The blare of a cheap microphone sliced through cicada chirps and the synth-pop thrumming from the town square's seaside stage. Delancy Vance, nestled on a soft pile of burlap sacks behind a pretzel stand, barely twitched. Her latest nap, a delicate affair involving a half-eaten candied apple and a particularly vivid dream about a cloud made of marzipan, had been rudely interrupted. “Citizens of Velvet Cove!” A voice, sharp as a freshly filed nail and entirely too familiar, shrieked into the mic. “My name is Pru Vance! And I am here tonight to announce my personal declaration of independence!” Delancy sighed, a sound barely audible over the din of the crowd. Pru. Of course. Her sister’s ‘declarations’ were a bi-weekly affair, usually involving a new diet or a dramatic re-evaluation of their shared wardrobe. This felt… bigger. More theatrical. And definitely louder. She cracked one eye open. The pavilion square, usually a neon kaleidoscope advertising ‘Velocity Vistas’ and ‘Grit-Gain Gyms’, was packed shoulder to shoulder. All eyes were fixed on the stage, where Pru, resplendent in a borrowed sequin jumpsuit, was striking a pose that suggested she was about to either belt out a power ballad or declare war on a small nation. Probably both. “For too long,” Pru continued, her voice warbling with manufactured indignation, “I have been held back! Dragged down by the dead weight of… *laziness*!” Her gaze, pinpointed and venomous, found Delancy even amidst the crowd, piercing the thin veil of burlap. “My own sister, Delancy Vance, is a parasite! A slothful impediment to progress, a drain on ambition, a stain on the very spirit of Velvet Cove!” A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd. Delancy merely shifted, tucking her chin more comfortably into her shoulder. Parasite? Slothful impediment? She hadn’t heard such glowing praise since Aunt Hestia had called her ‘a perfectly still, unbothered statue of domestic bliss’ last week. It was almost poetic. She closed her eye again, the marzipan cloud beckoning. “But no more!” Pru shrieked, slamming a fist onto a nearby crate. “I, Pru Vance, have seen the future! I know what’s coming! While others chase false promises, I will marry into the wealthiest family in this city! I will secure my destiny, and I will do it alone! Consider yourself, Delancy Vance, officially… *dumped*!” The word ‘dumped’ echoed strangely, followed by a beat of stunned silence, then a confused scattering of applause. Delancy, however, felt a profound yawn stretch her jaw. Dumped? From what, exactly? Their shared inheritance, which Pru spent every waking hour trying to multiply, and Delancy spent every waking hour trying to avoid thinking about? The thought was exhausting. As the yawn peaked, her half-opened eyes caught a glimpse of something glorious. Past the throng of gaping onlookers, tucked beside a sputtering popcorn cart and a stall hawking greasy ‘turbo-burgers’, rested a vision. A swinging sling. Not just any sling, but a vintage plush masterpiece, a deep, bruised amethyst color, fringed with gold tassels. It looked impossibly soft, inviting, like a cloud woven from royal dreams. It looked… divine. Vaughn Mercer, the town’s notoriously broke mechanic, stood beside it, his broad shoulders hunched, his hands smudged with what looked like a permanent layer of engine grease. He looked utterly out of place, a grit-stained anomaly amidst the neon glow and the frantic 'hustle' of the festival. He was polishing a wrench with a rag, oblivious to Pru’s dramatic exit from the stage, his dark hair falling over his brow as he stared intently at the tool. The swinging couch, clearly his, was the only thing of value he seemed to possess. Delancy’s marzipan cloud vanished, replaced by an urgent objective. That swinging couch was her entire future. Pru could keep her grand ambition and rich heirs; Delancy wanted those amethyst cushions. She unravelled herself from the burlap sacks with sudden swiftness, possessed by a profound desire for horizontal luxury. She weaved through the still-buzzing crowd, ignoring Pru’s scandalized gasps as her sister spotted her escaping the scene of public humiliation. Delancy didn't care. The purple tassels beckoned. She stopped in front of Vaughn, who looked up, startled, a smear of black grease highlighting one cheekbone. He was taller than she’d expected, and his oil-stained work shirt stretched taut across a surprisingly muscled frame. A good frame for carrying things. And people. “You,” Delancy stated, pointing a finger at him, then at the plush swing. “Me. Marriage. Now. That sling is non-negotiable.” Vaughn blinked. He looked from her, a slip of a girl with sleepy eyes and a single-minded intensity, to the hammock, then back to her. A slow, stunned smile spread across his greasy face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You… you want to marry me? For my furniture?” he asked, amusement rumbling in his low voice. “Yes,” Delancy confirmed, already picturing herself stretched out on the velvet, a gentle breeze rocking her into oblivion. “It’s flawless. It’s glorious. I need it for my retirement.” The crowd quieted, drawn by the sudden proposal. Pru, having descended from the stage, was now pushing through the onlookers, her face a mask of furious disbelief. “Delancy Vance! Have you lost your mind? You’re proposing to a *mechanic*? A broke one, at that! I just denounced you as a parasite, and you respond by—” “She’s brave,” Vaughn interrupted, his gaze fixed solely on Delancy. His smile widened, transforming his usually guarded expression into something genuinely smitten. “Facing down public humiliation, seeing what she wants, and going for it. That’s… that’s incredible.” He tossed the wrench onto a nearby crate. “Yes. I accept. My hammock, my shop, my last name, they’re all yours, Miss Vance.” Before Pru could launch into another tirade, Vaughn scooped Delancy up, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She let out a sharp squeak but settled quickly, finding his shoulder a solid pillow. He moved with a speed that belied his earlier lethargy, carrying her through the gaping crowd, leaving Pru sputtering incoherently in their wake, her perfectly coiffed hair askew. “Where are we going?” Delancy murmured, already half-asleep against his chest. “Home,” Vaughn rumbled, his voice deep and warm. “To Mercer’s yard.” Mercer’s Garage and Scrapyard was exactly as advertised: a grease-stained, chaotic wonderland of rusted metal and half-dismantled engines, nestled beneath a sputtering neon sign that read ‘MERCER’S MOTORS & MORE’. It reeked of oil and exhaust, a symphony of industrious neglect. Yet, somehow, amidst the grime, a space had been cleared. And in that space, now tied firmly between two steel beams, swung the amethyst lounger. Delancy was gently deposited into it. The plush fabric was softer than she’d imagined, wrapping around her shoulders like a heavy quilt. She sank into its depths, a sigh of pure contentment escaping her lips. This was it. This was everything. She had achieved her life’s ambition at eighteen. Retirement. “Nap room is in the back, soundproofed,” Vaughn said, watching her with that soft, smitten expression. “But I figured you’d want to break in the main feature first.” He gestured to the surrounding chaos. “It’s a bit of a mess now, but I have plans. Big plans. You just rest.” Delancy barely heard him, already drifting. The hum of the workshop and distant clinking tools faded into a pleasant white noise. She was almost fully succumbed to the sweet embrace of slumber when a new voice, honey-sweet and cloying, broke through the haze. “Delancy, darling! My precious lamb! I heard the most unbelievable rumors at the festival, but I rushed right over! You poor dear, you must be utterly exhausted from all that… excitement.” Aunt Hestia, their maternal guardian, stood framed in the garage doorway, a picture of benevolent concern. Her silver curls were set in rigid hairspray, her floral dress impeccably pressed. In her hand, she held a steaming mug, its aroma vaguely herbal and sickly sweet. She smiled, a practiced, gentle curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I brought you a special sleepy tea, my love. Just what you need after such a trying evening.” As she stepped further into the garage, another item became visible in her other hand. A pristine, legal-looking document. A contract. Delancy, blinking through heavy eyelids, made out the bold header: ‘DEED OF TRANSFER – VANCE ESTATE, HALF-SHARE’.

The Proposal and the Parasite