“I missed you,” he said, the words raw.
“I’m right here,” I answered, but I got it. I’d been at arm’s length for weeks, buried in meetings and construction updates and all the stuff you do when you’re scared of having to start over. I let myself breathe him in, the smell of wind and sweat and the faint, lingering smoke that lived in his skin no matter how many times he showered.
He pressed his lips to my temple, a benediction, then let go. I almost said I loved him, but the moment was too thin and bright to risk it.
“Hey!” Taryn’s voice called from the staff door, and we broke apart like teens caught sneaking out after curfew. She waved, a leash dangling from one hand, her hair now a full disaster. “We’ve got it handled if you guys want to blow this popsicle stand.”
Dean grinned, broad and reckless. “You heard the lady.”
Sergeant trotted over to Taryn, who clipped the leash to her collar with practiced efficiency. “Don’t worry,” Taryn said, winking at me, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t eat any toddlers.”
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
As Taryn led Sergeant back inside, Dean’s hand found the small of my back. It stayed there, warm and heavy, grounding me in a way nothing else could. We stood together for a beat, the only sounds the low purr of Dean’s engine and the distant, unhinged joy of children chasing dogs across the grass.
“You ready?” he asked.
I looked at him—really looked—and saw the future stretched out behind his eyes, battered but still there.
“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”
The world could wait a little longer.
***
Dean’s engine wasn’t just loud—it was a declaration. Every time I threw a leg over the Harley, every time I wrapped my arms around him, it was a reminder that you could live as many lives as you wanted, so long as you survived the old ones.
We peeled out of the parking lot, and I felt the eyes of the entire world on our backs—city council, Scythes, even Taryn with her conspiratorial grin as she wrangled Sergeant back inside. The rumble of the bike was a vibration up my thighs, through my chest, until even my teeth sang with it.
Dean didn’t look back once. I watched the line of his jaw as we cut through traffic, past strip malls and pawn shops and the endless stretch of desert that hemmed Los Alamos in like a quarantine zone. The wind carved cold lines on my cheeks, whipped my hair into my eyes, and I leaned into him, greedy for the warmth and solidity of his body.
We climbed out of town, taking the switchbacks fast enough that my stomach dropped every third turn, and I dug my fingers into the worn denim at Dean’s waist. He always smelled like leather, metal, and something unnameable I’d learned to crave.
By the time we hit the overlook, the sun was burning off the last of the morning haze, turning the world below us to gold. Dean killed the engine, and the silence snapped into place—bright, almost holy. We both swung off the bike, boots landing on gravel and old cigarette butts, and I watched him for a second, the way he stretched his arms behind his head, the dog tags winking at his throat.
He jerked his chin at the edge of the bluff. “You want the good view or the great one?”
I shrugged, let my hands find the hem of his shirt. “You know I don’t settle.”
He grinned, the real one, the one that started in his eyes and set the rest of his face on fire. I stepped into him, hands sliding under the soft cotton, my palms drinking in the heat of his skin. He caught my wrists, held them there, and kissed me—slow at first, like we had all the time in the world.
I felt him hard against my hip before I even noticed my own heart had picked up speed. He always made me feel half-crazy, half-newborn, like there was more of me than I’d ever realized. He backed me up until I hit the hood of the bike, then used his thigh to wedge mine apart just enough to make me gasp.
His lips left a burning path along my jaw, my throat, the collar of my blouse. I unbuttoned it in a rush, barely keeping pace with the way his hands worked the waistband of my pants. He peeled them down slow, like he was unwrapping a gift, and kissed the inside of my thigh just above the old scar from the winter I’d fallen on black ice.
“Jesus, Em,” he said, voice so low it was barely a sound. “You have no idea.”
I did. I’d spent nights memorizing the map of his body—every old wound, every new scar, the places where he’d let me in without ever saying the words out loud. I wanted to show him what it meant to survive.
I shoved his shirt over his head and let my hands linger on his chest, the way the muscle moved under the skin, the faded compass on his left arm, the heat of him. I wanted to bite, so I did—just below his ribcage, teeth on skin. He shuddered, the tremor running down both of us.
He laid me back on the spread of his jacket, the leather cool against my spine. For a second, I just lay there, watching the way the sun caught in his hair, the shadow on his jaw, the hunger in his eyes. Then he was over me, mouth on mine, hands on every inch of skin he could find. It was frantic, but not rough; desperate, but not rushed. Like we had something to prove to the universe about who deserved to keep breathing.
He kissed down my sternum, slow, teeth dragging at the edge of my bra until I arched up, pressing against him. His fingers traced the pawprint tattoo behind my ear, then swept down, tracing the lines of my ribs, my hips, finally cupping me through the thin cotton. I squirmed, greedy for friction, and he laughed into the curve of mybreast.
“Patience,” he said, and I nearly cursed him, but then his hand slid under the fabric and found me, slick and already begging.
He played me like a secret, slow circles at first, then two fingers inside, thumb working my clit until my breath came in staccato bursts. I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, nails digging in, and when he curled his fingers just so, I cried out—a raw, broken thing that scattered birds from the trees a hundred yards off.
