The last place I wanted to be was the cracked driveway of my father's home in the town I ran from.
The air smelled like rust, rain-soaked pavement, and distant regret. The kind that sits in the back of your throat, dry and sharp, like you swallowed a lit match and hoped the fire would fix you.
I slammed the trunk shut. The old Civic wheezed behind me like it might give out from embarrassment. Same, I wanted to say.
"You made it," Dad said from the porch, arms crossed like a man who didn't hug anymore.
"Barely."
My smile didn't reach my eyes. I wasn't here to reconnect.
I was here because I had no money, no apartment, and the man I'd called a boyfriend just ghosted me after maxing out my credit card on hotel porn and overpriced whiskey.
Welcome home, Kade.
The town hadn't changed. Still only three gas stations, one tattoo shop, and a bar that doubled as a church on Sundays. And just down the street—like a warning or a dare—was Locke Auto Repair.
I hadn't seen Jesse Locke in years. But I still remembered his hands.
Big. Callused. The kind of hands that could hurt or heal or hold you down if you begged just right.
I used to watch him from my bedroom window when he worked on Dad's truck. Shirt off. Skin tanned and dirty. That slow drawl and unreadable stare.
He was twenty years older. Off-limits. My dad's best friend.
Which made him dangerous.
And I've always had a thing for danger.
---
"You gonna work or just mope around the house?" Dad asked the next morning over burnt eggs and bitter coffee.
I looked up from my phone. "Depends. Who's hiring desperate gay failures with zero motivation?"
Dad didn't flinch. He was used to my sarcasm by now.
"Jesse's looking for help at the shop," he muttered.
I froze.
"What?"
"You know. Jesse Locke. Runs the auto place. Same guy who watched your dumb ass fail at fixing a bike when you were ten."
Oh, I knew.
I remembered more than I should.
I set my mug down, casually. "You think he'll hire me?"
Dad snorted. "He'll yell at you first. Then maybe. You're good at getting under people's skin."
And Jesse Locke's skin… was exactly where I wanted to be.
---
The shop was still the same: dusty windows, old vinyl signs, and that low hum of metal grinding against metal in the back. I stepped in, the bell over the door jingling like a warning shot.
And then I saw him.
Bent over the hood of a Chevy. Grease on his forearms. Cigarette tucked behind his ear. That same deep cut of a jaw, sharp enough to ruin you.
"Need something?"
The voice hit me like gravel and heat.
He looked up.
And for a moment, his eyes narrowed—like memory just sucker-punched him.
"Kade?"
I grinned. "In the flesh."
He didn't smile.
Jesse walked over, slow and deliberate, wiping his hands with a rag that looked like it had seen war.
"You're taller," he muttered.
"You're still hot," I shot back before I could stop myself.
He didn't laugh.
Instead, he stepped closer—close enough to smell the leather and sweat off him. Close enough for me to feel the old tension coil between us like a ghost with a knife.
"You here to cause trouble?"
"Depends," I murmured. "You still allergic to fun?"
That time, he smirked. Just barely. And something in me sparked.
"Come back tomorrow," he said gruffly. "Seven a.m. Don't be late."
Then he turned around like I didn't just throw my whole craving at him.
And walked away.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
And imagined the sound of his voice if I called him Sir.