The Scarf
The crisp autumn air clung to Freen's cheeks as she stepped into the Armstrong residence, the familiar scent of vanilla candles mingling with the aroma of freshly baked cookies enveloping her in warmth. The soft glow of the living room lamps cast cozy pools of light, creating an inviting sanctuary from the chilly evening outside.
Becky stood by the doorway, her damp hair tousled and a sweater that seemed a size too large draping over her frame—undoubtedly one of Freen's. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her grin was as radiant as ever.
"You're early," Becky teased, her voice lilting with playful reproach. "I was hoping for a few more minutes to transform into someone who doesn't look like she just rolled out of bed."
Freen chuckled, dropping her bag and closing the distance between them. "I happen to be quite fond of the 'just rolled out of bed' look on you. You look perfect,"
Becky rolled her eyes, though the blush creeping up her neck betrayed her amusement. "You have a peculiar sense of 'perfect,' Babe."
"I know what I like," Freen murmured, wrapping her arms around Becky and pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. "And I like you."
Before their moment could deepen, a jovial voice called from the dining room. "Is that our Freen I hear? Come in here, dear, before the food gets cold!"
Hand in hand, they made their way to the dining room, where Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong awaited. The table was adorned with a hearty spread—roast chicken glistening under the chandelier's glow, bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, and a medley of roasted vegetables emitting an enticing aroma. The clinking of silverware and the soft hum of jazz playing in the background added layers to the warm ambiance.
Mrs. Armstrong beamed as she pulled Freen into a warm embrace. "It's always a pleasure to have you join us, dear."
"Thank you, Mum," Freen replied, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, earning her a delighted squeeze from Mrs. Armstrong.
Mr. Armstrong gestured to the chairs. "Come, sit. Let's enjoy this feast before Becky decides to hoard all the mashed potatoes."
Becky gasped in mock offense. "That happened one time, Dad!"
As they settled in, the meal was punctuated with laughter and light-hearted teasing. Mr. Armstrong, with a twinkle in his eye, recounted, "Remember the time Becky tried to impress us by cooking dinner and nearly set the kitchen ablaze?"
"Dad!" Becky groaned, covering her face. "I thought we agreed to never speak of that again."
Freen smirked, nudging Becky under the table. "I would've paid to see that."
"You would've just added fuel to the fire," Becky shot back, her eyes dancing with mirth.
Under the table, hidden from view, Freen's hand sought Becky's, their fingers intertwining. A gentle squeeze, a silent conversation amidst the familial banter. Becky responded by tracing small circles on Freen's palm with her thumb, sending shivers up her spine.
Mrs. Armstrong, ever observant, couldn't resist. "You two are like teenagers in love. It's endearing."
Becky groaned, "Mum, please."
Freen grinned, leaning in to whisper, "I think it's sweet."
As the evening progressed, the warmth of the meal and the company wrapped around them like a comforting blanket. Dessert was a communal affair, with everyone pitching in to serve slices of homemade apple pie topped with generous scoops of vanilla ice cream.
Between bites, Becky leaned in close to Freen, her breath warm against her ear. "You know," she murmured, "if you keep playing footsie with me under the table, I might just have to retaliate."
Freen raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Their playful exchange didn't go unnoticed. Mr. Armstrong chuckled, "Young love. Just remember, the table might hide your hands, but not your faces."
Both women flushed, sharing a sheepish glance before dissolving into laughter along with the rest of the family.
As the evening wound down, and the last remnants of pie were savored, Freen couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of belonging. In the Armstrong household, amidst the teasing, the shared stories, and the under-the-table hand-holding, she had found a place where she was truly home.
The night mellowed into soft laughter and the quiet clinking of cups as Becky disappeared into the kitchen to brew the tea she'd promised. Freen sank into the living room couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching her legs out like she owned the place—a habit she’d never had to unlearn in the Armstrong home.
The scent of cinnamon and honey hung in the air. The room around her glowed in warm tones—knitted throws casually draped over the armchairs, half-read novels stacked beside a flickering candle, family photos pinned crookedly but lovingly across the wall. It was the kind of mess only love could make.
And then she saw it.
Freen stilled, her gaze drawn to the armrest of the couch where something familiar was carelessly folded—half-hung, like it had been used recently. A slow smile crept across her lips. Her scarf. That faded, woolen red scarf with frayed edges and threads pulled loose by time and memory. She’d left it here weeks ago, forgotten in the rush of another stolen goodbye.
But here it was, nestled like it belonged.
She reached for it, fingers brushing over the soft fabric, worn in all the right places. It still smelled faintly of lavender and... her. Or maybe, now, of Becky.
“Hey, Bec!” Freen called, holding it up like a prize. “Look what I found.”
From the kitchen, Becky peeked around the corner, her eyebrows arching with mock innocence. “What? You mean my scarf?”
Freen chuckled. “Your scarf? Bold of you.”
Becky strode into the room with that practiced smugness that made Freen’s chest ache and flutter all at once. “It’s been here for over a month. That’s practically squatters’ rights. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, babe.”
“Oh really?” Freen smirked, tossing the scarf over her shoulder like a dramatic heroine in a low-budget romance. “So what else of mine have you claimed while I wasn’t looking? My socks? My heart?”
Becky didn't skip a beat. “Well, definitely the heart. The socks were a bonus.”
Freen laughed, eyes dancing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re the one leaving pieces of yourself all over my house,” Becky shot back, gently tugging the scarf from Freen’s shoulder. She held it for a second, then looked down at it like it was something delicate. “But this one... I didn’t want to give back.”
The teasing ebbed for a moment, like a tide pulling back to reveal something softer underneath.
Freen leaned in, her voice quieter now. “Why?”
Becky shrugged, a hint of shyness slipping through her confident mask. “Because it smells like you. Because it’s always the cold nights, and I missed you. And... I don’t know. It made me feel like you were still here.”
Freen swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. “So you’ve just been hoarding my scarf? Sleeping with it? Whispering sweet nothings to it when I’m not around?”
Becky’s face turned adorably pink. “Only on Tuesdays.”
That earned a snort. “You’re a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your dork,” Becky said, eyes soft now, full of something unspoken but undeniably real.
Freen reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind Becky’s ear, her hand lingering just a second longer than it needed to. “I’m starting to think you never planned on giving this back.”
Becky gave her a sheepish grin. “NEVER”
“It’s not just a scarf,” Freen said, her voice gentle now. “My grandma gave it to me before I moved to the city. It’s been with me through every bad winter and heartbreak since.”
Becky paused, gaze flicking down to the scarf in her hands, cradling it like it suddenly weighed more. “Then maybe it’s good it’s here. I mean... not that I plan on breaking your heart or anything—but if I ever do, at least I’ve got your emotional support accessory on hand.”
Freen laughed, then pulled Becky down beside her on the couch. “You’re such an idiot.”
Becky leaned her head on Freen’s shoulder, the scarf resting in her lap. “Yeah. But I’m the idiot who loves your scarf. And all the stories that come with it.”
They sat like that for a moment, the world hushed around them. Outside, wind rustled the leaves, and from the kitchen, the whistle of the tea kettle rose in a soft, familiar note.
“Leave it here,” Freen whispered suddenly, like a decision had clicked into place inside her. “Don’t tuck it away in a drawer. Let it be part of the room. Like it belongs.”
Becky turned to her, surprised. “Are you sure?”
Freen nodded. “It’s nice... knowing it’s here. Even when I’m not. Like a little reminder.”
Becky smiled, a slow, full smile. “I get it. It feels the same for me.”
And just like that, amidst the warmth of the fire, the clink of teacups waiting in the kitchen, and a woolen scarf draped over two hearts who’d quietly chosen each other—Freen knew she wasn’t just visiting.
She was home.
🎶 I walked through the door with you,the air was cold
But somethin' 'bout it felt like home somehow
And I left my scarf there at your sister's house
And you've still got it in your drawer, even now......🎶
P.S. How was it??
I couldn’t stay away from you all for long… so here it is—another story for you to walk through with me. Let's start shall we ? ;)
Still debating whether I should put a warning here or not... (soft-hearted souls, proceed with caution—I can’t promise it’ll be gentle, okay? Read at your own risk 🥲)
But hey, we’ve been through worse, haven’t we? You survived my very first story, so I think you’ll make it through this one too... maybe. 😉
Forgive me in advance for all the angst.
Okay bye.