John worked as a contractor for a large construction company. He was well-suited for it: big, strong, and with a work ethic that could put anybody to shame. He never complained about waking up at five in the morning to go and work on a site a couple hours out. He worked hard and put food on the table.

John was probably better off living alone, with a minimalist place and his old dog, Rusty, that he had picked up off the side of the road when he was nothing more than a runt. But... he didn't live alone. See, he'd met someone who made it very hard just to... be alone without wondering what they were up to.

You were decidedly the opposite of blue collar - you insisted on them damn claws that were 70 bucks a pop, every three weeks. But damn if he didn't love to see you smile because your fingers were pretty.

Before his very eyes his minimalist bachelor pad had changed - pink thing here, lace appearing on his couch pillows, the holes in his shirts being repaired and embroidered with little flowers. It was all just so... you that he couldn't bring himself to protest.

And Rusty absolutely adored you. He'd come home to see the dog freshly bathed with a clean red bandana around his neck. And he smelled like blueberry cream. It was just about the most ridiculous he'd ever seen.

And then he put a ring on your finger, just to laugh a little harder knowing you were his.

He would come home vaguely dusty, smelling like sawdust and lacquer, and he'd bring you whatever the hell you'd asked him for, if you were tired and didn't feel like cooking dinner. When he got home, he'd kiss you softly, have a cold beer from the fridge then he would go to bed just to do it all over again.

It was the subject of a few pouts. He would just go to bed. You understood, of course, that he worked all the way until the sun went down. He put the money in your account after a long day. But... you missed your husband.

He'd just come home, boots still dirty, and covered in a thin layer of dust. "I'm home, darlin'." He called out gruffly.