Her hand is still on my waist, like she’s forgotten the part where I kissed her in a bathroom and plan to marry her brother. She’s close enough that I can smell the sharp tang of her sweat and beneath that, always, always, the warmth of freshly baked bread on her skin. “You should move back,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Jack says, her voice confident and calm, like we’re trading off who gets to be the neurotic mess and who gets to be the stabilizing force.

“I might. I’ve never swung an axe before. I’ll probably fuck it up.”

“You won’t,” she says again. Her hand is there, grounding me, and when I lift the axe, it almost feels like we’re lifting it together. I close my eyes, terrified I’m going kill us both.

“Open your eyes, Elle,” Jack whispers. Her voice is warm on my cheek. I open my eyes, and she keeps one strong hand on my waist as I let the momentum of the axe carry me through. It collides with the wood and splits it, but not in half. My aim wasn’t great, and it catches the side, splintering off a small piece. Still, it’s wildly satisfying to know I did that. My right shoulder does hurt, but it’s the good kind of hurt. The straining of a muscle I haven’t used in a while.

“This will make perfect kindling,” she says, like I chopped the wood all wonky on purpose. She kicks aside the small piece and leaves the rest on the block, and she does all of this without ever letting go of me.

“Ready to try again?”

A Webcomic

By Oliverartssometimes

Episode 9: The Airstream
(Christmas Day, 1:12 a.m.)

Uploaded: February 18, 2022

Her hands never leave my body somehow. Not when she drives us both back into the cabinets in the Airstream kitchen, and they rattle discordantly at my back. Not when she hoists me up on to the countertop, my leggings sweeping up that small trail of flour. Not when her mouth makes a mess of me, as she smiles crookedly into sloppy kisses. Not when my hands make a mess of her.

I run my fingers through her hair, up the back of her shirt, down along the seams of her jeans, searching for skin and sweetness and maybe the source of that freshly baked bread smell.

But her hands never leave my waist, holding me in place. Holding me here with her.