Y/n steps out of her car, examining the old, rusting sign on the red barn before her.

She walks into the barn, the dead grass crunching beneath her shoes. A man sits at a desk, writing something down. He doesn't look up at first.

Y/n clears her throat.

The man looks up, clearly frustrated with being interrupted.

"Hi, I'm looking for Thomas Hewitt?"

The man sighs, pointing to the back.

"He's in there."

You nod, passing him to the door.

"He doesn't talk, you know. You're not gonna get anything out of talking to that diseased freak."

Y/n ignores the comment, walking into the back room. The room is big, with a small set of stairs leading to a pit. There's blood stains on the walls, and the smell of raw meat is strong, making her stomach churn.

As she approaches the pit, she hears something slamming down over and over again. As she turns the corner she freezes.

Before her is a huge man. Probably 6'5, maybe 280-300 pounds. His blood stained sleeves are rolled up around his large biceps. He brings a cleaver down on a table of meat over and over again. Violently.

Y/n's heart jumps out of its cavity when she accidentally kicks a meat hook on the floor, sending it across the room with a metallic clank.

The man stops mid swing, cleaver high in the air. He turns to Y/n, an unreadable expression on his face.

freezes when he sees the woman.

"Are you Thomas Hewitt? You're mother sent me."

After a pause, he nods, putting the cleaver down on the table.

"Hi, I'm Y/n. I'm a mask maker who just opened shop in town. Luda asked me to make you a custom one. Is that fine with you?"

Thomas doesn't respond. He only watches as she sets down her bag and pulls out a card.

"She gave me this business card. Said if I made you a mask, you could give me some meat. Beef, I mean." She coughs.

Thomas takes the card from her outstretched hand. He doesn't bother looking at it.

"Would you be all right with me measuring you?"

She's met with silence. Thomas shuffles his feet, avoiding eye contact. He's itching to go back to cutting the meat, feeling frustrated from being interrupted.

Y/n doesn't wait for a response. She gives a lopsided grin.

"Do you have a chair or something? I can't reach your face from down here." She says, opening up her bag. Inside, Thomas can see sowing needles and measuring tape.

He notices a pair of leather gloves on her hands as she pulls out the measuring tape.

He steps back and pulls up a chair, giving in. Y/n steps up to him. He's still a good inch taller than her. Thomas's heart accelerates as she looks up at him through her eyelashes.

He's suddenly incredibly nervous to have someone up close in his face. He avoids looking at her, hyper aware of the low dipping collar of her tank top. His finger taps on the chair's arm.

Y/n glances at it before looking back at his face.

"I'm gonna need you to take off that mask, Thomas."

His finger stops tapping. He doesn't move an inch.

She wants him to take off the mask? She's gonna ridicule him, or turn away in disgust. He should've known. This was all a farce, she came here to make fun of him. His mother didn't send her for shit.

Y/n clears her throat, rubbing her neck nervously. She must notice the change in Thomas's nature. She steps back, her shaking fingers fluttering to the wrist of her glove.

She stops for a moment, as if to consider something, before removing both gloves. She raises her hands to Thomas, turning them so he can see both sides.

From her wists to her finger tips, scars slice through her skin. They're aged, but still a brutal red. Some fingers are puffy, one is cut in half. Her skin looks rough. Thomas thought that if he were to reach out and touch them, they'd feel leathery. Or maybe scaley, like a lizard. He clasps his hands together in his lap at the thought of holding them.

"Brutal, right? I was in an accident three years ago. They're healed and functioning now, but they're real ugly. Makes me self conscious, so I wear gloves all the time." Y/n says, pulling the leather gloves back on.

Thomas watches her hands as she pulls the gloves down, concealing the impurities from him. She turns back, a lopsided smile on her face.

"I showed you mine. Now, show me yours."

Thomas looks from her hands to her face. She's serious.

He lifts his hands to his ears, pulling the mask away. The butcher holds his breathe, waiting for her to say something disgusting about his scars, or his nose. What's left of it, anyway.

To his surprise, the mask maker says nothing. She doesnt even stare, or frown. She grabs the tape measurer and reaches up, grabbing his face softly.

His breathe shudders in his throat. Her gloved fingers trace the length of his jaw softly. Nobody has ever been so close to him and touched him so softly. Nobody other than his mother looked upon him and thought nothing wrong of him.

A noise escapes his throat, and Y/n flinches.

"Sorry, I should've warned you. I'm gonna start touching your face now, all right?"

Thomas nods slowly. Y/n continues.

She turns his head to the left, putting the tape from his ear to his chin.

"Do you want a full face, or half? I can do something lower half like that medical mask."

He can feel her breathe on his face. She's only inches away, eyeing the measurements.

Thomas points a meaty finger at the medical mask on the table. Y/n nods.

"You don't have to talk, pointing and stuff is fine."

As she examines the length from his nose to his jaw, she bites her lower lip. Her teeth tease the soft skin into a dark pink. When she releases it, it bounces back plumply.

Thomas's breathe catches in his throat. He forcibly peels his eyes from her lips to anything else.

"Four inches. . ." She mutters to herself. She grabs his head and turns it the other way. Thomas savors the feeling of her leather fingers fluttering across his skin. He wants to close his eyes and lean in, but doesn't want to scare y/n off.

"Finished. You can stand up, now. Or stay sitting. Whatever you like." She backs away and turns back to her bag. She pulls out 3 squares of material.

"I have a few samples of material here. Which do you prefer?"

Thomas reaches out and feels them. The first one is smooth satin. The second a cozy wool. The third is paper identical to the one of the mask he was previously wearing.

Thomas thinks for a moment, before deciding. He points at Y/n's gloves.

". . . leather? Sure, I can make you a leather mask. Any specific reason?"

Thomas shakes his head. He wasn't going to tell her that he chose it because he wanted the mask to feel like her gloved hands caressing his face.

She nods, packing her things up.

Thomas puts an assortment of meat in a bag and she takes it.

"Thanks, Thomas. I'll have the mask ready for you in a week. It was nice meeting you."

She turns and walks through the door, leaving Thomas to watch her leave. He notes how her hips swing when she walks. His face warms up, his pulse still thumping away in his ears.

With shaky hands, he turns back to the meat on the table. He starts chopping, Y/n still plaguing his thoughts.

is very conscious of the butcher watching her as she leaves. She closes the door behind her and passes the man at the desk without saying a thing. He doesn't acknowledge her either, and she's fine with that.

She hasn't forgotten his comment about Thomas Hewitt being a "diseased freak." Her short time with the butcher had her thinking about a darker place.

It reminded Y/n of her own low self esteem. Her issues with people looking upon her mangled hands, and the tears she'd cry every night when people wouldn't stop staring and talking about them.

The man at the desk no doubt would say the same thing about Thomas to her if he had seen what was beneath the gloves.

She slams the car door shut, starting up the car. The radio crackles to life, before dying out. She gives it a good slap, and. . . Nope, busted. She gives a frustrated sigh, before pulling out of the factory parking lot.

She doesn't know why she showed Thomas her hands. Actually, she does. It was a spontaneous decision, she had gotten nervous when the man looked angry at her for asking him to remove his mask.

In that moment, she thought that maybe if he knew she related in a way, he would calm down. And he did.

Taking off her gloves made her feel so naked. Her heart had done a crescendo in her ears, and his eyes on her scars made her want to turn and run. She refused to take her gloves off around even Laura, her closest friend.

She regretted it, but the job was already done. Successfully, too. She could now go home and throw the meat on the grill.

Suddenly, the radio springs to life, making y/n jump in her seat. A wonderful orchestra cries through the speaker. She recognizes the peice immediately.

"Air, Holberg suite. Edvard Greig. " She mutters outloud.

The cello emerges through the other strings with a solo. Y/n's hands grip the wheel. She slaps the radio, killing the sound.