But he braces me gently, our arms snaked together, and says, “Go slow,” not like an order but like permission. The same way holding my hand felt like permission to cry.

I breathe and obey, resting my weight against him because I have no choice. Relying on my muscles hurts too much. Once seated, he eases my legs inside the cab. He perches on the running board, leaning over to buckle me in. He smells like a fresh shower and pine.

Though he’s a smidge older than me… well, more than a smidge—a decade older—I can’t deny that those extra years have done him a favor. He’s not just hot but ruggedly handsome. Classic. Time-tested. It’s a shame his attractiveness is usually hidden behind his grouchy demeanor. It’s like he wears a sign that says, “Leave me alone.”

He closes the door with a soft click beside me, loads my things in the back, and comes to the driver’s side, carrying Frilly Willie. He places that between us, belting it to keep it from sliding. Once behind the wheel, he glances my way. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

The engine revs with an impressive growl. The old truck has a long bench front seat, a stick shift rising from the floor, and nothing digital.

“Um, is this yours?”

“No, my Dad’s. It was my grandfather’s. We call it The Beast.”

I smirk. “Aw, a nickname? Cute. It’s sweet that you’re keeping it in the family.”

“I would’ve brought something more comfortable if I’d known I’d be taking you home. You’ll feel every bump. If you need me to slow down, say so.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, just as a small dip in the road makes my insides twinge. In my stationary bed at the hospital, I had no clue that movement would hurt like this. Every time he shifts or brakes, my body takes offense.

“Breathe easy,” he says after a few miles. “It’s normal to feel pain like that.”

“Is it?” I say, breathless and unsure how I’ll endure the half-hour out of the city toward Seagrove.

“Yes. Your injury and surgical sites are tender. Your skin, muscles, tendons, arteries, and organs have experienced trauma, and although that soreness is required for healing, jostling worsens it. It’s your body telling you to stay still and give it time.”

“I’m getting the message,” I moan.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know. Keep talking? What’s it like being a vet?”

The question irritates him. His rough hands clench the steering wheel while he navigates typical Wilmington traffic, which always seems congested no matter what day it is. He goes slow, double-checking his mirrors whenever he merges. I wonder if the accident made him nervous about driving or if he’s nervous about driving me.