Ruben lives alone, surrounded by grief in a world that stopped making sense when his father died. The only person he allows near him is Dakota, a construction worker who spends his days building walls. After work, Dakota does the opposite, trying to tear down the imaginary walls Ruben built around himself. But Ruben is determined to keep those walls intact.
Mourning, Ruben believes his feelings for Dakota are just a fabrication of his troubled mind. He’s straight -- or at least, that's what he tells himself -- and he clings to the idea that his lust for Dakota will fade as soon as his pain does. But it doesn’t help that every time Dakota visits him, his feelings only grow stronger, and his urges are getting harder to ignore.
In his grief, can Ruben allow Dakota to fight his way into his heart?
I can picture it perfectly, but whenever the topic of Dakota’s sex life comes up, I always refrain from asking further questions about it because I truly do not want to know the specifics. For some reason, my stomach turns whenever I think about him with someone else. That’s another thing he can’t ever know.
He looks up at me again but doesn't meet my gaze. Instead, he looks at my chest. "But don't you ever get sick of it?"
"Sick of what?"
"All of it. Your corporate job, the fancy clothes, the sleeping with women ...?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely not knowing.
He shrugs. "Have you ever considered ... I don't know, maybe switching things up?"
"Switching up how?"
He shakes his head, raises the cup to his lips, and throws his head back as he takes his last sip. "Never mind, forget I said anything." He flashes a fake smile. “I'd better get going."
I frown and look at the clock: he's been here for under half an hour. He usually stays for an hour or so.
"Oh. Okay," I say, disappointed, and I slowly put my cup on the table, trying to drag the moment out. My least favorite time of the day is when he leaves, and I always try to postpone it, but it usually only happens later.
He hands me his empty coffee cup, and once I reach out to take it, our hands accidentally touch. It's merely a brush of his fingertips against my own, but oh ... Speaking of electricity, little bolts of lightning are surging through me, all the way from head to toe. His eyes meet mine, and for the first time in my life, I know what people mean when they describe two individuals having a moment. Too bad the first and only time I experience it is when I’m not in my right mind. It feels real, though. My breath is stuck in my throat, and it seems impossible to ever let out again.
He draws his hand back with alarming speed as though I've electrified him, and the moment of his skin against mine was both too short and too long.
"I, uh ... I'll be here again tomorrow," he says, avoiding eye contact and standing up quickly.
Still flustered by our encounter, I speak before I think. "It'd be easier if you just slept here, you know."
Shit. Was that ... Did I invite him to stay over? It seems like I did. Have I actually lost my mind? "In the building, I mean. So you don't have to commute."
He runs his hand over his hair, maybe trying to shake off the feeling of my touch because he seems flustered, too. "Yeah, but I don't have the sort of job with those facilities," he says before giving me a searching look. "Unless you're offering?"
I am. Fuck, yes, I am. Say yes.
