Stitch. The lore of Sara foxgrave

Sara snatched her shirt first, pulling it over her head with frantic, irritated motions. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her jeans went on next, legs shaking from the cold, fingers fumbling with the zipper.

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, yanking her boots on. “Standing up there like some kind of peepin’ tom forest warden dick whistle.”

“Well,” Bane chuckled, “I was checking my traps on my side of the line, so — not peepin’, not creepin’. Maybe a little bit of game warden. I’ll give you that one.”

She stopped mid‑motion, staring at him. A tiny smile cracked through her irritation — then she wiped it off fast.

“DICK NUTTS!” she hooted, face red.

She stomped past him, dripping lake water onto the leaves, muttering curses the whole way.

Bane didn’t follow — but he did call after her, voice carrying through the willow branches.

“You building a house over there?”

Sara froze for half a second.
Her shoulders tightened.

“Yeah,” she snapped without turning around. “Me, Birdi, and Jeff. Foundation’s in. Why?”

Bane shrugged, hands still in his pockets. “Just noticed the concrete forms last week. Didn’t know it was yours.”

“It is,” she said sharply. “So stay off it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s on the Foxgrave side.”

“Yeah” she shot back. “And whats gonna happing if it aint,? asked

Her voice cracked — not with fear, but with something rawer.
Something she didn’t want him to hear.

Bane didn’t push.
He just nodded once.

“well maybe ill just rebuild too. right next door,” he said quietly. almost mockingly.

Sara muttered something he couldn’t catch — then shouted a final, clear:

“FUCKER!”

before disappearing into the wood-line.

Bane stood there a long moment, staring at the spot where she vanished. He couldn’t understand how he’d never run into her out here before. Couldn’t understand the pull he felt toward her after only meeting her once — and now this. He couldn’t explain why he found her so damn intriguing. The way her piercings caught the light when she scrunched her nose at him made him smile. Something about those muddy brown eyes bothered him in a way he couldn’t name.

He finally turned back toward the trees, finishing his trap checks before heading home.

And for the rest of the walk, he couldn’t shake the image of her cutting through the gray water — fierce, scarred, inked, impossible — something oddly familiar he couldn’t shake.