Page 59 of Truck Hard

Hannah recovers first. “It was... complicated, sweetie. Adult relationships usually are.”

“But you loved each other.” He persists. “Before Charlie.”

The name drops like a stone into still water, ripples of tension spreading outward. I grip my fork tighter, fighting back the surge of anger that always accompanies thoughts of that bastard.

“Yes,” Hannah says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “We did.”

The honesty in those two words steals my breath. We’ve danced around this topic for weeks, neither quite ready to acknowledge the depth of what still exists between us. But here, in this moment, with our son watching us so intently, there’s no room for anything but truth.

“I still—” I start to say, but Hannah stands abruptly, gathering empty plates.

“Who wants dessert? Grams sent over some of her apple pie.”

The moment breaks, but something has shifted. I can feel it in the air between us, electric with possibility. When Hannah returns with the pie, her fingers brush mine as she hands me a plate. The contact sends sparks racing up my arm.

Cam demolishes his slice in record time, then glances hopefully at the remainder. Hannah laughs and cuts him another piece, smaller this time. “Don’t tell Grams I let you have seconds. She’ll start bringing over whole pies every day of the week.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad.” Cam grins, cinnamon dotting his chin.

I watch them together, my chest aching with love for them both. How did I survive thirteen years without this? Withoutknowing the joy of seeing my son’s face light up over dessert, or watching Hannah mother-hen him about using a napkin?

The sun has set by the time we finish, twilight painting the kitchen in soft shadows. Cam helps clear the table without being asked—another change I’ve noticed. He’s more settled now, more willing to pitch in instead of retreating to his games.

“Bath time.” Hannah reminds him gently. “Then bed. It’s getting late.”

He groans but doesn’t argue, pausing to hug us both before heading upstairs. The casual affection catches me off guard—we’ve come so far from those first awkward days after the courthouse.

I should go. Let them settle into their evening routine without an audience. But something holds me here, watching Hannah fill the sink to prepare to wash dishes with practiced efficiency.

“Let me help.” I offer, reaching for a dish towel.

She hesitates only briefly before nodding. We work in comfortable silence, the quiet punctuated by running water and the clink of plates. It feels domestic in a way that makes my heart ache—this could be every evening, if she’d let it.

“Thank you,” she says suddenly, passing me the last glass. “For staying. For... everything.”

I set down the towel and turn to face her fully. She’s beautiful in the fading light, all soft edges and shadow. “Hannah.”

She meets my eyes, and the look there steals my breath. Hope mingles with fear, desire with uncertainty. We’re standing close—too close for safety, not close enough for what I want.

“Liam,” she whispers.

Above us, Cam’s footsteps creak across the floor as he leaves the bathroom, done with his shower. The normal sounds of a home—our home, maybe, if we’re brave enough to try.

I step closer, drawn by some invisible force. Hannah doesn’t retreat, though her breath catches. My hand rises of its own accord to brush a strand of hair from her face.

“Hannah,” I say again, her name a confession all its own.

The air between us thickens with possibility as we stand frozen in this moment, balanced on the knife’s edge of change. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure she must hear it.

Her lips part as if to speak, and I lean forward unconsciously, drawn by the gravity of her. But then, Cam’s voice drifts down the stairs.

“Mom? I can’t find any clean underwear.”

The spell breaks. Hannah steps back, though reluctance colors her movement. “I should...”

“Yeah,” I agree roughly. “Go. He needs you.”

She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, looking back at me with such longing it steals my breath. “Stay?” she asks softly. “Please?”

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