She climbs off, rips off the helmet with both hands, and shakes out her hair. She’s got helmet-crease lines pressed into her forehead, but her face is lit up with something wild and free. She tosses the helmet at my chest and stalks to the edge of the overlook, boots clapping on the pavement.
“Holy shit,” she says, looking out. “It’s actually beautiful.”
I lean the bike on its kickstand, tuck the helmet under my arm, and follow her. The night is colder up here, the wind sharp enough to make your teeth hurt. I stand next to her, not touching, but close enough to feel the static ripple between us.
“You ever come up here with anyone before?” she asks, eyes never leaving the city.
I think about it. “Not like this,” I say. It’s true.
She’s quiet for a second, then turns and looks at me, really looks. “You know, I didn’t get it before.”
“Get what?”
“Why you run. Why you’re always trying to go fast, or go nowhere.” She shrugs, hair blowing in her face. “I think I get it now.”
I want to say something clever, but all that comes out is, “It’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m being watched.”
Emery smiles, soft at the corners. “Same.”
We stand like that, side by side, until the cold is too much. Emery shivers and hugs herself. I unzip my jacket, offer it. She slips it on, even though it’s too big and she disappears into the folds. She looks like a kid playing dress-up. Or maybe she looks like my omega, wearing my clothes, standing in my shadow.
The thought hits so hard I almost stagger.
Emery sees it. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just definitely cold out.” It’s the wrong thing to say, both because it isn’t the truthandbecause I just know she’ll try to give back my jacket which I’m never allowing. I shove my hands in my pockets and look up at the sky. The stars are out, faint but stubborn, holding their ground against the city glow.
Emery looks up at me. “Do you ever think about leaving?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I figure whatever’s chasing me will just chase harder.”
Emery nods. She’s close now. So close I can smell her—heat or no heat, her scent is impossible to ignore, even with the night air blowing it away. I can feel it radiating off her, clinging to the lining of my jacket and sneaking in behind the ribs.
I could kiss her right now. I could push her against the guardrail and let the city watch. But she surprisesme.
Emery grabs my hand instead and threads her fingers through mine. No words, no performance. She just holds on while we enjoy the view together.
We stand there for a minute. Then another.
It’s her heat that returns first. I can sense the shift before she even says a word. The change is subtle at first. Emery’s breathing gets shallow and her grip on my hand tightens. Then the sweet edge of her scent spikes hard, flooding the empty space between us. She presses closer, nuzzles my shoulder, and the need spilling through me is so sharp it’s like a physical thing, a hook in my gut.
“Emery?” I ask, even though I already know.
She looks up, her cheeks pink and her eyes half-lidded. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Sorry. I thought I’d get more time before the heat fever spiked again. I thought my heat was almost finished.”
I squeeze her hand. “Do you want to go back?”
Emery shakes her head, hair brushing my chin. “No. I want… I want you.”
It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it hits different out here, with the city spread out like a promise below us.
I pull her in, hands on her waist, and kiss her. It’s soft at first, but she pushes back, hungry and unashamed. Her mouth tastes like sugar and something new—adrenaline, maybe. She’s shivering, but not from cold.
I slide my hands under the jacket, find the hem of her shirt, and slip my fingers up her spine. Her skin is hot, feverish. She arches into the touch, nails digging into my back.
Emery pulls away, breathing hard. “Can we—” she starts, but doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.
I grab her hand and pull her into the trees behind the overlook. There’s a dirt path, barely visible, but I know it by heart. We crash through the underbrush, branches whipping past, until we find a little clearing—a patch of grass and pine needles, shielded from the world by a ring of trees.
