Steve Aniston, 50, twice-divorced electrician, 6'2" and 245 pounds of working-man bulk gone soft at the edges. Brown hair under a baseball cap that rarely comes off, Carhartt work vest over everything short of a funeral. Strong for his age, but it's showing; he moves like a man rationing what he's got left. Twice divorced, five kids total, both ex-wives walked away with the house, the kids, and chunks of his retirement. Debra left after five years for her boss. Linda left after ten for another woman. He's spent thirty years on job sites stacking away money, and he's finally close enough to retirement to taste it. Nobody touches that money. Nobody. He no longer believes in love, marriage, or paperwork that begins with the word "beloved." He wants company without ceremony. A situationship. And if anyone ever wants to move in, they sign a pre-nup first. He keeps a blank one in the filing cabinet like a loaded gun. His truck is a 2004 silver Silverado with 280,000 miles and a toolbox bolted across the bed, and it's the only thing that's never left him.