Page 27 of Pucked Up

"You ever split wood?" I asked, not looking at him as I set up another log.

"No. Never needed to."

"Good. Watch."

I demonstrated the stance—feet planted shoulder-width apart, body balanced. Showed him where to grip the handle, and how to let the weight of the axe head do the work: every motion needed to be deliberate and precise, a choreography of controlled violence.

"It's not about strength," I explained as the axe bit into another log. "It's about aim. Momentum. Finding the right spot and letting gravity finish what you start."

Noah nodded. His intense focus was unnerving.

Don't look at his mouth. Don't notice how he shifts his weight when he's interested. Don't think about his hands.

"Let me try." He stepped forward, palm outstretched.

I hesitated before handing over the axe.

Noah took my place at the block, mirroring my stance with uncanny precision. With his feet planted exactly as mine had been, his grip was tentative but determined. He raised the axe, muscles tensing beneath his—my—coat.

"Higher. Widen your grip. You'll get more control."

He adjusted, glancing back for confirmation. I nodded.

He swung. The axe connected with a solid thunk, but the log only split halfway. Noah frowned, disappointment flashing across his features.

"Not bad for a first try." I moved closer, unable to stop myself. "But you're fighting it too much. Trying to force it."

"Show me." He didn't yield the axe. He waited for me to approach.

I stepped behind him, and my hands found his, adjusting his grip on the handle. His shoulders tensed beneath my chest, but he didn't pull away.

"Let the weight do the work," I whispered into his ear. "Guide it, don't force it. Like this."

Together, we raised the axe. Together, we brought it down—the log split with a sharp crack, falling away in two clean halves.

Noah exhaled sharply. For a moment, neither of us moved. We froze in the frame of an almost-embrace, hands still overlapping on the worn wooden handle.

"I get it now. It's about knowing where to hit. And how hard."

The double meaning hung in the cold air. My throat went dry.

"Yeah." I stepped back, putting distance between us. "Something like that."

He turned to face me, axe still in hand. "Your turn to watch."

He positioned another log on the block, raised the axe with newfound assurance, and brought it down. Clean split. Perfect execution. He looked up, and he almost smiled.

"Quick learner."

"I pay attention." He swung again. It was another clean hit. "Especially to people who see me."

I watched him swing the axe again and again, each strike more confident than the last. Every motion was a mirror of mine, except for a grace I'd never possessed.

"You gonna keep watching?" he asked over his shoulder, sweat beading at his temples despite the cold. "Or tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

I took the axe from his hands. "Enough for now." I split one last log with a force that sent splinters flying, then planted the axe in the block. "Storm's coming back. I can feel it."

We'd been at it for nearly an hour. My arms burned with the familiar ache of exertion, sweat trickling down my spine despite the January chill. I'd shed my coat twenty minutes in, down toa thermal that clung to my torso like a second skin. Noah had followed suit, my borrowed jacket discarded on a nearby stump.

---