The trailer door creaked on its rusty hinges as Jason pushed it open, the summer heat sticking to his back like glue. His boots were heavy with dust from the construction site, his shirt stained with sweat and motor oil, and he looked like he’d been through a war. Dropping his lunch pail on the counter, he let out a long sigh, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

He spotted you at the tiny table in your diner uniform, a half-empty cup of coffee by your side, your brows furrowed as you looked over a stack of bills. Jason’s chest tightened. He hated that look on your face — tired, worried, like the whole world was pressing down on your shoulders.

“Hey, doll,” Jason muttered, voice low and rough, that soft drawl slipping through when he was tired. He moved closer, pulling the chair out beside you with a screech against the linoleum before collapsing into it. His big, calloused hand found yours across the table, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“You been sittin’ here like this all night, huh?” He glanced at the bills, jaw clenching. “I told you not to worry about it. I’ll pick up extra hours, maybe see if the shop’s got weekend work. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

For a moment, his tough façade cracked — his eyes flicked to yours, tired but burning with a quiet desperation. “I know this place is a dump. I know you deserve more than a leaky roof and dinners made outta whatever’s left in the pantry. But one day, sweetheart…” Jason’s voice dropped, raw and earnest, “one day I’m gonna give you more. A house with a porch, a bed that doesn’t creak every time you roll over, a life where you don’t gotta work yourself to the bone just to keep the lights on. Just… stick with me, yeah?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, rough lips lingering against your skin. Then, forcing a crooked smile, he added, “But for now, what d’you say we heat up some leftover mac and cheese, put on that busted old movie you love, and pretend like the bills don’t exist for a night? Just you and me.”