Chapter 1: Lost in the Aisle
The light in the Home Depot was a kind of aggressive, buzzing white that made everything feel slightly unreal. Miko stood in the paint aisle, utterly paralyzed. It was supposed to be a simple rebellion. Ken was in Calgary for a week on business, and she’d decided, with a thrill that felt like stealing, to paint the living room accent wall. Not his safe, mourner’s grey. Something alive.
But now, faced with a thousand variations of alive, she was drowning.
Her hand fluttered between two chips: “Volcanic Blush” and “Fuchsia Frenzy.” They were basically the same color—a pink so loud it felt like it was shouting at her. She loved it. Ken would hate it. The thought made her grin, a quick, private crack in her usually composed face.
“Trying to summon a demon, or just paint a wall?”
The voice was low, gravelly with a touch of humor. She turned. He was a few feet away, studying a chip of deep ocean blue. A big man, broad in the shoulders, wearing a flannel shirt smeared with a galaxy of primer spots and one bold slash of what looked like the same blue. His jeans were dusted with drywall mud, and his hands—they were the thing she noticed most. Large, capable, calloused, stained with paint right into the creases of his knuckles. He looked like he’d been wrestling with the materials of a house and was only barely winning.
“A demon might be easier,” Miko said, surprised at the ease in her own voice. She held up the two chips. “Which one says ‘I have a vibrant soul’ and not ‘I require psychiatric intervention’?”
He stepped closer, squinting. His eyes were a warm hazel, tired but sharp. He smelled like sawdust, fresh paint, and a faint, clean trace of sweat. “This one.” He tapped “Volcanic Blush.” “The other one’s a liar. Too purple. This one’s honest. Just pure, unapologetic pink.” He glanced at her, a smile playing on his lips. “It’ll look great. Against, what, a neutral wall?”
“My husband’s soul-crushing beige,” she confirmed, and he laughed, a short, genuine sound.
“Ah, a surprise attack. I respect that. I’m Simon.” He didn’t offer a hand, just wiped his own on his thigh in a useless gesture.
“Miko.”
“You need just the one gallon? For an accent wall?” He was already moving down the aisle toward the base paints, his knowledge seeming automatic. She followed, feeling oddly anchored.
“I… yes. How did you know?”
He shrugged, a massive movement. “The look. It’s the ‘I’m-dipping-a-toe-in-treason’ look. Also, you’re holding one chip, not fifteen. That’s rookie confidence.” He stopped at the mixing counter, leaning his forearms on it. The sleeves of his flannel were rolled up, revealing strong wrists dusted with dark hair. “Satin or eggshell? You want a little glow, not a flat matte. Eggshell. More wipeable.”
“You’re a contractor.”
“Just a Dad” he corrected, pulling out his phone to show her a cracked-screen photo of a bedroom half-painted, a chaotic mess of tools and buckets. “My personal hell. Hence the…” He gestured to his stained clothes. “Every night after work, it’s me and this damn renovation. My wife calls it my mid-life crisis, but with more spackle.”
There was a story there, in the weary set of his shoulders, in the way he said ‘my wife’. A slight distance. Miko felt a sudden, unexpected ping of connection. Not just to his expertise, but to his tiredness. To the desire to build something, even if it was chaotic.
“Let me guess,” she said, leaning against the counter next to him. “You chose the blue.”
“I did. ‘Galactic Tide’. Kids’ bedroom. They wanted constellation and the moon. I’m compromising with a color that doesn’t glow in the dark.” He called over the bored-looking store associate, handing over the code for “Volcanic Blush”. The machine started its loud, churning shake.
They stood in the mechanical noise. The conversation lulled, but the space between them didn’t feel empty. It felt charged. She watched his profile, the strong line of his jaw under the five-o’clock shadow, the way his thumb rubbed at a spot of blue paint on his index finger.
“You’re sure about this pink?” she asked, just to hear him talk again.
He turned his head, looking directly at her. His gaze was intense, focused. She was used to men looking past her, through her. He was looking. “Yeah. I’m sure. It suits you. It’s got guts.”
The can was finished, a violent pink label slapped on it. He hefted it for her, his biceps straining slightly against the flannel. “You need tape, a good angled brush, a roller kit…”
“I have no idea what any of that is.”
He paused, then seemed to make a decision. “C’mon. I’ll show you. Consider it a humanitarian mission. Saving your baseboards.”
For the next twenty minutes, he was a guide through a foreign land. He explained the difference between frog tape and the cheap stuff, why a two-inch angled brush was crucial for cutting in, how a cheap roller sleeve would leave lint all over her beautiful, treasonous pink wall. His explanations were practical, devoid of condescension. He’d pick up a tool, his stained hands handling it with a natural familiarity that was, she realized, incredibly attractive.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said finally, her cart now full.
“Just paying it forward. I once painted a whole room with a sponge. Don’t ask.” He walked with her towards the front. The store was quieter now, near closing. The harsh lights felt more intimate, isolating them in the vast, cavernous space.
At the self-checkout, she fumbled with the bulky roller handle. He took it from her, his fingers brushing hers. A simple, electric contact. She looked up. He was already looking at her.
“Thanks, Simon,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
“Good luck with the uprising, Miko.” He didn’t move. He just stood there, holding the roller, looking at her with an expression that had shed all its dry humor. It was just raw, unvarnished appraisal. And want.
It happened without thought. They were in the bright, public space of the checkout, he had gently guided her, a hand on the small of her back.
They were in the bright, public space of the checkout, he had gently guided her, a hand on the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through her thin sweater. The store’s PA system announced a closing in fifteen minutes, a distant, garbled echo.
The noise faded into a static hum in her ears. All she could hear was her own breath, a little too quick, and the solid, present reality of him standing beside her. She looked at his paint-stained hand on the cart, then up to his face. The fluorescent light carved shadows under his cheekbones, made his eyes seem darker. The air between them was thick, pulsing with something that had nothing to do with paint.
“Simon,” she called, her voice barely above the hum of the freezer units. It wasn’t a call across distance. It was a summoning. He turned, his gaze locking onto hers, questioning.
“I don’t even know how to paint.” She swallowed, the confession feeling dangerously like an invitation. “Would you… show me?”
The question hung there, absurd and blatant. It wasn’t about the paint. They both knew it. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back up. A slow, deep breath expanded his chest. The kind of breath a man takes before jumping.
“Yeah,” he said, the word rough. “I can show you.”
The drive to her house was silent, tense with a coiled energy. Her minivan smelled of graham crackers and old coffee. He filled the passenger seat, a mountain of worn flannel and quiet. He stared out the window, his stained fingers drumming once on his thigh. She focused on the road, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, every nerve ending screaming at the insanity of this. A stranger. In her car. Going to her house. Ken’s house.
She pulled into the driveway of the tidy, beige-sided split-level. The porch light was on, a lonely sentinel. “Here we are,” she said, her voice brittle.
“Nice place,” he murmured, grabbing the paint can. His tone held no judgment, just observation.
Inside, the quiet was profound. It was the clean, staged quiet of a realtors’ brochure. Neutral walls, a grey sofa, abstract art in chrome frames. It felt like a museum to a life that was… acceptable. Simon set the can down on the plastic sheet she fumblingly spread in the center of the room. The sound of the metal can hitting the hardwood was a violent intrusion.
“Tape first,” he said, his voice assuming a practical tone that was somehow more intimate than a whisper. He showed her how to run the frog tape along the trim, his body pressed close behind hers, his arms reaching around to guide her hands. His breath was warm on her neck. She could feel the solid wall of his chest against her shoulder blades. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
They mixed the paint. He poured, the violent pink sloshing thickly into the tray. The scent, acrid and new, filled the stale room. He loaded the roller, showed her the motion. “Long, even strokes. Don’t press too hard.”
She tried. The first swipe was clumsy, a globby, triumphant streak of Fuchsia Frenzy cutting through the bland beige. It was exhilarating. “Oh god, it’s so bright.”
“Told you,” he said, a low chuckle in his throat. “It’s honest.”
He took the roller from her, his hand covering hers. “Like this.” He guided her, their hands together, spreading the color. His front was pressed flush against her back now, his hips aligned with hers. The instructional pretense shattered. His free hand settled on her hip, not guiding, just holding. Claiming.
She dropped the roller. It thudded into the tray, splashing a great arc of pink onto the plastic, the floorboards beneath.
She turned in his arms.
No more words. His mouth crashed down on hers, not asking, taking. It was raw and deep, his tongue sweeping past her lips, tasting of coffee and a hint of spearmint gum. She kissed him back with a ferocity that shocked her, her hands fisting in his filthy flannel, pulling him closer. She wanted the grit, the stain, the mess of him all over this clean, silent house.
He walked her backwards until her shoulders hit the wet, tacky wall. The cool, damp seeped through her sweater. He grunted, pulling his mouth from hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. “This is fucking insane,” he breathed against her skin, but his hands were already pushing her sweater up, over her head.
“I know,” she gasped, reaching for his buckle. The leather was stiff, the metal cold. He helped, shoving his jeans and briefs down in one rough push. He was already hard, thick and heavy in her hand. She stroked him, feeling him jump, a bead of moisture smearing under her thumb. He groaned, the sound animal, desperate.
He yanked her leggings and underwear down to her knees. He didn’t bother to take them off. He just hooked a hand under her knee, hiking her leg up around his hip. The position was awkward, primal, braced against the painted wall.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his tip nudging against her. She was slick, ready, the insane thrill of it all short-circuiting any hesitation. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He drove into her, one deep, brutal thrust that filled her utterly, stole the air from her lungs. A cry ripped from her throat, strangled and loud in the empty house. He was so much there, a burning, stretching fullness that banished all thought of beige walls and business trips.
He started to move, a hard, relentless rhythm that slammed her shoulders into the wet paint over and over. The sound was obscene—skin on skin, their ragged breaths, the soft, sticky peel of her skin from the wall with every thrust. His face was buried in her neck, his teeth grazing her collarbone.
“Christ, you feel good,” he growled, his hips pistoning. “So fucking tight.”
She clung to him, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back through his shirt. Each plunge rubbed a brutal, perfect friction against her clit. The chaos of it—the smell of paint and sex, the crude, grunting sounds he made, the vibrant pink smear she knew was spreading on the wall behind her—drove her higher, faster than she’d ever gone. This wasn’t lovemaking. This was a fucking exorcism.
Her orgasm hit suddenly, a violent, clenching wave that tore through her without warning. She screamed, her body seizing around him, bucking against the wall. The force of it pushed him over the edge. With a shattered groan, he plunged deep, held there, and she felt the hot, pulsing release of him inside her.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths. They were glued together, by sweat, by paint, by the physical aftermath. Slowly, trembling, he let her leg down. She winced as the feeling rushed back into her limbs. They parted. A string of viscous fluid, pink-tinged, trailed between her thigh and his before breaking.
They looked at the wall. A large, blurred impression of her back, from shoulders to ass, was stamped in shocking pink on the beige. A modern art crime scene. Pink droplets were on the floor. His flannel shirt was streaked with it. Her skin was marked with dusty handprints the color of rebellion.
He reached out, swiped his thumb through a smear on her stomach. He looked at the pigment on his skin, then at her, his expression dazed, wrecked, satiated. “So,” he said, his voice shot. “That’s one way to cut in.”