We didn’t originally plan to rent it out.
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The apartment above the garage had always been a guest space, a little retreat for visiting family or the occasional friend passing through. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was clean, fully furnished, and honestly kind of charming. We had put some real effort into decorating it over the years. Minimalist, neutral tones, natural light. Nothing trendy, just calm.
Last month while going over the budget, Eric brought it up.
“If we rented it out,” he said, tapping numbers into his phone, “it could cover most of the mortgage. Maybe more.”
That night we sat on the porch with a glass of wine, going back and forth about it. I was hesitant at first. We liked having that space open. It felt like ours, even if we rarely used it. But the numbers made sense. And once I pictured that monthly payment shrinking, I started to come around.
The next morning we got to work.
We deep cleaned everything. Every drawer, every dusty corner, every smudge on the windows. Luckily, we didn’t have to furnish or stage anything. The place was already set up for guests. It just needed polish.
After that, we pulled up a few YouTube videos on how to photograph a space for rental listings. I made Eric stand in the corner of the room to test angles, and after we argued lightly over which photos looked best. They didn’t come out professional, but they were solid. The space spoke for itself.
We posted the listing that evening.
And then forgot about it.
—
It only took a few days.
We were shocked to see someone had already put in a request. Not for a weekend, not for a week. For two months.
His name was Austin.
Mid-20s. Musician. Verified profile. We clicked into it, half expecting something shady. But there were dozens of reviews. Hosts from all over the country. Words like respectful, clean, easy to communicate with. No red flags. No horror stories. No mention of fucking anyone’s wife.
Eric read one out loud while sipping coffee: “Austin was a great guest. Quiet, polite, left the place spotless.”
“Sounds like a golden retriever,” I joked.
“Or a serial killer,” Eric added.
We laughed, shrugged, and hit accept.
We had no idea what we were actually letting in.
—
Chapter 2 – The First Spark
A couple of weeks passed as we got everything ready for our first guest.
Eric made a checklist. Spare linens, an extra roll of toilet paper tucked under the sink, and some other small items. I added a small potted plant to the kitchen window and swapped out an old rug in the entryway. Nothing major. Just small touches to make it feel lived in without feeling ours.
We both wanted it to go smoothly. First impressions mattered. And even if we’d only exchanged a few messages with Austin through the app, I couldn’t help but picture him more vividly now. Young… tattooed, confident. Two months living just a few steps away, in the apartment above the detached garage.
We didn’t talk about it, but I could feel it.
That low hum of curiosity.
About who he really was.
And what it might feel like having someone like him just across the driveway.
The morning he was set to arrive, I found myself moving slower than usual.
I’d already vacuumed the living room twice, even though no one was going to see it but us. I fixed my hair without really meaning to. Nothing special, just a quick run of the brush and a bit of mascara. But it was more than I normally did for a Thursday.
Eric noticed, of course. He doesn’t miss much.
“Expecting royalty?” he asked, coffee mug in hand.
I smirked. “Just want to make a good impression.”
He grunted and walked off, muttering something about how I didn’t even brush my hair the first time his parents came to visit.
I was outside watering the rosemary planter when the sound of tires crunching on gravel made me look up.
Black car.
Windows down.
He pulled in like he’d been here before slow, controlled, one arm draped out the window, fingers tapping the side of the door. I stood still, hose in hand, watching as he killed the engine and stepped out.
First impression?
Tall.
Lean.
Confident.
He wore a white tank top, loose gym shorts, and beat up sneakers. His arm muscles flexed naturally as he pulled a duffel bag from the backseat. Tattoos snaked down his arms, across his chest, and just barely under the collar of his shirt. His skin was tanned. His jawline looked like it had been cut from stone.
He looked exactly like the kind of man who never had to try very hard.
Eric stepped out from the garage just a moment later, perfectly timed.
“Austin?” he called out.
Austin turned, squinting toward us with a smile. “Hey, yeah. Thanks again for letting me stay.”
His voice had that gravelly texture.
Eric extended a hand. “No problem. I’m Eric. This is my wife, Claire.”
Austin’s eyes shifted to me. He nodded politely, but held my gaze a beat longer than was polite. Not creepy. Just… sure of himself.
“Claire,” he said, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I managed.
Eric handed over the keys. “Everything should be set up. Wi-Fi password’s on the counter. Let us know if anything’s missing.”
“Appreciate it,” Austin said. Then he looked back at me, not as long this time, but enough to make my skin feel warmer than it should’ve.
He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and walked toward the stairs that wrapped up the side of the garage.
I stood there longer than I meant to, watching the lines of his back move beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
When I finally turned, Eric was already looking at me.
He didn’t say anything.
Just smirked.
We walked back into the house without saying a word.
Eric set his keys down on the counter and opened the fridge like it was any other day. Like he hadn’t just watched his wife gawk at a younger, shredded, tattooed musician hauling a guitar case across our driveway.
He grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and leaned against the counter.
Then, without even looking at me, he said:
“You gonna offer to help him unpack next time, or just stand there drooling again?”
I froze halfway through wiping down the sink. My mouth opened, then shut again. “I wasn’t drooling.”
He smirked. “No? What would you call that, then? Admiring?”
I gave him a look. “He’s attractive. I’m married, not blind.”
“Fair,” he said, taking a sip. “Just figured I’d get a heads up if you planned on leaving me for a touring band.”
I rolled my eyes and tossed the dish towel onto the counter. “Oh please. I’ve seen the way you look at the neighbor when she wears yoga pants.”
“That’s different. She’s…” he paused. “Okay. Point taken.”
We both laughed.
But it hung in the air, that little truth we didn’t want to name.
Austin wasn’t just good looking.
He had that thing. That quiet confidence. That ease. The kind of man who doesn’t just enter a space he shifts it.
And Eric noticed.
Of course he did.
“You’re not actually worried, are you?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
He shrugged. “No. I mean… maybe a little. He’s tall, shredded, and in a band.”
“You forgot tattooed.”
“Right,” he nodded. “Tattooed. Obviously. Because why not check every box while he’s at it.”
I smiled. Walked over. Ran a hand across his chest and leaned in to kiss him. “You’re still my favorite.”
He looked at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
But even as I said it, I felt something unfamiliar stir in me.
A desire.
Something had shifted.
And Austin was the reason.
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