This time, she does. Her arms come around my waist, tentative for half a second before tightening as the machine rolls forward. The trail drops off the side of the ridge almostimmediately, cutting through trees and along a path I’ve worn in over years of use. It’s not a smooth ride. It’s not supposed to be.
The terrain shifts under us — rock, packed dirt, loose patches where runoff has carved through — and I adjust automatically, guiding us through it without thinking. Behind me, Rainey adjusts too.
Her grip tightens at the first sharp turn, then again when we dip lower along the steeper section. After that, she doesn’t hesitate. She holds on like she means it, her body aligning with mine as the path narrows and curves.
I feel it. Every shift. Every small adjustment she makes to stay balanced. She’s not fighting it. She’s learning it.
The wind picks up as we move down the ridge, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. I take the longer route on purpose, cutting through the section where the trees open up just enough to catch the light. It’s quieter here and more open.
Rainey leans into me a little more as we hit a rougher patch, her hands tightening briefly before settling again. There’s no hesitation now. No second-guessing. Just trust. I don’t rush it. No reason to.
The trail curves back toward her place, the slope easing as we come out of the trees and into the open stretch above her yard. I slow the engine, letting the ride settle before bringing us to a stop near the edge of the property. For a second, neither of us moves.
Her hands loosen slowly, as in reluctantly. She slides off behind me, feet hitting the ground a little uneven before she steadies herself.
“Okay,” she says, breath slightly unsteady. “That was … not what I expected.”
“Good or bad?”
She looks at me.
“Good.”
There’s something else in it too. Something she’s not saying, which is unusual for her. I cut the engine and step off, turning toward her.
“You didn’t ask where we were going,” I say.
She shrugs lightly. “You said not to worry.”
“And you believed me.”
Her lips curve slightly. “Don’t get used to it.”
I almost smile … almost. The space between us tightens again, just like it did in the kitchen. This time, there’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty about what it means. I reach for her with a little more urgency than before. My movement is deliberate, but I give her time to step back if she wants to.
My hand settles at her waist, steadying her as I draw her closer. The second kiss isn’t cautious. It’s not testing anything. Her hands find me faster this time, sliding up, holding on without that same uncertainty. She leans into it, into me, like she’s already decided she’s not walking away from this.
Neither am I.
It deepens just enough to feel it again — that line between control and something else. Finally, I pull it back before it goes further.
Not here. Not like this.
I rest my forehead briefly against hers, both of us catching our breath.
“Dinner,” I say.
She blinks slightly. “Dinner?”
“At my place. Later.”
Her lips curve. “You cook all your meals for me now?”
“Not all.”
“How can I refuse after a morning like this?”
She steps back just enough to look at me fully.
