"I don't care it was flying aggressive."
"It was a sparrow." I held a low branch back for him as the trail narrowed around a bend. "Golden boy. Nationally ranked rower. Afraid of a sparrow."
"I'm not afraid of—can we move on?"
"Never!"
He shoved my shoulder. I shoved him back. He caught my hand when I did and held onto it, and suddenly we were walking hand in hand and neither of us was pretending it was an accident.
His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand.
"This is nice," he said. Quietly. The trail opening up ahead into a clearing where the light came through in wide golden shafts. Like he was saying it to himself as much as to me.
"Yeah. It is."
We walked. The trail wound through the trees, following a creek that ran clear and cold over smooth rocks. The sound of the water mixed with the leaves rustling overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker was hammering at something.
Alex was different out here. Looser. He pointed out things—a cluster of mushrooms on a fallen log, the way the light hit the creek, a tree with roots so twisted they looked like hands gripping the earth. He noticed details. The world slowed down for him when he let it.
I noticed him noticing, and something ached in my chest. This was who he was without the performance. Without the boathouse and the Harrington name and the weight of being watched. Just a guy who saw beauty in small things and was finally in a place where he could say so.
"There," Alex said, pointing ahead.
The trail opened up. The creek widened. And spanning it—old, wooden, the boards weathered grey—was a covered bridge.
It was maybe forty feet long. Wooden beams overhead, open sides with waist-high railings, the creek running underneath. The light came through the slats in thin gold bars, striping the floorboards. Leaves had drifted in and collected along the edges—red, gold, brown.
We walked to the middle and stopped.
I leaned against the railing. Looked down at the creek. Clear water over smooth stones, the current gentle enough that you could see the bottom.
"This is romantic as fuck for a bridge," I said.
Alex leaned next to me. "You have a way with words."
"I'm serious. This is the most aggressively romantic location I've ever been in. I feel like we're in a movie. There should be music playing."
"There could be. I have my phone."
"Please no, anything but your playlist."
He pulled out his phone and opened the camera.
"Come here," he said.
"What?"
"Just come here."
I stepped close to him and he pulled me in with his other arm.
He held the phone up. Selfie mode. The bridge behind us, the creek below, the light through the slats catching the gold in his hair.
"We don't have any photos together," he said.
He was right. Two weeks of whatever this was—the texts, the stolen moments, the shower, the secret—and there was no evidence. Nothing to prove it was real. Nothing to look at when we were apart and remind ourselves that this was real.
I stepped closer. Put my arm around his shoulder. He leaned into me—natural, automatic, his body fitting against mine like it had been designed to.
