#working man

Where we end up in life is not always determined by one individual choice, no matter how consequential. Sometimes our fate is decided by several poorly thought out actions that compound on top of one another.

For Preston Arden, there were three direct mistakes that led to an unwelcome change to his destiny. Of course one could question if these were the only three mistakes the man ever made. Few of them are made in a vacuum, but for simplicity sake it seems more sensible to focus on those that directly impacted him.

The day had started off well for the young heir, as most days did for him. He finished his classes in the early afternoon and was free for the rest of the day. He was a legacy admission at a very prestigious university, so little was actually expected of him. He'd already paid some scholarship students to write his papers for him, so he hardly even had to show up. But it was nice to put in an appearance now and then. Father called it networking.

Now he could relax. He decided to go shopping downtime; he could always use some new clothes. Preston didn't quite think of himself as metrosexual but he knew he was damn hot. His features were classic pretty boy, and he could easily have been a model had he any desire at all to work. His striking blue eyes, golden blonde hair, and aristocratic features all made it clear he was part of the elite, the cream of the crop, and better than you. This was a fact of life Preston had long ago accepted; if people had a problem with it, they should blame fate for being so kind to him.

Young Preston's trip downtown took him past a construction site, and something made him slow and pay attention to it. Evidently another high rise was being put up, and his eyes widened with realization when he realized it was one of his father's new business ventures. Right,t here had been one being put up around here; there were so many he hardly paid attention.

His attention was captured by the sudden appearance of a worker in front of him. He looked to be around Preston age of 19, but that was where the similarities ended. The guy was covered in a dusty construction uniform, and his sun browned skin was caked with dirt that had seemed to take years to settle. He had a muscular body that was clearly built not by any gym but by hard physical work. Right now he was hauling a large length of lumber like it was nothing out of the back of a work truck, focused on his task.

Here Preston made the first mistake: feeling strangely philosophical, he laughed.

The other teen stopped in his tracks, turning his head in his direction. "You got a problem?" He asked, his voice thick with an accent.

Preston hadn't meant for his laughter to be heard, but he was also far too arrogant to care that it had been. He grinned in return and shook his head. "No problem at all. Just... amusing, I suppose."

"Oh?" The worker set the lumber down and swaggered over to the blonde. "Whatchu finding so funny, ese?"

"Your work. Really I'm amused by the circumstance." he added. "We're both the same age and we couldn't be more different. Look at you, sweating away, whereas my Father owns this building. Life is funny in how it decides winners and losers."

The worker crossed his muscular arms, his eyes narrowing. "And you think I'm a loser?"

"Hey dude, I never said that," Preston placed his hands up in a placating gesture. Had he stopped there that would have been the end of it. He'd have been the stupid pendejo gringo who'd have been bitched about over drinks, but nothing more would have come of it. But this is where Preston made his second mistake: he doubled down.

"I admire your dedication." He said, his smile dripping with condescension. "Its a hard job you people do. Physically, anyway, not so much mentally.But hey, some of us have to build the sites and some of us have to live in the penthouses. So you can be proud of yourself for that."

The man tightened his fists, his powerful muscles bulging. He looked enough like he wanted to punch Preston that the blonde took a step back, not that that would protect him now.

"You don't know shit about real life. I've been 'workin since I was thirteen, having to support my family. I bust my ass every day to survive. You don't know 'nothin about that."

"No, I don't. Maybe you should have paid more attention in school." Preston gave a final smirk.

There was a glint in the other teen's eyes then. "You don't know 'notin about that." he repeated. "But maybe its time you do. Maybe its time you learn what its like to live this sort of life, to be poor."

"I can't even imagine," Preston replied, smirk still present on his face. But he soon would.

A wave of pain hit him, causing him to double over. For a moment he thought he'd been punched, but the worker was just standing there, arms crossed and looking at him intently.

His shirt changed first. Before his eyes the bright white color began to shimmer and lose its luster, becoming a very dull gray. Dirt appeared from the area around him and stuck to the shirt like glitter as the soft fabric morphed into a very coarse and scratchy cotton. Buttons popped off as its sleeves disappeared in on themselves, leaving his pale, barely muscled arms on full display. An equally dirty hi-ves vest unfolded over his shirt.

"W--what the hell!"

"Shhh. We just starting, rich boy. Get comfy."

His designer pants also reformed, the fabric shifting and gaining weight as they became a pair of well worn work pants that no longer perfectly fit his lean hips. His $800 loafers? They became budget friendly Ecetana's as the soles thickened and the leather warped until they were the perfect cheap work boots, they too becoming scuffed as though they'd seen months if not years of labor.

"No...I'm becoming like you!" And it wasn't until that moment that Preston realized just how true that was. Because the voice that came out of his mouth was not the voice he was used to speaking with. The voice that emerged was deeper, lower, rougher. A musical lift now filled his words, his tongue moving in different ways as he formed them. His speech now carried the traces of an accent that told the world English was no longer his first language.

"Yo, this ain't funny man!" He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening in horror. Not just an accent, but a street accent. His words were coming out more aggressive and slang filled.

"How I gonna sound like this looking like this?" he asked.

"Oh, there won't be a contradiction there for long, homie."

Horror hit Preston at that realization, but he had little time to dwell on it. Because the most intense pain he ever felt exploded into him.

"MIERDA!"

His skin felt like every bit of it was submerged into molten hot lava as he screamed. All traces of paleness were flushed out of him as his skin changed to a dark, golden, bronze. His perfectly stylized hair wasn't perfectly styled or blonde anymore. Dark inky black engulfed the blonde, leaving no trace of it as his hair grew thicker, coarser, and grew longer and uneven, not stylized at all.

Those ocean blue eyes of his changed too, the ocean drying up as they became dark brown, and his perfectly shaped eyebrows jutted out. The rest of his face wanted in on the action too; his ears jutted out, his lips grew fuller, and not to be outdone, his nose felt like it broke and reset, expanding and broadening to double its former size. Hairs emerged on his former baby face, leaving it itchy.

"Yo, you might actually like this next part." The other teen sounded amused. "Don't say I didn't give you nothin."

Preston screamed in agony as his muscles began to stretch like they were doing the world's least fun yoga routine. His thin arms and legs exploded in size, and his chest packed on pound after pound after pound of raw muscle, raw physical muscle that wasn't earned in any gym. Preston wasn't interested in getting jacked, and he especially wasn't into it when it felt this painful. The pure torture lasted for maybe a minute before it stopped, leaving the young man panting for breath.

He looked down at himself, hands trembling as he examined them. "Yo, what the fuck?" He muttered, unable to believe his own eyes. They widened in horror at the sight.

The hands in front of him had never known moisturizer. They were hard and cracked, the hands of a blue collar worker, one well on his way to arthritis. His skin was brown, veins nice and clear on his newly muscular arms.

"How you like it?" The other teen's voice forced his attention back on him. It didn't sound amused, or even angry. It sounded like a genuine question. "How you like seeing how the people workin on your daddy's project live?"

Preston looked up, panicked. "Change me back, holmes!"

"Juan."

"Juan. Change me back!"

"You learn your lesson, eh?" Juan looked more smug now, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Remember that part where Preston made three mistakes? This one was the most important. Had he said the right thing, he'd have been changed back and would have learned a lesson. He might have suffered some identity trauma, and the change back would have been painful too, but he'd have kept his future and destiny.

But the one moment where he had to say the right thing, he didn't. And this wasn't due to the transformation at all; it was all him.So he opened his mouth, and unleashed mistake number 3: his dumb ass did not think things through, and he only managed to make the situation worse.

"Please bro," he lunged at Juan, clinging onto his own vest. "Change me back, ese. I don't belong like this. I'm meant to be someone."

Juan's face darkened. In his panic, Preston failed to notice it. "You don't belong like what?"

"A fucking hood rat, man! I'm meant to run companies, not be 'bustin out here on the streets 'sweatin like a hog to build em! I'm meant to have a future, be important! Be somebody! Please!" He BEGGED, "I'll give you some Franklins, güey. More than your ass ever'd see otherwise."

It wasn't until he finished speaking that he realized Juan was pissed. The amusement was gone, replaced by something dangerous.

"You think our lives out here got no value?"

"No man, I didn--"

"That's what you said." Juan shook his head. "Fuck, I don't use these powers much, but I thought I could give ya a taste of the struggle and you'd learn something, stop being such an entitled pendejo. But I see now you be needin more than a taste. You need the whole package, holmes.

Preston held up his hands. "No, hold up!"

"This ain't temporary anymore. This your life now. Forever."

Pain hit Preston again, wrapping around him like a chain as a new reality sunk into his bones, his DNA, and went deeper still. His very soul found itself now bonded to a new fate, one widely different from his original destiny. But fate was ambivalent, and accepted the changes without complaint.

"Yeah, you feelin it, huh?" Juan's eyes gleamed. "Feelin the truth of who you is now."

Preston-- no, not Preston. The name no longer fit him, felt like a shirt that he couldn't get onto his frame, a bent key that would never slide into a lock. Preston Arden the billionaire, Preston the college boy, Preston the white elite who would never know what it was like to sweat... that had been him, but there was a falseness to it now that made it clear it never would be again.

Now a new name came to his mind, sliding into place with ease.

Mateo Alvarez. Yeah, that was him now, as much as he hated it. To deny that was to deny the sun would rise tomorrow; it was a self evident fact.

Mateo, who'd been working construction under the table since he was a young teen. Mateo, who'd grown up nowhere near a mansion but in a shitty apartment in the worst part of the city, dodging bullets and cops. Mateo, who'd never owned a sports car and never would, who'd learned to be happy when the bus came on time.

Memories from his time as Preston grew indistinct. He remembered the broad strokes such as relaxing by the pool or enjoying world class cuisine, but only like one would recall an experience from watching it in a movie. The exact details faded away. He no longer had a clue how to tie a Windsor knot, or what fork to use at a dinner party. Now, a dinner party for him was street cart tacos and warm beer 'chillin with his boys.

He collapsed to the ground, his powerful form utterly broken as he began to sob.

Juan leaned down, his voice almost tender. "I left you enough so you'll always remember the life you had. Some days you'll almost remember 'feelin the soft pillow under you, or the warmth of your fancy ass hot tub. But you'll never fully feel it, and I promise you that you ain't ever gonna feel something like that ever again. From now on your life is sweat and bustin your ass. Just like the rest of us. Every. Single. Day."

"You ruined my life." Mateo's tone was broken.

"Nah, all you baby. You had plenty of chances. Now? All them consequences came due. And you'll have a long ass time of paying them off to look forward to."

"Change me back," Mateo begged, but his tone was blank. He somehow knew there was no way Juan could.

"Can't do that. Even my magic has limits, and when I made it permanent? Well, it sticks. This your life now, homie! Still, not to worry güero. Ah, former güero, sorry." His tone was mocking. "I'mma take care of you. You can room with me; though no way you gettin the bed, though, so enjoy the hard ass floor. And this should help get you up to speed."

New knowledge filled Mateo's mind, replacing Preston's. Because Mateo had never gone to college, had never even made it to high school. Not because he wasn't smart, but because he'd never had a chance. He had to work early, and school had never been a priority. Had never been able to be a priority for him.

Academic knowledge was replaced with more important things for his new life. Mateo may not have known Shakespeare, but he sure as fuck knew what streets to avoid. He knew how to mix cement and use a jackhammer like a boss. How to put up scaffolding and how to dig a trench.

"Some of us have to build the sites and some of us have to live in the penthouses." Juan echoed his words back to him. "You won't ever be settin foot in one of them again, but you'll be building em. So you can be proud of yourself for that."

Another tear fell from Mateo's face.

"Now quit your bitchin, that old life is gone. We got work, and I know you can't be losing this job. You know it too, don't you?"

The scary part was Mateo did. He needed this job to eat.

"Get on up. Oh wait, one more thing." Mateo felt a helmet placed firmly on his head. It landed there with a thud, fitting perfectly as it had hundreds of times before. He stared blankly ahead as Juan grinned.

"Yeah, there we go. Fits you perfectly, ese. The transformation is complete." He clapped him hard on the arm, bare hand hitting bare skin as he did so.

"Welcome to the crew, Hermano." His tone was a mix of mocking and warmth.

Then Juan got up, put his own hard hat on, and lifted his lumber again. "Grab the rest from the truck, would ya? Make up the delay you caused me."

Mateo gave one last sob. Then he wiped his tears away with his arm, rose to his feet, and headed to the truck. The lumber came up like it weighed nothing, his new body used to it in a way his old one never would have been. Used to the grind of hard work, and knowing how little good it did to bitch.

He fell in step besides Juan and got to work, already knowing that he'd have a long day--and life-- of struggle ahead of him. Lesson learned.

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.