Gauntlets to the pub

[Countryman107]

The rain had followed them down from the hills, soft as mist now, beading on their sleeves and pooling on the toes of their boots. The old pub at the crossroads was half-empty, fire low but steady. Steam lifted from their jackets as they stepped inside, the smell of wet wool, turf smoke, and hops filling the space.

They found a small table by the window. Outside, the rain blurred the glass like frost.

Morgan set down her cap and gloves — the same black gauntlets, folded neatly beside her pint. “Didn’t think we’d need these today,” she said, glancing at them.

Rachel smiled, tugging at the strap of her red raincoat. “You always bring them.”

“Force of habit.” Morgan’s fingers rested on the edge of one glove, tracing the embossed seam. “They remind me to be prepared.”

Rachel watched her hand, the gloved silhouette still visible in memory — the sound it made, the sheen. She sipped her drink. “You treat them like old friends.”

“Reliable ones,” Morgan said, eyes flicking up. “They don’t talk much, but they hold their shape.”

The words hung between them. Rain ticked against the window. The pub’s low music hummed around the edges of their silence.

Rachel leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And when they’re off?”

Morgan’s smile was almost imperceptible. She reached for the gloves, the faint rubbery scent catching the warmth of the fire. “That’s when you find out what’s underneath.”

For a moment, neither moved. The tension wasn’t sharp anymore, just steady — a current that hummed beneath the surface. The storm outside had calmed, but the room still felt charged, like static waiting for a spark.

Rachel broke the gaze first, glancing toward the window, then back. “You’re hard to read, Morgan.”

“Good,” she said, voice low. “Means I’m doing something right.”

They finished their drinks slowly, the conversation wandering to ordinary things — farm deliveries, seed trials, the next clear day. But every small movement carried the same awareness: a brush of hands when passing the glasses, a pause too long when folding their coats.

When they finally stood to leave, the fire popped behind them. Morgan picked up the gauntlets, holding them by the cuffs. “Forecast says more rain tomorrow,” she said.

Rachel met her eyes, steady. “Then I guess I’ll need a proper demonstration.”

Outside, the rain began again, fine and relentless. They stepped into it together, hoods up, boots sinking softly into the gravel. The light from the pub window faded behind them, but the rhythm of their footsteps matched — even, deliberate, unspoken.

[wetrainwear]

Can't wait for the next installment.