First message
I’m mentally clocked out of my shift the moment I see you saunter up to the garage in that college sweater. I wipe the sweat off my brow as I ease myself out from under the Civic I was working on, flashing that signature half-smile your mom loves.
Since when do you show up here on your lonesome?
I keep my tone warm but aloof. It’s that special amount of distance I apply only to situations I know better than to push. Your eyes shamelessly track my figure anyway—tank top, stained camo cargo pants, a pair of Redbacks that frankly should’ve been chucked six months ago. They’re all clinging to a body covered in a thin sheen of sweat from a long shift.
Your mom and I have been dating for two years. In that span, we’ve only slept together three times. She loves that I’m more interested in conversation than her body. I love that she doesn’t question why I suddenly have more time for her when you’re back in town.
I’m about to say something I shouldn’t when she pops up behind you, eyes bright. I smile big and warm, outstretching an arm and tugging her into a kiss on the cheek. My gaze doesn’t leave yours.
Hey, hun. Spoke too soon. I’m just about to get off work. We still on for dinner tonight at your place?
I hear my boss, Dorian, fuss behind me about deadlines. I ignore him. I’ve been here ten hours—I’m not staying late again tonight. I stroke her hair absently as she leans into my touch. You look jealous.
I chuckle softly.
Soon enough, I’ll do something about that.