I push myself up too, my legs a little unsteady from sitting so long. The moment I shift my weight, my foot catches on a root hidden under the leaves. He’s there instantly, a hand catching my arm before I can stumble. His grip is firm, his face suddenly close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air between us changes, thickens. The kind of silence that could turn into anything. If I leaned in half an inch, I’d know the taste of him again. He exhales first, the sound brushing against my skin. Then he releases me, reluctantly, like it takes effort.
“Easy,” he says, the word too gentle to be casual.
“Thanks,” I manage, though it comes out barely above a whisper.
He looks away, clears his throat. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you back before the forest decides to make another grab for you.”
I slide my fingers into his, and we walk back down the trail. The air feels cooler now, the light dimming into a soft blue-gray. When the bike comes into view, he glances over his shoulder.
“Ready for the real surprise?”
“Real surprise?” I echo, trying not to sound breathless.
He grins. “You’ll see.”
Chapter 40
Oxytocin
We climb back onto the bike. This time there’s no hesitation, no awkwardness. The moment my arms wrap around him, it feels natural. My body fits against his like it’s meant to be there. When the engine roars to life, I can feel it vibrate through both of us. The ride back is a blur of dark trees and streaked headlights, the wind colder now. I hold him tighter than before, not because I’m scared but because I can’t seem to stop myself. Every time he leans into a turn, I follow without thinking, drawn closer until I’m not sure where the motion ends and he begins.
When we finally slow, it’s to the sight of a narrow gravel drive disappearing into trees. At the end of it, half hidden by shadows and ivy, is a small cabin. He kills the engine and steadies the bike, then steps off. For the brief moment I’m still seated, the loss of contact hits like a chill. I swing my leg over and stand, hugging my arms against the breeze. He moves to the side of the cabin, unlocking a low wooden door. The hinges creak as he lifts it open, revealing a small garage space.
“Hang on,” he says, rolling the bike inside with practiced ease.
The distance feels wrong. I tell myself it’s just adrenaline, just the drop after the rush. But it feels like a sign, a warning—of how badly I might already want something I don’t fully understand, and how strong that craving could become if I let it. He comes back around towhere I’m standing and gestures toward the cabin with a grin that’s equal parts pride and mischief.
“So? What do you think?”
The porch light flickers on, warm against the dark. There’s a softness to the place, weathered wood, ivy curling up the posts, the faint glow through the curtains. He presents it like a prize, but it feels like something else entirely. I look at him, at the way his hair falls across his face and his eyes catch the light, and I feel my heart whisper the truth I’ve been trying to ignore. He might have already won the whole thing.
One kiss, one ride, one date and I’m lost.
He nods, unlocks the door, flicks on a light. The inside smells like woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of varnish. There’s a turntable, shelves of vinyl, a piano half-hidden beneath a canvas cloth. Everything about it feels like him, thoughtful, private, subtly haunted.
He heats up some mandu he brought, apparently his mother insisted he take with him and finds a bottle of absurdly expensive wine a sponsor sent to the band tucked in his long-neglected pantry.
“The shirts were awful,” he says, uncorking it, “but the wine’s worth the trauma.”
We eat on the porch. The lake below us is dark glass, the only light spilling from the cabin window.
“This is delicious,” I say, taking another bite of his mother’s cooking. “Kind of like pierogi, but better because I didn’t have to spend hours making it.”
He smiles. “She said, ‘musicians and doctors forget to eat.’”
Suddenly, we both freeze, the admission an accidental one.
“You toldyour parentsabout me?” I raise an eyebrow while he shoves another bite into his mouth to avoid talking. I don’t look away, just watch him chew, swallow, then try to hide behind a sip of wine.
“My father knew I’d punched Rithy for areason,” he finally mutters. “He raised me, after all. There was no hiding it. There, satisfied?”
I smirk. “Yes.”
We both laugh. He talks easily after that, music theory, stage lighting disasters, until somehow we end up in art.
“Caravaggio,” he says between sips of wine, “painted holiness like it wasan accident.Dirt on the saints, blood in the shadows.Violence and grace, side by side.”
I tilt my head. “You’d like Artemisia Gentileschi then. My art teacher in college absolutelyadoredher, preached about her like a prophet. It always struck me how she made vengeancelook divine.”
