Jagger takes a corner too fast, rear tire sliding.He catches it, leans hard, powers through.
I match his line perfectly, feeling the Harley dance beneath me—alive, wild, hungry for more.
We're neck and neck on Decatur.A taxi lays on its horn as we split lanes.Someone yells.I don't hear them over the roar of the engines and the rush of blood in my ears.
One more block.
Jagger surges ahead—half a bike length, maybe less.I lean lower, wring every bit of speed out of the Harley, closing the gap inch by inch.
We hit the parking lot at the same time—so close I can't tell who crossed first.
Both engines die.Silence crashes down like a wave.
I rip off my helmet, chest heaving, hands shaking from adrenaline.My whole body's vibrating—electric, alive, wired so tight I could snap.
Jagger's off his bike, staring at me.His eyes are bright, wild—he felt it too.The rush.The danger.The way speed makes everything else disappear.
He knows exactly what that run did to me because he looks like it did the same to him.
Before I can think better of it, I grab his shirt and drag him forward, crashing my mouth to his.It’s messy and urgent and starved, and he lets out a low sound—deep and involuntary—that nearly wrecks me.
His hands come up fast, one cupping the back of my head, the other gripping my waist, pulling me so tightly against him I feel the shudder that runs through him.
I shouldn’t be doing this.I am.
The kiss sizzles—his breath mixing with mine, his grip tightening like I’m something he’s been holding back from far too long.I pour everything into it—fear, anger, want that terrifies me with its intensity.
A van passes.A whistle.Laughter.
Reality cold-slaps me.I rip away, heat tearing through my body.
“Inside,” he says, voice rough enough to undo me all over again.“Now.”
I don’t argue.I follow him up the stairs, legs unsteady, heart beating out of rhythm.I unlock the door.He steps in behind me, shuts it, and the room instantly feels too small for the amount of heat he brings with him.
He turns on music—loud, heavy, intentional.Cover.But also a warning.
Then he leans in, voice low enough to curl straight down my spine.“Kiss me like that again,” he murmurs, “and I won’t want you to leave.”
I stumble back, needing something to hold onto besides him.I drop into my chair and reach for my tools—Bible, aged paper, specialized inks.The normal calm they bring isn’t here.My hands won’t steady.My lips still tingle.
I flip through the pages for distraction and land on Hosea of all places.
Hosea.
A man told to marry because God said so—not because it was safe or made sense.A covenant entered through obedience, not desire.
Not just a love story.Anassignment.
I close my eyes.
Lord… if this man, this ring, this insane situation is from You, give me clarity, courage, or brakes before I confuse adrenaline for Your voice.
When I look up, Jagger is watching me—arms braced on the counter, shoulders tense, waiting for permission to take this even further.
The message from Hosea won’t stop echoing: obedience first, understanding later.
I might actually need to marry him—for protection, for the job, maybe even because God is nudging me straight into something I never planned.
