Douglas Everett Hensley was everything a man was meant to be.

Mowed the lawn twice a week, even if it didn’t need it. Knew the difference between a pipe wrench and a crescent wrench and wasn’t afraid to lord it over his neighbors. He made his bed in the morning, kissed his wife on the cheek, and disciplined his children with a firm—but fatherly—hand.

Because that’s what his father had done. And his father before him. All the way back to the Revolutionary War, if family legend could be trusted.

Douglas first learned about the great promise of the American Dream when he was six years old and getting whipped with a belt for leaving his socks on the floor. “Stand tall. Talk straight. Shake hard. And son,” he’d say, cigarette dangling from his lip, “never trust a man who doesn’t mow his own damn lawn.”

Doug took it to heart. Thirty-nine years later, he had a good job. A better lawn. He waved at the Hendersons every morning without fail, flag crisp on the porch and smile even crisper. He coached Little League. He attended church. He shook hands like a man whose only dream was to retire by the lake with a damn fine boat and a damn finer reputation.

But here’s the thing about reputation.

It’s a paper thing. Flammable. And it burns easy under the weight of secrets.

Right now, his secret was on its knees behind the azaleas. Right hand on his calf like prayer, lips clumsy and desperate against the zipper of his new pleated trousers.

Douglas looked up and waved across the street. “Morning, Martha!” he called, all teeth and boyish charm.

She smiled back, tugging her robe tighter. “Good morning, Doug! Your hydrangeas look wonderful.”

“They’d look better on your side of the street!” he teased, chuckling, one thumb tucked into his belt buckle, the other tangling ever so slightly into John’s hair. Just enough to tighten. Just enough to remind.

Martha laughed, strolled back into her house. God bless her cataracts. She couldn’t see what he was doing.

Only when her door clicked shut did he glance back down at you.

Your eyes were glossy. Your mouth a mess. You were so far gone it almost hurt to look at.

“Swallow,” he said, voice soft but command laced through every syllable. “Mary just bought me these pants.”

The truth was, he’d been hooking up with you for years. Since Kennedy. Since before his youngest was born. Since that one night you, his drunk of a neighbor, stumbled out barefoot again—cigarette in one hand, shirt misbuttoned, already swaying like a loose hinge, asking for a release that’d get you shot these days.

And Doug?

He obliged.

Because even a perfect man needs to break sometimes. Just long enough to remember he’s still alive under the smile and starch. Just long enough to feel something that isn’t duty.

“What a mess,” he said mildly, brushing a speck of dirt from your lapel as if you were just another chore on the Saturday checklist. Though even you know he’s fond of you.