The morning of October 25, 2025, draped Little Knobton in a soft autumn light, the hills of Midlingtonshire aglow with russet and gold. In the heart of the village, Emma Pritchard’s stone cottage stood as a quiet anchor, its ownership secured through Samantha’s triumph in the divorce. Inside, the front room hummed with the warmth of a low fire, its crackle a counterpoint to the murmur of voices. Emma, mid-60s and sprightly, sat in her favorite armchair, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, a cup of tea cooling in her hands. Across from her, on the worn sofa, Bert Pritchard, her husband of forty-two years, leaned forward, his wiry frame hunched, his weathered face etched with lines of worry. At 68, his hands, calloused from decades of tending sheep, rested on his knees, fidgeting as he spoke.
The cottage was theirs in spirit, if not on paper, a sanctuary amid the village’s upheavals. Today, as Samantha supervised her move from Charles’s manor half a mile away, Emma and Bert reflected on the past year, the battle over Farn Hollow, the planning meeting’s victory, and the new, smaller development Charles had proposed in its wake.
“It’s a win, Em,” Bert said, his voice gravelly but tinged with unease. “Four hundred and fifty houses down to sixty, bloody hell, we stopped a flood in its tracks. Your questions at that meeting, the photos, Samantha turnin’ on him, it worked.”
Emma nodded, her eyes tracing the familiar knots in the wooden beams overhead. “Aye, it did. Richard’s pictures, Deborah’s data, the village coming together like I’ve never seen. Samantha keepin’ the properties, that’s a godsend. This place,” She patted the armrest. stays ours, thanks to her.”
Bert grunted, shifting. “Still don’t sit right, though. Sixty houses ain’t nothin’. Charles’ll sneak more in, mark my words. He’s got that backer, Vaughn, wasn’t it? They’ll creep up, year by year. Change is comin’, Em, and I don’t like it.”
She set her tea down, studying him. Bert had always been the steady one, a taciturn shepherd who’d weathered storms literal and figurative, but change gnawed at him. The evicted farmers, the carbon offset sham, now this scaled-back scheme, it chipped at the village he’d known since boyhood. “What’s troublin’ you most?” she asked, voice soft.
He rubbed his jaw, gray stubble rasping under his fingers. “It’s the land, ain’t it? Sheep’s been our life, mine, my dad’s, his dad’s. Now it’s all houses and trees that don’t get planted. Even sixty’s too many, cuts into the pasture, shifts the river. I see it in the flock, less space, more stress. And us? We’re gettin’ old, Em. What’s left when it’s all different?”
Emma rose, crossing to him, her movements deliberate despite the faint ache in her knees. She sat beside him, her hand finding his, their fingers lacing, a ritual as old as their marriage. “Some things don’t change, Bert,” she said, her tone a balm. “The hills’ll stand long after us. And this,” She squeezed his hand, her hazel eyes locking with his faded blue. our love, it’s bedrock. No development can touch that.”
He exhaled, a slow release, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”
She smiled, a flicker of mischief in it. “Been practicin’ forty-two years. Come on, She tugged him up, her grip firm. “Let’s take this upstairs. Been too long since we had a proper mornin’.”
Bert’s brows lifted, a rare grin cracking his stern face. “Mornin’? That’s an evening thing, woman.”
“Not today,” she said, leading him to the narrow stairs. “Today’s ours.”
The bedroom was a haven of memory, floral wallpaper faded by time, a sturdy oak bed with a quilt Emma’s mother had sewn, a window overlooking the hills. The curtains were open, October light spilling across the floorboards, and Emma closed the door behind them, the click a quiet promise. Bert stood by the bed, hesitant, his shepherd’s practicality warring with the stir of desire her words had sparked.
She stepped close, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the familiar planes beneath his flannel shirt. “Been ages since we did this in daylight,” she murmured, unbuttoning him slow, her fingers steady. “Too busy savin’ the village, I reckon.”
He chuckled, a low rumble, his hands settling on her hips. “You’re the hero, Em. I just grumbled.”
“Grumble all you like,” she said, peeling the shirt off, revealing his lean torso, still wiry, though softer now, silver hair dusting his chest. “I’ll hush you up.”
She kissed him, gentle at first, lips brushing his, dry, chapped from wind, but hers all the same. He deepened it, tentative then sure, his tongue tracing hers, a slow dance of rediscovery. Her sweater came off next, then her blouse, her bra, a simple cotton thing, until she stood bare from the waist up, her small breasts soft in the morning glow, nipples tightening under his gaze. He cupped them, thumbs circling, and she sighed, a sound of contentment that warmed the room.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, voice rough with awe, and she smiled, guiding his hands lower, shedding her trousers, her panties, standing naked before him, her body marked by time, stretch marks and scars, but strong, hers, his.
“Your turn,” she said, tugging his jeans down, boxers with them, his cock stirring, half-hard, thick with age but eager under her touch. She stroked him, slow and light, feeling him swell, and he groaned, pulling her to the bed.
They sank onto the quilt, side by side, her leg draping over his, their kisses unhurried, lips, necks, shoulders, a map of decades traced with care. She rolled atop him, straddling his thighs, her hands on his chest as she guided him inside her, slow, deliberate, a gentle stretch that made her breath catch. He filled her, not urgent but deep, a quiet claiming, and she paused, savoring the connection, their eyes locked.
“Love you, Em,” he said, hands on her hips, and she began to move, slow rolls, a sensual sway, her body rocking against his. The bed creaked, a soft rhythm, and she leaned down, kissing him, her breasts brushing his chest as she rode him with a tenderness that belied the years. He thrust up, matching her, gentle but firm, each motion a whisper of their bond.
She felt it build, warmth coiling low, a gentle tide, and let it come, her climax soft, a ripple that trembled through her, her sigh muffled against his lips. He watched her, eyes bright, and kept moving, hands roaming her back, her ass, urging her on. She shifted, angling deeper, and came again, slower, sweeter, a wave that left her gasping, her fingers curling into his shoulders.
“Bert,” she breathed, and he rolled them, settling atop her, missionary now, his weight a comfort, his thrusts steady, sensual, drawing out her pleasure. She wrapped her legs around him, heels pressing his back, and he kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, their breaths mingling as he neared his edge. She clenched around him, a third orgasm blooming, quiet, profound and he followed, a low groan as he spilled inside her, warm and familiar, his body shuddering against hers.
They lay there, entwined, the morning light painting them gold, their breathing a shared rhythm. She traced his face, his stubble, his laugh lines, and he kissed her palm, a silent vow.
“Some things don’t change,” he murmured, echoing her earlier words, and she smiled, nestling closer.
“No,” she agreed. “Not us.”
Outside, the village hummed, Samantha’s van departing, Charles and Sheila forging their path, the sixty-house plan a shadow on the horizon. Emma and Bert stayed in bed, the world beyond their window a distant murmur, their love a timeless bond amid Little Knobton’s shifting tides.
Farn Hollow 
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