Chapter 10
Levi
T he truck cab is quiet. I don’t want the distraction of music … or anything. I simply want to memorize everything that just happened with Hannah on her porch. Because there’s no denying it now … I want her. Not in the casual, easy way a man notices a pretty woman. This is heavier. Physical. Real.
The shape of her sitting beside me on that swing is burned into my mind, down to the way her shoulder brushed close enough that my whole body tightened. I’ve hauled lumber, driven fence posts, lifted heavy objects – but none of it hit me like that one quiet moment did.
I’m glad I went. Hell, if I’d sat in the truck any longer debating with myself, I’d have lost my mind. Seeing her there under that porch light, accepting what I brought, letting me sit a while – it felt right.
Still, I can’t shake off a sense of worry.
I gave her my number and invited her to call if she needed anything.
She said she would. But will she really?
Or will that card end up shoved in a drawer, safe but forgotten?
She’s cautious. I heard it in every pause, saw it in the way she glanced toward the door like she was guarding more than a sleeping child.
I can’t fault her for it, but I also can’t help hoping she’ll take the chance.
What happened to her? A woman doesn’t build walls that high unless something made her.
The way she said trust is complicated. Those weren’t just words.
They came from somewhere, from someone who let her down hard.
I don’t know the story yet, but I want to.
More than that, I want her to see that I’m not going anywhere.
I lean back and let myself replay it all.
Yeah, I’m hooked. No sense pretending otherwise.
The road narrows as it climbs the ridge.
Trees crowd close on either side, and the air takes on that sharper edge I only ever find up here.
Twenty minutes later, my cabin comes into view, half hidden in the pines. Dusk to dawn porch light waiting.
This is my spot. The place I come back to. Built it with my own hands after the old place gave way.
Logs squared and fitted, stone hearth hauled rock by rock. It’s quiet here except for the layers of sounds from nature. In fact, most nights … it’s too quiet. The cabin smells of pine, leather, and woodsmoke. Usually that calms me. Tonight it just reminds me what’s missing.
Ivy’s laughter still echoes in my head from the festival.
The way she tilted her head, fearless in asking questions.
Hannah’s girl is sharp, bright. Deserves more than a man who drifts in and out of her life.
The thought stirs something I haven’t felt in a long time, something protective and dependable.
For years, I told myself I was fine on my own.
Better that way. But after tonight? I don’t believe it anymore.
Hannah’s right. Trust is complicated. But so is trying to sleep alone sometimes.
Pulling open the refrigerator, a cold bottle of beer waits among eggs, cheese, and leftovers. I twist off the cap, take a pull, and let the bitterness settle on my tongue.
The fire’s long gone from last night in the hearth, nothing but ash and embers. I crouch, stack kindling, and put on a couple of fresh logs from the porch. Striking a match, flames catch, licking their way up the logs until the living room glows.
In the corner leans my old acoustic. I pick it up, thumb brushing across the worn wood, and settle into the chair by the fire.
The strings are cool under my calluses as I strum a few lazy chords, nothing more than muscle memory at first. Then something softer comes out — a tune I didn’t plan.
Slow, searching, the kind of sound a man makes when he can’t put words to what he feels.
The notes drift up to the rafters, filling the spaces between the walls. For years, music was only for myself. Tonight, it feels like every chord belongs to her — and maybe a little to the girl with her same wide eyes.
I play until the bottle’s empty. Then I set the guitar aside, lean back, and close my eyes. All I see is Hannah.
Sleep doesn’t come easy most nights, but tonight it creeps in slow, wrapped around the echo of her voice and the memory of Ivy’s laughter. The last thing I remember is the firelight shifting across the ceiling beams … and the thought that maybe I don’t want to be up here alone much longer.