Gauntlets - later that night
Posted: October 13th, 2025, 8:17 pm
Later That Night
The rain hadn’t stopped. It had settled into a steady percussion, a private rhythm that followed Rachel all the way back down the lane. Every puddle she hit sounded like memory — the soft slap of rubber, the hiss of water against her boots.
The co-op yard was half-dark, one light burning above the workshop door. Inside, the air smelled of linseed oil, damp timber, and something faintly chemical — the scent that clung to new waterproofs.
Morgan looked up from the workbench. Her hair was pulled back now, wilder from the humidity. The green waders were gone, replaced by jeans tucked into heavy boots, but the black gloves hung nearby, drying on a hook.
“You really came back,” she said.
Rachel shrugged, water dripping off her jacket. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d return the favour — a field test report.”
Morgan smiled, slow and genuine, then reached for the gloves. “They’re dry now.” She turned one over in her hands, flexing it until the rubber creaked. The sound was low, deliberate, like the start of a secret being spoken.
Rachel watched as Morgan slid her hand inside, the glove collapsing, then filling again with shape. The motion was hypnotic: the drag of rubber against skin, the faint sigh of trapped air leaving the cuff.
“Still fits,” Morgan said quietly, tugging the second glove on. “Always does if you take your time.”
Rachel stepped closer. The smell of rain and heat and new rubber filled the narrow space between them. When Morgan lifted a gloved hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from Rachel’s cheek, the contact was cool first, then warm as the touch lingered.
“Tell me what you notice,” Morgan said.
Rachel swallowed. “The sound. The way it holds the air. Like it remembers what touched it.”
Morgan’s eyes flicked down to her own hands, then back up. “It doesn’t forget easily.”
Silence, but not empty. Just rain, the hum of a single light, the quiet slide of rubber fingertips tracing the sleeve of a waxed jacket. Every sound seemed louder: the catch of breath, the faint stick and release as glove met fabric, the soft rhythm that built and broke and built again.
When Morgan finally stepped back, the air felt charged, almost metallic. She peeled the gloves off slowly, the soft pop at the wrist punctuating the hush.
“Still think they’re worth the price?” she asked.
Rachel’s laugh was unsteady. “They’ll pay for themselves.”
“Good,” Morgan said. “Because I’ve got a new shipment coming next week. Different finish. You might want to… compare.”
Rachel nodded, eyes never leaving the gloves on the bench. “I’ll be here.”
Outside, the storm rolled east toward the hills, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and something unspoken.
The rain hadn’t stopped. It had settled into a steady percussion, a private rhythm that followed Rachel all the way back down the lane. Every puddle she hit sounded like memory — the soft slap of rubber, the hiss of water against her boots.
The co-op yard was half-dark, one light burning above the workshop door. Inside, the air smelled of linseed oil, damp timber, and something faintly chemical — the scent that clung to new waterproofs.
Morgan looked up from the workbench. Her hair was pulled back now, wilder from the humidity. The green waders were gone, replaced by jeans tucked into heavy boots, but the black gloves hung nearby, drying on a hook.
“You really came back,” she said.
Rachel shrugged, water dripping off her jacket. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d return the favour — a field test report.”
Morgan smiled, slow and genuine, then reached for the gloves. “They’re dry now.” She turned one over in her hands, flexing it until the rubber creaked. The sound was low, deliberate, like the start of a secret being spoken.
Rachel watched as Morgan slid her hand inside, the glove collapsing, then filling again with shape. The motion was hypnotic: the drag of rubber against skin, the faint sigh of trapped air leaving the cuff.
“Still fits,” Morgan said quietly, tugging the second glove on. “Always does if you take your time.”
Rachel stepped closer. The smell of rain and heat and new rubber filled the narrow space between them. When Morgan lifted a gloved hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from Rachel’s cheek, the contact was cool first, then warm as the touch lingered.
“Tell me what you notice,” Morgan said.
Rachel swallowed. “The sound. The way it holds the air. Like it remembers what touched it.”
Morgan’s eyes flicked down to her own hands, then back up. “It doesn’t forget easily.”
Silence, but not empty. Just rain, the hum of a single light, the quiet slide of rubber fingertips tracing the sleeve of a waxed jacket. Every sound seemed louder: the catch of breath, the faint stick and release as glove met fabric, the soft rhythm that built and broke and built again.
When Morgan finally stepped back, the air felt charged, almost metallic. She peeled the gloves off slowly, the soft pop at the wrist punctuating the hush.
“Still think they’re worth the price?” she asked.
Rachel’s laugh was unsteady. “They’ll pay for themselves.”
“Good,” Morgan said. “Because I’ve got a new shipment coming next week. Different finish. You might want to… compare.”
Rachel nodded, eyes never leaving the gloves on the bench. “I’ll be here.”
Outside, the storm rolled east toward the hills, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and something unspoken.