But enough.
I nod. Small. Barely there.
But he sees it.
He grabs the suitcase and heads for the door.
Doesn’t ask if I’m coming.
He already knows.
I stand.
And follow.
The ride is short. Too short.
The road winds through the edge of town and out into the quiet, where the pavement narrows and the trees lean in like they’re trying to listen. It’s beautiful in a way I haven’t let myself feel in a long time.
But what I feel more is him.
My hands wrapped around his waist, the warmth of his body in front of mine, the low rumble of the engine beneath us. It should make me nervous. Should make me pull away.
Instead, it feels... safe.
Like nothing can touch me when I’m holding on.
We pull up to a small cabin tucked behind a wall of pines. Wood and stone. Quiet. No lights on. No sound but the wind through the trees.
He kills the engine and sets the bike on its stand.
I let go of his waist slowly, fingers stiff from the grip, from the cold… maybe from something else too.
He climbs off first, then turns back to me. Offers his hand without a word.
I hesitate for a breath. Then take it.
I swing my leg over and step down, boots crunching on gravel. The space between us feels colder than the air.
He watches me a moment, then nods toward the porch.
“It’s clean. Empty. Locked up tight,” he says. “I had a crew come out this morning to restock it.”
“You really think this is necessary?”
“Someone gave you those scars. And you’re still running. That’s all I need to know.”
He grabs the suitcase and walks up the porch. Unlocks the door, then steps aside.
Doesn’t go in.
Just waits.
I go first.
The air is cool, but the cabin feels warm in a different way. Safe. Lived in, but not recently. A single bed. A chair. A fireplace. Small kitchen. Bathroom off to the side. Simple. Solid.
He sets the suitcase down and straightens.
