A Little Titbit about Fergus
Fergus zipped his jeans with one hand and dragged his shirt over his shoulders with the other.
The morning light slanted through the curtains, cutting pale bars across Rose’s skin—porcelain, flushed faintly pink where his hands had been.
Her hair, a pale bubblegum--pink halo, stuck to her cheek as she stirred on the sheets, still hazy with the remnants of last night’s wine and laughter.
He stood for a moment, watching her. He had been too rough with her, not having been home for ten months.
He had come on home leave only to be recalled because they were dangerously short staffed.
She looked too soft for his world of steel and oil rigs, too bright for his rough hands and nights that ended with the smell of diesel still clinging to his skin.
He’d first met her at Euan’s wedding-a blur of whisky, music, and the scent of rain on the grass.
Rose had been the bridesmaid who’d laughed too loudly, danced too freely, and then slipped behind the garden shed with him, her lips tasting faintly of champagne and strawberries.
They hadn’t exchanged promises. Just her number that she had pressed into his sweaty hand and he had binned before he even sobered up.
Three months later, somewhere off the coast, loneliness had started whispering during the night shifts.
The sea didn’t talk back, but he’d remembered the girl with pink hair and the nervous smile.
He’d called Sage, sheepishly, asking for her number.
Sage had been quiet for a long minute while his heart beat like a drum and said she’d need to ask Rose first. Euan had sent it after two days.
And that had been the start of whatever it was between them.
She’d shown up at his hotel without a fuss, in a short yellow sundress which clashed with her hair and a shy smile. They’d spent the weekend tangled in sheets and laughter, and when Monday came, neither had spoken of the next time. But there was always a next time.
No questions. No expectations. Just warm skin, half-drunk kisses, and the soft sighs of a girl who never asked where he went when he left. He didn’t phone or text. She only showed up when he called.
Until now.
Rose sat up, clutching the blanket around her chest. The light caught the faint bruise blooming on her collarbone, and Fergus thought briefly of crawling back into bed, of pressing his lips to that spot again while his fingers wandered under the sheets.
But something in her face made him pause.
Her eyes, blue as sea glass, were steady, not dreamy.
“I can’t meet you anymore,” she said quietly.
He blinked, one boot in his hand. “Why not?”
She hesitated, her fingers twisting the sheet. “Because… I have someone in my life now. And I love him.”
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. The room felt smaller, heavy with the scent of last night and unspoken things. There was something in her eyes, as if she was waiting for …something.
Fergus nodded slowly, setting his boot down. “Alright,” he said.
Just that. No questions, no argument.
He turned toward the door, pulling on his jacket.
He wasn’t sure what he felt—maybe a flicker of regret, though it was faint and easily smothered by habit. Mostly, he felt irritation. Not at her, but at the way the whole thing ended—cleanly, like someone cutting a rope he hadn’t realised was hers to cut as well.
Outside, the morning air bit his skin. He walked toward his truck, the crunch of gravel loud in the silence. She’d been convenient, a soft landing between the long, empty months offshore. And if she’d decided to trade him for something steadier, well—good for her.
He started the engine, his fingers tapping the wheel to an old tune. There were always other towns, other women, other weekends. He wasn’t the kind to be tied down.
But as he drove off, the faint scent of her perfume lingered on his shirt, sweet and stubborn, like the ghost of something he didn’t want to name.