Chapter 8
One Tall Drink of Trouble
Olivia
In the time since we’d left the basement, I’d showered and then offered one to Vek as well.
I wasn’t sure what he’d done in there, but he’d left my bathroom looking like the dang tornado had torn its way through my house, after all.
The world smelled clean again once the storm had passed with that sharp sweetness the rain always left behind.
I stepped onto the porch barefoot, coffee steaming in one hand, Boone and June Bug trotting ahead to inspect every puddle like they’d never seen one before.
The storm had passed sometime after dawn, leaving branches scattered across the yard and half my fence leaning like a drunk after last call. I should’ve been cursing about it, but the morning air carried that washed, forgiving calm that made anger feel out of place.
Behind me, the door creaked open. I didn’t have to look to know who it was, which was admittedly strange.
Vek filled the doorway. The sun caught the damp strands of his hair, the faint shimmer along his arms, turning him gold at the edges.
“Fence broke,” he said, his voice still rough but easier than the day before. He’d certainly gotten practice talking to me until we’d fallen asleep.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding toward the damage. “Storm took half of it.”
“I fix,” he said simply, stepping onto the porch.
“You don’t have to—”
He was already moving past me.
“—help,” I finished weakly. “Right. Why listen to the woman who shot you?”
Although he didn’t speak a reply, he gave an amused sound in his throat, like laughter that hadn’t learned to be loud yet. Boone barked once in agreement and darted toward the fallen fencepost. June Bug followed, tail wagging like it might take flight.
“Fence’s split clean through,” I said, kneeling to check the splintered beam.
Before I could reach for it, Vek crouched beside me. His shadow crossed over mine as he wrapped one massive hand around the post and lifted it as if it weighed nothing.
“Well, damn,” I muttered.
He looked over, eyes questioning. “Bad?”
“Impressive,” I admitted. I’d thought Gunner was strong, especially with a little Jack in him, but Vek could probably benchpress my brother on a bad day. No contest.
He studied me for a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Good,” he said, and set the post upright as though the rest of it wasn’t strewn all over the yard.
Boone barked again, thrilled to have a new member of their pack. June Bug dragged a stick twice her size across the grass, tail spinning like a fan.
“Real team effort,” I said, brushing dirt from my hands. “One man-mountain, two idiots, and me.”
Vek tilted his head. “Not idiot,” he said, looking at the dogs.
“Trust me,” I replied, “you haven’t seen them when I pull out the vacuum cleaner.” Although I realized he probably didn’t know what a vacuum cleaner was.
He huffed—almost laughter. It startled me how easily it came now.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of wet pine and the faint sweetness of smoke from somewhere down the ridge. He glanced toward it, the sunlight catching along his jaw.
“Storm loud,” he said quietly. “But quiet after feels…good.”
“Peaceful,” I offered, taking in a deep breath.
He nodded slowly, testing the word. “Peaceful.”
Never in my wildest dreams did I ever see myself teaching a Sasquatch to talk, but for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel like running or apologizing.
I just stood there, the grass damp under my feet, watching sunlight break through the clouds while a myth fixed my fence like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
By the time we’d done clearing the fence line, the sun had burned off the last of the mist. Boone flopped in the grass, tongue hanging, and June Bug chased a butterfly she’d never catch. I turned toward the porch, already picturing hot coffee and dry clean clothes—then froze.
Right behind me, Vek stood naked as the day he was born. In that dark basement light, I hadn’t given it a thought. But if he planned to park his butt on my good furniture, he’d need cover… and all the other bits flappin’ in the breeze made it hard to focus.
“Oh, Lord have mercy—no.” I jabbed a finger at the steps. “You ain’t goin’ back in the barn, but you’re gonna need clothes first.”
He paused, one hand on the rail, head tilted like I’d lost my tongue.
“Clothes,” I said, waving at him. “Gotta have ’em. Pants. Like… today.”
He frowned. “Not cold.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s a people thing.”
He stared a beat longer, unconvinced.
“Stay,” I said, pointing at the porch like I was training some enormous, well-behaved wolf.
Boone barked once, as if in agreement.
Inside, I rifled through the hall closet till I dug up a pair of Gunner’s old pajama pants—faded flannel, frayed cuffs, survivor of too many hunts. They’d suffice.
When I came back, Vek was inspecting my wind chime like it held the secrets of the universe.
“Here,” I said, tossing him the pants. “Ain’t perfect, but they’ll keep the wildlife from filing complaints.”
He caught them carefully, fingers tracing the threads. “These… go on legs?”
“That’s the plan.”
He nodded, face grave, and eased one leg in, then the other. The waistband straining for dear life, cuffs skimming his ankles, but by some miracle, it looked… decent.
“Too short,” he grunted.
“Well, they’re your only choice, so congrats—you’re on the cutting edge of Sasquatch fashion.”
He cracked a small smile—an almost-smile that threw me for a loop.
"You hungry?" I asked, spinning before he could read my face. "Might as well put some food in you before noon."
His jaw shifted, understanding softening his features. "Food good."
Something stirred in my chest. Maybe curiosity, maybe trouble; I couldn't say which. "Pancakes okay?" I asked, clearing my throat. "Got some mix in the cupboard."
He peered at the kitchen, then back at me. "You make for me?"
That hit me harder than a bucking colt. "Guess I do."
Vek nodded once. "I eat all."
I shook my head, already mentally counting the eggs left in my fridge. "Reckon my grocery bill's about to double."
The kitchen was quiet except for the slow tick of the pilot flame and the scrape of a skillet over the burner.
Morning light slipped through the window.
With no power, the room felt old-fashioned, like it remembered life before the world got so damn loud.
Back when Mamma and Daddy were still the ones cooking in the kitchen.
Grief threatened to rear its ugly head instead of nostalgia, but I pushed it back and took a sip of my tea.
Vek sat by the window, elbows on knees, taking up his space like he owned it. Boone lay beside his chair, tail thumping now and then, while June Bug snored under the table, paws twitching after invisible rabbits.
“You’ve got yourself a fan club,” I said, flipping a pancake. “They think you hung the moon.”
He cocked his head. “Fan… club?”
“Means they like you more than me,” I said. “But don’t go big-headed on me.”
He cracked a half-smile. “Big head,” he repeated, tapping his temple. “Got one.”
I laughed, and the sound filled the small kitchen, making everything feel right again. Big head, big feet. He was big all around. I was just glad I got pants on him, but they were admittedly more for my benefit than his.
When I cracked an egg, he leaned closer, brow furrowed as the yolk spread in the pan. “Egg,” he said, slow and careful.
I nodded, feeling a little too much like I was a kindergarten teacher standing before a big, hairy student who’d been held back way too many times. “Impressive memory.”
“Food?”
"Breakfast," I said. "A sacred human ceremony involving sugar and serious denial."
He thought on that, then nodded. "I like breakfast."
"Most important meal," I said. "That's what they say."
Butter hissed in the heat, turning sweet and rich. He inhaled like it was the best thing he'd ever smelled.
"Fire makes food," he said.
"Fire makes everything better," I said, flipping the pancake. "Well… almost everything."
His eyes caught mine. "What not better?"
The question felt like an invitation. "Some things you don't need hotter," I murmured, turning away before my cheeks burned.
I slid the pancake onto a plate. "Alright, breakfast of champions. You ever used a fork?"
He studied the fork as if it were alien tech. "Stick with teeth?"
"Works for me."
Brow furrowed, he stabbed at the pancake awkwardly, but I only let him hack away at his food for a few seconds before I reached over to guide his hand. My fingers brushed his, his hand warm and calloused.
"Like this," I murmured, trying to redirect my attention. "Stab it, don't crush it."
He tried again, focusing as if he were playing chess. When he finally bit down, his eyes went wide, then softened.
"Sweet," he said at last, syrup dripping down his chin.
"Sugar." I grinned. "Dangerous stuff."
He nodded, still chewing. "I like danger."
I blinked, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Is that so?" The words came out softer than intended, caught somewhere between teasing and genuine curiosity.
His chest vibrated with something like laughter—a deep, quiet sound that seemed to travel through the floorboards. Boone's ears perked up at the rumble, his tail sweeping once across the wood before he settled back into his dreams.
When I slid another pancake onto Vek's plate, he set his fork down. The syrup still lingered on his chin, catching the morning light. "You eat too," he said, pointing at my empty plate.
Smiling, I lifted my fork. "I will." Truth was, watching him discover breakfast had made me forget my own hunger.
"Good," he said, nodding firmly at the table. "Eat. Talk. Laugh." He tapped the wooden surface with one thick finger. "Makes home."
Something inside me twisted helplessly. "Yeah," I said, throat suddenly tight. "It does."
He studied me for a long moment, then cracked a real smile. It started small at the corner of his mouth, then reached his eyes, crinkling the thick skin.