It was always 3 a.m. when he showed up, right before the cit..

It was always 3 a.m. when he showed up, right before the city began its slow crawl into wakefulness. He had that unmistakable blue-collar energy rough, grounded, and unapologetically real. His days started before most people’s dreams ended, with a 5 a.m. call to construction sites that demanded every ounce of his strength. But before the grind, he came here, needing something to fuel him in ways his work never could.

He’d step inside like he owned the night, his boots landing heavy by the door, a cigarette already lit in his hand. There was something magnetic about him, the way his early-morning stillness contrasted with the fire he carried beneath. He didn’t say much he didn’t have to. His presence alone filled the room, and I knew exactly what he came for.

By the faint glow of my desk computer, he’d stand back, watching as I settled at his feet, my movements deliberate, almost reverent. He loved being worshipped. He loved the way I let go of any pretense and gave in to the rhythm of his demands. I could tell it gave him something no one else did, a rare space where he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He could just be.

The air was thick with the scent of cigarettes and something uniquely him wood, leather, and while the rest of the city slept, we created our own quiet storm, a moment carved out of time that belonged to no one but us.

It wasn’t just about the act; it was the connection. The way he’d look down at me, half smiling, his fingers brushing against my face with an unexpected softness that always caught me off guard. His deep voice carried a weight that made every word linger.

By the time he left, the sun would be stretching its arms across the sky, and he’d grab his boots, cigarette back between his lips. “See you,” he’d say, the faintest grin on his face as he headed out the door, ready to take on a day that I had somehow made better. For him, it was fuel. For me, it was everything.