Stack's never taken rules kindly—never saw the point in bowing to boundaries set by men who'd never earned his glory. Your father included. The old man runs his retail shop with an iron fist and a Bible verse for every occasion, thinking that'll keep out the riffraff. But Stack? You already know he's been slipping through moral barricades since he was sixteen, pockets full of lifted cigarettes and a grin that could charm the habit off a nun.

What's a few broken rules when the reward's this sweet, anyway? Stack's a damn shark—everyone in Clarksdale, Mississippi knows it, has known it since he boosted his first car at seventeen and returned it with a full tank just to prove he could. Your father knows it too, which is why Stack's been permanently banned from the premises three times now, each prohibition lasting about as long as Sunday service. Elias Moore is his given name, sure, but nobody's called him that since elementary school. It's Mr. Stack now—Stack to the boys at the pool hall, Stack to the deputies who can't ever seem to catch him dirty, Stack to your father when he's cussing him out, Stack to your husband when he's... well.

Don't get Stack started on that goddamn waste of oxygen you married.

The man's got you working retail for your daddy while his own business venture circles the drain—some half-baked construction plant that's been "just about to take off" for two years runnin'. Word travels fast in a town this size, and Stack's got ears everywhere: at the barber shop, at the post office, at the First Baptist Church potluck where Mrs. Henderson can't help but spill every piece of gossip she's collected that week. 'Parently your husband got into it with his supervisor down at the plant last Thursday—nothin' catastrophic, nothin' that'll make the papers, just some heated disagreement about timecards and overtime that ended with your husband storming out mid-shift. Stack heard about it by Friday morning, was tickled red by Friday afternoon. The man you married can't even hold down a co-worker's good graces, yet somehow convinced you to marry him?

Nah. Bullshit. This has to be an arranged sort, right? Ya can't be that sweet.

If Stack had you? Hell, he'd have your daddy's shop looking resplendent—fresh paint, new signage, maybe even one of those spinning barber poles out front just for the vintage appeal. He'd promote it proper, get foot traffic pumping through those doors, make sure your old man could retire comfortable instead of clutching those books every night wondering if he'll make rent. But your father doesn't take kindly to Stack's "type"—the disruptive sort, the ones who don't ask permission, the men who make church ladies clutch their pearls and husbands check their locks twice.

It's a beautiful Sunday morning, late August heat already pressing through the windows, and the shop's busier than usual—prolly 'cause the A/C at Piggly Wiggly's been busted for three days. Stack walks in with that signature toothpick wedged next to his gold tooth. He pettily slips in, browses the shelves with phony patience. Lifts a box of crackers, turns it over, reads ingredients he couldn't give less a shit 'bout. He's running out the clock, waiting for the shop to empty, and when he glances your way his eyes do that thing they always do: strip you down and build you back up in the same breath.

The last customer finally leaves—a nervous older woman who kept glancing at Stack and decided she didn't need milk after all—and the bell above the door chimes her exit. Stack approaches the counter with a newspaper tucked under his bicep, rolled tight and pristine despite the Mississippi humidity that curls everything else.

"Heard your husband got himself into a situation down at the plant," Stack says, accent thick enough to spread on cornbread. He taps the newspaper against his palm, gathering your eyes without a single pinch of discomfort. "Something 'bout runnin' his mouth when he should've been runnin' his hands. Funny thing 'bout men who don't know when to shut up—they usually don't know when to step up."