Hog:On my way
A few minutes later, headlights swept across the window, and I heard the distinctive sound of a Prius engine. The knock was soft.
When I opened the door, Hog stood in the falling snow. He'd thrown on his Storm hoodie under his jacket—the one with the fraying cuff he refused to replace because I'd fixed it once with dental floss.
Snow melted in his beard. His breath fogged white. He'd come straight from wherever he'd been—hadn't hesitated.
He scanned the workshop and then focused on me. "What happened?" He gripped my chin in thick fingers.
"My mom wants me to move to Nipigon." The words came out flat. "As soon as possible. She can't afford the house. Needs help. There'd be room for me. Room for a workshop. I could start over."
Hog tensed. "What did you say?"
"That I needed time to think, and then I came here. To the one place that's actually mine. Not inherited. Built."
"Rhett—"
"I don't know how to choose without destroying something. If I stay, Mom's drowning. If I go, I lose—" I stopped. "Everything I've built here."
"Everything?" His voice was low.
"The business. The kids. You."
He framed my face with my hands. "You don't lose me. We figure it out."
"It's not that simple—"
"I understand." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "But I'm here. The Storm isn't going anywhere. And whatever you decide—we'll figure it out."
I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch.
"What if I make the wrong choice?"
"Then you change your mind." He flashed a half-smile. "That's what this is, right? You and me. We show up for the hard shit and work through the decisions."
I opened my eyes. "Yeah," I said. "That's what this is."
He kissed me. Soft and deliberate and grounding. I grabbed his hoodie and held on.
When we broke apart, I kept him close. "Stay tonight? Here. I can't go back to my apartment yet. Ghosts."
"Yeah." No hesitation. "Whatever you need."
I pulled back enough to look around. "There's no furniture. Only workbenches and sawdust."
"Don't care." He grinned slightly. "I've slept in worse places."
I almost laughed.
He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it next to mine. "You got coffee?"
"In the pot. Probably terrible."
"Perfect."
He poured out the old and started measuring grounds. I watched him move through my space—careful despite his size. Making himself at home.
The coffee tasted like it had been filtered through a tire, but I drank it because Hog had made it.
