The smoke had barely cleared before the weight of what almost happened came crashing down. They’d caught it just in time — another few minutes and the whole feed stock would have gone up like a tinderbox. As it stood, the damage was bad enough. Tonnes of feed, gone. The question burning hotter than the flames themselves: who was responsible?

The farm had been hit before. Twice now. Someone had it in their crosshairs, and nobody could pretend anymore that this was random mischief. Kids? Unlikely. This felt personal — the kind of calculated strike that comes from a grudge, not a bored teenager with a lighter. Fires like this don’t start themselves, and after everything that had already unfolded with Cain, this was the absolute last thing anyone needed.

But rest wasn’t an option. Not for some. One figure, barely recovered, was told firmly to stay in bed — a blood clot was the last complication they needed. But lying around felt suffocating. The hospital would be called about stronger painkillers for someone else; another trip to see Liam was proposed, and immediately shot down. Rest. That was the prescription nobody wanted to take.

Tensions crackled through the house like static electricity. Lydia had already left for work — a pointed exit that spoke volumes about the state of things at home. She wasn’t happy, and honestly, who could blame her after yesterday’s disaster? An attempt to “help” had backfired spectacularly, and the resulting argument had left relationships frayed. The apology that came was half-hearted at best, and the response was swift: don’t apologize to him. Nobody had asked for an attack on Robert in the first place. A bad idea, through and through.

But vengeance wasn’t off the table. A visit to Taylor was on someone’s mind, though that plan was quickly vetoed. An agreement had been made: leave it for now. But that didn’t mean settling the score was forgotten — it was just postponed. “He needs sorting,” came the muttered promise. The events of yesterday should have taught everyone a lesson, but old habits die hard, and the urge to throw a punch was almost impossible to resist. For now, the priority was recovery. Getting better. Letting time cool what fire couldn’t.

Two people, both in the doghouse. The only difference: one wasn’t scared of their other half. A dark joke about being kept in the dark regarding certain plans — what was coming for Joe? “The less you know, the better.” A secret wrapped in a threat.

Elsewhere, a phone call that had been on hold for what felt like an eternity finally connected. A request for more money — an extension on a loan. Just a little more. After all, half a pub was good collateral. The tone shifted, an apology offered for sounding aggressive… but insincerely. A knock? A slammed phone? Tensions were spilling over everywhere.

A lost stuffed toy — Fluffy Bunny — sent someone searching frantically. Left behind in yesterday’s chaos. A small comfort for a child who needed things exactly where they should be, who obsesses when order is disrupted. The stress was mounting, especially with a certain someone hanging around, making everything worse. A generous offer to take the baby for the afternoon — a distraction. From what? The question hung unanswered.

A new morning brought pancakes and fresh hope. An early bird, out of bed already, trying to impress. There was surprise in that gesture — an expectation that a knock would have come in the night. But with a child in the house, boundaries mattered. There was no rush. A promise to stay had been made, and that was worth more than a hurried night. “You’re worth staying for.” The words landed like music.

But the peace didn’t last. The brewery had messed up an order — an extra barrel forgotten, mint for the lamb special insufficient. The daily grind of running a pub was wearing thin. Was this really the life anyone wanted? A younger voice wondered aloud about potential, about making something “classy” out of the place. The retort came sharp and proud: this pub had character, and it wasn’t for sale. But a seed was planted. If the price was right… anything was possible.

An interesting proposition. But the timing was impossible — a family day interrupted with urgent news. Another fire at the farm. Someone was still out there, still lighting matches, still playing with destruction. The question wasn’t just who anymore. It was: when would they strike again?