foxglove ridge | H.S.

Harry's chicken is in her garden again. For the third time this week.

"Styles!" she shout over the fence. "Your demon bird is attacking my sunflowers again!"

He appears, slow and unbothered, leaning against the fencepost like he's got all the time in the world. "She's not attacking. She's exploring."

"She's murdering."

He grins. "Guess she's got taste."

She crosses her arms. "I'll make stew."

"Touch her," he says, "and I'll plow your garden flat."

"Threats from a man who can't even keep a chicken home?"

He looks at her, amused. "Wouldn't call her the only one sneaking over lately."

And just like that, she's the one blushing redder than her poor, dying sunflowers.