He opens his eyes and gives me a small smile, his eyebrow lifting at the helmets in my hand.
I clear my throat, “Let’s go for a ride.”
* * *
The bike vibrates beneath us as we leave Campbell River behind and head down Gold River Highway. Eli presses firmly against my back, his grip tight around my waist as we pull away.
As the miles roll by, I feel him begin to loosen. His hold eases, his body settling against mine with an instinctive familiarity that makes my pulse spike. The way he moves with the bike, the ease in his corners, the way he climbed on without hesitation, isn’t just luck. It’s muscle memory.
Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact: the heat of his body, the weight of him against my back, his thighs holding steady against mine. Then his hand moves, settling on my thigh. He doesn’t grip hard; he just rests it there. I cover hisfingers with my own, and instead of pulling back, his fingers curl into mine.
A quiet wave of relief settles deep in my chest. With his hand resting under mine, his chest pressed to my back, and his chin near my shoulder, we ride.
The road blurs into forest and mountain, and for the first time in longer than I care to admit, everything inside me goes quiet.
We pull into the Elk River car park and kill the engine. I suggest the suspension bridge as it is an easy track, nothing demanding. We walk down the stairs together, voices low, people passing us without attention.
When we reach the bridge, Eli stops, taking it all in. “This is beautiful.”
We move to the middle of the bridge. Eli leans his forearms on the railing, staring out over the valley while the river roars far below.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
“I’ve never done this before,” he says, breaking the silence.
I glance at him. “Never been on a suspension bridge?”
His lips twitch slightly. “Everything.”
The word hangs there.
“The trip. The bike. Just…” He shrugs faintly. “…being.”
I don’t interrupt. I just watch him as his gaze drops to the river.
“Being allowed to exist without permission.”
Something in my chest tightens at that. I don’t have an answer that fits that, so I step closer and lean on the railing beside him.
Below us, the river cuts through stone that’s been here longer than either of us can imagine. Eli shifts subtly, then leans into my shoulder.
“The river’s funny,” I say.
He glances at me but doesn’t respond. I tip my chin toward the water.
“Those rocks have spent thousands of years trying to tell it where to go. Push it left. Push it right. Keep it in line.”
His eyes follow mine downward.
“But water doesn’t listen,” I continue. “It finds pressure points. Weak spots. Anything it can slip through.”
The river crashes below us, relentless.
“It doesn’t matter how long the rock’s been there, or how strong it thinks it is. The water always wins eventually.”
I glance at Eli. “People aren’t that different. At some point, you either keep getting shaped by everything around you…” My voice lowers slightly. “…or you walk away and see if you can survive without it.”
His throat works as he swallows. I look back to the river.
