He bears down on me. Slowly stalking toward me and forcing me to round the bike, using it as a barrier between us.
“Yeah, we could get caught. We could both get kicked out. Don’t you think I know that? Then again, we might not if we’re careful. Why do you think I drove out here? It’s quiet and secluded. Private and what you asked for. I didn’t plan for us to do what we did, but don’t ask me to regret this like you. I don’t, and I won’t.”
I brace myself against the cold steel of the fender, my fingertips grazing the fine leather of the seat I just came against. If the scales are balanced before we add our risks, mine would tilt lower than his.
Sure, there are other schools for him, but not me. It would go on my permanent record, and then who would hire me?
“I don’t regret it.”
“Damn, Isabella. It’s not an ‘it.’ It’s an ‘us.’ If I wanted it, I’d go to any campus party and hook up with someone. There are plenty of college chicks that want to be with me.”
I snort and look away, thoroughly disgusted. Of course, he’d say that to justify his actions. I should expect anything less from a college guy. This just solidifies my point that I fucked up.
“I think it’s best if you take me home.”
“Iz—”
“Now, Diego.”
His shoulders rise with a slow inhale. His fingers curl into fists, knuckles whitening like he’s holding himself back. He nods once, his jaw flexing as his lips press together in a thin line.
“Yeah.”
He steps toward the helmet, picks it up, and offers it to me. I snatch it from his grip, put it on, and stare at him. With another defeated sigh, his eyes bore into me.
He nods, and I snap the visor down, locking my feelings behind the wall he alleges I have. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. But it’s one less thing I have to dwell on now.
His leg swings over the bike with a sharp, practiced motion, settling into the seat, but the stiffness in his shoulders tells a different story. The engine’s rumble starts low, a steady vibration that fills the silence between us.
His hands linger on the helmet, his fingers tightening and loosening around it. He stares at it like it’s some unsolvable puzzle. It is as if putting it on will force him to accept everything that’s happened between us tonight.
I tug on the sides of my blazer, drawing it closed against the chill of the night. I am unsure whether to break the silence or let him work through whatever storm is raging in his head. The conflict is etched into every line of his tight face.
Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts the helmet from the handlebars and slips it over his head. His movements are deliberate, almost reluctant. He grips the throttle, his knuckles white as he steadies the bike.
He doesn’t look at me, focusing on the dark road ahead. The engine’s growl deepens as he revs it softly, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath me.
Without a word, he nods toward the seat behind him. I sit with far less confidence than I had earlier. My arms hover momentarily before I finally wrap them around his waist. The gesture is now strange and awkward.
The warmth of his body seeps through his jacket beneath my hands, but it doesn’t reach me the way it did before. The ride back is nothing like the ride out here.
His movements are precise, and his control over the bike is unshakable, but the ease from earlier is gone. There’s no reckless energy, no speeding thrills from the night we raced. Only a deliberately slow speed, controlled and cautious.
My hands rest lightly against the waist of his jacket, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. No reassuring pat, no silent gesture to bridge the distance between us. The miles of roads are eaten up with suffocating agony.
I give up.
Scooting forward, I press closer to him, my inner thighs gripping his outer ones. My arms tighten around his waist, and my helmet rests against his back.
It’s rare to be a backpack to another rider, even rarer for someone like me. Someone who prides herself on control, on being the one holding the reins. But now, pressed against Diego, the steady hum of the bike beneath us, and the cold air rushing past, I let myself lean into the moment.
Something is grounding about trusting him and his expert riding skills. Something I meant to ask about but now might never will. My arms tighten slightly around his waist, and he shifts almost imperceptibly, a subtle adjustment that secures my lower body closer to his.
The occasional flash of his musty cologne cuts through the crisp air, familiar and oddly comforting. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and let the steady rhythm of the ride lull me into a rare moment of peace.
For now, there are no decisions to make, no words to stumble over, no tension to untangle. Just the road, the bike, and two riders becoming one. Every mile we cover chips away at the anger and frustration from earlier.
When we finally reach my building, the bike slows to a gentle stop at the curb. The engine hums softly beneath us as he steadies it with one boot on the ground. His hands grip the handlebars like they’re the only thing holding him together. Neither of us moves right away.
