Page 70 of Truck Hard

“Good thing the feeling’s mutual.” I brush a kiss across her lips.

Cam thunders back down the stairs in old jeans and a ratty t-shirt, practically vibrating with excitement. I hand him a small roller, showing him how to load it with paint without dripping everywhere.

“Like this?” He demonstrates the technique, tongue poking out in concentration.

“Perfect. Now remember, long, even strokes.” I guide his hand, helping him find the right pressure. “Not too much paint or it’ll run.”

Hannah watches us from her perch on the stepladder, a soft smile playing on her lips as she works on the trim. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, catching the floating dust and paint particles in its golden rays.

“Dad, look!” Cam calls out, proudly showing off his freshly painted section. The word ‘Dad’ still gets me in the best possible way. “Is this good?”

“You’re a natural.” I ruffle his hair, earning a mock-annoyed groan. “Better than your old man, that’s for sure.”

“Please.” Hannah scoffs. “I remember you painting sets for the drama club in high school. You were always the neatest painter.”

“Yeah, well.” I dip my roller in more paint. “Some skills you never forget.”

We fall into an easy rhythm—Cam taking the lower sections, Hannah working on the trim, and me handling the higher parts. The radio plays country music softly in the background, and occasionally Cam breaks into enthusiastic air guitar solos, paint roller raised like an instrument. His joy is infectious, and soon we’re all singing along, probably butchering the lyrics but not caring one bit.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, surveying our work. The walls look damn good, if I do say so myself. Fresh paint changes everything, makes the whole room feel lighter somehow. “Well, I should unload that porch swing and head home to clean up before dinner. Don’t want to track paint all over your table.”

Cam’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Why? You can shower here.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We have two bathrooms. The one upstairs and the one in Mom’s room.”

Hannah’s cheeks flush pink as she busies herself gathering up paint supplies. “Cam’s right. You’re welcome to use myshower after me.” She looks down at her paint splatter clothes. “Just let me clean up first.”

“Yeah?” I glance between them, something warm spreading in my chest at how casual they both are about this, like I belong here.

“Up the stairs, first door on the right.” Hannah nods toward her bedroom. “Clean towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

I hesitate for a moment, then lean in to kiss her cheek. “Thanks. Won’t be long.” I watch her as she heads up stairs to shower first. Then I get to work cleaning up the paint mess. After that I run outside, unload the swing and set it on the porch. I’ll worry about hanging it for her later.

I grab my bag from the truck—the one I packed with a change of clothes just in case—and head upstairs, finding her bedroom with ease. I know exactly where it’s at. This used to be her parents bedroom.

She’s already finished cleaning up and downstairs in the kitchen. It’s a bit disappointing. The thought of taking a shower with Hannah makes my dick twitch.

Walking into Hannah’s bedroom feels strangely intimate, more so than our earlier activities downstairs. This is her private space, and being invited in speaks of a trust I don’t take lightly. The room is simply decorated but distinctly her—soft colors, family photos, a well-worn quilt I recognize from her childhood on the bed.

The en-suite bathroom is small but functional even if a bit outdated, it could use an update. I strip off my paint-stained clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water sluice away the sweat and paint. Hannah’s shampoo sits on the shelf, and I can’t resist using it, wanting to carry her scent with me.

When I finally emerge, clean and refreshed, I find my bag where I left it by the bed. I almost didn’t pack these clothes, notwanting to be presumptuous but now I’m grateful for it as I pull on fresh jeans and a t-shirt.

The sound of laughter draws me downstairs to the kitchen. Hannah stands at the stove, stirring a pot of what smells like marinara sauce, while Cam sits at the counter doing homework. The scene hits me hard, making my throat tight with emotion. I want this. Every day. So fucking bad.

“Something smells amazing,” I say, walking up behind Hannah to peek over her shoulder.

She jumps slightly, then relaxes back against me. “Just sauce for the spaghetti. Nothing fancy.”

“Smells fancy to me.” I wrap my arms around her waist, unable to resist nuzzling the soft spot behind her ear. “Need any help?”

“You could start the salad.” She suggests, tilting her head to give me better access so I can kiss her neck. “Everything’s in the fridge.”

I reluctantly release her to gather ingredients, though I can’t help stealing glances as I work. She moves around the kitchen with graceful efficiency, adding spices to the sauce, checking the pasta water, all while helping Cam with his math homework. It’s a dance I could watch forever.

The simple act of preparing dinner together feels profound somehow. We work in tandem, bodies moving around each other with practiced ease despite our years apart. When our hands brush reaching for the same knife, electricity crackles between us. Even mundane tasks like chopping vegetables take on new meaning with her beside me.

“Here, taste this.” Hannah holds out a spoonful of sauce. I lean in, letting her feed me, and groan appreciatively at the explosion of flavors.

“Perfect.” I declare, licking my lips. Her eyes track the movement, darkening slightly and I can’t resist leaning down and kissing her on the lips.

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