He looks older than me.
At least a decade. Maybe closer to fifteen.
There are lines at the corners of his eyes that don’t belong to someone who has lived an easy life. His shoulders are broad. His chest solid under the thin fabric of his shirt. His hands look capable of breaking things without effort.
He doesn’t look like someone who should be anywhere near a girl like me.
And yet he came.
He steps closer and reaches for the helmet strap.
“Hold still.”
His fingers brush my jaw as he unfastens it. The touch is brief, practical.
My breath stutters anyway.
He lifts the helmet off and sets it on the bike.
The cold hits my skin immediately.
“Inside,” he says.
I nod.
He doesn’t touch me as we walk to the cabin, but he stays close enough that I feel him at my back.
He unlocks the door and pushes it open. The cabin is dark.
He steps inside first and flips the switch by the door. Soft light spills across wood floors and worn furniture.
Then he toes off his boots without ceremony.
I follow him in, closing the door behind us, my hands unsteady as I tug at the zipper of my own boots.
Warm air settles around us, carrying the scent of wood and something clean and masculine.
It’s small. Simple. Nothing polished or impressive. Just wood floors, a couch, a small kitchen area, a hallway leading somewhere deeper into the cabin. A fire pit in the corner with stacked logs beside it.
It feels… safe.
The word hits me before I can stop it.
Safe.
I slide the cut from my shoulders and hold it out to him.
He pauses, just briefly, before taking it back. His fingers brush mine.
He hangs it by the door, careful with it, then looks at me again.
Without the leather around me, I feel suddenly smaller.
The dress feels wrong.
Too short. Too tight. Too exposed.
I tug at the hem without thinking.
