Apparently he likes smart mouths.
Good.
Because mine comes standard.
He dismounts, and we stand watching the waves in comfortable silence for a little while after that.
And honestly?
I've never felt so relaxed in my life.
Not because I know him.
Because I don't.
Not really.
I know he punches creepy men.
Owns a motorcycle.
Looks unfairly attractive.
And has hands the size of dinner plates.
That's basically it.
And yet—being with him like this—I feel safe.
Which is insane.
I know better.
I've watched Dateline.
But something deep inside me keeps whispering the same thing.
Trust him.
“Come on,” he murmurs, and takes my hand and I let him.
We walk a bit, eventually stopping near an overlook.
The ocean stretches endlessly before us, silver beneath the moonlight.
Below us there’s smooth sand, and I notice for the first time he’s carrying a saddlebag.He starts down the rough patch of rocks first and holds out his hand.
Again.
And something about that gets me right in the feelings.
Because he keeps doing that.
Like he wants me to choose.
Like he's asking instead of assuming.
I place my hand in his.
