Page 26 of Pucked Up

"I can handle bitter things." The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile.

A long moment of silence passed between us.

"Storm's gone," I said finally.

"Yeah." Noah nodded slightly. "I heard the furnace kick on." He took a careful sip from his mug, eyes never leaving mine over the rim. "Seems like everything's warming up."

The double meaning hung in the air between us.

"You planning to talk about it?" he asked.

"No." I set my mug down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit." Noah's voice was soft but sharp.

"You come all this way to chat, Langley? Thought you wanted truth, not conversation."

"Maybe they're the same thing." He moved closer, invading the careful bubble of space I worked hard to maintain. "Or maybe you're afraid of both."

My pulse hammered in my throat. "I'm not afraid of you."

"I know." His gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "That's not what I said."

He was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that I could grab him or push him away. I did neither. We stood inches apart, the air between us charged and dangerous.

"Honestly, what do you want?"

His eyes—steel-gray, unreadable—searched mine. "I'm still figuring that out."

He took another sip of coffee before setting his mug next to mine. His fingers grazed the back of my hand—probably intentionally.

He waited for the next move in whatever dangerous game we'd started with that first collision.

I gave him nothing, and he returned the favor.

I needed air. Space. I grabbed my coat and yanked the door open.

Outside, the world glittered. The previous day's storm had left everything coated in a thin layer of ice on top of the snow that caught the morning sun.

The trees stood frozen in suspended animation with their branches encased in crystal. The snow crunched beneath my boots, hard-packed and slick.

I breathed deep, filling my lungs with cold air that burned all the way down. Clarity. That's what I needed. Not the fog of whatever was happening inside.

The door opened behind me. Noah stepped out, wrapped in one of my spare jackets. It hung on his frame, sleeves extending past his fingertips. He looked smaller in it. Younger. The illusion disappeared as he approached.

"Figured you weren't trying to escape," he said, breath clouding before him. "Not without your truck keys."

"Would've come back for them." I turned away, scanning the treeline. "Eventually."

"Sure." He followed my gaze across the clearing. "Pretty out here when it's not trying to kill you."

I grunted in agreement, though nothing about this place had ever struck me as pretty. Necessary, maybe. Remote. Living here was a punishment that fit the crime.

The axe's weight was comfortable in my hand as I moved toward the chopping block. It was a familiar tool with a familiar purpose. Split the wood. Feed the fire. Survive another day.

I positioned the first log, raised the axe, and brought it down in one fluid motion. The wood surrendered with a satisfying crack, splitting clean down the center.

Noah watched—studying my movements. Learning.

---