Chapter 3: Form Check in the Dirt

The third Saturday dawned hotter than the last two combined, the kind of July morning that made the air shimmer above the asphalt and turned every breath into something thick and sweet. You’d spent the week replaying that first dog walk with Jake—the way Luna had yanked the leash until your arms brushed his every few steps, the low laugh he gave when you stumbled closer, the almost-kiss that never quite happened under the streetlight. Your body had hummed with it every night since, fingers slipping between your thighs in the dark while you whispered his name like a prayer.

You chose your outfit with care this time. A soft white tank top, thin enough that the outline of your nipples showed if the light hit right, tucked into the tiniest denim cutoffs you owned. Bare legs, bare feet on the deck at first, hair twisted up off your neck with a single clip so stray curls could escape and cling to your skin. No bra again. The heat was excuse enough; the ache between your legs was the real reason.

Luna knew something was coming. She paced the kitchen, nails clicking, tail thumping the moment the doorbell rang at nine sharp. You opened the door and there he was—Jake—cargo shorts riding low, faded tee already sticking to the ridges of his chest from the walk over. His eyes dropped to your legs, to the way the denim hugged the curve of your ass, then snapped back up with that shy smile that was starting to feel like foreplay.

“Morning, Ms. Emma. Ready for round three?”

“More than ready,” you said, voice lower than you intended. Luna launched herself at him, licking his hands, whining happily until he crouched and buried his face in her fur. The sight of his big hands gentle on her made something soft twist in your chest even as heat pooled lower.

The backyard had come alive under his work. The new beds were edged and waiting; today was the heavy lifting—dozens of mulch bags stacked like promises against the fence, flats of bright annuals you’d bought midweek, the last stubborn roots to dig out before everything could bloom. Jake rolled his shoulders once, then attacked the first bag like it owed him money. Muscles corded in his arms as he lifted, veins rising under sun-warmed skin. Sweat beaded almost instantly, tracing slow paths down the back of his neck.

You tried to stay on the deck at first, but the pull was too strong. After twenty minutes you slipped off your sandals and joined him in the dirt, kneeling to arrange the flowers while he hauled mulch. The earth was warm against your knees, the scent of it rich and alive. Luna darted between you, dropping sticks at Jake’s feet, then yours, her tail whipping like a metronome of pure joy.