Chapter 7 Hog
Chapter seven
Hog
Rhett's apartment was what I expected, and somehow more so—the tidy second floor of a converted house. It made my place resemble a yarn explosion mated with a laundry avalanche.
I pulled off my boots, lining them up next to his. Too big. Taking up too much space already.
"Sorry. I wasn't expecting company."
"This is your place?" Stupid question. Obviously, it was his place.
"This is it."
I looked around. A worn couch that had probably belonged to his dad. He had a coffee table with trade magazines stacked precisely like an oversized deck of playing cards, and a bookshelf made from reclaimed wood—gorgeous joinery, perfect corners.
"It's so you," I said.
He raked his fingers through his hair. "Good me or bad me?"
"Good you. Definitely good you."
I walked to the bookshelf because standing still meant thinking about what I was doing here and what might happen next. Ran my fingers along the spines—carpentry manuals, true crime paperbacks, and a couple of hockey bios.
I crouched down to check the construction because looking at how he'd built things was safer than looking at him.
"You made this?"
"Basic carpentry."
Dovetails. No wobble. Corners so perfect they looked machine-cut. "This is more than basic. You made it with care."
His cheeks flushed. "It's just a shelf."
"No. It's not." I stood and moved into the kitchen before I said something embarrassing about how much I liked watching him work. Spotted the pegboard on the wall—every tool outlined in marker—hammer, level, tape measure, all hanging precisely where they belonged.
My apartment had a junk drawer I hadn't opened in six months because I feared what lived inside.
"You know where everything goes."
"Makes it easier to find things."
I ran my finger along one of the outlines. "You made this pegboard. Outlined every tool." I lowered my voice. "That's not only organization. That's giving a shit."
He stared at the pegboard. "Someone has to."
"Rhett."
He looked up. "What?"
Say it. Don't say it. Say something.
"Watching you work—" I stepped closer. There was the smell of cedar again and the cool scent of Lake Superior. "It does things to me."
His mouth opened slightly. "What kind of things?"
Fuck. Now I had to explain.
"How your hands move, and how focused you get." I was right in front of him now. "Making that shelf. Setting up those cones. You measure everything twice." I raised my hand and brushed his jaw with my fingertips. "It's hot."
"I'm making hot chocolate." His voice came out rough, and heat shot straight through me.
"I know. That's sexy, too."
He turned toward the stove and pulled out a saucepan. I followed. When he reached for the milk, my chest brushed his back, and he froze.
I probably should have stepped back and given him space. Instead, I leaned against the counter and watched his hands.
"You always this precise?"
"Do it right, or do it twice."
He whisked chocolate into the heating milk—small pieces melting smoothly, vanilla and salt added with the same careful attention he probably gave the dovetail joints.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked.
"Sure."
"You give a shit about getting it right even when no one's watching. Even when it's only hot chocolate." I moved closer. "That's choosing. You've been choosing all along—how to build things, fix things, and make something good instead of just good enough."
He poured his hot chocolate into mugs, hands shaking slightly. Topped them with whipped cream and handed me one.
I took a sip. It left whipped cream clinging to my beard. "This is perfect." I couldn't help but think about Rhett's precision in bed.
"It's just chocolate."
"It's not." I set the mug down. "You made it. For me. Because you wanted to."
"Yeah. I did."
"That's choosing too."
I kissed him before I could ramble more. Slow and deep, tasting chocolate and whipped cream. His hands framed my face, and I forgot why I'd been nervous.
When we broke apart, I stared into his eyes.
"Can I see the rest?"
"Not much to see."
"I want to see it anyway."
He showed me the bathroom he'd retiled—perfect grout lines. Spare room full of half-finished projects that made me feel better about my own disaster zones. Then his bedroom.
Simple. Neat. Navy sheets with hospital corners. One photo on the nightstand of him when he was much younger. He was with an older girl at a lake—probably his sister, Sloane.
I picked up the frame. "You were a cute kid."
"Weird kid."
"Same thing." I set it down carefully and turned to face him.
The bed was right there. He was right there.
My ribs chose that moment to remind me they existed—dull ache pulsing under my left side. I ignored it.
"Rhett, I really want to kiss you again."
"Then do it."
I kissed him hard enough that he stumbled back. His shoulders hit the wall. My hands slid under his shirt, found bare skin, and the sound he made made my cock swell in my jeans.
He pulled back. "Too much?"
"Not enough." He gripped my hoodie and pulled me back. "Don't stop."
We kissed until my brain forgot how to form coherent thoughts. When his mouth moved to my neck and found that spot below my ear, my knees went weak.
I yanked off my hoodie and tossed it somewhere. My T-shirt underneath was thin and faded.
Then his hands slid under the hem, and he found bare skin. I forgot how to breathe.
His palms dragged across my stomach, and every place he touched ignited into flames. When he traced along my ribs, he hesitated at the scar tissue.
The old bruise chose that moment to pulse. I worked even harder to ignore it.
"Bed?" My voice was hoarse.
"Yeah."
We stumbled toward it. He pulled my T-shirt over my head and tossed it. Then his hands were on my bare chest and—
Fuck.
His palms were rough but gentle. Touching everywhere—muscle and scars and places I'd forgotten existed. He traced my collarbone and then the center of my chest down to my stomach.
"Damn," he muttered. "You're—"
I pulled him down onto the bed before he could finish. Landed on top of him—all my weight pinning him to the mattress—and tried not to think about whether I was crushing him.
He didn't seem to mind.
I kissed him deeper, felt his stiff cock pressing against my hip through too many layers. My heart hammered against my ribs as I slid my hands down his back. He was solid and warm and—
"How many fights?" he asked against my mouth.
"Lost count years ago." I kissed along his jaw and his throat. "Does it bother you?"
"No." He traced one of my scars—long, raised, across my left shoulder blade. "Just want to know them. All of you."
The words knocked the breath out of me. I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "That's true?"
"It is."
I kissed him slower, trying to memorize the shape of his mouth and the small whimpering sounds he made. My hand slid down the light, hairy trail on his belly.
My fingers closed around the button of his jeans. He grunted softly—then my ribs screamed, like my body had been waiting for the worst possible moment to turn on me.
I tried to shift my weight and hide it, but the movement made it worse. Sharp pain lanced through my left side where Desrosiers had caught me yesterday. Where I'd hit the boards wrong during demo. I'd been pretending it didn't hurt for the last six hours.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Hog."
"It's fine." I shifted again. Pain flared white-hot.
He sat up, forcing me to do the same. "Where?"
"It's nothing. Just old—" I pressed my hand to my ribs. "Desrosiers got me yesterday. Then again today during demo. It's fine."
He reached out, carefully touching the spot. I flinched.
"Damn."
"It's not that bad."
"You're lying on top of me with broken ribs—"
"They're not broken. Just bruised." Probably. Maybe. I hadn't exactly gone to medical.
"You should've said something."
I looked away. "I didn't want to stop."
He touched my face, gripped my chin, and made me look at him. "We're not stopping because I don't want to. We're stopping because you're hurt."
"It's fine. I can—"
"Hog." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere. This—us—it's not disappearing if we don't do it right now."
"What if it does?"
It was a stupid question, but it was real.
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do. I want you, and that doesn't change if we wait until your ribs aren't screaming in pain."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say I could power through. I'd played entire games feeling worse. Sitting there with his hands on my face, I couldn't lie anymore.
"They really hurt."
"I know."
"I wanted this to be—" I gestured vaguely. "Not stopping because my stupid body betrayed me."
"Your body's not stupid. It's telling you to rest."
"I don't want to rest. I want to stay here with you and—" My face flushed. "Yeah, it hurts. Bad enough I'm not sure I could—" I stopped, couldn't finish that sentence.
"It's okay." He ran his hand through my hair. "We have time."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I nodded and sat on the edge of the bed with my shoulders hunched, trying not to feel like a massive disappointment.
He found my hoodie, handed it to me, and then pulled his shirt back on. The moment had passed, and I began retreating into a spiral.
"Hey. This doesn't change anything."
"Feels like it does."
"I still want you."
I looked at him sideways. "You're not disappointed?"
"I'm frustrated as hell, but not disappointed. Not in you."
That surprised me enough to smile. "Frustrated's good. Means you wanted it too."
He glanced down at the outline of his dick, swollen in his jeans. We both laughed.
I stood carefully, testing my ribs. They complained but didn't scream. "I should go. Let you sleep."
I half-expected him to argue. To ask me to stay. Part of me wanted him to.
"Okay."
Right. Of course.
I pulled on my boots slowly and shrugged into my jacket. Stood there like an idiot trying to figure out what to say.
"Thanks for today. For practice. For Hillcrest. For—" I gestured at the apartment. "For this."
"Thanks for coming."
"Sorry it ended like this."
Rhett moved closer. "It didn't end. We hit pause."
I kissed him—soft and lingering.
Then I was gone, boots thudding down the stairs, out into the cold. My Prius started on the second try. I sat there for a minute, forehead against the steering wheel, ribs aching, and my balls joining them.
My phone buzzed as I pulled onto the street.
Rhett: Drive safe
I smiled despite everything and drove home.
My apartment looked worse after seeing Rhett's. Yarn everywhere. Dishes in the sink. Three half-finished projects scattered across the couch.
I texted him.
Hog: Made it home. Ribs still hate me.
His response came fast.
Rhett: Ice them. Take something for the pain.
Hog: Yes, Mom.
Rhett: I'm serious.
I stared at the screen. Started typing. Stopped. Started again.
Hog: I'm sorry
Rhett: For what?
I typed the first stupid thing that popped into my head.
Hog: For being broken
Rhett: You're not broken. You're hurt. There's a difference.
Hog: Feels the same from here.
Rhett: It's not. And I meant what I said. This doesn't change anything.
I sat on my couch, phone in my shaking hands, and tried to believe him. I tried not to think about all the guys who'd said similar things before, but they quietly disappeared when the reality of me got to be too much work.
Hog: What if I'm always going to be a little damaged? What if this is just how it goes—want something good and my body reminds me I'm thirty and held together by scar tissue?
I hit send. Watched the dots appear on his end. Disappear. Appear again.
Rhett: Then I'll want you anyway. Scars and all. That's what choosing means.
I read it three times. Then three more.
Hog: You mean that
Rhett: Yeah, I do
I set the phone down, stared at my catastrophe of an apartment, and something shifted. Not fixed or healed. Maybe seen.
My phone buzzed one more time.
Hog: Night. Dream about me.
Rhett: Already am.
I smiled, grabbed ice from the freezer, and pressed it against my ribs. The cold bit through my shirt, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath.
I pulled out my grandmother's project bag and found soft green yarn. Cast on stitches, counting under my breath. Thirty-two. My ribs complained when I shifted position on the couch, but the rhythm of the needles helped. In, around, through, off.
My phone buzzed.
Jake: Pickle says you were at youth practice with Rhett. You teaching kids to knit?
Hog: Jeremy wants lessons next time.
Jake: Adorable. But how'd it go with Rhett?
Hog: Good until my ribs said no.
Jake: Ah fuck. You spiral yet?
Hog: Working on it
Jake: Don't. He's into you. I saw it at dinner. Stop inventing problems and go to sleep.
I set the phone down. Picked up my needles.
I kept knitting—in, around, through, off—until my hands stopped shaking.
My phone buzzed again.
Rhett: You okay?
Hog: Iced them. Knitting now
Rhett: I knew what I was getting into when I invited you to practice. You didn't surprise me by being you.
I stared at the screen.
Hog: Go to sleep. One of us should
Rhett: You too
Hog: You know I'm gonna knit for another hour.
Rhett: I know. But I'm asking anyway.
I set the phone down. Fixed a dropped stitch and kept going until the green yarn started looking like a turtle. Or maybe a dinosaur. Jeremy could decide.
Outside, someone's car alarm went off. The upstairs neighbor's TV was too loud—a hockey game, someone scored, and the apartment shook with stamping feet.
My ribs throbbed in time with my pulse.
I fell asleep on the couch with the half-finished turtle-dinosaur in my lap, the ice pack melted into a wet spot on my shirt, and the phone still showing Rhett's last message.
For once, the spiral didn't win.