The Meat Plaza and the Credit

The city of Fallowfield

6:00 AM

There were days when Samantha found it hard to believe she was already thirty, or that the world could be so small and so vast all at once. In her dreams, she was still that young girl who thought herself terribly important—the star pupil who believed the world's problems could be solved with a clipboard and a box of pencils. But the morning light always brought a sharp reminder: she was just an ordinary sow, struggling to keep herself and twelve orphans afloat for one more day.

Being "Mother Samantha," the sole caretaker of the orphanage, kept her busy enough that she usually collapsed before her head even hit the pillow. Sometimes her own stomach would growl in protest—but that was nobody's business but her own. For the past three months, the government had faced a funding crisis, and the orphanage’s checks had stopped coming. Samantha survived by dancing through a minefield of debts, IOUs, and deferred payments. She spent her nights writing letters: pleas for grants from associations and, of course, stern demands for the money the state owed her.

The thing she needed most, always, was meat.

The city’s market for game and livestock was known as the "Meat Plaza." It was governed by the Hunters Association, and most of the vendors were hunters themselves.

Merchants crowded beneath canvas stalls and makeshift shacks, standing on cobblestones that remained perpetually cold and damp. Samantha preferred the market at the crack of dawn, before the sun could burn the mist off the pavement. The others—the ones who whispered behind her back about the "debtor sow"—tended to sleep in. That was her advantage.

Joshua’s stall was a dim outpost on the far corner of the market, tucked under a sign that read: “Tried and Trusted since 1809.” Samantha had read those words so often she heard them in her dreams, spoken in his voice—that playful, cunning tone. Whenever she began to suspect him of something, he would simply play dumb.

As adults, they crossed paths occasionally around town, but they never spoke. Samantha saw him, and she knew he saw her, even if Joshua always maintained an air of stoic indifference.

They had only started speaking again recently, out of necessity. Samantha needed to feed the children. And so, they spoke as business partners.

Samantha adjusted her red hood. It wasn’t the bright red of her youth; she had traded it for a deep maroon, more fitting for her age. She wore a faded white cotton dress cinched with a grey apron, speckled here and there with the faint handprints of children.

She could feel his gaze as she approached. The way his eyes lingered a second too long made her heart hammer a warning against her ribs. She told herself it was only because she had to ask for credit again.

Joshua wore an old work vest of heavy canvas, stained with grease and dried blood. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows. The morning chill made the fur at the nape of his neck stand on end, making him look larger and more dangerous than she remembered. He never looked away when she was near. There was no malice in his eyes, but they were far too direct.

It felt as though he always wanted something from her.

Samantha hesitated for a moment before his wooden counter, forcing herself to stick to her mental script. She would ask about the weather, the price of ox tongue, or the latest rumors from the woods. He would grunt, huff, or roll his eyes, but never in a way that truly stung. She would hand him her list, and he would find a way to fulfill it, even when he shouldn't.

Today, she had nothing to offer but a promise to pay next week. It was shameful, but she had to say it. She reminded herself that if you say something often enough, it becomes familiar—like a stone caught in your shoe.

Joshua was stacking wooden crates when she stepped up. The air between them thickened with the scent of raw meat and salt; the musk of the wild and a certain, undeniable chemistry.

Joshua didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Had it hard, then?" he asked, his eyes dropping to her hands.

She tried to stop her fingers from fidgeting. "You could say that." She handed him the order list, the paper soft and frayed from being folded too many times. "If you can spare it. If not—"

He cut her off by plucking the list from her hand. The wolf’s fingertips brushed against hers.

Joshua turned toward the back of the stall immediately. "No one else is up this early," he said. "Not even the crows." It was intended as a compliment—or at least a way of telling her she wasn't doing anything wrong.

He worked fast—too fast for her to protest. Two large haunches of meat, a bundle of sausages, and marrow bones for stew. He wrapped each piece in wax paper and tied them with twine, arranging them in her basket with a deliberate, focused care.

When she reached for the basket, his large paw clamped down on her wrist. Not hard, but with undeniable intent.

"I wouldn't do this for anyone else... but for you, I’ll make an exception." he said, his voice so low she could barely hear him.

She felt the heat radiating from his hand, the rough texture of his pads pressing against her skin. She looked up and found him already watching her. His pupils were blown wide, his yellow eyes darkened to a deep amber.

Samantha forced a smile—the same smile she used to beg for credit at the general store—but it didn't work here. She felt her pulse thrumming in the corner of her mouth, and not out of fear. Her heart knew Joshua would never hurt her.

She felt a thrill. It was as if Joshua were playing a game she hadn't anticipated. A game that made the exhaustion of motherhood vanish for a moment; a game that made her feel like that little piglet he had led out of the forest all those years ago.

"I’d do anything for you, for this kindness," she whispered.

He smirked, baring a glimpse of teeth. "You certainly will. And you’re going to enjoy it, too."

Samantha wanted to bite her tongue after having such a dirty thought. She was a proper sow, raised on the traditions of her people. Pigs did not date or marry outside their own kind.

Joshua let go of her hand. she quickly tucked it under her shawl, hoping he couldn't feel the tremor in it.

She wanted to say more—Thank you, or I will pay you back, or I can't keep taking from you like this—but the words died before they reached her lips.

Instead, she said, "The children love your meat. It’s the freshest and most delicious I’ve ever bought."

Joshua shrugged. "My meat is always the best." He leaned in closer. "Especially certain ‘cuts’ of mine."

Samantha flushed all the way down to her collar.

Joshua acted as though he hadn't said anything untoward. He leaned his elbows on the counter. "Next time," he said, "Bring whatever you like to pay me with."

Her eyes widened. "Anything?"

"Anything," he countered, licking his lips slowly and purposefully. "Surprise me."

Samantha tried to find a clever retort, but all she could think of was the memory of him carrying her out of the woods. Her face burned, and her voice came out softer than she intended. "I'll... I'll think about it."

He smiled but said nothing more. She lifted her basket, and this time, he didn't try to stop her.

The morning seemed brighter on the streets. The crowds were thickening, the city waking with a roar. Samantha gripped her basket tight and walked fast, eyes glued to the ground. She was acutely aware of the fabric of her dress rubbing against her thighs, and his words still echoed in her ears.

As she moved away from the stall, she could still feel his eyes on her. A lingering heat on her back followed her all the way home.

Back at the orphanage, the children were still asleep—except for Rudy, a little fox cub, who sat by the entrance with wide eyes, pretending he hadn't been listening for her footsteps. She rubbed his ears gently and told him to wake the others before taking the basket into the kitchen.

She unwrapped the meat slowly, appreciating the clean cuts and the vibrant red of the fresh flesh. She imagined Joshua’s hands and the way he handled the blade—careful, unhurled, knowing exactly where to apply pressure. She found herself imagining those same hands around her waist... or higher. Hands that were strong against her skin.

She scolded herself, though not very convincingly. They could never be together, but she found she rather liked the way his words teased her.

She chopped, simmered, and stirred, playing the part of the perfect cook and the perfect mother. By mid-morning, the kitchen was filled with steam and the savory aroma of soup. Her children swarmed the table, eyes bright and mouths watering.

She ladled out heaping bowls, letting them eat until they were full. When she finally sat down, she found she had no appetite. She watched them laugh and slurp their broth, wondering if these children would ever know a love that was beautiful and free.

In the quiet after the meal, Samantha lingered by the window, looking out at the green grass of the playground. The world outside looked softer than before. The mist was gone. Somewhere out there, Joshua was cutting meat, wrapping bundles, and doing business with a world that never truly knew him.

She wondered if he was thinking of her, too. And in what way? Was she just another debt to be collected, or was she something else entirely?