Page 19 of Pucked Mountain Man
I lace our fingers. “You didn’t break me.”
“I could,” he says into my skin, like a confession he hates. “That scares me worse than the knee.”
We lie in that truth while lightning counts time on the walls. His heartbeat steadies mine. Words I usually hide rise up.
“It scares me too,” I whisper. “How much I want this. How much I want you.”
His arm tightens, careful, closing the last unbrave inch. “Stevie.”
I turn my head; his mouth finds mine. Not the kitchen—no rush, no flustered laughter. Deep. Quiet. All yes. He rolls his hips gently, testing leg, testing me. The joint talks, not shouts;he listens. My fingers slip into the hair at his nape; he makes a sound I’ll never forget.
“Hey,” I breathe. “We go slow. We keep your knee happy. I’m in this with you.”
“Always telling me what to do,” he rasps, a scrape of humor like relief.
“Bossy.”
“Perfect.” His palm slides under my shirt, splaying over my ribs where the tiny notes live, tracing them without looking. I feel it everywhere.
What follows is quiet and close. He moves behind me, breath at my ear, our hands tangled. I guide the angles and pace; when his knee threatens to seize, I shift and brace him, and he turns gratitude into heat with the way he says my name. The storm keeps time at the windows; the cotton sheet and shadows make the world small enough to choose each other.
After, we breathe together until our pulses settle. His hand cups my hip; mine rests over his, anchoring us to now.
“Rockstar,” he whispers behind my ear. “I’m sorry—again. For ever making you feel small.”
“You didn’t make me small,” I say. “I’m just… done being it.”
“I know.” A kiss along my jaw; his thumb smooths my stomach like he’s memorizing reassurance. “I’m trying.”
“I see you,” I say. “Trying.”
We start to drift, the heavy kind of sleepy. Rain needles the glass. The generator hums. His breath evens at my neck and for a foolish second I think the worst has passed.
The crash is a gunshot through dreams.
We jerk upright. The house shudders—wood complaining, glass detonating in bright, crystalline teeth. Wind screams where it shouldn’t; cold knifes down the hall.
“Window,” Grady says, already swinging his legs out. He staggers; catches the nightstand. I scramble into sweats, yank on his hoodie. The hall floor is ice-cold air.
The great room looks like a crime scene. A pine limb has speared the picture window; snow and needles tear in on a furious gust. Curtains thrash like birds.
“Shit,” I breathe. “You stay there.”
“I can?—”
“Grady.” Both hands on his chest, steady. “Your knee.”
Old habit wins for a second—he steps and the joint locks, that ugly mechanical refusal I once saw in a PT video and prayed I’d never see in someone I love.
I don’t say the word out loud.
“Okay,” he grits. “Tell me what to do.”
“Generator off—no sparks,” I snap into triage. “Grab towels. All of them. Stay on the rug. No glass.”
He nods, pale but present, pivots using the wall like a crutch. I sprint for duct tape and the heavy plastic we stashed forjust in case.I drag the fireplace screen forward to shield the flames. They gutter, then catch—stubborn.
He’s back in a minute, arms full of towels. “Generator?”
