There’s something about him that feels… familiar. Not in anI’ve-met-you-beforekind of way, but in anI-recognize-youkind of way.
Like he’s looking at me the same way I’m looking at him.
Careful.
Curious.
A little bit wrecked already.
Behind us, Sadie’s camera clicks again, softer now. Almost respectful.
And for a suspended, fragile second, the snow keeps falling, the river and the city feel far away, and it’s just us standing there, breathing the same cold air, close enough that our breath almost mingles between us.
I swallow, dig around somewhere deep in my chest until I find my courage—take a little leap, Milos—and take it.
“So,” I manage, because shit, words are still expected of me. “Do you always let strangers blindfold you in the snow?”
There. A small smile. Teasing.
Safer to focus on that than admitting my pulse still hasn’t calmed down since he slid his hand into mine.
His gaze drops, and instead of answering right away, he taps the toe of my boot with his.
“Do you always ruin your biker boots by wandering around in said snow?” he counters. “Those soles are gonna hate you when you need them to hold steady at a red light.”
And I actually fucking laugh—loud and unfiltered, the sound ripping out of me in something that feels suspiciously like relief.
He’s a biker.
Of course he is.
If I believed in any of that, I’d say the stars aligned or some stupid shit like that.
He squints at me, that curl still playing around his lips, before nudging my shoulder with his in an easy, familiar way, like we’ve known each other longer than five minutes, those wicked fingers brushing the back of my hand again.
“Tell me you at least ride something decent,” he says, his smile fully breaking out now, revealing an amazing pair of dimples in his light scruff. “Don’t break my heart and say you’re on some sad little beginner’s bike.”
My grin stretches so wide my cheeks start to hurt.
“Dude,” I shoot back, “She’s an R6, show some respect.”
His eyebrows lift and he cocks his head, assessing, the clicking of the camera still going on, that hand still on mine. “Yamaha, huh? Same.”
I can’t help but bite my lip. “Really? You have an R6 as well?”
He presses his lips together in a suppressed smile as he shakes his head. And I already know what he’s going to say before it even comes out—simple and casual, like it’s no big deal.
“Ah, no. R1, actually.”
Woah.
I must have actual stars in my eyes or something becausefuckkk, thatisa big deal, and my stomach does a small, traitorous flip. I have to physically keep myself from bouncing on the balls of my feet like some overexcited idiot. “Oh shit, that’s awesome. Can I see it? We should totally go for a ride after this stupid shoot.”
The words tumble out before I consciously think them through, and my cheeks heat instantly.
Shit. Cue the fucking awkwardness.
I want to backtrack. Laugh it off. Pretend I meant it in atotallyplatonic, biker-bro way, duh. But before I can open my stupid mouth again, he actually fucking nods.
