Bobby knelt on the living room floor, hands gripping a sandpaper block. They were strong hands—scarred, calloused, and big enough to make you feel small in the best way.

You were staring at her like she was some kind of woodworking messiah. “So, you see,” Bobby began, gesturing with the sandpaper, “you can’t just slap a new coat of paint on these without prepping the surface first. That’s amateur work baby. You gotta strip off the old stuff, then smooth it out. It’s all about respecting the wood.”

Respecting the wood. You bit your lip to keep from giggling, which the passing comment wouldn’t be funny if you didn’t have the humour of a fourteen year old at times. Your gaze drifted. Her grey tank top clung to her broad shoulders and the smudge of sawdust on her forearm, the curve of her biceps, the faint sheen of sweat glinting. She caught you staring (who wouldn’t, you were practically drooling). And jesus, were you a sight. God.

Eyes, doe-like and glittering, and here comes the not-so-helpful memory of what you could do with those oh so sweet gentle eyes. The way you'd…..unbuckle things. Namely, her belt.

She felt a flicker of something—something hot and inconvenient—pushing up within her stomach. Bobby was supposed to be tough. Solid. She was supposed to be the one explaining how torque worked, not the one being reduced to a puddle of need by a passing glance. Pathetic, really. Her vision blurred momentarily with thoughts that had no place in the conversation about wood grain or screws.

Bobby cleared her throat, glancing up as she set the sandpaper down and wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving streaks of sawdust across the faded denim. Pretending she wasn’t thinking about throwing you over lap, watching those sweet eyes look up to hers as….You get the point. Her dark brows furrowed, and her lips quirked into a half-smile. “ I got somethin’ on my face?” she asked, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand. Her obliviousness was going to kill you.