She's gotten good at this—reading the bike, reading me, moving with the motion instead of fighting it.
Her helmet bumps my shoulder when she leans in to speak over the engine noise. "You're showing off."
I grin even though she can't see it. "You're the one who asked me to take the long way."
"I didn't ask you to take every curve like you're auditioning for something."
"You complaining?"
She laughs, the sound muffled but warm, and her arms squeeze tighter for just a second, affection wrapped in mockery. "No. But if you dump us, I'm telling Hansen it was your fault."
"Noted."
The road opens up ahead, trees thinning to reveal the cabin perched against the hillside, smoke curling from the chimney where I left the fire banked before we headed out this morning.
The last of the daylight is fading fast, turning the snow-covered clearing soft and golden, and I feel Megan relax against me as the cabin comes into view like coming home always does this to her.
I pull into the clearing and cut the engine, the sudden silence loud after hours of rumbling beneath us. Megan's already pulling off her helmet before I can swing my leg over, shaking out her hair and grinning at me like she just survived something thrilling instead of a ride up a mountain.
"Your driving's going to give me a heart attack one of these days," she says, but she's smiling, and when I reach out to steady her as she climbs off the bike, my hands settle automatically at her waist.
"You love it," I tell her, and she doesn't argue.
We move toward the cabin together, shedding cold and gear as we go—helmets hung on hooks by the door, jackets tossed over the back of the couch, gloves shoved into pockets.
The fire is still going strong inside, warmth hitting us the second we step through the door, and I hear the familiar thud of Bullet jumping down from wherever he's been napping.
He appears a second later, weaving between our legs. Megan bends to scoop him up, and he purrs loud enough to vibrate through the room.
"You'd think he was starving," I mutter, moving past them to check the fire.
"He thinks he runs this place," Megan says, scratching behind Bullet's ears. The cat's gotten bigger over the last couple years, spoiled beyond reason.
"He's not wrong," I admit, and Megan laughs.
She sets Bullet down and he immediately starts circling the kitchen, meowing pointedly at the cabinet where we keep hisfood. Megan follows him, already pulling out the can and the bowl, and I watch her move through the space.
"So," she says, glancing at me over her shoulder as she sets Bullet's food down. "I want to make that mac and cheese tonight. The one I showed you last week."
I raise an eyebrow. "The one with four kinds of cheese?"
"Five, actually. And a roux. And breadcrumbs on top." She grins. "It's fancy."
"It's mac and cheese."
"It'sgourmetmac and cheese," she corrects, moving to the fridge and pulling out ingredients with the kind of confidence that says she's been planning this. "And you're helping."
"I don't remember agreeing to that."
"You're helping," she repeats, handing me a block of cheddar and a grater. "Grate that. Medium shred."
I take the cheese without argument, settling at the counter while she pulls out a pot and starts measuring milk and butter.
We fall into the rhythm easily, her narrating the recipe like she's hosting a cooking show, me following instructions and occasionally offering commentary that makes her roll her eyes.
"This is your internet gourmet phase talking," I tell her, watching her whisk flour into melted butter with the kind of focus she usually reserves for things that matter.
"My internet gourmet phase has given us some excellent meals," she counters. "Remember the pot roast?"
