Page 199 of These Tears

I can’t quite look him in the face, so I close my eyes. The scarf should be going over my eyes soon anyway.

Nothing happens at first, though.

Nothing happens for a long time.

I’m about to peel my lids open when fabric grazes my cheeks, then settles over the bridge of my nose. His fingers skim my temples gently as he ties the blindfold. Then comes the slight tug of the goggles securing over it, the strap clicking into place.

‘I’ll get helmets next time I’m downtown,’ he says quietly, with that soft rasp of a giant trying to be gentle.

I hate the warmth in his voice. Especially while he’s still shutting me out so completely.

‘Ready?’ I ask.

‘Mhm,’ he hums.

I sit rigidly in his arms. There is nowhere sensible to put my hands. After a moment, I flatten my gloved palms against his back. The earthy scent of him envelops me before the wind can banish it.

Elias doesn’t start the engine. His chest undulates slowly in my arms.

The throttle makes a metallic sound when his fingers close around it and hold, then slowly loosen.

Another breath.

More silence.

‘What am I doing wrong now?’ I murmur with too much bite.

‘Nun’s tits… be quiet!’ he growls, but it gets him moving, at least.

The snowmobile lurches, nearly kicking us off from the force of it.

About an hour into the drive, the engine begins to sputter.

‘Faen,’ Elias curses beside my ear. As the wind begins to fade, I realise he’s easing us to a stop.

I drag the blindfold down to my neck and unclip the goggles.

The dull morning light stings my eyes before the forest comes into focus around us – thick and dark to our left, mountains rising ahead through the thinning fog. They seem much closer from here, no longer distant shapes stretched along the horizon beyond his estate. We appear to be east of the cabin.

My eyes slide to his face. His are already on me.

We don’t look away immediately. Last night’s ghosts seem to pass silently between us, too raw to pretend away.

His gaze shifts to my mouth briefly before returning to my eyes and I school my breath.

As he reaches past me, his chest brushes against me. It feels like barely anything through all these layers, but my body remembers all the ridges and dark lines that ripple when that body is put to work. His hand pauses near my hip for half a beat, as if he’s battling his own memories. Or it could be just me making things up again.

‘We didn’t fill up at Sunna’s yesterday,’ he says.

Of course we didn’t. We’d been too busy not speaking to each other. I swallow it down, though.

He pulls off one glove and bends closer to check the gauge properly. But his hand closes once at his side, and where his front meets mine retains the warmth of our bodies with a stubbornness I slightly resent.

I follow his gaze beyond our little pocket of shame and my awareness expands.

The air smells of petrol with a sweet undertone. The little twenty-four-hour petrol station crouches by the roadside – one of those half-convenience-shop, half-supply-store huts with a sagging roof heavy with snow, and a couple of slushy tyre tracks leading to it. The salt-stained windows glow faintly with the promise of stale coffee and heat.

He jerks his chin at it. ‘Come on.’