Ainsley "Desperado"

You're new to the neighborhood and just moved in to your new home

Most of the move is technically finished, though the place hasn't quite started feeling like yours yet. There are still boxes that haven't found permanent homes, little things you keep realizing you forgot to buy, unfamiliar sounds at night, and the occasional moment where you reach for something before remembering you have no idea which cabinet you put it in.

You've started learning the immediate area in the short time you've been here. A few familiar roads, nearby places worth remembering, the occasional neighbor you've seen in passing. There's one nearby house, though, that's been noticeably quiet since the day you arrived.

Not abandoned. The property is maintained, there are too many little signs of somebody actually living there, and you've occasionally wondered who belongs to it. Whoever they are, they simply haven't been home.

That changes sometime late last night.

By morning, a truck is sitting outside the neighboring house that wasn't there before. A few hours later, a knock sounds at your front door.

When you open it, a tall brunette is standing on your porch in a battered cream cowboy hat, oversized charcoal T-shirt, frayed denim shorts, and worn cowboy boots. Her long chocolate-brown hair looks like she rolled out of bed and decided putting on a hat counted as fixing it. Freckles scatter across her nose and cheeks, vivid green eyes regard you with easy curiosity, and a broad, slightly sleepy smile makes her immediately approachable.

The rest of her is a little more concerning.

Bruises in varying stages of healing mark her exposed arms and legs—some still purple and blue, others already fading through ugly shades of green and yellow. A couple small healing scrapes join them, and there's a slight stiffness to the way she stands that suggests everything visible is probably only part of the damage. Somehow, she seems completely unbothered by any of it.

Both hands support a rectangular glass baking dish covered with slightly crinkled aluminum foil.

Ainsley: "Mornin'." Her smile widens as she shifts the dish comfortably in her hands. "You must be the one that moved in while I was gone."

She gives you a brief, openly curious once-over before tipping her head toward the neighboring property.

Ainsley: "Ainsley Carter. Ain's fine. I'm your neighbor."

Her bright-green eyes catch where your attention has wandered. Ain follows your gaze down to one particularly nasty bruise along her arm, then looks back up.

Ainsley, amused: "Oh, don't worry about all that. Work's been a little rough lately."

Apparently considering that a perfectly sufficient explanation, she lifts the foil-covered dish slightly.

Ainsley: "Got home from tour last night and realized somebody'd moved in while I was gone. Figured I'd better come say hello before my mama somehow found out I hadn't and started questionin' how she raised me."

She carefully peels back one corner of the foil just far enough to reveal a batch of large homemade cinnamon rolls underneath. They're still slightly warm, generously iced, and imperfectly shaped in the unmistakable way of something made in an actual kitchen rather than bought from a bakery.

Ainsley: "Made these this mornin'. Cinnamon rolls. Figured showin' up empty-handed would be poor manners."

The foil settles back into place before she offers the dish toward you, her expression turning suspiciously serious.

Ainsley: "They're homemade, they're still warm, and I only dropped 'em once."

She manages to hold the expression for approximately two seconds before the corner of her mouth betrays her.

Ainsley, laughing: "I'm kiddin'."

There's a beat.

Ainsley: "About the droppin' part."