The air in Glasgow was thick with the scent of fresh bread, damp cobblestones, and the sharp tang of fish from the market stalls. The street thrummed with life—vendors hollering their wares, shopping trolleys rattling like a percussion section, and the ever-present Glaswegian chatter slicing through the din. Amidst it all, Sharon Duffy strode down the pavement like she owned every cracked slab of it. At 58, she was a force of nature—voluptuous curves wrapped in a tartan shawl, grey-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that dared a single strand to misbehave, and a pair of sharp blue eyes that could cut through bullshit faster than a butcher’s cleaver.
“Oi, Jimmy, ye tryin’ tae flog me them manky carrots again?” she barked at a wiry vendor with a face like a slapped arse. “I’ve seen better veg in a skip, ye cheeky bastard!”
Jimmy grinned, unfazed, tossing a carrot in the air. “Ach, Sharon, ye’ve got a tongue sharper than ma granny’s knitting needles. Take ‘em for half price, then—only cos I fancy a wee smile from ye.”
“Half price? Ye’ll gie me ‘em for free if ye know what’s good for ye,” she shot back, snatching the bag with a smirk. “And keep yer flirty patter for someone who’s no’ old enough tae be yer ma.”
The crowd around her chuckled, parting like the Red Sea as she moved on, her presence a gravitational pull. But then, her gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone—slumped in an electric wheelchair near a fruit stall. A lad, early 30s, with a mop of dark hair and a face that looked like it hadn’t seen a proper laugh in years. Thomas. Her Thomas. The wee scamp she’d taught back in the day, all gangly limbs and cheeky grins, now looking like a lost pup in the middle of this mad market.
Their eyes locked, and a spark of recognition flared. His lips twitched into a half-smile, and Sharon felt a tug in her chest—part nostalgia, part irritation. She marched over, her boots clicking with purpose.
“Well, well, if it isnae Thomas bloody McGregor,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Lookin’ like a drowned rat on wheels. What’s yer excuse for hauntin’ my market, ye wee dafty?”
Thomas’s face lit up, though his eyes carried a weary edge. “Miss Duffy! Christ, ye’ve no’ changed a bit. Still got a mouth on ye that could strip paint off a wall.”
“Aye, and I’ll strip more than paint if ye keep givin’ me that pitiful look,” she fired back, though her tone softened a fraction. “What’s happened tae ye, lad? Ye used tae be full o’ beans, causin’ havoc in my classroom. Now ye’re sittin’ here like ye’ve lost yer last tenner.”
He shifted in his chair, scratching the back of his neck, a sheepish grin creeping out. “Ach, life’s gone tae pot, Miss Duffy. No’ had a proper kick up the arse since ye and ma mum stopped keepin’ me in line. I’m a mess, honest. Cannae even get meself sorted most days.”
Sharon raised an eyebrow, her lips pursing in a way that screamed she was about to lay down the law. “So, ye’re tellin’ me ye’ve turned intae a proper helpless bairn, eh? What d’ye want, me tae come round and wipe yer nose for ye?”
Thomas laughed, a nervous edge to it, but his eyes were pleading. “Somethin’ like that, aye. Look, I know it’s mental, but… I need someone like ye back in ma life. Someone tae take charge. Gie me a good skelp when I’m actin’ the maggot. Maybe even… help me out a bit more, y’know? Bathin’, dressin’, all that. I’m no’ proud tae ask, but I’m drownin’ here.”
Her brows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. “Bathin’ ye? Dressin’ ye? Christ on a bike, Thomas, d’ye think I’m runnin’ a bloody nursery? Next ye’ll be askin’ me tae change yer nappies and sing ye a lullaby!”
He flushed redder than the apples on the stall beside them, but he didn’t back down. “I’m no’ jokin’, Miss Duffy. I need structure. Discipline. And aye, maybe a wee bit o’ motherin’. Ye were always the only one who could keep me straight. I’m beggin’ ye here.”
Sharon crossed her arms, sizing him up like a hawk eyeing a particularly scrawny mouse. The crowd bustled around them, oblivious to the electric tension crackling in the air. She let the silence stretch, watching him squirm under her gaze, before finally letting out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Ye’re a right pathetic sight, Thomas McGregor, d’ye know that? A grown man, sittin’ there wi’ puppy dog eyes, askin’ me tae play mummy. I should skelp ye right now for the sheer cheek o’ it.”
He winced, but a hopeful glint flickered in his eyes. “So… is that a yes, then?”
She snorted, a sharp, biting sound that made a nearby shopper jump. “It’s a ‘we’ll see,’ ye daft wee shite. I’m no’ promisin’ tae coddle ye, mind. If I take ye under ma wing, it’s ma rules, ma way. Ye step outta line, and I’ll tan yer hide so hard ye’ll no’ sit for a week—wheelchair or no. And if I’m bathin’ ye, ye better no’ gie me any funny business, or I’ll dunk ye in the Clyde instead o’ the tub. Understood?”
Thomas nodded so fast it was a wonder his head didn’t fall off. “Aye, Miss Duffy. Understood. I’ll be good, I swear.”
“Good?” She barked a laugh, sharp and wicked. “Lad, I’ll make damn sure o’ that. Now, get yer sorry arse movin’. We’re headin’ back tae mine. I’m no’ standin’ here all day listenin’ tae yer whingin’.”
He grinned, a real one this time, as he maneuvered his wheelchair to follow her. “Ye’re a lifesaver, Miss Duffy. I owe ye one.”
“Aye, ye owe me more than one,” she tossed over her shoulder, her tartan shawl swishing with every determined step. “Ye owe me yer bloody sanity, and I’ll be collectin’ it with interest. Now, keep up, or I’ll leave ye tae the mercy o’ Jimmy’s manky carrots!”
As they weaved through the market crowd, Sharon’s mind was already racing. This was no ordinary arrangement, and she knew it. Thomas wasn’t just a lost lamb needing a shepherd—he was a man craving something deeper, something raw and real. And she, well, she’d always had a knack for taking control, for bending the world to her will. A smirk curled her lips as she glanced back at him, struggling to keep pace. This was going to be a journey, alright—one filled with sharp words, firm hands, and a kind of intimacy that danced on the edge of propriety. She couldn’t wait to see just how far they’d go.
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