Page 17
“I know.” He shrugs, the leather of his cut creaking with the movement. “How was it?”
“Perfect.” The word surprises me with its truthfulness. “I forgot how much I love it here.”
Something flashes in his eyes, relief or pride. “Good. You deserve to be happy.”
We stand in silence for a moment, the space between us feeling tight with unspoken questions. Then I step closer, closing the distance.
“So,” I say, tilting my head up to meet his gaze, “about that dinner…”
His hand reaches for mine, his fingers warm and solid against my skin. “I know a place. Best Italian in town.”
“Antonio’s?” I guess, remembering our conversation from weeks ago.
The smile that breaks across his face catches me off guard, and warmth spreads up the back of my neck before I can stop it. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did.” I squeeze his hand, feeling the strength in his grip.
As we pull out of the hospital parking lot, the wind cuts through my hair and I laugh, a sharp bark of sound that surprises even me.
Carter’s hand finds mine where it rests against his stomach, his fingers intertwining with my own in a gesture that feels like a promise. I press closer to his back, feeling the steady thrum of the engine beneath us, the warmth of his body against mine.
The city lights blur into neon streaks as Carter speeds through the streets, the deep rumble of the engine a constant vibration against me. My arms wrap tighter around his waist, my body molding to his back, both natural and thrillingly new. The leather of his cut is warm against my cheek, and beneath it, I can feel the steady beat of his heart.
He takes a corner smoothly, and I lean with him, my body instinctively adjusting to his movements. There’s something freeing about being on the back of this bike, trusting him with my safety while the world blurs around us. Unlike that night, this is my choice, and the thought is a fierce, proud thing that makes me hold on to him a little tighter.
When we pull up to Antonio’s, the neon sign casts a warm glow across the sidewalk. Carter cuts the engine and helps me off the bike, his hands lingering on my waist for just a moment too long. My whole body seems to hold still for that one second, like it’s waiting for something.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice rougher than usual.
I nod, suddenly nervous despite the countless training sessions we’ve shared over the past weeks. This is different. This isn’t breaking holds or practicing escapes. This is Carter and me, together, with intention.
The restaurant is cozy: red checkered tablecloths, candles in old wine bottles, and the scent of garlic and tomatoes hanging in the air. The owner, a stout Italian man with salt-and-pepper hair, greets Carter by name, leading us to a secluded table in the back corner.
“Private,” Carter explains as I slide into the booth. “I thought you might appreciate not having an audience tonight.”
The consideration touches something deep inside me. He’s been paying attention, noticing what I need even before I voice it.
“This is perfect,” I say, my fingers tracing the edge of the menu. “I’ve heard amazing things about this place.”
Carter settles across from me, taking up all the space, his presence making the booth feel intimate.
In the candlelight, his features are softened, the perpetual furrow in his brow relaxed. He looks almost boyish, so vulnerable it makes my own throat tighten in response.
“I come here sometimes,” he admits, opening his menu. “When I need to think.”
“What do you think about?” The question slips out before I can stop it, too personal for our first real date.
But Carter doesn’t shy away. His eyes meet mine across the table, dark and intense in the flickering light. “You,” he says simply. “Always you.”
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest. I feel my cheeks flush, but I don’t look away. This is what I asked for. Real, not clinical, not careful.
“I thought about you too,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “When I was in that car, when everything was going dark, the last thing I thought about was you, and how I’d never get to tell you how I really felt.”
His hand moves across the table, hesitating before it covers mine. The warmth of his palm against my skin sends shivers up my arm. “What didn’t you say?”
“That I wanted this.” I turn my hand beneath his, intertwining our fingers. “That I wanted you. That I was too scared to admit how much you meant to me.”
Something changes in his expression, hope breaking through the careful restraint he’s maintained for so long. His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, gentle and reverent.
