It’s not just about showing me the city anymore.
It’s about showing mehim.
And somehow that feels more intimate than the kiss.
We ride on, and he keeps narrating the city like it’s a scrapbook of his life.
“That corner?” he says at another intersection. “First flat tire I ever had.”
I laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Formative experience.”
“And that one?”
“First kiss.”
My grip tightens slightly. “Really?”
“Yep. I was sixteen. She tasted like cherry lip gloss and bad decisions.”
I snort. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“Always honest,” he says. “Even when it makes me sound ridiculous.”
The city starts to thin out as we head toward an overlook, the desert stretching out beyond the lights. I feel light. Free. Like I’m not just seeing Las Vegas anymore, but starting to understand it.
When Jesse pulls to a stop and kills the engine, the sudden quiet feels almost sacred. I climb off carefully, my heart still racing as I pull off my helmet.
When we reach the overlook, I’m reluctant to get off.
I don’t want the momentum to stop.
But when he kills the engine and silence rolls in, it’s a different kind of thrill.
The city spreads out below us in glittering waves. The Strip pulses in the distance. Neighborhood lights dot the darkness like scattered stars.
I pull off my helmet slowly.
“I didn’t know it looked like this from here.”
“Most people don’t,” he says. “They stay where it’s loud.”
“I kind of like the quiet.”
“Me too.”
We stand there for a moment, not touching, but close enough that I feel the warmth of him at my side.
“I think,” I say carefully, “this is the first time since I got here that I haven’t felt… overwhelmed.”
He glances at me.
“Overwhelmed how?”
“Like I have to prove something. Like I have to keep up.”
“With Vegas?”
