A piggyback relay across a grid of heart-shaped markers is the next contest in this so-called compatibility walk.
“You want to ride or run?” I ask.
She eyes me, then shrugs. “I already survived one ridiculous fall when the balloon vanished from between us, what’s the worst that could happen now? Might as well trust you not to drop me.”
She’s lighter than I expect. Strong, though, firm from the kind of work that builds lean muscle, not from showing off in a gym. My hands tense for a second when I notice what’s beneath my touch beyond the muscle. I’m used to dealing with wood, hammers, and power tools, utilitarian and hard surfaces. But Maisie’s body has give and pillowysoftness where a woman’s body should, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that.
Her posture on my back is a mix of quiet power and unapologetic ease, which surprises me. There’s no hesitation in how she balances, like she trusts the whole world not to drop her, and somehow that includes me. It’s not just physical. There’s a presence to her, a passion and brightness that I’ve never experienced before.
I can tell that she’s not the kind of person who floats through life; she digs in, takes up space, and wears her personality the same way she wears her well-loved, messy aprons, unapologetically and completely her.
She wiggles slightly as she settles in, her arms wrapping loosely around my shoulders, her breath puffing warm against the back of my neck. I can smell something faint and sweet. I recognize roses and citrus, and it throws me more off balance than her weight.
My grip adjusts instinctively, hands firm around the backs of her thighs, and the “whoop” she lets out near my ear almost makes me flinch. Her enthusiastic trust is messing with my rhythm in ways music never could. Halfway through this part of the obstacle course, she hollers happily, throws her hands in the air like she’s on a theme park ride, and leans slightly too far.
I stagger but correct reflexively. We don’t quite fall.
From somewhere behind us, the Newly-Deads monotone, “Romance truly is a contact sport.”
We’re awful. We know it. But the crowd’s laughter isn’t mean, just amused. For once, I’m not embarrassed. Simply…bemused.
I steal a glance back at Maisie as I bend down to let her off my back.
She grins when things go sideways, jokes her way backto center instinctively. Her fingers move constantly—pointing, steadying, fidgeting. Her light chuckles gurgle out when she thinks she’s clever, as if all she cares about is entertaining herself, and when others laugh too, that’s a bonus.
There’s an airiness to the way she moves, like wind tinkling through a windchime. She’s wild, and uninhibited in a way that feels almost reckless. Not polished. Not rehearsed. Just…Maisie.
I reel my thoughts in as we near the final station—a winding log path balance beam dotted with red paper hearts and a suspicious number of pinecones. It’s meant to simulate a forest walk, according to Reenie. I think it’s more of an excuse to tease when people trip.
Maisie’s ahead of me by a few steps when her foot catches a branch. She yelps.
I lunge, catching her right before she hits the ground. My arm hooks around her waist. My palm lands just above her hip, where her sweatshirt has ridden up slightly. Her skin is creamy smooth, with the comforting effect of the cool side of a pillow warmed just enough by the sun. Heated from movement and joy. My palm lingers for too long. She doesn’t pull away, instead, her hand finds my shoulder.
For a heartbeat, I’m not in Sweetpines. I’m under stage lights, strings slick under my fingers, heart pounding in my throat. That minute before a song starts, and I don’t know if I’ll make it through.
She’s looking up at me, wide-eyed, bright green polished peridot staring into my soul. Her eyes are clear, growing deeper the longer I look into them. Her gaze is honest, a mix of gratefulness and confusion. I’m pretty sure she’s trying to figure out what kind of man I am, and if I’m safe.
Her golden berry curls tumble forward.
“Steady,” I murmur, more to myself than her.
Then I let go.
The contact fades, the warmth of her skin no longer beneath my hand but retreating under fabric. The imprint of it remains. My hand still feels her there, a phantom skin against skin moment, slow to fade. It’s not just physical—it’s a pull I can’t quite explain, one I’m still carrying as I step away.
After the final whistle blows and the crowd disperses, I wait around longer than I should. I continue to register her grip on my shoulder and how her curls tickled my cheek when I caught her. I swear I can still smell the scent of her clinging to my shirt collar. My body hasn’t quite caught up to the moment ending. And honestly, I’m not sure I want it to.
So, I retreat toward the music hall.
There’re too many voices. Too many glances. And to top it off, the unexpected physical discovery of Maisie.
The side door is open. I slip inside, past the velvet curtain, into the smaller practice room—the one tucked far enough from the stage that most people forget it’s there. The silence here isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that waits for you to admit something
My old guitar waits in the corner, and I pick it up.
The chords come without thought, slow at first, then rolling forward in looping waves. It’s not a song yet, just muscle memory and raw emotion surfacing beneath it. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m trying to understand the hitch in my chest from when she looked up at me, the way my hand didn’t want to let go.
I’m not rehearsing. I’m processing, releasing what’s inside in one of the only ways I know how.
