I swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed I should be afraid, but it wasn’t the kind of fear that held you back. It was the kind that pulled you forward, reckless and intoxicating. With him at the controls and me wrapped around him, this danger also held a bit of freedom. The kind that makes your pulse race, your breath catch, and your body crave the ride anyway.
Hunter turned off the engine, swung his leg over, and tugged off his helmet. My breath caught. Broad shoulders, scruffy ginger beard, that lopsided grin. He was every bit the danger I kept promising myself I would avoid. And yet, here I was.
“Hey, Beautiful,” he said, voice warm with humor.
“Hey,” I answered, though my voice sounded thinner than I wanted.
He gave me the rundown, each rule spoken with patience and a quiet seriousness as he leaned against the motorcycle, tossing me a playful grin. “Okay, you ready? Rule number one: lean when I lean,” he said, tapping the side of the bike. “You up for that?”
I bit my lip, eyes darting to the bike. “I think I can manage that.”
“Good,” Hunter nodded, the humor evident in his voice. “Rule two: hold on tight. I don’t want to lose you back there. Deal?”
I laughed softly, the sound easing the tension. “Deal.”
Hunter took a small step closer, eyes serious but still light. “Rule three: always, and I mean always, get off on the left side.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, brow raised.
“Exhaust’s on the right, burn your leg,and then I’ll have to explain to your kids why there’s a burnt spot on mommy’s jeans.”
That made me chuckle as I gave him a mock-shiver. “Noted.”
He watched me for a moment longer, a quiet assurance in his gaze. “And don’t panic.” My grip tightening slightly. “Got it. No panicking.”
Our eyes met, and there was a moment’s pause, where seriousness mingled with excitement, his light smile putting me more at ease. I swallowed, nodding.
“Good girl.” His voice softened as he held out a helmet. He didn’t just hand it to me; he gently placed it over my head, adjusted the strap, and clipped it under my chin. His fingers brushed my skin, careful, deliberate. The simple intimacy of the gesture rattled me more than the thought of getting on the bike.
Climbing on was clumsy and awkward. My sneakers scraped against the peg, and I wobbled before managing to swing my leg over. I could feel his shoulders shake as he suppressed a laugh.
“Not a word,” I muttered.
He chuckled anyway, and the sound was so rich I almost forgot how terrified I was. He twisted back slightly, meeting my eyes through the visor. “You ready?” No. Absolutely not. But my hand found his, squeezed once, and I said, “Yeah.”
And then we were off.
The first rush stole my breath. Wind whipped against my sweater, the world blurring past in streaks of neon and shadow. My instinct was to stiffen, to fight every lean, every tilt of the bike. My arms locked around him, my helmet knocking against the back of his when he brakedor accelerated.
At a red light, he turned his head to allow me to hear him. “You’ve got to lean with me, Cami. Don’t fight it. If you don’t trust me, we both go down.”
I wanted to argue. But his voice was patient, steady, and unshakable, like he had all the time in the world for me to get it right. So I tried. I let myself go with the motion, pressed tighter against him, and slowly the fear loosened its grip. He must have felt it too, because every so often, his hand left the handlebars long enough to squeeze mine where it rested against his stomach. Those little squeezes grounded me, reminded me I wasn’t doing this alone, safe with him.
By the time we stopped by the water, my body felt different. Lighter, alive in ways I hadn’t been in years. I pulled the helmet off and shook out my curls, trying to catch my breath. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my heart still racing from the mix of fear and freedom. Hunter swung his leg off the bike, moving with an ease that made me jealous. He pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes found mine, and that small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Still mad I took that turn fast?”
I smirked, trying to sound braver than I felt. “You did it on purpose.”
He shrugged, stepping closer. “Maybe. You were holding on pretty tight.”
“Because I like being alive.”
He laughed softly, the sound rough and low in his chest. “Yeah? ‘Cause it felt like more than that.” He set the helmets down and pulled two bottles of water from his saddlebags. We walked just a few feet away from the curb and sat side byside on a bench overlooking the water. I admired his bike as it sat there gleaming under the pier lights, as he told me more about growing up in upstate New York. How he’d spend days out in the woods hunting and riding dirt bikes before he was old enough to drive. And eventually choosing the Marine Corps because he thought it might give him the same sense of direction his father had found.
The more he spoke, the more his walls slipped. His humor was still there, but now with a raw edge. And I soaked it in like sunlight, watching the way the shadows caught in his jawline, the way the streetlights danced in his eyes. I was seeing pieces of him that no one else had been allowed to touch.
At some point, I realized I wasn’t just listening. I was staring. His hand rested loosely on my thigh, the veins in his forearm visible under the ink of his tattoo, the koi fish seeming almost alive in the dim glow. My fingers itched to trace it, to learn every line of him the way he was trusting me with every word.
