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I touch his arm.
“I’m all right.”
“I know.” He looks at the bandage on my wrist. “I keep seeing the wheel.”
“I keep hearing that jar break.”
He comes closer, and I lean into him. We stay that way until the noises from the clearing fade and I can hear the water beneath us.
When I lift my head, I kiss him.
His arm closes around my waist. I kiss him again, more slowly, because I want to. When I draw back, I stay close enough to feel his breath against my cheek.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes. You?”
He takes a moment before nodding. I wait, stroking the ridges of bark beneath my fingers, until he lowers his mouth to mine again. This time neither of us hurries.
I’ve spent the evenings since our first kiss finding reasons to keep him at my door. I’ve learned how he pauses before saying good night, how often I can make him stay by asking one more question. Today I don’t want to ask about a tree or the weather.
“Will you stay here with me?”
“For as long as you like.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. He has to bend farther, and I laugh into the kiss when I realize I’ve drawn him almost double.
“Come here,” he says.
Daurek lifts me onto the broad rail, then stops with his body between my knees.
“Here?” he asks.
I look toward the footpath. “Could someone come this way?”
“They use the new crossing. I can close both approaches to this bridge and leave that route open.”
“Do that.”
Screens of branches draw together across both approaches. I can still see the quiet water beyond his shoulder. The bridge settles firmly beneath me.
“The wood can retain touch here too.”
“I remember. Keep your access closed afterward.”
“I will.” A vine rises beside my boot. “Would you like it to help support you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me to stop and it lets go. Two knocks against the wood if you can’t speak.”
I nod, then take his hand and put it on my thigh.
He exhales a rough, broken laugh.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
