I hold a hand to my chest, offended. “I tell every woman I’m not looking for anything serious. No lies, no fake promises. Just fun. And they know that going in.”
And it’s true. I don’t do commitment. Don’t do feelings. Don’t do complicated. Life is easier that way. Cleaner.
“Right, right. There’s no locking Mateo down,” Andres says, smirking.
I finish the last bite of my breakfast, set my plate in the sink, and clap a hand on his shoulder. “Now you’re getting it.”
After my shift, I’m dead on my feet—and starving. My gear bag hits the floor just inside the door, and I head straight to the fridge, already imagining a sandwich, maybe leftovers, something that doesn’t involve standing for too long.
I pull open my fridge and am greeted with a case of beer and a bottle of ketchup—that’s it. Coño. I stand there for a second, just staring, like something else might magically appear if I look long enough. Like maybe a rotisserie chicken will materialize behind the Modelo. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
I scrub a hand over my face and sigh. I need to get my ass to the store. The couch is calling my name—hell, the floor would probably do—but I know if I sit down, it’s over. I’ll wake up at 2 a.m. with a stiff neck and a hunger headache.
So I grab my keeps from the table, still in my uniform, and head out the door before exhaustion talks me out of being a functioning adult.
Why is it that when you’re exhausted, a ten-minute drive feels like forty?
Every red light feels personal. Every bend in the road feels longer than I remember it being. My back aches. My eyes sting. All I want to do is turn this car around and crawl into my bed.
I should’ve just starved. Or maybe gulped down the damn ketchup. It’s made out of tomatoes, those are vegetables, right? Or are they fruit? Either way, it would’ve been better than this late-night mission to keep myself from wasting away.
Both the driver and passenger windows are rolled down, the cool October breeze knifing through the cab, doing its best to slap the sleep out of me. My left hand’s locked on the wheel, stiff from gripping it too tight, while the right fumbles for the radio volume. I crank it up. Something upbeat, fast enough to drown out the temptation of silence.
My eyes flick to the road then to the streetlights blurring past, one by one.
I love the October air in Lake City. There’s something clean about it—crisp and biting in a way that feels earned after the sweat of the summer.
Back when I left California, I didn’t have a real plan. Just a destination that felt nothing like the place I was running from. I’d never lived somewhere with snow, or seasons, or this quiet. I didn’t know if it’d stick. I didn’t know if I would. But Lake City…it became home.
Not because of the weather or the quiet or the fact that I can walk down the street and actually breathe. It became home because I found people who let me show up with my baggage and didn’t ask me to unpack it right away. People like Seb. Like Andres. Like Cap. People who made space for me, even when I didn’t think I deserved it.
And that’s the thing about starting over—you never expect to care again. To build something that could fall apart.To wake up one day and realize that you’re not just surviving anymore. You’re living.
These people—they’ve become mine. And that makes the idea of losing it terrifying.
I finally arrive at the supermarket and rush out of my truck, telling myself that it’ll be a quick stop—twenty minutes max. If I can get out fast, I’ll actually eat before eight and maybe even get my ass to bed at a decent hour.
But of course, that’s wishful thinking. People say don’t shop hungry, but the real mistake is grocery shopping in a small town. What I thought would be a quick trip turns into an obstacle course of conversations. With every aisle I cross, I bump into someone whoabsolutelyneeds to chat. At this point, I’m convinced there’s a sign taped to my back that says,Talk to me, I have nothing better to do.
I take a hard turn into the produce section, and fuck, I see Letty. I spin the cart in the opposite direction, but I’m not fast enough. She spots me.
“Mateo? I knew that was you,” she purrs, placing a hand on my arm, gently squeezing my bicep.
“Hey, Letty. Yup, it’s me. How are you?”
“What? No, it’s good to see you, Letty? You’re not happy to see me, Mateo?” she teases, biting her lip.
“Uh, yeah, it’s good to see you, Letty. I’m just in a bit of a rush—just got off a long shift, need to grab food and get home to bed before I pass out on my feet.”
Her eyes flicker at the word bed. Shit.
She rubs her hand slowly down my arm. “Aw, poor baby. You must be so tired. You need a good woman to take care of you. You’re a hardworking man, Mateo. You need a strongwoman by your side. If you ever want a home-cooked meal, I’d be happy to come over…satisfy that appetite.”
Nope.
“Uh…right. Well. I gotta finish up here. Thanks for the…chat.”
“Okay, Mateo,” she says with a wink, walking off with way too much hip sway.
