“That word hardly covers it,” I say.
He unclips us and holds me steady. His touch sends another thrill through me.
Without thinking, without planning—I reach up and kiss him.
It’s supposed to be a thank-you, light and quick. It’s not.
The second our mouths touch, the world stills. He tastes like cold air and adrenaline. His hands slide around my waist, steadying, maybe pulling me closer. I can’t tell where one ends and the other starts.
Everything that was spinning a moment ago settles into one perfect, reckless point.
Then he freezes. The hand on my waist goes still. He steps back.
“We shouldn’t do that,” he says, voice rough.
I blink, breathless. “Right. Totally. Unprofessional.”
“Yeah.” His jaw flexes. “You’re writing a story. I’m a source.”
“Exactly.” My mouth is still tingling. “Strictly journalism.”
We stand there in the echo of it—awkward, electric, both pretending to be fine.
He clears his throat and points toward the trail. “This way back’s shorter.”
The path winds through the trees, gold and green and shadow.
Needles cushion our steps. The air smells like pine and damp earth. It’s quieter here, easier to forget the hum of the highway or the noise of the patch below.
“It’s still beautiful,” I say.
He glances over, the edge of a smile tugging. “You used to call it the Enchanted Forest.”
I stop walking. “I still can’t believe you remember that.”
He nods. “You made me guard the entrance with a broom handle because you said dragons respected conviction.”
A laugh slips out before I can help it. “I was very serious about world-building.”
“I remember.” His eyes soften, the weight of years tucked behind them. “You named every tree. Said the big spruce was the king, the birch by the creek was a sorcerer who could turn leaves into coins.”
“You remember all that?”
“I remember everything.” He kicks at a pinecone, quieter. “You were the first person who made this place feel bigger than chores.”
The words catch somewhere deep. I want to ask him what happened between that boy and this man who builds ziplines and walls around his heart, but I don’t. The forest is doing that thing where silence feels sacred.
“It’s still magical,” I say finally.
“It really is.” He nods, but his gaze is distant. “I guess I got so busy with the day to day, I forgot to look for the magic around.”
By the time we break from the trees, the sun’s tilting west. The patch glows bronze; laughter floats from the hayride loading zone. Dylan falls back into guide mode—polite, professional, distant—and I fall into note-taking mode because it’s safer than wondering what that kiss meant.
“Thanks for the tour,” I tell him as we reach the parking. “I got plenty of great material.”
“Glad to hear it.” He wipes a hand on his jeans, gaze fixed on the horizon. “When’s it running?”
“A week or two.” I pause. “I’ll probably need a few more details. Photos, maybe.”
