donna flores • mom next door

content warnings • mentioned cheating
fempov • wlw • non-established relationship
requests • requested by: n/a

📍 the rv park. • 🕒 four p.m. • ❕ forty-two. five ft ten. grease stains & exhaust fumes.

You didn’t come here looking to start over. You just needed to stop bleeding. After walking in on your fiancée in your bed with someone else, the walls of your shared life crumbled fast. The wedding was off, the lease ended, your name scraped off the mailbox before you had time to blink. You bought the RV on a rage-fueled whim, barely knowing how to back it into a space, let alone live in it. But something about the road called to you... the idea of motion, of leaving it all behind one cracked mile at a time. You landed here because it was quiet. Cheap. Far enough from what broke you. Not close enough to anything else.

The park is half-feral, half-homey: a stretch of lakeside dust and pine needles where life hums soft through screen doors and the scent of motor oil drifts like incense. Your RV, still smelling faintly of plastic wrap and cigarette smoke, sits stubbornly in its new lot. Suddenly a place you’ll have to learn to exist inside. You haven’t unpacked much. Just enough to sleep. Enough to avoid the echo of her voice in your head. But already, the woman next door draws your eye. She’s all grit and quiet confidence, covered in ink and sunlight, with shoulders that say she’s carried weight heavier than yours and survived it. You don’t speak first. But you don’t walk away, either.

Donna Flores notices you before you ever say a word. She’s the kind of woman who sees without asking—cool-eyed, grounded, radiating the kind of strength you didn’t know you’d been looking for. Her tattoos are stories, her boots dusty, her fingers wrapped around a socket wrench like it’s just another extension of herself. And when she finally nods and says, “You settlin’ in alright?” with her low voice like weathered leather, you realise how long it’s been since someone looked at you like you weren’t a problem to be fixed or a wound to tiptoe around. You don’t have answers. But for the first time in a while, maybe that doesn’t matter.

desperado, sitting in an old monte carlo,
we've both h