Page 64 of Truck Hard

Hannah

Just yourself.

Actually, maybe garlic bread?

Liam

Done. See you tonight.

I tuck the phone in my pocket, warmth spreading through my chest. Who would have thought I’d be here, in this moment? Finally feeling safe enough to let someone in again, to trust that not every touch will hurt, that love doesn’t have to mean control.

“Mom! I can’t find my science homework!” Cam’s panicked voice breaks through my thoughts.

“Check the coffee table!” I call back, already moving toward the living room. “I saw you working on it there last night!”

The familiar chaos of our morning routine takes over—finding lost papers, double-checking backpacks, making sure teeth are brushed. But underneath it all runs a current of anticipation, knowing that tonight we’ll be sharing our table with the man who’s slowly becoming such an important part of our lives.

Paint fumes fillmy nostrils as I dip the roller into the pan, ready to tackle another section of wall. Today is all abouttransforming this space—erasing the dingy beige walls that hold too many dark memories and replacing them with a warm sage green that speaks of new beginnings.

I’m grateful for the day off from Frank’s. Between work and getting Cam settled into school, finding time to work on house projects myself has been challenging. I’m starting to feel bad that Liam is doing all the renovations while I’m either at work or watching him while I cook or take care of Cam.

But standing here in my old paint-splattered clothes, seeing the fresh color slowly covering years of neglect, fills me with a sense of purpose. Each stroke feels like reclaiming something I lost long ago.

The quiet of the house wraps around me like a familiar blanket. Cam left for school an hour ago, already adapting to his new routine better than I’d hoped. The pride in his voice when he told me about making new friends last week still makes my heart swell. He’s thriving, despite everything we’ve been through.

A noise from outside pulls me from my thoughts. My heart stutters when I recognize the familiar rumble of Liam’s truck. Through the window, I watch him climb out, toolbox in hand. Even from here, the sight of him makes my pulse quicken—tall and solid in his work clothes, moving with that quiet confidence that’s always been uniquely his.

What is he doing here?We aren’t supposed to meet until dinner. Yet my body already hums with awareness, remembering his touch from last night. The way his hands mapped every inch of my skin. The tender way he kissed each scar.

A knock at the door drags me away from my thoughts. Setting down the paint roller, I try to calm my racing heart as I move to answer it. When I open the door, Liam’s presence fills the frame, and my breath catches at the warmth in his dark eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, lips quirking into that crooked smile that still makes my knees weak after all these years.

“I didn’t expect to see you until tonight.” I manage, though I can’t keep the pleasure from my voice.

He shrugs, looking almost sheepish. “Saw your car in the driveway. Figured you could use an extra set of hands.” His eyes drift to the paint supplies scattered around the living room. “Plus, that upstairs faucet still needs fixing.”

“The faucet, huh?” I arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “That’s why you’re here?”

“Well.” He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “Maybe I just didn’t want to wait until dinner to see you. Plus, I’ve got a surprise in the truck.”

The honesty in his voice makes something flutter in my chest. This is still so new—this tentative thing growing between us again. Some days it feels as fragile as spun glass, other days as solid as the foundation beneath our feet.

I look past him, but I can’t see what’s hidden in the truck bed. “What did you bring me?”

He gives me a huge smile. “A swing for the front porch. I’ll put it up after I fix that faucet.”

“Liam.” My heart warms at the gesture. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He rubs the back of his neck and looks around like he’s suddenly nervous. “I don’t, but I wanted to. I like doing things for you.”

“Alright, well … thank you,” I say, stepping back to wave him through. As he passes, his arm brushes mine, sending little sparks of electricity dancing across my skin.

The atmosphere shifts the moment he enters, filling the house with a warmth that has nothing to do with the morning sun. Everything feels morerealsomehow with him here—thewalls I’m painting, the home I’m trying to build, the future I’m daring to imagine.

“Looking good in here.” He comments, surveying the half-painted walls. “Green suits you.”

“You think?” I glance around, still unsure if I made the right choice. “I wasn’t sure if it was too dark.”

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