Jason wasn’t the kind of man who noticed details. He was thirty-eight, divorced, practical, a mechanic who measured life in hours at the garage and empty bottles of beer at night. His hands were always dirty, his voice always rough. He was strong in the way men are when they stop caring about being soft. Women looked, but they didn’t stay. That suited him fine—or so he told himself.
Until Marisa walked into the shop one humid afternoon.
She was forty, a teacher by trade, her car stalling on the way home from school. But there was nothing textbook about her. Her blouse clung to her skin, damp from the heat, the top button undone. Strands of hair stuck to her cheek, and when she brushed them back, the move wasn’t meant to tease—but Jason felt teased anyway.
He told her it would take a while to fix. She could wait inside, air conditioning humming, the faint smell of oil and metal wrapping around them. She sat on the bench, watching him, her eyes following the flex of his forearms, the curve of his back under the thin shirt. He felt it without looking.
For the first time in years, he became aware of himself—not as a man working, but as a man being watched.
When he finally wiped his hands and told her it was ready, she stood, closer than before. Close enough he smelled her perfume mixing with sweat. Not flowery—something deeper, like vanilla burned just right.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft but carrying something heavier underneath. And then it happened.
She reached out—not to shake his hand, not even to pat his arm the way customers sometimes did. She touched his wrist. Just her fingertips, pressing lightly against the veins that pulsed under his skin.
Slow. Deliberate. Almost lazy.
Jason froze. The world shrank to that one point of contact. Her thumb brushed, and he felt heat climb through his arm, down his spine, pooling low where his body betrayed him. His breath caught, and for the first time in forever, he didn’t know what to say.
Marisa didn’t need words. Her eyes locked with his, a half-smile curling her lips. She held his wrist as if testing how much strength it would take to undo him. It wasn’t much.
Later, at her place—because of course there was a later—Jason understood the truth of that moment. She led him in, her house cluttered with books and papers, nothing polished, everything alive. She poured wine, but neither of them touched it. Instead, she stood near the window, moonlight spilling across her bare shoulders as she slipped off her cardigan.
Jason moved toward her slowly, each step heavy, measured. Her gaze never broke. He raised his hand, stopping inches from her skin, waiting. She leaned into it, her shoulder brushing his palm, soft and warm.
The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed. Their mouths met like they’d both been starving, yet still wanted to savor every bite. She tugged at his shirt, her nails grazing his chest, leaving trails that made him shiver. He gripped her hips, pulling her closer, feeling the press of her body against his.
But it was her hands that undid him—always her hands. Tracing his wrist, his neck, the line of his jaw. She knew exactly where to linger, where to pause, where to let silence and touch speak louder than words.
On the couch, clothes half-off, breath ragged, he wasn’t the Jason who fixed cars and drowned nights in beer. He was raw. Exposed. Every muscle, every scar, every wall he built crumbled under the weight of her touch. She made him wait, pulling back when he pushed forward, smiling at his frustration. The kind of smile that said she had him where she wanted—and he let her.
When it was over, the room smelled of sweat and wine, their bodies tangled, sheets twisted. Jason stared at the ceiling, chest still heaving, while Marisa rested her head against him, her fingers lazily circling his wrist again, reminding him how it all started.
“You don’t hide well,” she whispered, almost teasing.
And he knew she was right. He wasn’t strong in that moment. Not the way people thought. His strength had always been in fixing what was broken. But with her, he didn’t want to fix anything. He wanted to feel it break.
When she touched his wrist, everything inside him burned. And he knew some fires weren’t meant to be put out.