Page 22 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
He shoots me a look. “I don’t do robes.”
“You’d look good in one.”
He clears his throat, eyes straight ahead. “I don’t get along with people.”
That sobers me a little. I watch him, really watch him. The hard set of his jaw, the small crease between his brows, the way his grip on the wheel tightens like I’m walking him toward a conversation he doesn’t want to have.
“Why not?” I ask gently.
He exhales slowly. “Because people lie. Because they take. Because most of them don’t want the truth. They want comfort. And I don’t have that to give.”
I blink, quiet for a moment, before I whisper, “You give me comfort.”
That makes his jaw tic again, but he doesn’t answer.
A few more pine trees blur past before he adds, “I’ve seen things, Ellie.”
I turn to face him fully.
He keeps his eyes on the road. “In the war. In places we weren’t even supposed to be. I’ve seen things no man should ever have to see. I’ve held friends while they bled out. Killed men before I was old enough to rent a car back home. I’ve buried civilians because the chain of command got greedy. I’ve walked away from missions with a heartbeat and nothing else while my friends… my brothers… didn’t. And somehow…”
He grips the steering wheel tighter. “Somehow the world expects you to come home and smile. Buy a lawnmower. Shake hands with your neighbor like the noise in your head isn’t still screaming.”
My throat goes tight.
I reach out and place my hand over his—not squeezing, just… grounding.
He glances down at it but doesn’t pull away.
“I like being alone,” he says quietly. “It’s easier.”
“But it’s not better.”
He doesn’t answer.
So I do what I do best—I push. Carefully.
“That’s no way to live, Micah,” I say. “People need people. Not just to survive. But to stay human. Connection is what reminds us we’re still alive. That there’s more than the worst thing we’ve ever done. Or seen.”
His throat moves, but he stays quiet.
So I lean in a little closer and say, “You can be strongandstill need someone.”
We ride the rest of the way in silence, but this time, it feels different. He doesn’t shake me off. Doesn’t hide behind the coldness.
Micah’s not just listening.
He’s letting himselffeelit.
Timber Creek unfurlslike a snow globe—small streets dusted with flurries, brick buildings dressed in wreaths and white lights, a sleepy diner on the corner where I swear someone is always eating pie no matter the time of day.
We drive past the bakery, the hardware store, the community center. A few early risers wave at the truck, and I think I see Micah’s soul physically recoil inside his flannel.
“Wow,” I say. “You really don’t do people.”
He grunts.
We park in front of the youth center, a squat red-brick building with frost on the windows and a paper snowflake taped crookedly to the door. I step out and tuck my scarf tighter around my neck. Micah circles to my side, scanning the street like we’re on recon.
