Page 71 of Truck Hard

“I’m right here,” Cam mutters without looking up from his homework.

Hannah blushes furiously while I laugh. “Sorry, buddy. Just appreciating your mom and her cooking.”

He rolls his eyes in that uniquely pre-teen way. “Sure you were.”

The easy banter, the shared smiles, the comfortable silences—it all feels right in a way I never expected. Like pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place after years of trying to force the wrong fit.

I find myself watching Hannah as she moves around the kitchen, captivated by the subtle grace in her movements. She’s always been beautiful, but there’s something different now—a quiet strength that shows through even when she’s doing something as simple as stirring sauce or reaching for plates.

Yet I don’t miss the way her eyes dart to the windows periodically, checking the darkening road outside. Each glance reminds me of the shadow Charlie still casts over her life—over all our lives. The thought makes my jaw clench, protective instincts surging.

Without conscious thought, I move behind her again, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her close. She stiffens for a split second before melting back against me with a soft sigh.

“We’ll figure this out,” I murmur against her hair, meaning so much more than just dinner preparations. “I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

I feel the shudder that runs through her at my words, the way her carefully constructed walls start to crack. When she turns in my arms, her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

Time seems to stop as we stand there, the air growing thick with tension and possibility. The urge to kiss her is overwhelming, and I don’t fight it. Leaning down, I capture her lips with mine, pouring all my promises into the contact.

The kiss starts gentle but quickly deepens as she responds, her fingers curling into my shirt. I hear Cam groan in the background but I don’t let that stop me. I kiss her like she’s mine. He needs to see how a man is supposed to treat a woman.

And for a moment, everything else fades away—the bubbling pots, Cam’s presence, our complicated history—leaving only this moment, this connection.

When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I see it in her eyes—that flicker of hope I’ve been waiting for. It’s small, fragile, but it’s there.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and I know she means it for more than just the kiss.

“Always,” I reply, pressing my forehead to hers.

The timer beeps, startling us both. Hannah turns back to the stove while I finish the salad, but something has shifted between us. Each brush of hands, each shared glance, carries new weight—new possibility.

“Cam, clear your homework please.” Hannah calls. “Dinner’s ready.”

He scrambles to pack up his books as I help Hannah carry dishes to the table. The sight of the three of us sitting down together makes my heart swell almost painfully. This is what I’ve wanted for so long without even knowing it. Not just Hannah, but this. Family. Home.

The conversation flows easily over plates of steaming spaghetti and garlic bread. Cam chatters about school, his new friends, and the science project he’s working on. Hannah interjects occasionally with questions or comments, but I can seeher soaking in every word, every laugh, like she’s storing them up against future darkness.

I catch her watching me sometimes, a soft look in her eyes that makes my chest tight. Each time our gazes meet, that spark of connection flares brighter, stronger. Whatever comes next—court dates, Charlie’s threats, the long road of healing ahead—we’ll face it together.

This is just the beginning.

Chapter 16

Facing the Demon

Hannah

Clang. Another plate crashes to the floor, shattering into pieces that scatter across the floor like the shards of my nerves. The broken ceramic dish mock me as my hands tremble. Third plate today. Frank’s going to dock my pay—or worse, fire me—if I keep this up.

“Let me help with that,” Ashley says, already reaching for the broom. I’m grateful for her help, but her kindness only makes me feel worse. I’m being outperformed by a seventeen-year-old. I should be able to do this.

I clutch the counter’s edge, trying to steady myself. The pre-lunch rush left a wake of mistakes—spilled milkshakes, wrong orders, and now broken dishes.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I’m apologizing to Ashley or myself.

The door chimes as another customer walks in. I straighten my apron and force a smile, but my hands won’t stop shaking. Thankfully, it’s a simple order. Just a cup of coffee, but my anxiety threatens to screw that up as well. The coffee pot nearly slips from my grip as I pour a fresh cup.

“You okay over there, Hannah?” Frank calls from the grill, concern etched in his weathered features.

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