Page 29 of Owned In Misty Mountain

I hear the boots first.

Steady. Familiar.

My pulse goes wild.

I keep my eyes on my screen.

Pretend I’m fine.

“Morning,” Mike says, voice low.

I look up.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a black thermal, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Beard trimmed. Eyes tired.

“Hey.”

It comes out smaller than I want.

He nods once, then walks past me into the back, like this is just another day.

But it’s not.

Not for me.

—-

The tension hangs between us like a fog.

He doesn’t avoid me.

Doesn’t approach.

Just… works. Quietly.

When I pass him a bottle of water mid-morning, our fingers brush.

He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do I.

Later, I climb a step stool to re-shelve a donation bin.

It wobbles and he’s there instantly.

One big hand on the stool, the other on my calf.

“I’ve got you,” he says. Not gruff. Just steady.

I look down at him.

He’s not looking up.

Just holding me there. Quiet and strong.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He nods again. “You’re welcome.”

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