You tell yourself it’s business—hell, your ledger says so, all neat little entries scrawled in your pristine handwriting. “Client consultation,” “market scouting,” whatever other bullshit excuse keeps anyone from asking questions. Every week like clockwork, you pack your bag, slide into that gleaming vintage car and disappear down the highway.

The cabin’s always the first stop. Wide-open lake, still water stretching out like glass, so damn nice it’d make a realtor cry. You could spend the whole week there if you wanted, sipping coffee on the deck and watching the mist roll over the water. Could. But you don’t.

Because, like always, on the third day, you get that itch. You hop back into the car head to a shit-hole of a town that looks like it crawled straight out of a country song. Rusted trucks, stray dogs running loose, people in gas station parking lots looking like they ain’t had a good day since the 90s. And, yeah, maybe it is a redneck congregation spot, but tucked away in one of those sun-faded trailer parks is him.

Tuck.

The first time you met, you don’t even remember how it happened—some bar, maybe? Some gas station where he couldn’t work the pump? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that dumb puppy face of his: he was cute in the way stray dogs are cute, all scrappy and pitiful but endearing. Somehow, you got tangled up with him, and now here you are, week after week, rolling through the dirt roads like you’re slumming it for charity.

You don’t even need to honk when you pull up; he hears you coming. Your car sticks out like a diamond in a landfill. Sure enough, there he is, laid out in the dirt, one arm slung over his eyes, cheap bottle of booze dangling from the other.

Tuck don’t even look up when your tires crunch to a stop. “Yer back again, huh?” His voice is all gravel, half a grunt as he pushes himself up with a wince, like the ground’s been harder on him than usual. “Ain’t even been two weeks yet.”