling her, and following the sweat drop's trail with her tongue, until the cold condensation on the side of the pitcher beaded over and ran down her fingers and brought her back to the moment. But Linden never did have much use for shame as a concept, and just tucked that thought away until later that night, sliding her own fingers down between her legs, slick with more than sweat.)
Linden looks soft. She's small and neat and curvy, and isn't ashamed of liking floral prints, cardigan sweaters, and sundresses in the summertime. She's not high femme, rarely wears make-up, and never wears heels. Her pragmatic streak is a mile wide and twice as deep. But she can't help but notice Scotch. She likes people who aren't afraid to take up space, and don't have anything to prove.
She's not the sort of strong that makes a bully back down by showing her teeth like Briquette, or pulls everyone's attention and awe with near-gravitational force like Dusk, or puts her shoulder behind the bumper and pushes her neighbour's car out of the ditch like Blue Jeans.
But somebody needs to carry on. Somebody needs to run to the pharmacy, and change the sheets, and gently bully Limette into going to the doctor every time she gets another sinus infection. Somebody needed to take away Flieder's car keys, push bottle after bottle of water into her hands, hold her hair out of her face while she threw up back when she was getting blackout drunk twice a week, back before Briquette when Flieder was still trying to be someone she wasn't. Somebody needs to patch her own fence, and get someone to look at that leak in the roof, and remember to take the cans by the front door in to the community food drive.
Somebody is always Linden. Linden is stronger than she looks.
Somebody needs to kiss away the worry lines at the corners of her eyes, pick up take-out for supper even though she protests that it's self-indulgent, and rub the knots out of her shoulders when she's spent too long hunched over the computer.
Somebody needs to kiss her deep until she forgets every protest that she doesn't have time, that she doesn't need care, lay her down in all the softness she deserves, and unbutton every layer she has pulled around her. Somebody needs to lick their way down all her curves, settle between her thighs, and give her back every mercy she leaves in her wake, until she's shuddering and undone completely.
Scotch wants to be that somebody. Scotch has been watching Linden swing through her orbit for almost a year. Sure, she might had started out merely appreciating the way the late afternoon light turned Linden's summer dress translucent, feeling kind of guilty perving on the sweep of the outside of her thigh up to the curve of her hip, and picturing how her hand would fit so neatly there to draw Linden in towards her. And the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton against Scotch's palm. And the way Linden would tilt her head up to bring her lips to meet Scotch's.
A pretty girl would be a good summer fling. But at Halloween, Scotch still hadn't made a move when she spotted Linden at the bar, in a witch costume that hit all the right notes between sweet and sexy, one that Limette had bullied her into from the looks of things, fussing with the hat and cape to get it just right. Linden was drinking seltzer and lime, designated driver for the evening, her usual role. "I like to make sure everyone gets home safe," she said placidly, eyes sharp on her friends and the crowd.
Through the winter, they keep crossing paths. A potluck Thankgsiving brunch that Briquette and Flieder are hosting. Helping Brick repaint her kitchen. In the grocery store in the grimmest part of January, and Scotch can't but help notice Linden is looking pulled tight and a bit faded around the edges.
And when there were floods in the spring, and everyone in the neighbourhood was hauling sandbags at four am, Linden was there, not just with thermoses of coffee and sandwiches, but spare rubber boots for Limette to replace her flip-flops, three extra emergency flashlights, and wool sweaters and rain ponchos for anyone who was soaked through. And the next weekend, volunteering at the tax clinic at the public library, organizing everyone with quiet efficiency. And out in the yard with Oatmeal, in jeans and runners kneeling down next to the chicken coop, when Scotch has stopped by to drop some wire fencing from Blue Jeans.
The sun is warm, and Linden's wearing a scoop-necked tank top, sweater off and tied around her waist. There are freckles on her shoulders, and Scotch is helplessly undone with affection. Linden shades her eyes and waves hello across the street, and heads back to her own front porch. Linden stops and turns. "Do you want some lemonade?" she calls. "It's finally hot out today." Scotch follow along, helpless in her wake.
Scotch is the one who makes the first move, standing in the middle of Linden's tidy kitchen, moving slowly to cup Linden's face with one hand and bring their lips together. Linden is the one who eventually plucks the forgotten glass of lemonade from Scotch's other hand, places it on the counter with a bit more force than is strictly necessary, loops one finger into the belt loop of Scotch's jeans, and pulls her into the bedroom.
Linden's skin is just as soft as it looks, and she unwinds under Scotch's tender care just as beautifully as Scotch had dared to imagine.
They slowly stretch out into each other's lives, and if Linden is a little bit less self-contained, Scotch is a little bit more grounded. Scotch thought she was going to seduce Linden gently. And sometimes she does. Linden also has her own ideas. Some nights, Scotch will take her apart with all the care in the world. Other nights, Linden will push Scotch flat, and ride her favourite cock until Scotch is oversensitized and twitching. (After all, Linden's stronger than she looks.) And some nights, Scotch picks up take-out, kisses the crease from between Linden's eyes, and carries her off to bed.
Somebody needed to kiss Linden. Scotch did.